From Venice With Love. Alison Roberts

waited. Raoul had promised her something special tonight, a secret he had refused to reveal, even when she had teased him and begged him to let her in on the secret.

      He was different, she decided as she looked down from the balcony at the never-dull vista that greeted her. Could one ever get sick of the sight and sounds of Venice? It was a world unto itself—a place of incredible beauty on the one hand, of secrets and hidden depths on the other.

      Just like Raoul himself.

      For even lately in these last few days, even when he had played the host role to perfection, there had been times—glimpses, really—when she would turn her head and look at him, catch him unawares and see something lurking in the depths. Something troubled, menacing and sometimes even sinister that made her want to reach out with her hands, smooth his brow, untangle his thoughts—and then he would look up, see her watching him and smile, chasing the shadows away.

      Venice suited him, she thought, sighing into the soft breeze and, just like Venice, he was unique. One of a kind. Impossible not to fall in love with.

      She stilled at the railing, her heart skipping a beat and then resuming just that slight bit quicker. She couldn’t love him, could she? Not really?

      Sure, she had always loved him; he had been almost family.

      Except that wasn’t what she was thinking now.

      When she had been no more than a child, she had worshipped him as a child worshipped someone she adored like a hero, someone she could look up to.

      As an adolescent, her fantasies had been based more on fairy tales and rampant teenage hormones, of a fantasy Raoul that was larger than life that she could only dream about, the product of her own wild imagination.

      And now?

      Now she was a woman. Surely she did not imagine that tingle every time they touched? Surely she did not imagine the magic of their kiss?

      Those things were no fantasy.

      Those things were real.

      But love? Could she really be falling in love with Raoul? They had been together just a few short days, after all.

      She must be crazy even to think it.

      She must be.

      And yet the magic of the last few days had not simply been all about Venice. Venice delighted her, it was true. But it wasn’t Venice that had her blood pounding or her heartbeat quickening right now, it was the thought of spending the evening with Raoul. Of losing herself in his bottomless gaze and feeling the heat from his body feed into hers, warming her in an endless, sensual glow.

      It was more than just Venice.

      It was Raoul, and she was falling in love with him.

      He found her waiting for him in the living room, standing on the balcony overlooking the canal, her expression pensive. She was more beautiful than ever in a soft pastel-print dress with a cinched waist and full skirt that made the most of her tan skin, chestnut hair and the near-sinful proportions of her figure, the feminine curve from breast through waist to hip.

      When had he gone from merely noticing that she had grown up to thinking she had grown into a very desirable woman? When had just a glance at her turned from benevolent approval of the changes time had brought about to something deeper and more fundamental, something that stirred his blood and sent it simmering? Right now, it seemed like he had wanted her for ever.

      She turned when she heard him approach, her smile wide, welcoming and totally innocent—and that pang of guilt made itself known again, twisting this time, mercilessly so. He wished there was something about her he did not like, something he could find fault with aside from her unswerving faith in her human companions.

      Except that it was that very fault—the trait that made her see the best in the likes of that scum Garbas—that was also making his job so very, very easy.

      ‘Are you ready, Bella?’ he said, taking her hands in his. ‘For tonight’s adventure?’

      Her eyes held so many stars he could not count; her eager smile was infectious and he laughed in spite of his own misgivings and his own endless doubts. ‘Then let’s go.’

      Tonight the air was warm and blessed with only the lightest of breezes, the architecture of Venice turning honey gold under the westerning sun.

      ‘This evening,’ he said as he handed her into the gondola waiting at the sea door, ‘We continue our exploration of Venice from the water.’

      Together they sat back on the plushly cushioned reclining seat as the gondolier let the vessel drift away, setting it moving along the canal with long, languid sweeps through the water.

      They ventured into the Grand Canal, past St Mark’s Square, still heaving with tourists and its cloud of pigeons, past all of the sights that Raoul had shown her on foot. Only this way showed Venice as it was always meant to be seen—from the sea, where the water offered an unbeatable perspective of the wonders that rose all around them.

      He had judged his timing well. Gabriella sat entranced, reclining in the curve of his arm, as comfortably wound against him as a cat, and he sensed that if he asked her this day to fly to the moon she would say yes.

      Right on cue, the rich tenor voice of their gondolier rang out in the balmy evening air.

      ‘Raoul,’ she said, her eyes so bright and brilliant they threatened to rival the moon’s pearlescent glow. ‘Did you plan this?’

      He drew her closer to him and smoothed a loose tendril of her hair with his hand. ‘Are you happy, Bella?’

      ‘I don’t think I have ever been happier.’ And she settled deeper, curving her delicious body against him, making him burn. Tonight, he thought, she was his. All he had to do was ask the question.

      The gondola slipped along the canals, gently slicing through the water, taking the route Raoul had instructed the gondolier to take, getting closer and closer to that moment—and to the task he had promised himself he would undertake tonight.

      Except, the further the boat ventured, the heavier and darker his gut felt. How was he supposed to keep her safe? What if he couldn’t? What if he failed again? For she was beautiful, too beautiful for him. Too beautiful to be shackled to a man with a dark past and no future, even if he told himself it need only be for a few months, just until he knew she was free from Garbas. Too beautiful to be shackled to a man who could not keep anyone safe, not even his own wife.

      ‘It’s a beautiful night,’ she said, nestling closer to him. ‘At least we will be safe from your ghosts tonight.’

      He stilled, for there were always ghosts. She had been gone ten years and still she would not let him go.

      She would never let him go.

      He felt Gabriella shift against him, protesting his sudden stiffness. ‘Raoul, is something wrong?’

      ‘I’m sorry, Bella,’ he said, trying to force himself to relax. Tonight was no time to remember, to think of ghosts, horrors and mistakes that belonged in the past. Tonight there was a job to be done. ‘Look,’ he continued, pointing ahead, wanting to change the subject for his own sake as much as to distract her. ‘The Bridge of Sighs.’

      Before them the white limestone bridge arched gracefully over the Rio di Palazzo, connecting the old prison to the interrogation rooms in the Doge’s Palace. ‘I read about that,’ she said. ‘And how Lord Byron gave it that name for the prisoners who would sigh as they took their last view of the city from the windows of the bridge before being taken away to meet their fate.’

      He nodded, feeling an uncomfortable tightness constrict his chest. ‘That is indeed one story of the bridge,’ he managed, his heart beating faster, his blood pumping louder in his ears as the moment he had been planning drew nearer. ‘There is another—much more romantic, as it happens. They say that if lovers kiss at sunset under the Bridge of Sighs they will find blissful happiness with each