Falling For The Venetian Billionaire. Rebecca Winters

Venice.”

      “For a long visit?”

      “Don’t I wish, but no. I only have one day before I leave on vacation.”

      He cocked his head. “Only one? Couldn’t I convince you to stay on several more? We could meet at your hotel and I could show you around.”

      A tremor shook her body. Ginger couldn’t help but be flattered by his interest. Other men had flirted with her while she’d been in Italy, but she’d never been tempted. Not until now. This Italian’s charisma was so overpowering, she couldn’t believe a man like him existed.

      “I won’t be in Venice long enough to get a hotel.” Ginger’s heart was in her throat. “There isn’t enough time. I have to spend a good part of the day at the monastery where Lord Byron spent so many hours. It’s part of my job and the reason I’m here at all.”

      For some reason the revelation caused his eyes to gleam. “Then be sure to ask for Father Giovanni. I know him well. He’s the resident expert.”

      Dr. Manukyan hadn’t mentioned the monk’s name. “Thank you for the information. I’ll remember.”

      “Where will you go next?”

      He really wanted to know? “My friend and I will be taking the night train to Switzerland.”

      His gaze played over her. “I see. He’s a lucky man.”

      Ginger sucked in her breath. “No, no. I’m going with my friend Zoe, who’s flying in from Greece. She and I will be meeting another friend at a vineyard on Lake Geneva.”

      Good heavens. Ginger had practically told him her life story and had found herself babbling like a schoolgirl. “Thank you for giving all of us a ride. Do you live here in Ravenna?” She found she wanted to know more about him.

      “No. I’m a Venetian,” he said in his deep voice. “Unfortunately I have to get back to Venice tonight on business. But perhaps our paths will cross again.”

      He moved aside to help her out of the limo. She felt his touch on her arm once again, and felt fingers of delight dart through her body.

      “Alla prossima, signora.”

      Until next time? There couldn’t possibly be a next time. In two days’ time she’d be in Switzerland with her friends. But the thought of seeing him again made Ginger’s pulse leap. Deep down she didn’t want to say goodbye to him.

      Since Bruce had died, Ginger hadn’t paid attention to other men or encouraged them. She couldn’t. The thought of falling in love again only to lose that person in such a terrible way frightened her.

      She’d told Zoe and Abby that she didn’t want to give her heart a second time to another man, only for it to end in tragedy. In fact Ginger had never expected to meet a man who could ever help her get over the pain of having to say goodbye to her beloved husband. Only a miracle could cause that to happen.

      She didn’t believe in miracles like that. But something shocking had happened for this stranger to take over her thoughts like this. It made no sense that for once she wasn’t thinking about Bruce.

      Ginger’s legs felt insubstantial as Signor Della Scalla walked her inside the foyer of the hotel.

      “Buona notte, signora,” he whispered.

      “Buona notte, signor.” She sensed his eyes still on her until she rounded a corner to take the elevator to her room.

      To her dismay when she finally got in bed, Ginger’s thoughts were still haunted by one incredibly handsome Italian male and the way she’d felt when his gaze swept over her at the dinner table. It was as if every cell in her body had been ignited by a bolt of electricity. She’d never lay eyes on him again, but that didn’t mean his image would go away. Not ever.

      * * *

      At nine o’clock the next morning, a showered and shaved Vittorio, wearing a black suit, left the centuries-old Della Scalla palazzo on the Grand Canal. Last night he’d flown back to Venice in the helicopter with a plan in mind to meet up with Signora Lawrence the next day at the monastery.

      But this morning, after his flight home from Ravenna last evening, he’d awakened to the gut-wrenching news that his father had passed away early in the morning.

      Overnight Vittorio’s world had changed forever. After leaving his grieving family with the doctor, he drove his speedboat out to the lagoon toward the nearby island of San Lazzaro two kilometers away.

      Many boats crowded the canal. He passed by the boat ferrying passengers who intended to visit the Armenian monastery, the sole feature of the island. After pulling up to the jetty, Vittorio alighted and hurried past the welcoming signs printed in several languages to the main building. A plaque had been placed there commemorating the famous English writer and poet Lord Byron, who was known as a “Faithful friend of Armenia.”

      Since it was always open in invitation, Vittorio entered the doors to the cloister that enclosed a garden. Beyond it lay the incense-filled chapel covered in mosaics. He hoped to find his brother, Gaspare, who was known among the brothers as Father Giovanni, but only a few monks were present in here. That meant he was probably in the famous museum, which had many treasures, including a mummy and a bust of Napoleon’s son.

      But further exploration didn’t lead Vittorio to his thirty-four-year-old brother. If he wasn’t in the private enclosure for the monks, then he had to be in the room designated as Lord Byron’s studio.

      Vittorio’s brother, who’d studied in England before joining the priesthood, had a passion for Byron. Vittorio entered the studio with a reproduction of a painting of Lord Byron above the door.

      In the early 1800s the poet had studied the Armenian language here over a two-year period while he’d been in Venice. Prized books and manuscripts in this library drew crowds of tourists as well as serious scholars at all seasons of the year.

      Vittorio scanned the room and saw his brother in his brown habit at the other end, talking to some visitors. Their backs were toward him while they were discussing a manuscript under glass.

      Vittorio moved closer with a heavy heart, knowing their father’s death would come as a great blow.

      “Gaspare?”

      His brother looked around, having been taken by surprise. “Vittorio—”

      After a pause, he turned back to the visitor. “I must ask to be excused,” he said in English. “I’ll send Father Luca to assist you.” On that note, he joined Vittorio and they moved out of earshot.

      Since Gaspare had become a monk, the only consolation for Vittorio had been the ability to visit his brother here on occasion and confide in him. Just three years separated them. They loved each other and had been close growing up.

      “Something tragic has happened. I see it in your countenance.”

      Vittorio stared into the same blue eyes of his sibling. The two bore a superficial resemblance to each other in height and their black hair. Both were taller than their father. His throat tightened in fresh pain.

      “Papà died early this morning,” he spoke quietly. Vittorio could still visualize the scene at the palazzo a little while ago.

      Dr. Farini, the longtime physician of the family, had examined their father before sliding the sheet over his face. Count Mario Goretti Della Scalla, beloved husband, father, brother, friend and CEO of the Della Scalla Shipping and Passenger Line Company, was officially dead.

      The doctor had stared into Vittorio’s eyes. “You are now Count Della Scalla. Your father has been blessed to have a son like you ready and able to step into his shoes.”

      There was another son Vittorio felt should be taking his place, but that wasn’t possible. Soon the news would be out. The bells would toll throughout Venice for the loss.