A Venetian Affair. Lucy Gordon

her mother to the door before either of them could get emotional, waved her out of sight, then with a sigh limped back inside to get through the long afternoon as best she could.

      To kill time she washed her hair for the first time since the accident, but with a hair-dryer ruled out styling had to be restricted to gentle towelling and a very careful brush through. Afterwards Laura smoothed moisturiser into her skin, pleased that repeated applications of ice had at least reduced the swelling on the eye surrounded with arresting shades of maroon and plum. Making a face at it, she took wings of hair back from her ears, secured them on the crown of her head with a giant clip and let the rest hang down the back of her pink vest top to dry in the sun.

      The garden went back a long way behind the house. In the years since the move Isabel had gradually transformed the bramble-choked wilderness into a haven of green lawn surrounded by flowering shrubs, which softened the outlines of the high laurel boundary hedges. A shallow rockery planted with alpines separated the lawn from the small, paved area outside the sitting room window, and during the morning Isabel had unfolded two director’s chairs, and put up the parasol over the picnic table there for an early salad lunch.

      All morning Laura had maintained such a determinedly cheerful mood it was a relief to relax now she was alone. She found an extension lead to attach to her tape-player, filled a jug with orange juice and ice cubes, collected a glass and went outside to sit under the parasol. She propped her feet up on a stool, and, eyes closed, listened to the church bells welcoming the guests arriving to see the youngest Dysart daughter married. Her mouth tightened as she wondered if one wedding guest in particular had arrived—and if he’d come with company. Laura thrust the thought away, and when the bells stopped sent a silent message of love to the bride, switched on the tape, and concentrated fiercely until the plot absorbed her again.

      She leaned back, bare legs outstretched, removed the barrette and combed her fingers through her damp hair, and then sat utterly still other than to change the tape at intervals and refill her glass. She grew so drowsy in the afternoon warmth as the hours passed that when the current tape ended she couldn’t be bothered to put in a new one.

      Laura woke with a start from a restless doze and shot upright with a gasp of fright, her heart thumping madly at the sight of Domenico gazing down at her. Shaken and breathless, she shook the hair back from her incredulous face to meet blue eyes blazing with such horror she shut her own in self-defence. When she opened them again his familiar smile was firmly in place. A white gardenia adorned the lapel of a suit with the superb fit of all Domenico’s clothes, and Laura was immediately, resentfully conscious of her battered face and untidy hair, her short denim skirt long past its shelf-life, and the crowning touch of scruffy old trainers loose enough for her swollen foot.

      ‘Come esta, Laura,’ Domenico said gently.

      She pulled herself together, trying to breathe normally. ‘Not at my best, I’m afraid,’ she said unevenly, and thrust her hair behind her ears to display the full effect of her bruises. ‘This is a surprise.’

      He drew the other chair close and with a familiar ‘Permesso?’ sat down. ‘Ah, Laura!’ His voice was husky with compassion as his eyes travelled over her face. ‘Your mother told me of your fall, but I did not imagine—’

      ‘That I looked so scary?’

      ‘That you had been hurt so very badly,’ he contradicted. ‘Are you in pain still?’

      ‘Not pain, exactly. My face is just sore and throbs a bit. So does my ankle.’ She smiled coldly. ‘If I’d expected to frighten anyone I would have worn a mask. I bought one in Venice, remember.’

      ‘I do remember. And you did not frighten me,’ he assured her. ‘I feel only sympathy for your injury.’

      She found that hard to swallow. ‘The worst part was missing Fen’s wedding. How did it go?’

      ‘It was very beautiful. But to my great disappointment you were not in the bridal party.’

      ‘You can see why now.’ She smiled politely. ‘It’s very kind of you to take time to visit me, but shouldn’t you be up at Friars Wood with the other guests?’

      He shook his head. ‘I have been there already. I congratulated the radiant bride and her proud husband, and introduced myself to your mother.’ Domenico smiled warmly. ‘She is so much like you. I recognised her immediately.’

      ‘She looks good, doesn’t she?’ said Laura, thawing slightly.

      ‘Molto elegante,’ he agreed, and eyed her warily. ‘Mrs Dysart consulted with your mother and made a suggestion.’

      Laura raised her good eyebrow. ‘What is it?’

      ‘She gave me champagne so that you and I may toast the bride and groom together.’ He smiled. ‘The bride thought this was an excellent idea.’

      ‘Did you come to the wedding alone, then?’

      ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, surprised. ‘I have rung you twice since Thursday to say I was arriving today, but your number was unobtainable.’

      ‘I broke my phone when I fell.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Domenico, are you here because you feel sorry for me?’

      ‘No.’ His chin lifted. ‘But if you do not want me here I will leave the champagne and go.’

      She turned her face away, fighting sudden tears, but after a moment she was pulled to her feet and into Domenico’s arms with her good cheek pressed to his crisp shirtfront.

      ‘You took off your jacket,’ she muttered, breathing in the male scent that was so bone-meltingly familiar she almost forgot she was furious with him.

      ‘My suit is new,’ he explained. ‘The shirt will wash.’

      ‘And I thought I was the practical one!’ She tried a laugh, which sounded so much more like a sob his arms tightened.

      ‘Piangi!’ he commanded, but having been told to cry Laura lost all desire to, and pushed him away.

      ‘Sorry. My emotions are a bit near the surface since the fall.’

      He winced, and touched a finger to her uninjured cheek. ‘You could have done yourself such serious injury, Laura.’ He paused. ‘So. Shall I stay?’

      She lifted a shoulder. ‘If you like.’

      ‘Then I shall fetch the champagne from the car.’

      ‘I’ll get some glasses.’ Laura limped into the house, and for pride’s sake took time to tie her hair back before collecting a couple of champagne flutes.

      ‘I feel happier with my hair under control,’ she told Domenico as she rejoined him.

      He smiled a little. ‘Bene. I like you to feel happy.’

      She raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Really? You were pretty cutting on the phone!’

      Heat flared in his eyes. ‘You hurt me so much, Laura.’

      ‘You or your pride?’ she said, unmoved.

      He shrugged. ‘Both. To help you I paid a very little part of your hotel bill, and in return you accuse me of paying for your body. I believed we had made beautiful love together,’ he added angrily. ‘So, yes, my pride was hurt.’

      Her eyes flashed. ‘So was mine, Domenico, when I found out you’d been having a little joke with me.’

      ‘I have given you my reasons for that,’ he reminded her, and without spilling a drop removed the cork from the champagne, filled two glasses and handed one of them to her. ‘Now we make the toast,’ he said.

      ‘To Fen and Joe,’ said Laura, raising her glass.

      ‘To the bride and groom,’ he agreed, and raised his own. ‘Also a toast to you, Laura, with the wish that your beautiful face will soon be whole again.’

      ‘I’ll drink