ills, a nice cup of tea.’
His hand beneath her elbow, he led her round a corner to the Stadsbiesl, a tiny restaurant with overhanging eaves and white stucco walls. Its tiled roof sloping every which way, the old building leaned, supported like an amiable drunk between its neighbours.
A tunnelled archway gave access to a small sunny courtyard with three or four unoccupied tables covered with red-checked tablecloths.
‘But perhaps, as you’re fair-skinned, you’d prefer to be indoors?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I love the sun and, so long as I don’t do anything foolish, I tan quite easily.’
‘Then al fresco it is.’
He helped her off with her linen jacket and hung it over the back of her chair.
The moment they were seated a white-coated waiter appeared with a pitcher of iced water and two glasses.
‘Just tea?’ Nicola’s companion enquired. ‘Or would you like to try a plate of the delectable cakes they serve here?’
‘I had a late lunch, so just hot tea with lemon, thank you.’
He gave the order in fluent German, though she felt sure it wasn’t his native tongue.
As the waiter moved away she remarked, ‘You seem to know the Stadsbiesl well?’
‘Yes. I eat here from time to time.’ Studying her, he added, ‘Your colour’s coming back. Feeling better?’
‘Much better.’
‘On holiday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this your first time in Innsbruck?’
‘Yes.’ Reluctantly, she added, ‘Though I’m only staying for one night. I’m on my way to Venice.’
‘From England?’
‘Yes. I’m driving down. Taking the scenic route.’
‘It’s a magnificent run over the Brenner Pass.’
‘I’m sure it must be. I’m looking forward to it.’
But not so much as she had been.
Their pot of tea arrived, strings and tags dangling from beneath the lid. It was accompanied by a silver bowl of sugar cubes and another of thinly sliced lemon. On each bowl there was a pair of silver tongs shaped like twin dragons joined at the tail.
Indicating the pot, he suggested, ‘Perhaps you’ll pour?’
‘Of course. Lemon and sugar?’
‘Just lemon, please.’
She filled both cups, and passed him one. Then, made unusually clumsy by the knowledge that he was studying her, she dropped a piece of lemon into her own, so that it splashed tea down the bodice of her dress.
Getting to his feet, he felt in his pocket and produced an immaculate handkerchief. He dipped the corner into the pitcher of water and leaned over her to rub gently at the orange-brown stains.
Though his touch was light and impersonal, every nerve-ending in her body responded, and she felt her cheeks grow hot.
He moved back and, his head tipped a little to one side, studied the results of his ministrations. ‘There are still one or two faint marks but nothing too obvious.’
‘Thank you,’ she said in a strangled voice.
‘It was my pleasure entirely,’ he responded, straight-faced.
Uncertain whether or not he was laughing at her, she gathered herself, and, needing a topic of conversation, asked a shade breathlessly, ‘Do you live in Innsbruck?’
‘No, I’m here on business.’ His eyes on her face, he went on, ‘I live in Venice.’
‘Oh…’ For no reason at all, her heart lifted.
Still watching her, as though he was half expecting some reaction, he added deliberately, ‘My name’s Loredan… Dominic Irving Loredan.’
‘Are you Italian?’ was all she could think of to say.
‘Half. My father was from the States, but my mother was Italian.’
So that accounted for the faint and fascinating accent she had noticed, and also for the eloquent way he used his long well-shaped hands when he was speaking.
‘You’re English, I take it?’
‘Yes. I’m Nicola Whitney.’
He glanced at her wedding ring. ‘Mrs Whitney, I see.’
‘Yes… No… Well, yes…’
Raising a dark winged brow, he commented, ‘You seem a little uncertain.’
‘I—I’m a widow,’ she stammered.
Perhaps afraid of pitying exclamations, or maybe because to say it aloud made it all too real, this was only the second time she had voluntarily admitted her widowhood.
‘You’re very young to be a widow,’ he remarked evenly.
‘I’m twenty-five.’
‘When did your husband die?’
‘Three years ago.’
‘And you’re still wearing your ring?’
She still felt married.
When she said nothing, he pursued, ‘Was his death some kind of accident?’
Because his question was matter-of-fact, unemotional, she was able to answer steadily, ‘Yes. He was killed in a car crash.’
‘So you’re on your own?’
‘I share a flat with a friend, Sandy.’
‘He’s not holidaying with you?’
‘No, I’m alone… And Sandy’s a she.’
Now why had she found it necessary to tell a complete stranger that? she wondered. Other people had made the same mistake and she hadn’t bothered to correct them.
More than a little flustered, she hurried on, ‘We met at college, and after Jeff, my husband, died she invited me to share her flat. I would have liked her to come with me, but she’s a self-employed information consultant and she had too much work on.’
His manner casual, he queried, ‘Are you in the same line of business?’
‘No. I work for Westlake Business Solutions as a conference organiser.’
‘Sounds
