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One Christmas Night in Venice
Jane Porter









One Christmas Night in Venice

Jane Porter


When Diane returned to Venice for the Christmas masked ball, she was shocked and thrilled to see Domenico, the husband she’d thought dead! But she needs to know that Dom still holds her in his heart before she takes her place in his bed again!


Christmas is a time for joy and love. The shops are packed, children are singing carols; we are all busy buying and wrapping presents, and arranging family feasts. In the midst of all this, take a little time for yourself and enjoy one of our short Christmas treats by some of our favourite authors.




CHAPTER ONE


WHAT was she doing here? How could she possibly have thought this was a good idea? Getting resolution was one thing, but this was madness.

Diane Mayer hovered inside the opulent ballroom of fifteenth century Ca’ Coducci, one of Venice’s beloved jewels on the Grand Canal, realizing she’d made a huge mistake coming to the masquerade ball hosted by the noble Coducci family in their palazzo tonight. Tickets were costly for the gala fundraiser, but a friend had passed his on to her and, since she was already in Italy for business, she had impulsively decided to come.

Fool that she was. Closure? How did she expect to get closure coming here? What kind of resolution did she think she’d have?

For God’s sake, she’d honeymooned here in Venice. Ca’ Coducci had been her husband’s home. The noble Coduccis were her husband’s family. But five years ago she’d lost it all in the blink of an eye.

That was all it had been. The blink of an eye. Domenico had taken his eyes off the road for a moment, just long enough to turn, look at her, smile, and then they’d been blinded by light before that horrific bone-shattering impact that had crushed their car to bits.

Sucking in a nervous breath, wishing she was back at her hotel instead of at the party, Diane adjusted her white shepherdess mask as costumed guests swirled past.

Goddesses and nymphs, satyrs and maidens, unicorns, angels, and even fairytale characters laughed and danced through the doorway into the vast ballroom, a room lit entirely by candlelight. Fat ivory candles glowed in sconces, with smaller candles in glass votives on the floor, while the ballroom’s gold ceiling, distinguished by three enormous glass chandeliers, glittered and shone, casting golden light on the fantastical masks and costumes below.

And no couple was more fantastic than the winged lion and golden Venus slowly circling the room

Diane, who rarely noticed people, who loved art and architecture more than society, stared, fascinated. Enthralled. How beautiful the two of them were together.

They were a stunning pair, perfectly matched, gilded by the candlelight.

Venus’ mask barely concealed her exquisite face, but it was he, the winged lion, symbol of St. Mark, Venice’s patron saint, who captivated her.

He was a work of art, in the softest golden leather pants which had been fitted to powerful legs. A red and gold robe fell from his broad shoulders, leaving his muscular chest and hard, flat carved torso tantalizingly bare. His arms were thickly muscled and bare, too, while his face was hidden by a gold lion mask that nearly covered his face completely, beginning at the brow, extending over his nose, skirting his upper lip and then dipping low to follow his jaw. A thick gold mane covered his hair and wings—enormous gold wings—sprang from his back as if he were an archangel about to take flight.

It was more than a costume. It was a fantasy. He was man and beast. Fierce. Regal. Seductive. Lethal.

Diane’s throat closed and her heart ached. For a heartbreaking moment she thought of Domenico, even as the candlelight illuminated him, shadowing his face and outlining his size.

He was tall, even taller than Domenico, and broader through the shoulders, and yet he made her long for the life she’d lost. Love, pleasure, possession.

Sex. Seduction.

God, it had been years since she’d been with anyone—years since she’d been touched, loved, held. She hadn’t wanted to be touched, held, but this beautiful, impossible fantasy made her crave and hunger and dream.

Dream.

Maybe someday. Maybe one day. If she was lucky.

And then the mythic winged lion turned his head, thick gold mane brushing his shoulders, to look her way, to look at her, and her heart skittered to a stop.

So like Dom. Those eyes. That expression.

Her heart squeezed even tighter and her head spun. She leaned on her shepherdess staff, her bad leg about to collapse. So much of him reminded her of Domenico. The height, the shape of his broad chest, the muscular, tapering torso, the narrow hips above long strong legs. It was almost as if the Coducci palazzo was playing tricks on her imagination. Ghost, angel, beast.

It’s not Dom, she told herself. Can’t be. Domenico’s dead.

And yet this beautiful winged lion, this symbol of the city, looked at her as if he could see beneath her mask, beneath her costume. He looked as if he could see straight through her. Right to her heart.

Just like Dom had.

