One Christmas Night in Venice. Jane Porter

      He climbed the stairs in twos to his private suite on the third floor and placed the now silent shepherdess on the sitting room’s antique sofa.

      “Well?” he said brusquely, stepping back to have a hard look at her. She was beautiful. Ethereal. Impossibly fragile. “What is this about? Has someone put you up to this? Are you in need of money?”

      The shepherdess tilted her head back, white ringlets cascading over her slender shoulders as she stared up at him, her eyes a stunning blue-green, overly brilliant in her pale face. “No.” Her voice shook and he wanted to shake her.

      Those eyes … that voice … so like Diane it almost fooled him. Almost, but not quite. Yet the damage was done. He was thinking of her again. Feeling what he’d once felt. Love. Loss. Grief.

       Rage.

      And the rage hit him anew, fresh fury washing over him, through him, stealing his calm, darkening his mind. He already blamed himself for Diane’s death—he had been at the wheel, after all—but how dared this woman? How dared she mock him? How dared she impersonate his beloved wife?

      Domenico stepped closer and lowered himself to his haunches, crouching before her so their eyes were level. “I warn you,” he said softly, dangerously. “I am not a patient man. I will not tolerate this. Tell me why you’re here and what you want or—” He broke off, his hands squeezing, knotting, kneading. He’d break her. Destroy her. Because, God help him, what kind of woman would do this?

      He’d never loved anyone as he’d loved Diane. Diane had been his heart. His life. He’d defied everyone to marry her. He’d lost everything to have her. And he hadn’t cared. He’d loved her so completely. With every inch of his heart.

      She’d never believed him. Never trusted him. Unable to accept that he’d rather lose his inheritance, his family, than lose her. It hadn’t been just rash promises, either. He’d given it all up on the day he’d married her. His mother, enraged that he’d marry a commoner, and an American at that, had stripped it all from him, though she could never take his title. It was his father who had allowed them to stay at Ca’ Coducci for their honeymoon, but that had been their one and only visit here together.

      He hadn’t cared, though. He’d had his own business in Rome, and an apartment, and a beautiful wife he’d adored.

      It was all he’d needed. Work, love, life.

      But then Diane had died, and miraculously he’d been returned to the family bosom. Restored just like the prodigal son.

      Only he hadn’t wanted to be returned to the family bosom. He’d wanted Diane.

      And this woman, this shepherdess, presumed to be his love, his life.

      God help her, she was in trouble now.

      “Or what? What would you do?” she flashed, eyes blazing back at him, expression defiant. “Throttle me? Hit me? What would you do that could create greater pain than has already been given to me?”

      He was close enough to see the flecks of turquoise in her irises, and the faintest of lines at the edge of her eyes. A small dimple—no, a scar—winked at her throat.

      Trachea, he thought, heart slowing, stomach cramping. A tracheotomy scar.

      Someone had cut her trachea, opening her air tube so she could breathe. Throat squeezing closed, ice water filling his veins, he staggered to his feet, moved blindly away, his robe swirling.

      Impossible.

      Couldn’t be.

      Diane was dead. Dead. And the dead did not come back to life. Not even in magical Venice. Yes, in the first year after the accident he’d dreamed of her night after night—dreamed she was still alive, dreamed they were together still—but he hadn’t dreamed of her in over a year now, and finally he was free to move on. Knew he had to move on, whether or not his heart was ready. Because his son needed him to move on. His son needed a mother, a family.

      But this woman … so very much like Diane.

      He turned his head slowly, slowly, and she was still there, sitting still, regal, defiant on his sofa.

      “Do you abuse women now, Dom?” she choked, her cheeks suffused with color. “Is that what death has done to you?”

      Diane would have never spoken to him this way.

      Domenico ground his teeth together to keep from shouting. He didn’t shout. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel. But right now he was wild on the inside. Wild, bewildered, stunned.

      He’d died when they’d told him Diane was gone. He’d gone into cardiac arrest. And he’d been glad he was dying, had known he was dying. Wanted it.

      But they’d brought him back after three minutes. Brought him back to the living. Only he wasn’t the same. Part of him was gone forever.

      Even now, thinking maybe, maybe, it was her, he couldn’t feel. Couldn’t hope. Couldn’t dream.

      He’d loved her too much. And losing her had almost killed him. He would never love anyone—not even his Diane—again.

      “I do not hurt women,” he said, drawing a slow, deep breath. “And I would never hurt you.” He paused. “If it is you.”

      “It is me. And you know it’s me. Ask me anything.”

      “What was the painting I was standing in front of that day we met at the university library?”

      The smallest of smiles played at her mouth. “Jacopo Tintoretto’s The Finding of the Body of St. Mark. It was on loan from Brera in Milan.” The smile disappeared. “We talked about your Venetian family, and how St. Mark was your favorite apostle.” She looked up at him, her head shaking in disbelief. “How, Dom? How is it possible? You’re supposed to be dead.”

      And I am, he thought, gazing down at her, even as it struck him that his wedding was exactly three weeks from tonight.

      Dio buono. Good God.

      Valeria.

      He glanced at the door, thinking Valeria should be here. Knowing that Valeria, his future wife, was not going to react well to hearing that his wife was still alive.

      Eyes narrowed, he stared at Diane’s oval face, with its bright pink spots of color, and remembered the way her hand had felt against his bare chest.

      Warm, so warm. It had cut right to the heart of him. It had been both pleasure and pain—maybe even more pain than pleasure. And it hit him like a thunderbolt—Diane, only his Diane, would make him hurt like that. Only his Diane could make him feel so much. Only Diane.

      As if on cue, the future Countess Coducci entered the sitting room, her tall, statuesque body nearly naked and gleaming in gold. She lifted off her mask as she moved toward him, freeing her long blond hair and sending it tumbling down her back.

      Valeria was one of Italy’s greatest beauties. Educated, elegant, refined. She understood him, too, accepting Domenico as he was instead of insisting on more. So many women wanted more. They didn’t understand there wasn’t more. Could never be more.

      Valeria’s honey-hued eyes glanced quizzically at Diane before looking back to him. “I heard a guest was ill,” she said, coming to his side and laying a light hand on his arm. “And that you were seeing to her personally.”

      He heard the way she emphasized personally. Valeria was not happy, didn’t approve, but she wouldn’t criticize him in front of others. She didn’t just understand him, she understood the dynamics of their relationship.

      He glanced down now, at the long, tight gold glove encasing her forearm. The glove artfully left the back of her palm and her elegant fingers bare. The gold glove was erotic. She was erotic. But she, like every other woman, left him cold.

      “She looks fine,” Valeria added, examining Diane from beneath