His Lost-and-Found Bride

by Scarlet Wilson

  Lucia looked thoughtful. Her fingers started twiddling with a strand of her hair and she crossed her legs, giving him a flash of her tanned skin. ‘What do you know about the royal couple?’

  He shook his head. ‘Virtually nothing. I’ve mostly dealt with Lindsay, the wedding planner.’ He laughed. ‘Now, there’s a woman I don’t want to call to say there’s an issue with the chapel.’

  Lucia smiled. ‘Will she chew you up and spit you out?’ There was a little spark of amusement in her eyes. It suited her. It made her more like the Lucia he remembered. The Lucia he wanted to remember.

  ‘In a heartbeat,’ he said quickly. ‘There’s no point in going back until I know I’m safe.’

  Lucia frowned. ‘Where have you made arrangements to stay?’

  This time he frowned too. Oh, no. ‘Well, I haven’t. Not yet anyway.’ His brain started spinning. ‘There’s a small boutique hotel I stay in if I ever come to Venice. I can give them a call.’ He pulled his mobile from his pocket and started dialling.

  Lucia shook her head and held out her hands. ‘Have you seen this place? I’ve never seen Venice this busy. I think everywhere will be packed out.’

  So do I. He was cringing inside. He’d known as soon as he’d arrived that he would never make his flight back. It was leaving right around now. And he hadn’t even made any attempt to book another. With this number of tourists he imagined that every flight and train journey, in and out of Venice, was booked for the next few days.

  He pressed the phone to his ear. ‘Hi, there, it’s Logan Cascini. I wondered if there was any chance of reserving a room for the night.’

  He listened to the reply and tried to stop the sinking feeling settling over him. ‘No problem. Can you recommend anywhere else?’

  The crease across Lucia’s brow was deepening.

  He listened to the receptionist telling him what he already knew. Venice was packed. Every hotel was fully booked for the next two days. He cut the call and gave his best attempt at a shrug. ‘I’ll try somewhere else.’

  Lucia sucked in a breath. ‘Why do you want to stay, Logan? There isn’t anything that you can actually do. Did you book a flight back to Tuscany?’

  Her tone was almost accusatory. He pressed a button on his phone and spun it around, showing her his online boarding card for the flight that was due to take off any minute.

  Her eyes widened. ‘Oh.’

  She bit her lip again. ‘Why do you even want to stay?’

  The same question again. This time with a different emphasis on the words. It was obviously preying on her mind, just like it was preying on his. When he’d booked his flight he’d planned to be in Venice for four hours and leave again later today and go straight back to Tuscany. It had all seemed straightforward. Except in his mind, where a little voice kept niggling at him.

  This was the contact he’d always imagined making. The renovations were a perfect excuse to be around Lucia. He hadn’t planned it. It had surprised him just as much as it had surprised her. But sometimes fate had a mysterious hand in things.

  After the first few awkward moments curiosity had been killing him about Lucia. He wanted to know everything about the last twelve years. He wanted to know her plans for the future. If she was happy. If she was settled.

  And absolutely none of it was his business. But that didn’t stop the little craving that had always been there growing into something a whole lot bigger.

  There would always be something between them. Right now, it still felt as if there was a big black cloud hanging over them. But for him, he could see little remnants of sunlight struggling to get through. And he wanted them to get through. So badly.

  But still something was holding him back. Holding him back from saying their daughter’s name and asking Lucia if she was ready to talk about her.

  So he took the easy way out. The safest way out, if he wanted to still have contact with Lucia.

  ‘I want to stay because I want to help move this project along. I would love to see Burano’s fresco. I would love to see how it compares to the Madonna and Child and to the nymph sculpture. You know I love this stuff just as much as you do.’

  Part of him felt guilty. These were careful words, designed to push the little buttons inside her and help things spark along.

  There was a glimmer in her eyes. He was talking her language. A language she related to and understood.

  He pulled something from his bag. ‘Look at this. You told me to try and find any evidence that Burano had been around the village. I’ve photocopied something from the local museum. One of the guest houses had an ancient register. People used to stay for months at a time.’ He pointed to a blurred entry from 1530. ‘I thought that might be Alberto Burano.’

  She screwed up her nose and squinted at the blurred entry. It was difficult to judge but he could see the glimmer of excitement behind her eyes.

  ‘I’m sure we’ll have a sample of his writing somewhere at the heritage board.’ She met his gaze. ‘This could be really important, Logan. You did well to find this.’

  It was the first note of approval he’d had from her and it made his heart swell in his chest. He wasn’t going to tell how he’d had to bribe the local museum curator to let him riffle through all the old paperwork. He wasn’t going to let her know he’d spent all of last night checking through mountains of ancient chests in order to find anything that might help.

  ‘Can I take this?’ she asked, holding up the photocopy.

  He nodded as he zipped up his bag again.

  ‘This can definitely help.’ She looked around them. The number of people in the quiet street was starting to pick up. ‘But where will you stay?’

  The million-dollar question. He shrugged as he desperately tried to think of someone, anyone he still knew in Venice.

