The Italian’s Cinderella Bride

‘There’s a limit to how much entertainment I’m prepared to provide for tourists,’ he growled.

Ruth looked back at the motor boat.

‘Where are you staying?’ she asked, for the sake of friendly conversation.

‘Don’t know yet,’ the jester replied. ‘We just jumped on the train and came out here for a good time. Now we need a cheap hotel.’

‘All the hotels are full,’ Pietro called. ‘You’d best go back.’

‘But isn’t there a travel agency that could help us?’

‘No, there isn’t.’

‘Yes, there is,’ Ruth urged. ‘I know of one-’

‘No, you don’t,’ Pietro said firmly.

‘Yes, I do. It’s in St Mark’s Piazza-’

The rest of her words were lost as he grasped hold of her, hauled her close and silenced her mouth with his own.

It she hadn’t been otherwise occupied Ruth could have laughed out loud. How to get him to kiss her again had been preoccupying her mind, and now she’d solved the problem very neatly. Just a little provocation had been enough to do it. She made a mental note to remember that.

Then all thought was blotted out in the pleasure of being in his arms, feeling his lips on hers, sensing the agonies of self-restraint that were torturing him as much as her. He wanted to kiss her but not like this, before an audience. He wanted to yield to the feelings that were driving him, evoking hers in return. Except that hers needed no prompting. She was as full of passion as he, yearning to respond to him fully, in a way that could only be done when they were alone.

She did her fervent best to let him know how she felt, but this wasn’t the time or the place. The best could come later.

She sighed as he released her, caring for nothing except for the moment.

‘I suppose that gave them something to talk about,’ she said hazily.

‘They’re gone,’ said the gondolier behind them.

It was true. The motor boat had turned away down another canal, leaving their gondola the only boat in sight. The singer was strumming away and beginning another song.

‘He’s singing Venetian, isn’t he?’ she asked. ‘What do the words mean?’

Pietro began to translate,

‘“We have all the beauty in the world. Secrets that no one else knows, Will be ours for ever. But do I mean Venice, Or our love?”’

‘What a lovely song,’ she murmured, her head leaning against him.

‘Have you ever heard it before?’

‘No,’ she said, understanding his true meaning. ‘Not from Gino or anyone.’

‘I don’t care about anyone else-just Gino.’

Ruth waited for him to kiss her again, but now he was looking at the water ahead, and she realised that he was suddenly uneasy. It was the men standing behind them, she realised. It would be different when they were really alone. For the moment it was enough to nestle against him in perfect contentment, and let things happen as they would.

Time no longer existed, if it had ever existed. Little canals came into view, leading away into darkness, then passing into other canals. From the distance came music and laughter, yet here they were almost alone.

‘When did you last eat?’ Pietro asked suddenly.

‘I can’t remember. I skipped breakfast and today was so busy, and then I went to the station and I forgot everything else.’

‘Me too, and I’m hungry.’

‘I’m ravenous.’

At his signal the gondolier rowed over to the bank and let them land on a small piazza, where lights dazzled from a few modest buildings. As he drifted off Pietro put his arm around her shoulders and led her to a tiny place, ‘run by a friend of mine’.

As she’d expected and hoped the restaurant was neither expensive nor fashionable, being little more than a pizza parlour, with many dishes being cooked in plain sight. One chef was doing a stunt, tossing a ‘pancake’ higher and higher, to loud applause. When he’d finished he hailed the newcomers with a roar.

‘Pietro-’ The rest of his words were indistinguishable.

‘Ciao, Sandro.’

Pietro turned out his pockets, indicating that he had no money, and the man made a gesture that clearly meant, ‘So what?’ The next moment they were being led to a table in the tiny garden at the back. Luckily the weather was warm for January, and they sat there in comfort while Sandro bustled out with a menu that contained fifty different pizzas.

‘You pick what you want and Sandro makes each one up individually,’ Pietro explained. ‘He’s a genius and these are his masterpieces.’

He was right. When the food arrived it was so delicious that neither spoke for several minutes. Then Pietro groaned.

‘What’s the matter? It’s lovely,’ Ruth protested.

‘The food’s fine. I was thinking of the day I’ve had.’

‘Has the Baronessa been giving you a hard time?’

He gave her a speaking look.

‘She spent most of the day lecturing me about the meaning of Carnival.’

‘But doesn’t she know you’ve lived here all your life?’

‘If she does, she gives it less significance than her “feelings”. She’s aiming to take part in the opening procession, although the arrangements were settled ages ago. She’s relying on me to speak to the organisers. She says she’s sure that I can do anything I set my mind to.’

‘Compete with sighs and fluttering eyelashes?’

‘Complete with everything. She keeps trying to get me alone so that she can exercise her “charms”.’ He closed his eyes.

‘But surely a man of the world like you can cope with her easily?’ she teased.

Pietro gave her a baleful look. ‘It isn’t funny.’

‘It is,’ she choked. ‘It’s terribly funny.’

He gave a reluctant grin. ‘All right, it’s funny. But being rude to women is an art I never quite mastered, and it’s too late to start now. Besides, Franco is my friend.’

‘I suppose you could just give her that deadly stare you once gave him.’

‘It would just ricochet off her, and she’d give me one back. I’d back her against myself anyday.’

He began to laugh, the kind of full-hearted sound she’d never expected to hear from him. It was good to watch him covering his eyes with one hand and shaking with mirth.

‘Anyway, it’s your fault,’ he said at last. ‘You should have stayed there to protect me.’

The thought of this strong, attractive man needing her protection made her chuckle again. She felt light- headed, finding amusement in everything, flying up to the stars.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said meekly. ‘I didn’t mean to desert you in the face of the enemy, but I never thought of it.’

‘I’m surprised, given your low opinion of men.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I remember hearing you talk about Salvatore Ramirez after that evening you spent with him and his wife. You said he was mostly window dressing-like most men.’

‘Did I really say that?’

‘You know you did. Your voice had a scathing note that made me curious.’

‘I wasn’t scathing,’ she protested.

‘You certainly didn’t sound as though the male sex had greatly impressed you.’

‘I can’t think why.’

‘Is that a real lapse of memory or a diplomatic one?’