The Venetian Playboy’s Bride

back.

That had been four years ago, and to this day Marco’s sole comment had been, ‘These things happen. We were unsuited.’

‘Unsuited?’ Guido had echoed when Marco was safely out of earshot. ‘I saw his face soon after. Like a dead man’s. His heart was broken.’

‘You’ll never get him to admit it,’ Leo had prophesied wisely. And he’d been right.

Marco had never discussed the cancellation of his wedding, and the others would have known nothing if Guido hadn’t happened to bump into the lady two years later.

‘He was too possessive,’ she explained. ‘He wanted all of me.’

‘Marco? Possessive?’ Leo echoed when Guido related the conversation to him. ‘But he’s an iceberg.’

‘Evidently not always,’ Guido had observed.

It was doubtful if Marco would have confessed to the possession of a heart, broken or not. But these days he was never seen without a beautiful, elegant woman on his arm, although no relationship lasted for very long. In this respect his life might be said to resemble Guido’s, but Guido’s affairs sprang from the impetuous warmth of his nature, and Marco’s from the calculating coolness of his.

He seated himself at the breakfast table now, ignoring Guido’s attempts to rile him, and reached for the coffee. Instantly Lizabetta appeared with a fresh pot which she contrived to set down, remove the old one and clear away used dishes without speaking a word or appearing to notice their presence.

‘She terrifies me,’ Guido said when she’d gone. ‘She reminds me of the women who knitted at the foot of the guillotine in the French revolution. When we’re loaded into tumbrels and hauled off for execution Liza will be there, knitting the Calvani crest into a shroud.’

Leo grinned. ‘They won’t bother with me. I’m a hard-working son of the soil, and that’s what I ought to be doing this minute.’

‘Just a few more days,’ Guido begged. ‘It’ll mean so much to Uncle.’

‘To you, you mean,’ Leo said. ‘You just want us to occupy his attention while you get up to no good.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Guido said, grinning. ‘What I’m getting up to is very, very good.’

He was ahead of Dulcie getting to the landing stage, and for a horrid moment he was sure she wasn’t coming. He knew he’d somehow put a foot wrong the previous night, but he could recover himself if he saw her again.

But she wasn’t coming. She’d left the hotel, left Venice. He might never see her again…

There she was!

‘Quickly,’ he said, seizing her hand, ‘the vaporetto is just coming.’

As the boat drew up he hurried her on board as though fearful that she might change her mind. He found her a seat at the side, near the prow, and sat silently, content to watch her as she beheld marvels unfold.

Dulcie could hardly believe that she was here. As she’d packed the black satin bikini she’d told herself that this was pointless because she wasn’t really going to spend today with him. She’d stressed this again as she’d donned the scarlet sun dress, but then her feet had walked themselves out of the Empress Suite and into the lift.

And now here she was, sitting beside him as the vaporetto left the Grand Canal behind and settled in for the half-hour journey to the Lido, the strip of land that marked the boundary of the lagoon. The warm wind whistled past her, making her hair stream out, catching all her troubles and whirling them away across the blue water.

From the landing stage to the beach was just a short walk across the narrow island, and then she was gazing at an expanse of blue sea and golden sand that did her heart good.

He hired cubicles for them, and a huge umbrella which he ground into the sand. When she emerged from the cubicle wearing the bikini and a floating gauze top he’d already spread the towels on the sand and was waiting for her. His eyes never left her as she approached and slipped off the top, revealing a body that was slender, elegant and beautiful. She held her breath for his reaction.

‘Where is your sun cream?’ he demanded.

‘My what?’

‘With that fair skin you need it.’

‘But I never catch the sun,’ she protested.

‘Nobody catches the sun in England because you don’t have any. Not what I call sun. Here you need sun cream. Come, we’ll go to the shop.’

Great, she thought, exasperated, as he steered her along the sand to the beach shop. That was all the reaction she was going to get.

In the shop he bought cream and a large straw hat. She protested until he settled the matter by ramming the hat onto her head, so that it covered her eyes and he had to lead her out, threatening dire retribution if she touched it. Only when they were back under the umbrella did he let her remove the hat and the top so that she could apply the cream.

‘All over,’ he instructed.

‘Aren’t you going to help me?’

‘Sure. Turn around and I’ll do your back and shoulders.’

He did exactly what he’d said without taking advantage. Her back and shoulders. Then he sat waiting while she covered every other inch of her. He didn’t even offer to do her legs. Obviously, she thought, Jenny was very lucky and he was faithful to her.

So what were they doing here?

Perhaps he just wanted English female company, to remind him of the woman he really missed. It was a depressing thought. Except for Jenny, of course.

‘Now we can have a swim,’ he said, ‘just a short one at first while you get used to the sun gradually.’

‘It’s like being taken out by my father,’ she said indignantly.

‘Was it really like this when he took you out?’

‘No,’ she admitted wryly. ‘He never took me to the beach, it was always the races, and then he-well, he had other things to think about.’

‘But didn’t he ever just want to give you a treat?’

‘No,’ she said after a moment. There had been ‘treats’ for her brother, who’d been a chip off the old block, but, ‘He said it was no fun taking me out because I didn’t know how to enjoy myself.’

‘Your father said that?’ He sounded scandalised, and she had the same feeling as the night before, of having found her first sympathetic listener.

‘He’s just a big kid himself, really. He likes to have fun.’

‘Well, today, you are going to have fun,’ he declared. ‘I am going to be the Poppa, and treat you to everything you want. We go swimming, we throw a beach ball, we eat ice lollies, we do everything.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes, please.’

Grabbing her hand he began to race down the beach until they were in the shallows, where he danced about, splashing water onto her. She splashed back, thinking that nothing could have looked less like a ‘Poppa’. He was lean and hard, with a smooth chest, a neat behind and long, muscular thighs.

Afterwards they strolled hand in hand along the edge of the water, for which he made her wear the sun hat again, although she felt no more than pleasantly warm in the brisk wind that swept along the shore. They stopped to rest by a little rock pool, and Dulcie let her toes dangle in the water, breathing in the salty air, and wondering how she’d lived without doing this.

‘Watch out for crabs,’ he said casually.

‘Aaargh!’ Her yell split the air as she snatched her toes away, while he laughed and laughed until she thought he would never stop. ‘You rotten so and so-’ She was thumping him while he tried to fend her off, but not very effectively because he was weak from laughter. Somewhere in the tussle her hat vanished, whisked away by the wind and deposited out to sea.

‘Are there really any crabs?’ she asked, peering down into the water.

‘Of course not, or I wouldn’t have let you put your foot in there.’

‘Well, you wait. I’ll make you sorry, see if I don’t,’ she said, taking his hand for the return journey.

He led her to the beach restaurant and settled her at an outside table, under an awning, while he went inside, glancing hurriedly around. To his relief he saw only one person who knew his real identity. Nico was the son of one