Prince's Virgin In Venice. Trish MoreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
Canal!’
Marcello shrugged and smiled. ‘Not that you can tell today. But Venice wearing its shroud of fog is still a sight to behold, so enjoy. And now please excuse me while I find you some drinks.’
‘We’re in San Polo,’ she said to Vittorio.
The hotel where she worked was in the Dorsoduro sestiere, the ball she was supposed to be attending was in the northern district of Cannaregio. Somehow she’d ended up lost between them and within a whisker of the sinuous Grand Canal, which would have hinted at her location if only she’d found it.
A smudge of light passed slowly by—a vaporetto or a motorboat carefully navigating the fog-shrouded waterway—and Rosa’s thoughts chugged with it. Vittorio had been kind, asking her to accompany him, but strictly speaking she wasn’t lost any more.
She turned to him. ‘I know where I am now.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘I mean, I’m not lost. At least, I can find my way home from here.’
He turned to her, putting his big hands on her shoulders as he looked down at her. ‘Are you looking for yet another reason to escape?’
A wry smile kicked up one side of his mouth. He was laughing at her again, and she found she didn’t mind—not when seeing his smile made her feel as if she was capturing something rare and true.
‘I’m not—’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why are you so desperate to run away from me?’
He was wrong. She wasn’t desperate to run away from him. Oh, sure, there’d been that moment when she’d panicked, at the end of the path outside the side gate, but she knew better now. Vittorio was no warrior or warlord, no demon or monster. He was a man, warm and real and powerful...a man who made her blood zing.
Except the warm weight of his hands on her shoulders and the probing questions in his eyes vanquished reasoned argument. There was only strength and heat and fear that it would be Vittorio who might change his mind. And then he’d take his hands away. And then she’d miss that contact and the heat and the zing and the pure exhilaration of being in his company.
A tiny worm of a thought squeezed its way through the connections in her brain. Wasn’t that reason enough to run?
She was out of her depth with a man like him—a man who was clearly older and more worldly-wise, who moved in circles with people who owned entire palazzos and whose ancestors were amongst the doges of Venice. A man who made her feel stirrings in her belly, fizzing in her blood—things she wasn’t used to feeling.
Nothing in the village—not a teenage crush on her maths teacher nor a dalliance with Antonio from the next village, who’d worked a few months in her father’s workshop, had prepared her for meeting someone like Vittorio. She felt inadequate. Underdone.
She was dressed as a courtesan, a seductress, a temptress. But that was such a lie. She swallowed. She could hardly admit that, though.
‘You invited me to this party tonight because I was lost and you felt sorry for me, because I was upset and was going to miss my own party.’
He snorted. ‘I don’t do things because I feel sorry for people. I do things because I want to. I invited you to this party because I wanted to. And because I wanted you to be with me.’ His hands squeezed her shoulders. ‘So now, instead of trying to find all the reasons you shouldn’t be here, how about you enjoy all the reasons you should?’
What could she say to that? ‘In that case, it very much seems that I am stuck with you.’
‘You are,’ he said, with a smile that warmed her to her bones. ‘At least for as long as this night lasts.’
‘A toast.’ Marcello said, arriving back with three glasses of Aperol spritz. He handed them each a glass. ‘To Carnevale,’ he said, raising his glass in a toast.
‘To Carnevale,’ said Rosa.
‘To Carnevale,’ echoed Vittorio, lifting his glass in Rosa’s direction, ‘And to the Venetian fog that delivered us Rosa.’
And if the words he uttered in his deep voice were not enough, the way Vittorio’s piercing blue eyes looked at her above his glass made her blush all the way down to her toes. In that moment Rosa knew that this night would never last long enough, and that whatever else happened she would remember this night for ever.
* * *
She was skittish—so skittish. She was like a colt, untrained and unrehearsed, or a kitten, jumping at shadows and imaginary enemies. And it wasn’t an act. He was good at spotting an ingénue, a pretender. He was used to women who played games and who made themselves out to be something they were not.
Just for a moment Vittorio wondered if he was doing the right thing, pitting her against Sirena. Maybe he should release her from her obvious unease and awkwardness and let her go back to her own world, if that was what she really wanted, back to what was, no doubt, the drudgery of her work and the worry of losing the paltry sum of one hundred euros.
Except Vittorio was selfish enough not to want to let her go.
He saw the way her eyes widened at every new discovery, at every exquisite Murano glass lamp, every frescoed wall or gilded mirror that stretched almost to the ceiling.
She was like a breath of fresh air in Vittorio’s life. Unsophisticated and not pretending otherwise. She was a refreshing change when he had been feeling so jaded.
And she was a beautiful woman in a gown that fitted like a glove and make him ache to peel it off.
Why should he let her go?
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