The Venetian Playboy's Bride
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‘What about your gondola? It’s your living.’
‘Not tomorrow. Tomorrow I forget work and think only of you.’
‘Oh, really,’ she teased. ‘Suppose I have other ideas?’
He looked crestfallen. ‘There’s another man you’d rather spend the day with?’
‘No, I—’ she bit back the rest, realising that she’d walked into a trap.
‘You’d rather spend the day with me than any other man?’ he said at once. ‘Bene! That’s what I hoped.’
‘You’re twisting my words. Maybe I want to spend the day alone.’
‘Do you?’
He wasn’t teasing any more, and neither was she.
‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘We could go to the seaside, if you like?’
‘Does it have a really sandy beach?’ she asked longingly.
‘I promise you a really sandy beach. Venice doesn’t just have the best cooking in the world, it also has the best beach in the world.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The best swimming, and the best company. Me.’
He was laughing again, playing the jester, inviting her to mock him. Then suddenly he drew her into his arms, holding her close, but not kissing her, content just to embrace. He drew back a little and touched her face with his hands, brushing back stray tendrils of hair, and studying her intently.
‘Dulcie,’ he whispered. ‘There’s so much—but not now—this isn’t the right time.’
A tremor of alarm went through her. This was too sweet, too delightful. What was she thinking of?
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I can’t see you tomorrow.’
‘Then the next day—’
‘No, I can’t see you again,’ she said desperately. ‘I’m going home. I should never have come here. Please let me go.’
He made no attempt to hold onto her as she broke free and began to run down the nearest calle. She simply had to get away from what was happening here. It shocked and confused her. Nothing was going according to plan.
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