One Christmas Night in Venice. Jane Porter

… late … wife.”

      Valeria regarded him calmly. “But doesn’t late imply she’s dead?”

      “It would, yes. But as you can see she’s not.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Neither do I.” And then he took Valeria by the arm and led her to the hall outside the sitting room, where they could have a modicum of privacy.

      Diane watched them walk out of the room together. They were perfectly matched. And she—she was the outsider.

      Hands balled in her lap, Diane tried to stay calm, but her mind felt unhinged. This was a dream within a dream. It was all too surreal. What was Domenico? Winged lion, golden symbol or archangel? And who was his Venus? His wife? His lover? His children’s mother?

      But the very idea of him fathering another woman’s children sent pain shrieking through her. He was the father of her child, the child she’d lost in the accident.

      She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to empty her mind and clear her vision. But when she opened her eyes again all she saw was Dom, and all she heard was his conversation with his golden Venus.

      It was easy to hear every word. They hadn’t bothered to close the doors. Maybe they didn’t think she could hear them, or maybe they didn’t care. And even though they were speaking Italian Diane had no problem following the rapid, emotional exchange.

      “So she was a guest at the party?” Venus asked.

      “Yes.”

      “It’s too incredible. Her showing up here. Now.” The gilded woman drew a short, sharp breath. “Are you sure it’s her?”

      “Yes.” Domenico’s answer was hard. Decisive. “There is only one Diane.”

      In her seat on the couch Diane doubled over, her chest constricting, air bottled in her lungs. Dreams didn’t usually hurt, did they? But she hurt now. There is only one Diane.

      That was something only her beloved Domenico would say.

      He the great romantic. He who had sacrificed everything for her … his family, his wealth, his history … to start fresh with her. They’d been so young, and brave. Had thought they could do anything if they were together.

      It had been a beautiful thought. And apparently very naïve.

      “What is she doing here?” Venus persisted.

      “I don’t know.”

      “The timing of her appearance seems a little too good to be true. A week before Christmas and three weeks before our—” She broke off, and turned to march into the sitting room to cast Diane a withering glance. “Why did you sneak into the party?”

      “I did not sneak!” Diane flashed, sitting tall, her back ramrod-straight. “I had a ticket just like everyone else.”

      “A ticket to see Domenico?” Valeria scoffed. “If you wanted to see him why not just come to the door?”

      “It was a ticket to a ball, a fundraiser, not a ticket to see Domenico. And I came because I wanted to see the palace. I was curious. And foolishly I thought perhaps coming here tonight I’d finally have closure—”

      “I don’t believe you,” Valeria interrupted.

      Color stormed Diane’s cheeks and she longed to be on her feet. She needed power and strength, and sitting on this damn sofa gave her neither, but she couldn’t get up without her cane. Couldn’t do anything but sit there and cling to what was left of her dignity. “Frankly, I don’t care what you believe. I don’t have to answer to you. This is between my husband and me.”

      “Your husband? He’s my fiancé. Soon to be my husband—”

      “Valeria!” Dom interrupted.

      Venus faced him, expression pleading. “Domenico, this can’t be. She’s dead. I know you were still in the hospital, in Intensive Care, but your mother went to the funeral. She brought you back the order of service. You keep her ashes in the chapel—”

      “But it was Dom who died,” Diane broke in furiously. “Dom and the baby died. I was the only one who survived. At least that’s what his mother said.”

      Diane felt rather than heard Dom’s sharp inhalation.

      And then it hit her—brutally hard. His mother said …

      His mother …

      His mother had lied.

      Hadn’t she?

      The realization must have hit Domenico at the same time. “Valeria, if you’d excuse us?” he said, his gaze fixed on Diane’s face.

      Valeria opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it and with her head high walked out of the room.

      Diane watched Valeria leave and listened to the door click closed before glancing up at Domenico, who hadn’t moved from his position at the end of the blue brocade sofa.

      Dom’s dark eyes bored into hers, his expression intense. He was a strong man, a passionate man, and fierce emotion tightened his features now. “My mother told you I’d died?” he repeated, his cool, empty voice contrasting sharply with the emotion burning in his eyes.

      Diane nodded with difficulty.

      “When?” he asked.

      “When she came to see me.”

      “Where was that?”

      “New York.”

      “New York?” he echoed, still studying her with that penetrating, troubling gaze. “Is that—?” He broke off, hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was deeper, harsher. “Is that where you were?”

      She nodded again. “After the accident. Your mother made arrangements to have me flown there once I was stabilized. I spent months at the hospital for reconstructive surgeries, and then another year at the hospital’s sister facility for rehab.”

      “You said my mother made the arrangements?”

      His voice continued to grow harsher, and she swallowed with difficulty, unnerved by this new harsh Domenico. “Apparently. To be honest, I don’t remember the flight or the first surgeries,” she answered, forcing a note of calm into her voice. “Or much of the rehab. It’s all a blur.”

      “Apparently,” he mocked.

      Tears scalded the backs of her eyes and she had to look away, concentrate very hard on the enormous gold-framed oil painting on the far wall. This Domenico harbored a beast.

      “Perhaps you misunderstood her,” he added bitterly.

      Her head snapped around to face him. “You think I’d imagine my mother-in-law telling me that my husband and child were dead? You think I’d create grief for the pleasure of it?”

      Her voice rose, and she wanted to rise, too. Wanted to march across the room to hit him. Slap him. Shake him. Love him. But her cane was missing, and she wasn’t strong enough to get to her feet from the low sofa without it.

      “No. But perhaps in translation her explanation, your interpretation …”

      His voice drifted off and she hated him then. Hated him and his dark, haunted eyes and his scarred noble face and his wealth and privilege. Because he hadn’t died. And he wasn’t alone. He’d lived, and he’d been here in the bosom of his beloved family while she’d struggled on her own. But of course they’d taken him back. He wasn’t the problem. She was. And she was gone.

      Her chin lifted a notch. “I’m fluent in Italian and your mother was fairly fluent in English. I can’t imagine how we could misunderstand each other so completely. She did, after all, come and see me. You, on the other