Читать книгу One Christmas Night in Venice - Jane Porter - Страница 6

DOMENICO caught the fragile shepherdess just before her head slammed against the stone. Her heavy staff clattered to the ground instead, joining her broken mask.

She was small, light—lighter than Diane. Because this wasn’t his Diane. No matter what this woman said. No matter the game she played.

But he couldn’t leave her here. The night was cold and her cloak was nearly as thin as her sheer costume. Effortlessly he swung her up, lifting her high against his chest. It angered him that she felt more like an angel than a woman. So frail. Too frail.

His robe swirled around his legs as he carried her back to the palazzo, and he tried to concentrate on the cold and the fog instead of the woman in his arms.

When she’d touched him he’d burned. That brush of her fingers across his chest had hurt. Not tingled. Burned.

Just like the fire that had consumed the car the night of the accident.

His gaze dropped to the top of her head with its elaborate white wig. How strange that he felt nothing when Valeria touched him, and yet he felt everything when this little impostor touched him.

Jaw hardening, he resolved to get to the bottom of this charade—but it would be in private, away from the guests and the revelry.

A wide-eyed Pietra held the door open for him and, entering the palazzo, he walked past the grand staircase to the back of the house, where another staircase ran upstairs to the family’s personal rooms.

He climbed the stairs in twos to his private suite on the third floor and placed the now silent shepherdess on the sitting room’s antique sofa.

“Well?” he said brusquely, stepping back to have a hard look at her. She was beautiful. Ethereal. Impossibly fragile. “What is this about? Has someone put you up to this? Are you in need of money?”

The shepherdess tilted her head back, white ringlets cascading over her slender shoulders as she stared up at him, her eyes a stunning blue-green, overly brilliant in her pale face. “No.” Her voice shook and he wanted to shake her.

Those eyes … that voice … so like Diane it almost fooled him. Almost, but not quite. Yet the damage was done. He was thinking of her again. Feeling what he’d once felt. Love. Loss. Grief.

Rage.

And the rage hit him anew, fresh fury washing over him, through him, stealing his calm, darkening his mind. He already blamed himself for Diane’s death—he had been at the wheel, after all—but how dared this woman? How dared she mock him? How dared she impersonate his beloved wife?

Domenico stepped closer and lowered himself to his haunches, crouching before her so their eyes were level. “I warn you,” he said softly, dangerously. “I am not a patient man. I will not tolerate this. Tell me why you’re here and what you want or—” He broke off, his hands squeezing, knotting, kneading. He’d break her. Destroy her. Because, God help him, what kind of woman would do this?

He’d never loved anyone as he’d loved Diane. Diane had been his heart. His life. He’d defied everyone to marry her. He’d lost everything to have her. And he hadn’t cared. He’d loved her so completely. With every inch of his heart.

She’d never believed him. Never trusted him. Unable to accept that he’d rather lose his inheritance, his family, than lose her. It hadn’t been just rash promises, either. He’d given it all up on the day he’d married her. His mother, enraged that he’d marry a commoner, and an American at that, had stripped it all from him, though she could never take his title. It was his father who had allowed them to stay at Ca’ Coducci for their honeymoon, but that had been their one and only visit here together.

He hadn’t cared, though. He’d had his own business in Rome, and an apartment, and a beautiful wife he’d adored.

It was all he’d needed. Work, love, life.

But then Diane had died, and miraculously he’d been returned to the family bosom. Restored just like the prodigal son.

Only he hadn’t wanted to be returned to the family bosom. He’d wanted Diane.

And this woman, this shepherdess, presumed to be his love, his life.

God help her, she was in trouble now.

“Or what? What would you do?” she flashed, eyes blazing back at him, expression defiant. “Throttle me? Hit me? What would you do that could create greater pain than has already been given to me?”

He was close enough to see the flecks of turquoise in her irises, and the faintest of lines at the edge of her eyes. A small dimple—no, a scar—winked at her throat.

Trachea, he thought, heart slowing, stomach cramping. A tracheotomy scar.

Someone had cut her trachea, opening her air tube so she could breathe. Throat squeezing closed, ice water filling his veins, he staggered to his feet, moved blindly away, his robe swirling.

Impossible.

Couldn’t be.

Diane was dead. Dead. And the dead did not come back to life. Not even in magical Venice. Yes, in the first year after the accident he’d dreamed of her night after night—dreamed she was still alive, dreamed they were together still—but he hadn’t dreamed of her in over a year now, and finally he was free to move on. Knew he had to move on, whether or not his heart was ready. Because his son needed him to move on. His son needed a mother, a family.

But this woman … so very much like Diane.

He turned his head slowly, slowly, and she was still there, sitting still, regal, defiant on his sofa.

“Do you abuse women now, Dom?” she choked, her cheeks suffused with color. “Is that what death has done to you?”

Diane would have never spoken to him this way.

Domenico ground his teeth together to keep from shouting. He didn’t shout. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel. But right now he was wild on the inside. Wild, bewildered, stunned.

He’d died when they’d told him Diane was gone. He’d gone into cardiac arrest. And he’d been glad he was dying, had known he was dying. Wanted it.