  His fingers flicked through the numbers on his phone. He had a multitude of contacts in Florence, Rome and Pisa. Venice? Not so much.

  ‘You can stay with me.’

  The words came out of the blue. It was absolutely the last thing he was expecting to hear.

  ‘What? No, I couldn’t possibly put you to any trouble.’ His stomach clenched.

  He couldn’t miss the expression on her face. She was saying the words, but it was reluctantly—this wasn’t a warm invitation.

  And he hated that. He hated that she felt obliged to offer him somewhere to stay—when it was obvious she didn’t really want to.

  That hurt.

  But the reality was that he really didn’t have anywhere else to go. Chances were he could spend the next two hours phoning every hotel and just get the same answer—fully booked. There was a strong likelihood he wouldn’t find a bed for the night.

  Part of him wanted to refuse graciously and just walk away.

  But something else was burning inside...a persistence.

  Lucia used to be his. She used to fill his whole world. And he knew that the feelings had been mutual.

  They were both adults. They were twelve years away from their shared past. Determination was overcoming him.

  He didn’t want to walk away from Lucia—no matter how awkward she felt.

  In another world she would love him just as much as she always had, and would be delighted to offer him somewhere to stay and he would be delighted to accept.

  But in another world they wouldn’t have lost Ariella Rose.

  His fingers itched to reach over and touch her soft hand.

  Her own hands were knotted together, turning over and over in her lap.

  The rational part of his brain kicked in. He needed to get this job back on track. He needed to finish the renovations at the palazzo and the chapel.

  And the history-loving part of him would love to see the other fresco. This wasn’t such an unreasonable offer to accept. Anothe
r night in Venice might give him a little time to get to know Lucia again.

  And it seemed as though the rest of Venice might be attending a concert somewhere, leaving the beauties of Venice still to be explored...

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers. ‘Thank you, Lucia. You’re right. I probably won’t be able to find anywhere else to stay. As long as you’re sure it’s not too much trouble, I’d be delighted to stay.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHAT HAD SHE just done?

  Was her apartment even reasonably tidy? She didn’t have any food. Well, not the kind of food to entertain with and make dinner for a guest. Chilli-flavoured crisps and orange-flavoured chocolate might be her favourite dinner but she couldn’t offer it to a guest. What on earth had she been thinking?

  She was desperately hoping that she appeared outwardly calm. But her heartbeat was thudding against her chest at a rate of knots. Logan gestured to the waiter and settled their bill, picking up his bag and giving her a casual smile. ‘Shall we finish this paperwork back at your place?’

  It was a reasonable, rational question. He couldn’t possibly imagine the way the blood was racing around her system and the breath was sticking in her lungs.

  ‘Of course,’ she said as coolly as possible, with a nod of her head as she stood up.

  ‘How far away do you live?’ he asked.

  She tried to smile. ‘Well, that depends entirely on traffic and the time of day.’

  She weaved her way through the cobbled streets towards the water-taxi stop. ‘I’m only two stops along. It only takes a few minutes.’

  They were lucky. The water taxis on this side of the canal weren’t quite so busy. They jumped on and back off within five minutes.

  Her skin was prickling. Every little hair on her arms was standing on end even though the sun was splitting the sky. Now that Logan had had a chance to cool down he was back to his normal, unruffled self. She kind of wished he was still as flustered as he had been for a few moments earlier. It made him seem less infallible. A little more vulnerable—just like she felt.

  But Logan had never been vulnerable. He’d always been rock solid. Even in grief.

  He jumped out of the taxi before her and held out his hand for her as she stepped from the bobbing boat. She lifted her head and tried to walk with confidence. Although her apartment overlooked the Grand Canal the entrance of the traditional building was around the back. It had been hundreds of years since people had entered directly from the canal, and the original entrance had long since been plastered over.

  She couldn’t hide her smile. The architect in Logan could never be hidden. His eyes were roaming over the traditional building, his smile growing wider by the second. ‘You stay in an old Venetian palace?’

  The admiration and wonder in his voice was obvious. She’d always known Logan would approve of her choice. The fifteenth-century building facing the Grand Canal was one of the most photographed in the district. It had distinctive Venetian floral Gothic-style architecture. The façade was pink plaster facing with intricate white detailing around all the windows and balconies that overlooked the canal. The arches on the balconies were topped with delicate quatrefoil windows, resembling flowers with four petals.

  She gave him a smile as she opened the entranceway. ‘Just wait until you see the inside. We have our own high ceilings, beams, alcoves and frescoes. The whole place is full of original features.’

  Logan was nodding, his eyes wide as they stepped inside. She’d always loved this about him. The way a glimpse of architectural details of a building could capture his attention instantly. He would become instantly enthralled, desperate to know more about the building and its history. Architecture had always been Logan’s dream. But renovating ancient buildings? That was his calling. Always had been.

  A bit like hers had been painting.

  The memory swept through her like a gust of stormy weather.