Her hand trembled violently on the staff. The winged lion was approaching.

“Ti senti bene? Are you all right?” Conte Domenico Coducci asked the tiny shepherdess in the white tulle gown, having watched her for the better part of an hour. She’d arrived alone and had remained alone, and he’d noticed how her hand shook on her shepherdess staff.

She took a nervous step back, eyes wide behind the sleek white mask molded to her face. The mask hid everything but her eyes, and her blue-green gaze stared up at him transfixed. He’d never seen any eyes quite so sad, and for a moment her sorrow touched him. Strange, because nothing touched him. Nothing could. On the inside he was dead, and yet … and yet … something stirred inside him now. A fragment of memory. A whisper of hunger followed by a slash of pain.

But, no, it couldn’t be, and just like that he steeled himself against the memory and the emotion. “Can I get you something to drink?” he added, putting a hand out to her elbow as she swayed on her feet.

“No. I’m fine. Sto bene.” She stumbled back another step and tears shimmered in her eyes.

The tears cracked the armor around his heart. Don’t cry, he wanted to tell her, don’t be so sad. Which was even more perplexing as he wasn’t a tender man. Didn’t comfort. Didn’t love.

He shouldn’t even be here. There was no point. She wasn’t his responsibility. He had a houseful of wealthy, influential guests. A Christmas gala to host. And a beautiful fiancée waiting for him across the room. But this little shepherdess … She reminded him of someone he’d desperately loved and lost. Not that he wanted to remember. He was done remembering, done living in the past.

He drew a swift, rough breath. There was no past. Only the future. And his future was with Valeria. Valeria and his son. “If you’re sure you’re fine,” he said coolly, moving back a step, determined to put space between them. Mistakes were made when one let emotions cloud reality.

She nodded once, and that was all he needed. He’d done his duty. Displayed proper hospitality for a guest in his home. With a curt goodnight he walked swiftly away, his sumptuous robe swinging from his shoulders, powerful hands clenched at his side.

The past, he reminded himself harshly, was dead.

Diane shuddered as he walked away.

His voice. Dom’s voice. He’d sounded just like Dom. Spoken like Dom. Touched her like Dom.

But Domenico was dead. Dead. Gone. Buried in the family vault. And this, the beautifully restored palazzo, belonged to Dom’s sister, who had graciously donated the use of the waterfront palace to the charity Foundation for their fundraiser.

She knew this. Knew the facts. But facts right now didn’t explain anything. The facts somehow were wrong.

Diane watched the tall winged lion join the magnificent Venus. Their heads tipped together and Diane’s heart ached. Jealous. Jealous. Crazy as it was, she felt as if she was watching her beloved with another woman.

It made her ill. Her stomach heaved. Time to leave, she told herself. You’re losing your mind. Confusing reality and fantasy. Letting the costumes and masks distort your mind and cloud your memory.

In the antechamber a uniformed maid emerged with Diane’s dark wool cloak. Pietra, Diane thought, recognizing the maid who’d just started working for the Coduccis when she and Dom had honeymooned here seven years ago. “Thank you, Pietra,” Diane said softly from behind her mask.

The maid smiled. “You know me?”

“Of course.” Feeling lost, and needing to connect, Diane lifted her mask, revealing her face. “It’s Diane. Diane Mayer-Coducci—”

The rest of Diane’s words were drowned out by Pietra’s shriek. “Madre Maria, protegger mi dal fantasma!”

Diane, fluent in Italian, had no problem translating the maid’s strangled cry. Mother Mary, protect me from the ghost!

“Pietra,” Diane choked, embarrassed by Pietra’s theatrics. “It’s me. Diane. Domenico’s wife—”

Pietra screamed again, louder than before.

Diane’s flagging confidence deserted her and, clutching her cloak to her breast, she limped out as quickly as her bad leg would allow her.

Such a mistake coming tonight. How could she have thought that it would invite anything other than more pain and suffering? So stupid to want a peek at the life she’d lost.

Shivering, Diane struggled with her cloak and mask and shepherdess staff. It was freezing cold and the Venetian fog had settled in, veiling the Grand Canal, making the gondolas at the water’s edge appear to float in the air. Just go home, she told herself, get out of here and go home.

Diane was but steps from the bobbing gondolas when a firm hand descended on her shoulder, stopping her.

“What game is this?” The deep, rough male voice gritted, even as a warm palm bore down on her thin bare shoulder, forcibly turning her around.

A shiver raced through her. That voice again. A voice she’d thought she’d never hear again. Could it be?