But they’d brought him back after three minutes. Brought him back to the living. Only he wasn’t the same. Part of him was gone forever.

Even now, thinking maybe, maybe, it was her, he couldn’t feel. Couldn’t hope. Couldn’t dream.

He’d loved her too much. And losing her had almost killed him. He would never love anyone—not even his Diane—again.

“I do not hurt women,” he said, drawing a slow, deep breath. “And I would never hurt you.” He paused. “If it is you.”

“It is me. And you know it’s me. Ask me anything.”

“What was the painting I was standing in front of that day we met at the university library?”

The smallest of smiles played at her mouth. “Jacopo Tintoretto’s The Finding of the Body of St. Mark. It was on loan from Brera in Milan.” The smile disappeared. “We talked about your Venetian family, and how St. Mark was your favorite apostle.” She looked up at him, her head shaking in disbelief. “How, Dom? How is it possible? You’re supposed to be dead.”

And I am, he thought, gazing down at her, even as it struck him that his wedding was exactly three weeks from tonight.

Dio buono. Good God.

Valeria.

He glanced at the door, thinking Valeria should be here. Knowing that Valeria, his future wife, was not going to react well to hearing that his wife was still alive.

Eyes narrowed, he stared at Diane’s oval face, with its bright pink spots of color, and remembered the way her hand had felt against his bare chest.

Warm, so warm. It had cut right to the heart of him. It had been both pleasure and pain—maybe even more pain than pleasure. And it hit him like a thunderbolt—Diane, only his Diane, would make him hurt like that. Only his Diane could make him feel so much. Only Diane.

As if on cue, the future Countess Coducci entered the sitting room, her tall, statuesque body nearly naked and gleaming in gold. She lifted off her mask as she moved toward him, freeing her long blond hair and sending it tumbling down her back.

Valeria was one of Italy’s greatest beauties. Educated, elegant, refined. She understood him, too, accepting Domenico as he was instead of insisting on more. So many women wanted more. They didn’t understand there wasn’t more. Could never be more.

Valeria’s honey-hued eyes glanced quizzically at Diane before looking back to him. “I heard a guest was ill,” she said, coming to his side and laying a light hand on his arm. “And that you were seeing to her personally.”

He heard the way she emphasized personally. Valeria was not happy, didn’t approve, but she wouldn’t criticize him in front of others. She didn’t just understand him, she understood the dynamics of their relationship.

He glanced down now, at the long, tight gold glove encasing her forearm. The glove artfully left the back of her palm and her elegant fingers bare. The gold glove was erotic. She was erotic. But she, like every other woman, left him cold.

“She looks fine,” Valeria added, examining Diane from beneath her gold-tipped false eyelashes. “What was the problem?”

Dom didn’t even try to soften the blow. “The problem is this is Diane.”

One of Valeria’s winged brows lifted higher. “Diane?”

“My … late … wife.”

Valeria regarded him calmly. “But doesn’t late imply she’s dead?”

“It would, yes. But as you can see she’s not.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.” And then he took Valeria by the arm and led her to the hall outside the sitting room, where they could have a modicum of privacy.

Diane watched them walk out of the room together. They were perfectly matched. And she—she was the outsider.

Hands balled in her lap, Diane tried to stay calm, but her mind felt unhinged. This was a dream within a dream. It was all too surreal. What was Domenico? Winged lion, golden symbol or archangel? And who was his Venus? His wife? His lover? His children’s mother?

But the very idea of him fathering another woman’s children sent pain shrieking through her. He was the father of her child, the child she’d lost in the accident.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to empty her mind and clear her vision. But when she opened her eyes again all she saw was Dom, and all she heard was his conversation with his golden Venus.

It was easy to hear every word. They hadn’t bothered to close the doors. Maybe they didn’t think she could hear them, or maybe they didn’t care. And even though they were speaking Italian Diane had no problem following the rapid, emotional exchange.

“So she was a guest at the party?” Venus asked.

“Yes.”

“It’s too incredible. Her showing up here. Now.” The gilded woman drew a short, sharp breath. “Are you sure it’s her?”

“Yes.” Domenico’s answer was hard. Decisive. “There is only one Diane.”

In her seat on the couch Diane doubled over, her chest constricting, air bottled in her lungs. Dreams didn’t usually hurt, did they? But she hurt now. There is only one Diane.

That was something only her beloved Domenico would say.

He the great romantic. He who had sacrificed everything for her … his family, his wealth, his history … to start fresh with her. They’d been so young, and brave. Had thought they could do anything if they were together.

It had been a beautiful thought. And apparently very naïve.

“What is she doing here?” Venus persisted.

“I don’t know.”

“The timing of her appearance seems a little too good to be true. A week before Christmas and three weeks before our—” She broke off, and turned to march into the sitting room to cast Diane a withering glance. “Why did you sneak into the party?”

“I did not sneak!” Diane flashed, sitting tall, her back ramrod-straight. “I had a ticket just like everyone else.”

“A ticket to see Domenico?” Valeria scoffed. “If you wanted to see him why not just come to the door?”

