A Venetian Affair. Lucy Gordon

waiter led her to a table in the open air at exactly the right distance from the orchestra in its bower of greenery, and in the careful, schoolgirl Italian she’d been practising all the way to the piazza Laura asked for mineral water and a cheese and ham sandwich. Maybe she’d go wild and have coffee later, but right now she was content just to sit here in the floodlit magnificence of the square and listen to the hum of multi-lingual conversation blending with the music. When the waiter brought her order she made her tramezzino last as long as possible while she watched the passing show of people enjoying a leisurely evening stroll through the great square. Some were couples, others entire groups who stopped to talk with friends, with much kissing of cheeks and children part of the scene. Laura gazed at it all with intense pleasure, so absorbed that at first the sound of her own name failed to register.

      ‘Miss Green?’ repeated a deep, husky voice. ‘Buona sera.’

      Laura turned sharply to see Domenico Chiesa looking down at her, an arrested look on his face.

      She smiled, surprised. ‘Good evening.’

      He returned the smile with warmth and charm very different from the impatience that had radiated from him at the airport. ‘I called first at the Locanda Verona. Signora Rossi told me you would be here. I trust that everything is to your satisfaction at the hotel?’

      Laura assured him that it was. And now she had attention to spare for Domenico Chiesa found he was worth looking at. Shoulders broad, hips slim, waving dark hair cut as perfectly as the superb suit he wore. And without the dark glasses his oval, heavy-lidded eyes were a striking aquamarine blue with a look in them that told her he was well aware of every last one of his physical assets.

      ‘I was so intent on the passing show in the piazza I didn’t see you arrive,’ she told him.

      ‘And I startled you. To make amends may I offer you wine, or coffee?’

      Laura hesitated for a moment, then thought, Why not? ‘Thank you. I’d like a caffè macchiato, please.’

      ‘Your accent is most charming,’ he told her, and raised a slim hand. He gave the order to the waiter, then indicated the chair next to Laura’s and said, ‘Permesso?’

      ‘Of course.’ What else could she say? Besides, no woman in her right mind would turn down attractive male company in surroundings like these, with a moon overhead and music playing.

      ‘So, Miss Green,’ he said, after their coffee arrived, ‘what is your first impression of my city?’

      Laura looked round her at the glittering, extravagantly beautiful Piazza San Marco. ‘I’ve seen it countless times in films and television programmes, but Venice for real is breathtaking.’

      ‘I am glad it pleases you.’

      ‘I would be very hard to please if it didn’t!’ She sipped her coffee with relish. ‘A friend told me to make Florian’s my first call, Signor Chiesa.’

      ‘A wise choice.’ He smiled at her. ‘But, please, my name is Domenico.’

      ‘As you know, I’m Laura,’ she said, returning the smile.

      ‘So, Laura, what are your plans for tomorrow?’

      ‘Just to wander round your amazing city.’ She put down her empty cup.

      ‘You wish for more coffee?’ he said at once.

      She shook her head. ‘It was delicious, but no more, thank you.’

      He smiled persuasively. ‘Join me in a glass of Prosecco instead.’

      Once again there was no way to refuse. Besides, Laura reminded herself, he was probably just acting on instructions. Fen had said that Lorenzo would order some underling to make the holiday arrangements—though anyone less like an underling than Domenico Chiesa was hard to imagine.

      ‘Salute!’ he said, raising his glass to her once the Prosecco had arrived. ‘Do you know Signor Forli well?’

      ‘I’ve just met him at my friend’s house a couple of times. He’s married to her sister.’ She drank some of her wine. ‘Do you live here in Venice?’

      He nodded. ‘All my life. Where is your home?’

      ‘My family’s home is in the country in Gloucestershire, but I work and live in London.’

      ‘And what do you do there, Laura?’ he asked, and listened with flattering attention as she gave a brief description of her work as researcher at a Docklands investment bank.

      ‘I am impressed,’ he told her, then with a sigh of regret finished his wine and rose to his feet. ‘Now I must return to my own duties. But first allow me to escort you back to the Locanda Verona.’

      Laura shook her head, smiling. She’d said yes to him quite enough. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I think I’ll stay on and listen to the orchestra a little longer. Thank you for the drinks, Signor—’

      ‘Domenico, per favore!’ He smiled down into her eyes. ‘Buona sera, Laura.’

      ‘Goodnight.’

      Laura watched him walk away, amused by the touch—more than a touch—of arrogance in his bearing. She’d noticed it in all the native male population she’d seen so far, including the waiters. It was obviously a man thing, Venetian style. She watched him until he was out of sight, and after a while, no longer enjoying the evening quite so much now she was alone, looked round for her missing bill. She bent to look under the table, then signalled to a waiter.

       ‘Il conto, per favore?’

      ‘Scusa?’ he said, puzzled.

      Oh, boy, thought Laura. ‘Do you speak English?’ she asked hopefully.

      ‘A little,’ he said with caution.

      ‘I’ve lost my bill, and I want to pay.’

      ‘Ah!’ His face cleared. ‘It is paid, signorina.’

      Her eyebrows rose. ‘All of it?’

      ‘Yes, signorina.’

      Surprised, Laura gave him a tip, wished him goodnight and strolled slowly back to the Locanda Verona.

      Laura woke early next morning, stared blankly for a moment at the wood-beamed ceiling, then grinned like the Cheshire cat. She was in Venice! She got out of bed and stood at the glass doors, stretching luxuriously as she gazed at the view. First on the agenda was breakfast. She hadn’t eaten much in the way of dinner last night. And what she had eaten Domenico had paid for, she thought guiltily. But whatever he did at his hotel he obviously earned a good salary by the way he dressed. Besides, she probably came under the heading of expenses claimed from Lorenzo Forli.

      In jeans and white T-shirt, her hair in a loose braid down her back, Laura went downstairs to ask about the nearest source of breakfast. Armed with directions from Signora Rossi, she found the small bar recommended and ordered coffee and an almond croissant to enjoy while she consulted her guidebook. Some intensive window-shopping was first on the agenda before she actually bought any presents to take home. She finished her coffee, put on dark glasses and sunhat and went off to spend time gazing in jewellers’ windows in the arcades of the Piazza San Marco before salivating over the gorgeous clothes in the stylish shops just off it. Later, remembering to keep to the right among the crush of fellow tourists, she set out on an immensely enjoyable tour of the famous Mercerie, and did her best to look in every shop and boutique all the way to the Rialto. When she reached the famous bridge at last she wandered, fascinated, round the colourful food markets for a while before stopping at a small bar nearby. She ordered mineral water and a roll stuffed with roast ham, and ate standing up again, because her guidebook said it was cheaper than sitting at a table. But after lunch her feet began to complain, and Laura lost her zest for window-shopping. The walk to the Locanda Verona in the afternoon heat seemed so much longer on the way back that her first priority when