A Venetian Affair. Lucy Gordon

emotion.

      ‘Yes,’ she whispered shakily.

      Outside the closed door of the hotel Domenico kissed her again, then released her with reluctance.

      ‘Buona notte, Laura. Until tomorrow.’

      Chapter Three

      LAURA woke with the memory of the kisses still warm on her lips. A tendency to gaze into space held her up so much as she got ready that Domenico had already arrived when she ran downstairs. He gave her his usual double kiss of greeting and exchanged a few words with Signora Rossi before sweeping Laura out into the steamy, sunlit warmth of the Venice morning.

      ‘How are you today, cara?’ he enquired as they went in search of breakfast. ‘Did you sleep well?’

      ‘No,’ she said frankly. ‘Did you?’

      He shook his head, sighing. ‘I lay awake listening to the rain and thinking of our kisses.’

      ‘Snap!’

      He laughed and took her hand. ‘I know this now. I am glad you felt the same.’

      After a leisurely breakfast Laura insisted they caught a vaporetto instead of an expensive water taxi for the short journey to Murano and stood at the rail within Domenico’s sheltering arm watching the island come nearer, its outline softened and blurred by the saline lagoon climate.

      As they drew up alongside he pointed out the island’s ancient canalside porticoes. ‘Some of these have survived from mediaeval times, when Murano was the principal glassmaking centre of Europe and its citizens were the only craftsmen in the world able to produce a mirror.’

      ‘A pretty vital invention from a woman’s point of view!’

      He smiled and smoothed a lock of hair back from her forehead as they left the boat. ‘Allora, before making your choice do you wish to watch our celebrated glass-blowers at work?’

      ‘I certainly do,’ she assured him.

      ‘But afterwards, if you see something you like, leave all bargaining to me,’ he advised.

      When they reached a door with a ‘fornace’ sign they went inside to watch a demonstration of the ancient craft that had made Murano famous. Laura watched, fascinated, as the glass blower took a blob of molten paste on the end of an iron rod, and with a skilled, dangerous-looking process of twisting, turning and blowing transformed it into a perfect wine goblet.

      ‘Amazing, Domenico,’ she said as they began a tour of the showroom afterwards. ‘It’s probably all in a day’s work to that man, and nothing new to you, but it looked like pure magic to me.’

      ‘With you at my side, Laura, everything in Venice is new to me also,’ he said, smiling down at her as she looked at the dazzling array of glass artefacts. ‘Have you something in mind for your friend’s bride gift? What type of house will she live in?’

      ‘Her fiancé originally bought a flat in a beautiful Georgian house in Pennington, but he now owns the entire property.’ She gestured at some extravagantly modern pieces. ‘Those are wonderful from a technical point of view, but I want something more traditional, to suit their house.’

      Laura would have found it hard to resist the pressure from some of the sales staff on her own, but with Domenico on hand they were left in peace to browse.

      ‘Would she like these?’ he asked, pointing at a display of candlesticks and candelabra. ‘Millefiori is not everyone’s taste, but perhaps she would like the aventurine, which uses gold.’

      Laura nodded enthusiastically. ‘Exactly Fen’s sort of thing.’

      After lengthy deliberation on style and cost, she eventually chose a pair of tall candlesticks with hair-fine strands of gold twined through their serpentine, tactile curves. Domenico did some efficient haggling, which brought the price down considerably, but in the end Laura decided against having them shipped.

      ‘Just in case they don’t arrive in time for the wedding,’ she told him. ‘I must have my present ready for the big day. Thanks a lot for the expert bargaining.’

      He smiled, and took charge of the gift as they went to catch the vaporetto back to San Marco. ‘So. I have my uses!’

      ‘Oh, very definitely,’ she assured him, ‘one of which is to tell me who is on the other pillar.’

      ‘Cosa?’ he said blankly.

      ‘At the entrance to San Marco. The lion of Venice is on one pillar, but who stands on the other one?’

      ‘Ah! That is San Teodoro,’ he said, enlightened. ‘Saint Theodore to you. And be warned: superstitious Venetians never walk between the pillars because in the past executions took place there. And now,’ he added, ‘I have a confession to make.’

      ‘Another one?’ she said, laughing.

      ‘I went early to the market this morning, and in my hurry afterwards I forgot your shopping again.’

      ‘Never mind, I can pick it up on my way back to the hotel.’

      ‘And we shall eat lunch at the apartment. Or we can go out, of course,’ he added quickly.

      ‘I prefer your apartment.’ She smiled at him as they left the boat. ‘I like it very much, Domenico.’

      ‘Do you like me very much, also?’ he asked, so utterly serious Laura gave him a startled look.

      ‘Yes, I do.’

      ‘Bene!’ he said with satisfaction, and took her hand. ‘Do not worry. I shall not drop the candeliere.’

      Laura volunteered to make an omelette to accompany the bread and salad Domenico had bought fresh that morning, and after sizing up the cooker and the pan he gave her she uttered a silent prayer and got to work with butter, eggs and herbs. Domenico watched in approval as for the final touch she gave the pan a brisk shake, folded the omelette in half, and slid two crisp, soft-centred portions onto the plates he had ready.

      ‘Perfetto,’ he assured her as they began eating.

      ‘You’re being kind,’ she told him, delighted that her effort had turned out so well.

      ‘No, I am truthful.’ He smiled as he helped her to salad. ‘The frittata is delicious and so is the chef. This is a very special occasion for me. Except for my mother no woman has ever offered to make lunch for me here.’

      Laura didn’t want to hear about other women in Domenico’s apartment. ‘You can make me some tea as my reward,’ she told him.

      ‘Of course,’ he said, and laid a peeled peach on her plate. ‘But afterwards you must do as we Venetians do and rest for a while before we go on with the day. So this afternoon is it to be the Guggenheim or the Basilica? I do not advise both.’

      ‘The Basilica. Let’s do ancient today and modern tomorrow—if you still have time to spare for tomorrow?’ she added, flushing.

      ‘My time is yours until you leave,’ he reminded her as he got up to make her tea. ‘Which is not long now. You must come back again soon, Laura.’

      ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. I won’t be able to afford another trip to Venice for quite a while,’ she said with regret.

      He frowned as he put a teabag in a cup. ‘If cost is a problem I could—’

      ‘No, you couldn’t, Domenico,’ she said gently.

      Instead of arguing, as she’d half expected, he made her tea, added milk, and gave her the cup. ‘First you drink this tea, then you rest in the salotto.’

      ‘I want to help clear up,’ she objected.

      ‘No, cara—you did the cooking,’ he said firmly. ‘Is the tea to your