“It was a ticket to a ball, a fundraiser, not a ticket to see Domenico. And I came because I wanted to see the palace. I was curious. And foolishly I thought perhaps coming here tonight I’d finally have closure—”

“I don’t believe you,” Valeria interrupted.

Color stormed Diane’s cheeks and she longed to be on her feet. She needed power and strength, and sitting on this damn sofa gave her neither, but she couldn’t get up without her cane. Couldn’t do anything but sit there and cling to what was left of her dignity. “Frankly, I don’t care what you believe. I don’t have to answer to you. This is between my husband and me.”

“Your husband? He’s my fiancé. Soon to be my husband—”

“Valeria!” Dom interrupted.

Venus faced him, expression pleading. “Domenico, this can’t be. She’s dead. I know you were still in the hospital, in Intensive Care, but your mother went to the funeral. She brought you back the order of service. You keep her ashes in the chapel—”

“But it was Dom who died,” Diane broke in furiously. “Dom and the baby died. I was the only one who survived. At least that’s what his mother said.”

Diane felt rather than heard Dom’s sharp inhalation.

And then it hit her—brutally hard. His mother said …

His mother …

His mother had lied.

Hadn’t she?

The realization must have hit Domenico at the same time. “Valeria, if you’d excuse us?” he said, his gaze fixed on Diane’s face.

Valeria opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it and with her head high walked out of the room.

Diane watched Valeria leave and listened to the door click closed before glancing up at Domenico, who hadn’t moved from his position at the end of the blue brocade sofa.

Dom’s dark eyes bored into hers, his expression intense. He was a strong man, a passionate man, and fierce emotion tightened his features now. “My mother told you I’d died?” he repeated, his cool, empty voice contrasting sharply with the emotion burning in his eyes.

Diane nodded with difficulty.

“When?” he asked.

“When she came to see me.”

“Where was that?”

“New York.”

“New York?” he echoed, still studying her with that penetrating, troubling gaze. “Is that—?” He broke off, hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was deeper, harsher. “Is that where you were?”

She nodded again. “After the accident. Your mother made arrangements to have me flown there once I was stabilized. I spent months at the hospital for reconstructive surgeries, and then another year at the hospital’s sister facility for rehab.”

“You said my mother made the arrangements?”

His voice continued to grow harsher, and she swallowed with difficulty, unnerved by this new harsh Domenico. “Apparently. To be honest, I don’t remember the flight or the first surgeries,” she answered, forcing a note of calm into her voice. “Or much of the rehab. It’s all a blur.”

“Apparently,” he mocked.

Tears scalded the backs of her eyes and she had to look away, concentrate very hard on the enormous gold-framed oil painting on the far wall. This Domenico harbored a beast.

“Perhaps you misunderstood her,” he added bitterly.

Her head snapped around to face him. “You think I’d imagine my mother-in-law telling me that my husband and child were dead? You think I’d create grief for the pleasure of it?”

Her voice rose, and she wanted to rise, too. Wanted to march across the room to hit him. Slap him. Shake him. Love him. But her cane was missing, and she wasn’t strong enough to get to her feet from the low sofa without it.

“No. But perhaps in translation her explanation, your interpretation …”

His voice drifted off and she hated him then. Hated him and his dark, haunted eyes and his scarred noble face and his wealth and privilege. Because he hadn’t died. And he wasn’t alone. He’d lived, and he’d been here in the bosom of his beloved family while she’d struggled on her own. But of course they’d taken him back. He wasn’t the problem. She was. And she was gone.

Her chin lifted a notch. “I’m fluent in Italian and your mother was fairly fluent in English. I can’t imagine how we could misunderstand each other so completely. She did, after all, come and see me. You, on the other hand, did not.”

Domenico’s expression darkened. “My mother was afraid to fly.”

“But not enough to stop her bringing me my settlement.” Her lips curved faintly, mockingly, pain making her heart pound and her pulse race. “According to your mother you were in debt at the time you died and unable to leave me anything. Your mother, however, scraped together twenty thousand dollars to help me start my new life, perhaps put a down payment on a condo somewhere. She also promised to pay the bulk of my medical bills. It was the least she could do, she said. It was in your memory. She said you’d want her to do it.”

He stared at her, his dark eyes shuttered, his expression inscrutable.

“I don’t have my cane, so I’ll need my costume staff,” she added, with as much dignity as she could muster.

His dark head inclined. “I’ll send for it.”

“Thank you.”

He crossed to the table behind her and pressed a hidden button. Moments later the butler appeared. Domenico relayed his request but the butler had already retrieved it. “I have it here,” he said, reaching for the wooden staff propped outside the door. He carried it into the room and presented it to Diane with a bow. “For the Contessa.”

The Contessa.

Diane’s lower lip trembled. And just like that she was the Contessa again.

Impossible. Improbable. The dead did not come to life. Tragedies did not reverse themselves. Nightmares do not have happy-ever-afters.

Hand shaking, she reached for the staff. “Thank you, Signor d’Franco.” Her voice came out low, hoarse.

“You remembered!” the butler exclaimed.

“I remember everything,” she said thickly, and the tears she’d been fighting returned. And when the tears wouldn’t be held off she covered her face rather than have either man see her cry.