Was it possible?

With her mask dangling in her fingers, she turned toward him, lifting her face to the light.

He hissed a breath as his gaze searched her face.

“What?” she whispered, her mouth drying.

Fury darkened his eyes. “My lady, you’ve taken the masquerade too far.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do.”

She shook her head, denying his accusation. “Take off your mask.” Her voice was raspy, her mouth dry as sand. “Please.”

“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice as sharp as cut glass.

“Let me see you,” she begged.

He looked at her for the longest moment before reaching up to lift the lion’s mask from his face.

The impressions hit her fast, furious—the forehead, the eyes, the cheekbones, the strong patrician nose.

Domenico.

Diane bit ruthlessly into her lip, biting back the pain.

Trickery—the moon, the light, the December night.

Trickery—this Venetian fog.

How cruel the night to conjure beautiful, dark, sensual Domenico.

Her heart ached. Her body grew feverishly warm. He looked so much like her Domenico that desire licked her veins.

Cruel night.

Cruel city of masks and balls and dreams.

Cruel city floating on pillars in the sea.

“Domenico?” she breathed, heart thumping wildly.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Her bewildered gaze held his. Was it him? Could it be? “Diane.”

He groaned deep in his chest and took a menacing step toward her. “Do not speak her name. You have no right.”

It was him.

But it couldn’t be.

Dom had died. Dom and the baby had died. Only she had survived the accident outside Rome. Only she, and barely at that.

In agony, Diane dropped her mask. It cracked as it hit the stone pavers, and even as it shattered Diane reached out a trembling hand to lightly touch his bare chest. His chest was hard, taut with sinewy muscle, the skin warm, firm.

“Domenico.”

He took a step closer, looming over her. The lamp flickered yellow light over his profile and it was him. Beautiful. So beautiful. Tears scalded her eyes. “It is you,” she whispered.

He took her hand from his chest, bent his head to reject her.

The light flickered again, and it was no longer his beautiful face but the face of a stranger. Scarred. Burned. Changed.

Not Domenico at all.

Diane’s weak leg gave out and she collapsed, tumbling at his feet.




CHAPTER TWO


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 mothersaid …

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.




CHAPTER THREE


DOMENICO knew Diane was crying, and he wanted to go to her, comfort her, but he had no words of comfort to give. Couldn’t even imagine what would soothe her given the circumstances.

His mother had lied.

It’d been his mother who’d done this to them. Lied to both of them. Incredible to think that she’d tell both of them the other had died.

Diane’s gone, Domenico. You have to face the facts, understand her injuries were too serious. She won’t be coming back.

Only his mother hadn’t understood that her news had shattered him. He would have rather died a hundred times over than hurt a hair on Diane’s head.

He hadn’t wanted to live without her.

And it was his mistake that had killed her. His carelessness, his lack of control.

He’d internalized that lesson all too well. Control was everything. Life and death. Black and white. Even the briefest loss of control could be fatal.

Now his mother’s despicable actions compounded his own.

“I am sorry,” he said harshly, not so much angry with her as he was with his mother and himself. They’d hurt Diane terribly. And her pain wasn’t over yet. She still didn’t know the whole truth.

Didn’t know her baby wasn’t dead.

Didn’t know her baby had survived and been raised by him and members of his family these past five years.

Domenico drew a deep breath, and then another as he imagined breaking the stunning news. Because it would floor her. Crush her. She’d missed the first five years of her son’s life, and if she hadn’t shown up tonight she might have missed the rest of his life.

Diane should hate him.

He already hated himself.

And helplessly he watched her cry, her small shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His fingers bunched into fists and his stomach rolled. To have her back only to cause her more pain. How was it fair? How could he ever be forgiven?

“I am sorry,” he repeated. “I’ve no excuse. And my mother isn’t even here to be held accountable for her actions. She died two years ago from cancer.”

“How convenient,” Diane choked, lifting her head to stare up at him. “And cruel.”

But his mother hadn’t just been cruel. She’d been diabolical. She’d known she was dying and yet she’d taken her secret to the grave with her. That made her sins even worse. She’d never liked Diane, never approved of her as his wife—not when there were aristocratic Italian women far more suitable—but to tear them apart when they were the most vulnerable.

Unthinkable.

Unforgivable.

“We need to talk,” he said, battling with the black emotions filling him, darkening his mind. “Allow me to send for your things so we can change out of these ridiculous costumes.”

“I don’t need to change,” she answered dully. “I just want to go. If Signor d’Franco could call a water taxi for me?”

