A Venetian Affair. Lucy Gordon

the Guggenheim, taken a trip to Murano, or any of the things I was told were a must on holiday in Venice.’

      ‘We shall do that tomorrow.’

      Laura’s eyes widened. ‘But what about your job?’

      ‘I have arranged a little holiday. Until your flight home my time is yours. But now,’ he added, a glint of steel in his eyes, ‘we come to the difficult moment. Laura, I am known here in Venice. I cannot allow a lady to pay for dinner. So I will settle the bill, per favore. If you must,’ he added as she opened her mouth to protest, ‘you can pay me in private later.’

      ‘Oh, very well,’ she said, resigned. ‘But just make sure you keep the bill for me.’

      ‘Of course I will,’ he said, looking injured. ‘Why do you not trust me, Laura?’

      She smiled in sudden remorse. ‘I do trust you. I just can’t let you spend so much money on me.’

      ‘But it is customary for a man to do this when he asks a woman to dine with him. I cannot believe that this is different in London.’ Comprehension dawned in his eyes. ‘But of course! I am a fool. You think I will expect—’

      ‘No! I most certainly do not,’ she retorted, colouring.

      ‘You say it is the problem with the men who work in your bank,’ he pointed out.

      ‘You’re different.’

      He raised an eyebrow. ‘In what way? I am a man.’

      ‘I know that,’ she said, exasperated. ‘But it never occurred to me that you’d want—expect—’

      ‘I do not expect to make love to you,’ Domenico said very quietly, leaning nearer. ‘But I would lie if I said I did not want to.’ He signalled to the waiter for the bill, paid it, received Laura’s raincoat and held it for her, then escorted her outside into the narrow alley.

      Nothing was said other than a ‘Permesso’ from Domenico as he put his arm round her under the umbrella, but once they left the narrow alley he halted, looking down into her face as the rain teemed down around them.

      ‘We dined early tonight, Laura.’

      She was well aware of that. Yet now there seemed no alternative to a return to the Locanda, where there was no bar, or visitors’ lounge. ‘I need to settle up for dinner,’ she reminded him with sudden inspiration.

      ‘That would be difficult here in such rain. And I still have your shopping,’ he reminded her. ‘I would ask you back to my apartment to collect it, but after our conversation in the restaurant you will suspect my motives, yes?’

      She shook her head, smiling. ‘No, I won’t, Domenico. I’d love to go back to your place.’

      After the drenching rain of the not-quite-dark of the lagoon night Domenico’s salotto glowed with welcome from lamps that threw light on the high white cornices and sparked muted gleams from a collection of mirrors in different sizes, all of them old with carved, gilded frames, some of them in need of restoration.

      ‘I noticed yesterday that there were mirrors instead of pictures,’ said Laura as he took her raincoat.

      ‘I am not so very vain,’ he said, grinning. ‘The glass is original in my entire collection; which means it is almost too dim to give a reflection.’

      ‘They’re beautiful.’

      He held out his hand. ‘Come. Sit down, Laura, and let me give you a drink.’

      ‘I don’t suppose you have any tea?’ she said without hope.

      Domenico smiled in smug triumph. ‘I bought some today, but I do not drink tea, so it is best you make it yourself.’

      ‘Wonderful!’

      In the small kitchen he handed her a packet of teabags labelled ‘English Breakfast’. ‘It is a little late for breakfast, but I thought you would like this.’

      ‘I’ll love it,’ she assured him as he filled the kettle. ‘Do you have any milk?’

      ‘Of course! I knew that tea would be no use to my charming English guest without it. But there is lemon, if you prefer,’ he added.

      ‘You’ve thought of everything. Thank you.’ She gave him a radiant smile.

      ‘Such a smile will gain you anything you wish,’ he told her, watching as she poured boiling water on the teabag.

      ‘At this moment all I want in life is a cup of tea,’ she said, and savaged the teabag with a spoon. ‘What are you having?’

      ‘A glass of wine. Perhaps you would like one later, also.’

      Domenico took a tray into the salotto and set it down in front of her, watching indulgently as she sipped her tea with a sigh of bliss.

      ‘I’ve been suffering withdrawal symptoms.’ She laughed at his blank look and explained that three days without tea was a personal best for her.

      ‘But why did you not say?’ he demanded, sitting beside her. ‘We can provide you with tea in any café in Venice.’

      ‘I love the coffee here so much I never thought to ask for tea.’ She gave an admiring glance at the gros point embroidery on the cushions. ‘I envy you these, Domenico.’

      He smiled, pleased. ‘They are my mother’s work.’

      ‘She’s very clever. I’m not at all talented when it comes to sewing.’

      ‘Can you cook?’

      ‘It all depends,’ she said guardedly.

      He looked amused. ‘On what, exactly?’

      ‘Your idea of a good meal. Can you cook?’

      ‘Of course,’ he said matter-of-factly.

      ‘I thought all Italian males were spoilt rotten by their mammas!’

      ‘Often this is true,’ he admitted. ‘But when I am here in the apartment I sometimes like to make a meal. It is a change for me.’

      ‘And in the hotel?’

      ‘I eat hotel meals,’ he said, shrugging.

      She eyed him curiously. ‘What exactly do you do in this hotel of yours?’

      ‘I work very hard!’ He smiled. ‘Allora, would you like more tea, or shall I give you a glass of wine?’

      Laura shook her head. ‘Nothing more, thanks. But if you’d be kind enough to hand over those bags I left behind I’d love to gloat over my purchases.’

      Domenico deposited her shopping at her feet, smiling at her pleasure as she examined her trophies.

      ‘With your help I spent a lot less and bought far more than I expected,’ she told him with satisfaction. ‘But I also need a proper wedding present for Fen Dysart. I’d like to buy her some Venetian glass—something special.’

      ‘Then we shall go to Murano tomorrow. A reproduction of something old would be good, yes?’

      ‘Perfect.’ Laura hesitated. ‘As long as they accept credit cards.’

      ‘Of course. They will also ship anything you wish to England.’

      ‘That would be marvellous.’ She turned to look him in the eye. ‘Allora, as you Italians say, give me the bill for the meal, please.’

      ‘I hoped you had forgotten.’ Domenico sighed heavily. ‘I do not like this.’

      ‘Tough. I insist.’

      ‘You are a hard woman.’

      ‘You’d better believe it!’ She smiled at him to soften her words, and managed not to wince at the total