Her First-Date Honeymoon. Katrina Cudmore

I’ll be out in a few minutes.’

      Her voice went from alto to soprano, and several notes in between. A muffled sob followed. He winced and rubbed at his face with both hands.

      He leaned in against the door. ‘We both need a drink. Join me downstairs in the lounge when you’re ready.’

      He hurried down the stairs. Memories chased him. Those nights when he was seven...eight years old, when he would crawl into his mother’s bed, hoping he could stop her tears.

      In the lounge, he threw open the doors onto the terrace. Venice was blanketed in a light misty fog. Sounds were muffled. He saw the intermittent lights of a launch moving on the water, its engine barely audible. Technically it was spring, but tonight winter still shrouded the city, and the cold, damp air intensified its mysterious beauty.

      He spent most of his year travelling between his headquarters in Milan and his offices in New York, London and Paris. Always moving. Never belonging. The nomadic lifestyle of his childhood had followed him into adulthood. He had hated it as a child. Now it suited him. It meant that he could keep a distance from others. Even acquaintances and those he considered friends would never have the opportunity to hurt him, to walk away. He was the one in control instead. It was he who could choose to walk away now.

      Venice was his one true escape. It was why he had no regular staff here in Ca’ Divina. He liked the calm, the peace of the building, without sound, without people awaiting his instructions. Here was the one place he could be alone, away from the intensity of his normal routine. Away from the constant expectations and responsibilities of his businesses, his family.

      But tonight the calm serenity of both Venice and Ca’ Divina were doing little to calm his boiling irritation. The maverick, eccentric, brilliant chief designer for his fashion house Ettore had thrown a hissy fit—no doubt fuelled by alcohol—whilst being interviewed by a Chinese news team last night. He had not only insulted the reporter but also implied that the exclusive department store chain that sold his designs in China was not worthy of doing so.

      The exclusive department store chain Matteo was delicately negotiating with over contracts for the extensive expansion of product placement for all his brands.

      The company quite rightly had not taken kindly to the designer’s words, and had seen it as a huge public insult to their honour. This loss of face—known as mianzi in China—might have damaged their relationship beyond repair.

      The chain’s president and his team were arriving in Venice tomorrow evening. He had a lot of apologising to do and reassurances to make to ensure they understood how much he valued and respected them as a partner. It was vital the trip went well. Or else several of his lines would be in serious financial trouble.

      He twisted around to the sound of footsteps on the terrazzo flooring. The last thing he needed was to have to deal with a stranger’s problems.

      She reminded him of a Federico Zandomeneghi portrait in Ca’ Pesaro, the International Gallery of Modern Art located further along the banks of the Grand Canal. Delicate, elegant features, a cupid’s bow mouth, a perfect nose, porcelain skin, long thick brown curls almost to her waist, tucked behind her ears.

      Below the cream polo-neck jumper she was now wearing a pair of skinny jeans and tan ankle boots. She’d tugged the neck of the jumper up until it reached her ears. The tears were gone, but despite the resolute set of her mouth she looked worn out.

      Almost as worn out as he felt.

      ‘What can I get you to drink?’

      ‘A whisky, please.’

      He poured her whisky and a brandy for himself into tumblers, trying to ignore how physically aware he was of her. Of her refined accent, her words clipped but softly spoken. Of her long limbs. Of the outline of the tantalising body her nightdress had done little to conceal earlier. Of her utter beauty.

      He brought their drinks over to the sofas at the centre of the room and placed one on either side of the coffee table in between them. He sat with his back to the canal.

      She perched on the side of the sofa and stared out through the terrace windows with an unseeing gaze, the hands on her lap curled like weapons ready to strike out. Eventually her eyes landed on his, and the sudden flare of vulnerability in them delivered a sucker punch to his gut.

      Despite every fibre of his being telling him not to—she might start crying again—he found himself asking, ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

      She took a sip of her whisky. Depositing the glass back on the table, she reached down to her left ankle and gave it a quick squeeze. Sitting up, she inhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling. A flash of heat coloured her cheeks. The result of the whisky or something else?

      ‘Not particularly.’ Her clipped tone was accompanied by a haughty rise of her chin.

      ‘In that case I’ll go and make some phone calls to arrange a hotel room for you.’

      He was at the door before she spoke.

      ‘My fiancé...I mean my ex-fiancé...was arrested early yesterday morning—at four o’clock, to be precise—for embezzlement.’

      She tugged at the neck of her jumper. He returned to his seat and she darted a quick glance in his direction. Pride in battle with pain.

      ‘He stole funds from the company he worked for; and also persuaded his family and friends to invest in a property scheme with him. There was no scheme. Instead he used the money to play the stock exchange. He lost it all.’

      ‘And you knew nothing about it?’

      She stared at him aghast. ‘No!’ Then she winced, and the heat in her cheeks noticeably paled. ‘Although the police wouldn’t believe me at first...’ She glanced away. ‘I was arrested.’

      ‘Arrested?’

      She reached for her glass but stopped halfway and instead edged further back into the sofa. ‘Yes, arrested. On what was supposed to be my wedding day.’ She gave a disbelieving laugh. ‘I was let go eventually, when they realised I was his victim rather than his partner in crime.’

      Her eyes challenged his; she must be seeing the doubt in his expression.

      ‘By all means call Camden Police Station in London, if you don’t believe me; they will verify my story. I have the number of the investigating officer.’

      His instinct told him she was telling the truth, but he wasn’t going to admit that. ‘It’s of no consequence to me.’

      That earned him a hurt glance. Remorse prickled along his skin. But why was he feeling guilty? None of this was his doing. What on earth was she doing in Venice anyway?

      ‘Do you think it was wise, coming to Venice? Without a hotel booking? Wouldn’t you be better off at home?’

      She crossed her legs with an exasperated frown that told him he wasn’t getting this. ‘I did have a hotel booking. Or so my ex told me. But he never transferred the funds so the booking fell through. He also cleared out our joint bank account. Anyway, I don’t have a home. Or a job. I moved out of my apartment and resigned from the college because my ex was being transferred to Sydney with his work and I was joining him.’

      ‘And your family?’

      A flicker of pain crossed her face. But then she sat upright and eyed him coolly. ‘I don’t have one.’

      Despite all the hurts and frustrations of the past, and the fact that he had far from perfect relationships with his emotional and unpredictable mother and grandmother, he could never imagine life without them. What must it be like to have no family? Had she no friends who could take their place?

      ‘Your friends...?’

      With her legs crossed, she rotated her left ankle in the air. Agitated. Upset.

      ‘I appreciate your concern, but I’m not going back to London. I have no home