great piazza, along with the summer tourists enjoying the warmth and beauty of their surroundings, her arm tucked cozily in his. Now it was time to say goodnight.
“I can’t thank you enough for this trip, Corin.” She looked up to meet those brilliant, intense eyes. He had such an aura. She could only imagine it would increase with the years. “You and Zara have been wonderful to me.”
“You don’t think it’s because you’re easy to be wonderful to?” he asked with a smile. “You’re so receptive to new experiences, Miranda. You undoubtedly have an eye. I know you’ve added a considerable lustre to my stay. Now, goodnight. Breakfast at eight. Okay?”
“Fine. My first night in a huge canopied Venetian bed. This is such an alluring place!” She threw up her arms.
Did she know just how alluring she was? Corin thought as he moved resolutely away. All those fascinating changes of expression! Every minute he spent with her bound him closer and closer. It had taken all his resolve to walk away, pretending light affection, when he hungered to pick her up, take her to her Venetian bed and make endless love to her. She was twenty-one. Was she still a virgin? Had the usual experimentation gone on? Not with her Peter. He was sure of that. But with another intelligent, caring young man? Miranda wouldn’t settle for less. She was now very much a part of his life. He had no intention of letting her get away. But it would take time. Such was his high regard for her and her ambitions he was prepared to wait.
Only he was human, and he wanted her so much it was pain.
The bathroom of her suite was magnificent, lavishly covered in Italian marble. The finest bath and body products were to hand, and robe and slippers. Miranda took a quick shower and emerged glowing. She dried herself off, slipped on her nightdress and her own satin robe, then padded into the bedroom with the panoramic tiny terrace beyond. Truth be told, she felt too keyed-up to sleep. She had thought the warm shower followed by a quick cool blast would quell all the stirrings in her body. But just the opposite. This intense awareness of herself as a woman, the awareness of her body, had been brought about by Corin. His brilliant dark eyes as he had said goodnight had been hooded—just the broad, high sweep of his cheekbones. Was that to hide his thoughts? They had connected on many levels, but the physical one was definitely there. She had seen it. She had felt it when he took her face between his hands. So much was transmitted by touch. Whatever he felt, however, he wasn’t going to do a thing about it. In his position he would be weighing up the consequences. She wasn’t the only one with defence strategies. Did he consider a sexual relationship with her taboo? Technically she was his stepsister, wasn’t she? Was there a liability attached to having a physical relationship?
Feeling a wave of sweet melancholy, she picked up her crystal-backed brush to give her hair its ritual thirty strokes. Forget one hundred. Mentally she had long dreamed of Corin as her lover. Incredibly stupid of anyone to hanker for someone out of their reach. Her past lovers had been infrequent. Two, actually. Both fellow students, both in love with her, both very tender in their ministrations. She had wanted to know what making love was all about. She hadn’t found much of an answer in either short-lived experience. She had considered at those times she mightn’t be capable of giving herself completely to anyone. Look what had happened to her mother. She didn’t understand her mother’s life. It was crucial she understood her own.
That was when she casually looked up, glancing into the ornately carved pier mirror in front of her.
A man was staring back at her, his body as solid and impenetrable as a stone statue.
The level of shock was bottomless. She drew in a sharp breath that quivered like an arrow in flight. A judder racked her spine. Yet not a single word burst from her throat. No scream. No cry at all.
Somehow she kept upright, determined to stay that way. He was dressed very oddly. He might have stepped out of another century. Could it be some sort of fancy dress? Venice was famous for it. But even as she considered that she had to reject it.
Push back the panic.
He remained eerily still. Where had he sprung from? The terrace? Had he been hiding out there? Had he slipped in earlier in the night when the maid came in to turn down the bed?
“What are you doing here?” she cried as she spun to confront him. Aggression seemed the best way to go, though some part of her brain had signalled he meant her harm.
She required an explanation.
Only she was by herself.
Quite, quite alone.
How could that be? A kind of dread started cold in her veins. She had a well-organised mind. She was certain she wasn’t losing it. Her eyes darted all around the room. This was alarming. He’d had no time to get anywhere within a framework of seconds. There had to be a logical explanation. Yet her view of life as she had known it started to waver. The parameters were suddenly blurred. She leaned against the canopied bed. Had he stepped out of a parallel universe? Was there any such thing? Many people believed there was, but she was far too rational to believe in—
Ghosts?
The word presented itself, only it was seriously weird. She’d had more than a glimpse of her visitor. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light. More than a touch of dizziness beset her. The air had definitely chilled around her. Indeed, the opulent room was filled with an impenetrable thick silence, as if she had cotton wool stuffed into her ears. Except she could distinctly hear the tinkling of the chandelier above her head. Something had set the lovely crystal lustres in motion.
There was no breeze.
Sometimes life can depart from the easily explained.
It had to be a trick of the light. Her imagination. The legendary mystique of Venice at work?
She made a big effort to get control of herself. None of those explanations would wash. What she saw, she saw. No way was she crazy or mildly intoxicated. The walk after dinner had cleared her head in any case. Already a strong suspicion was with her. There just could be a paper-thin wall between this world and that. The majority of the population managed to keep it at arm’s length. But many learned people, academics and the like—one had to discount the fanciful—had theorised that ghosts did exist. And they were notorious for hanging around castles and palaces.
She was fairly sure now what her visitor was.
An apparition.
One she had done nothing to summon up. Her mind’s eye retained a snapshot of that long, narrow face, the black beard, the shoulder-length dark hair, the strange dress like a priest’s cassock. His hands, as white as his face, had been quietly folded. A glinting medallion hung around his neck. He hadn’t appeared hazy. Quite the contrary. He’d been substantial. Someone strong enough to materialise if only for a moment. Energy, perhaps? Something of a person that lingered in the atmosphere? She was striving to rationalise what she had seen.
Only she was certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep here. Imagine if he came back again? Imagine if he sat down on the side of the bed?
If anyone had asked her that morning if she believed in ghosts she would have laughed and quoted some lines from Hamlet:
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth,
Horatio,
Than are dreamt
