breakfast. She hadn’t eaten much in the way of dinner last night. And what she had eaten Domenico had paid for, she thought guiltily. But whatever he did at his hotel he obviously earned a good salary by the way he dressed. Besides, she probably came under the heading of expenses claimed from Lorenzo Forli.
In jeans and white T-shirt, her hair in a loose braid down her back, Laura went downstairs to ask about the nearest source of breakfast. Armed with directions from Signora Rossi, she found the small bar recommended and ordered coffee and an almond croissant to enjoy while she consulted her guidebook. Some intensive window-shopping was first on the agenda before she actually bought any presents to take home. She finished her coffee, put on dark glasses and sunhat and went off to spend time gazing in jewellers’ windows in the arcades of the Piazza San Marco before salivating over the gorgeous clothes in the stylish shops just off it. Later, remembering to keep to the right among the crush of fellow tourists, she set out on an immensely enjoyable tour of the famous Mercerie, and did her best to look in every shop and boutique all the way to the Rialto. When she reached the famous bridge at last she wandered, fascinated, round the colourful food markets for a while before stopping at a small bar nearby. She ordered mineral water and a roll stuffed with roast ham, and ate standing up again, because her guidebook said it was cheaper than sitting at a table. But after lunch her feet began to complain, and Laura lost her zest for window-shopping. The walk to the Locanda Verona in the afternoon heat seemed so much longer on the way back that her first priority when she got to her room was a long, cool shower followed by a read on her bed, with her hair spread out on a towel over her shoulders to dry.
The read turned into a siesta and when Laura woke the afternoon was gone. She slid out of bed in a rush, annoyed at wasting so much time in it, and stooped to pick up an envelope that someone had pushed under her door while she was sleeping. Her eyebrows shot to her hair as she read the brief note inside. Domenico Chiesa requested the pleasure of her company at dinner that evening and would call for her at eight. And he was so sure she’d be delighted with the idea there was no address or contact number on the note for her reply. She whistled inelegantly. He’d changed his tune a bit since their first encounter! He’d hustled her off to the boat at the airport as though he couldn’t get rid of her fast enough. Yet he’d turned up at Florian’s later, apparently just to make sure all was well with her—Lorenzo’s idea, probably. She shrugged. She was on such a tight budget that dinner with a handsome Venetian was an offer she’d be mad to refuse. But delightful though her small room might be she had no intention of staying put in it until he called for her.
Laura spent more time than usual on her face, then, mindful of Fen’s advice to dress to kill if she went somewhere special, put on the second of her three dresses, a silky sheath the colour of ripe raspberries. She piled her hair up in an artfully precarious knot that took ages to get right, clipped on gold filigree earrings and went downstairs to leave a message for Domenico Chiesa at the reception desk.
Laura strolled out into the warm evening with a smile on her face as she pictured the self-assured Domenico’s reaction when he found the bird had flown. Not that she was flying far—just to Florian’s again to watch the world go by until he came to find her. If he came at all. If his original attitude was anything to go by his male Venetian pride might well be offended because she hadn’t stayed put to wait for him. Though why he’d made the invitation in the first place was a mystery. Lorenzo’s instructions to look after her could hardly have gone that far.
Domenico Chiesa could have told her precisely why as he made for the Locanda Verona later. At the airport Miss Laura Green had been so eager to board the vaporetto she had paid no attention to him at all. Such treatment from a woman was new to him, and instead of amusing him, as it would have done any other time, her indifference had irritated him. But later that evening he’d had a drink with a friend in the San Marco area, and on impulse called at the Locanda Verona afterwards to check that all was well with the girl—and to make a better impression, he admitted, laughing at himself. But when he’d eventually found her it had taken much control to hide his surprise.
At Marco Polo her face had been hidden by the hat and glasses. But at Florian’s he’d discovered that her mouth curved delightfully as she smiled, and the dark amber shade of her eyes was unexpected below the shining coil of flaxen hair. Her face had too much character for mere beauty, possibly, but she possessed that indefinable something he found so desirable in a woman he had automatically set out to charm. Then she had given him the second surprise of the evening by refusing his escort to her hotel—another first in his experience. The cool Miss Laura Green was most definitely a challenge. Domenico’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. As first step in the warming-up process he would impress her by taking her to Harry’s Bar, the Mecca of all foreign visitors. Then later, when she was mellow with good food and wine, he would provide the finishing touch to the evening with a moonlit ride in a gondola.
Domenico strode into the modest little hotel like Caesar bent on conquering Gaul. Then stared in disbelief when he heard that the young lady had gone out.
‘Cosa?’
Signora Rossi smiled apologetically and handed him a note.
Domenico thanked her, read the brief missive, and after bidding the signora good evening strode outside again, eyes stormy, strongly tempted to leave Miss Laura Green sitting alone at Florian’s all evening. But his irritation vanished when he found her in the piazza. She sat, composed, watching the evening parade, the vibrant colour of her dress the perfect foil for her gleaming hair. Tonight she had knotted this up in a sexy, insecure arrangement that looked as though one touch of a lover’s hand would bring it tumbling down. Escaping tendrils lay on her neck in the exact place that invited the touch of a man’s lips, and to Domenico’s surprise he found he strongly objected to the admiring male glances she was attracting as she sipped from a long glass.
Unknown to him Laura had spotted Domenico the moment he appeared in the piazza. She’d monitored his progress from the corner of her eye, admiring the perfection of his pale linen suit and beautiful shoes. But she waited until he reached her table before looking up with a cool little smile to say hello.
‘Buona sera.’ He returned the smile reproachfully. ‘You did not wait for me.’
She shrugged in apology. ‘I left a message for you with Signora Rossi. My stay in Venice is too short to waste it in my room.’
‘Your room is not satisfactory?’ he demanded.
‘Quite the reverse; it’s charming. But when your note arrived I’d already spent the entire afternoon there. In bed.’ Laura smiled into the spectacular blue eyes. ‘After a morning of relentless window-shopping I slept far longer than I intended.’
He took the chair beside her. ‘You will drink Prosecco, yes?’
The man took a lot for granted! Laura eyed him in amusement as he gave the order. Domenico Chiesa was too sure of himself by half.
‘So, Laura,’ he said, turning back to her. ‘You looked in shop windows. Did you buy anything?’
‘Not today. My plan was to look first and buy later, but I saw so many things I lusted after I can’t remember where I saw what. If you see what I mean,’ she said, smiling.
‘You do not think my English sufficient to understand?’ he demanded.
‘I think your English is wonderful,’ she said hastily. ‘I just wish I could speak Italian a fraction as well.’
The blue eyes gleamed. ‘I could teach you.’
I bet you could, thought Laura, and not just syntax, either. She smiled regretfully. ‘I’m not staying long enough for that.’