  Another part of life put into a box. When she’d first got together with Logan, their apartment had been littered with brushes, easels and oils. She had painted all the time, usually wearing nothing more than one of his shirts. She’d loved the feel of having him right next to her as she’d created, and if he hadn’t been there, the scent of him—his aroma and aftershave—would usually linger on one of his shirts waiting to be washed. Thoughts of Logan had always fired her creative juices.

  A warm feeling crept across her stomach. Logan had always loved finding her like that, his shirt loose around her body and her hair twisted on top of her head with an errant paintbrush holding it in place. He’d usually pulled it free, followed by the shirt, and the following hours had been lost in a rush of love.

  But that light had flickered out and died along with the death of their daughter. For a long time she couldn’t even bear to look at a paintbrush, let alone hold one.

  Working for the heritage board had helped her heal. She didn’t paint her own creations any more. But she did paint. Restoration work was painstaking. In every fresco she restored she tried to re-create the passion and drama that the original artist had felt when he’d envisaged the work.

  There was still a little part of her that longed to feel like that again too.

  There was a lift inside her building but Logan was captivated by the grandiose staircase inside the entranceway. As it curved upwards there were archways hollowed out in the plaster in the walls. A long time ago each had been painted individually and had held sculptures. In between each hollowed archway was a large circular fresco embedded into the plaster on the walls.

  Logan moved quickly up the stairs, stopping to admire each individual one. ‘These are amazing,’ he said, his hand hovering about them. Logan’s professional expertise knew far better than to actually touch.

  She followed him upwards. A warmth was spreading through her. She was proud of her home—and secretly pleased that the man she’d shared part of her life with loved it just as much as she did.

  As they walked upwards she leaned a little closer and whispered, ‘I might have restored some of these.’

  His head shot around towards her. ‘You did?’

  She nodded as his eyes fixed on the walls again. His fingers were still hovering just above a fresco of Moses. ‘You’ve made an amazing job of these.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said simply, as they reached her floor and she pulled out her key and opened the apartment door.

  He walked inside and looked around. Her living area was spacious and held a dining table and chairs and two wooden-footed red sofas. As with most Italian traditional apartments the floor was marble. A dark wooden bookcase adorned one wall, jam-packed with books.

  But the most spectacular aspect of the apartment was the view. Lucia strode across the room and pulled open the black-and-gilt-edged glass doors. The warm air and noise from the Grand Canal below flooded in. It was like flicking a button and bringing the place to life. Next to the doors was a small wooden table, a chaise longue and an armchair. It was like having a real-live television. You could sit here all day and night and watch the world go by.

  She knew his head must be spinning. This apartment was sumptuous. Well out of her price range. She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, watching the vaporetti and private boats motor past. On the other side of the canal stood another magnificent long-abandoned palace. Renaissance in style again, with Gothic-styled windows and ornate frescoes on the outside of the building.

  He turned towards her and smiled. ‘It’s almost like your perfect view, isn’t it?’ There was an edge of curiosity in his voice. But he wasn’t going to ask the question out loud. Logan was far too polite for that.

  ‘Coffee?’ she asked, as she walked towards the kitchen. It was right next door to the open living area and again had windows looking out on the canal. He nodded and walked in next to her, sitting down on one of the high stools lo
oking over the canal. She switched on her coffee-machine and put in her favourite blend.

  She leaned back against the countertop. ‘I haven’t always stayed here,’ she said quietly. ‘After I’d been in Venice for two years one of my colleagues retired from the heritage board. They subsidise our living arrangements because—as you know—Venice can be very expensive.’ She held out her hands. ‘I sort of inherited this place. I pay roughly the same as we did for our apartment in Florence.’ She watched his eyebrows rise and couldn’t stop the smile. ‘It was like all my Saturdays at once.’ She laughed as she watched the coffee brew and pointed across the waterway. ‘Do you know, they actually asked me how I’d feel about staying here? It was all I could do not to snatch the key and just run.’

  The warm feeling was spreading further. She rarely brought friends back to her apartment. This place was her sanctuary. From the moment she’d stepped inside it had always felt like that.

  She’d thought having Logan here would be unbearable. She’d been so busy focusing on all the negatives she hadn’t even considered the positives.

  He was fascinated by the building’s history and traditional architecture. He respected the heritage just as much as she did.

  She poured the coffee into two mugs and set them on the table, watching the steam rising while she frothed some milk and added it to the mugs.

  She gestured with her hand. ‘Come and I’ll show you where your room is.’

  She hadn’t even had time to prepare anything and she had to hope that nothing was out of place in her barely used guest suite. She led him down the corridor off the kitchen. It was the only place in her apartment that didn’t have natural light.

  He grabbed her elbow as they walked down the corridor. ‘Are you sure this is okay?’

  She turned to face him. He was much closer than she’d expected, his warm breath hitting her cheek. For a second she was frozen. This was as up close and personal as she’d been to Logan in years. The closeness took her breath away.

  Even in the dim light of the corridor his green eyes made her struggle to think clearly. He was worried. He was worried about her. And glances like that brought back painful memories.