“You can’t leave.”

“I won’t stay.” Her chin jerked up and her eyes, liquid with tears, blazed up at him. “I’m on a morning flight back to the United States and I need to be on the plane. I will be on that plane.”

She’d never been more beautiful, he thought, than now. Her high, prominent cheekbones. The heart-shaped face. Those eyes … “We’re not finished here, Diane. There’s more I have to tell you—”

“Well, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard enough. You’ve clearly moved on. I wish you and Valeria—I think that is her name—a long, happy marriage since it was denied us.” Determinedly she pushed herself to her feet with the aid of the staff and headed for the door.

Domenico intercepted her before she’d traveled halfway across the room, blocking her path with his powerful body. “It’s not that simple, my love. You can’t just walk in and walk out and expect everything to be the same. Nothing’s the same. You are here. And you are alive. And you are my wife.”

“Was your wife,” she answered fiercely, head tipped back to look at him. “Was, as in past tense. Because if you recall there was a funeral. According to Valeria, my ashes are somewhere in your chapel. I’m dead to you and I’d prefer to remain that way.”

“I can’t let you.”

“Why?” she practically shouted. “You’ve done just fine without me. You’re in love and engaged and ready to make another woman your wife—”

His hands clamped down on her shoulders as he dragged her up against him. “You’re wrong,” he retorted, his deep voice thundering in her head. “I didn’t do fine without you. I couldn’t live without you.” The words were torn from him, and they weren’t gentle. They were rough, tortured, like glass scratching metal, because his heart was made of metal. His heart was worth nothing at all. “And maybe I’m not who I was, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you walk out that door.”

Her eyes, still that arresting blue-green, shimmered with liquid. She’d always had the most beautiful eyes. The most beautiful heart. Tender. Loyal. Loving. “You don’t have a choice,” she whispered, the first tear falling. “Now, let me go.”

He stared into her beautiful face, studying the new faint lines at her mesmerizing eyes, the set of her full mouth, wanting to take her in, memorize every detail. He’d never known anyone like Diane when they’d met at the university in Florence. She’d been pursuing an advanced degree in Italian Renaissance Art. He’d been touring the recently restored university library—a restoration made possible through the generosity of the Coducci family, his family.

She’d been one of the two docents conducting the tour, and he’d been enchanted by her eyes, the shape of her face, her accent, her passion for Renaissance art. She’d been so real, so fresh, so expressive. He’d never enjoyed a tour quite as much as that one, and had watched her as she’d talked rather than look at the friezes, the arches, the canvases covering the enormous walls. He’d grown up in a palace, surrounded by relics and ruins, and his tastes ran to the modern. New. Bold. Controversial.

Like his apartment in Rome.

Like his choice of her for his bride.

The Coduccis were a rich, ancient, noble line, and Domenico was to have selected a wife from a suitably rich, ancient, noble line. But instead he’d chosen Diane. Diane from Chicago. Diane from a working-class family.

He’d always suspected that his mother would have overlooked Diane’s lack of ancestry if she’d been rich. But Diane’s sin had been that she was poor.

And thus he’d been cast off, isolated from his family. But Dom hadn’t cared. It was his life. His choice.

And now the past was back.

“I can’t,” he answered, trying to ignore the grief in her eyes and how her knuckles shone whitely where she gripped the staff.

“Why not?”

“The baby—” He broke off, took a deep raw breath. “He didn’t die.” Domenico’s eyes searched hers waiting for the news to register. “He lived. He’s alive. He’s here—with me.”

He’d expected a scream, a cry—something. But she stood utterly still, her enormous eyes locked on his.

“Diane, you’re a mother,” he pressed on, not understanding why she didn’t respond. “The baby didn’t die. You have a son.”

And then she did the strangest thing.

She laughed.

Laughed. Even as her eyes welled with fresh tears.

But her laugh wasn’t a happy laugh. No, it reminded him of ice cracking. Cold. Brittle. Fragile. “I don’t believe you. You lie.”

Diane tipped her head back and looked into the face of the man she’d loved with all her heart and mind and soul. The man who’d had everything. She’d never understood why he’d wanted her. Needed her. But he’d said he did.

He’d said.

And now he said their baby hadn’t died. Their baby was here. Alive.

Alive.

She shivered, shuddered, her blood freezing in her veins. There was no child. Her child had died. Her baby hadn’t survived. Domenico’s mother couldn’t have been so cruel. “I don’t want any part of this … deception … play … masquerade … whatever it is. Let me go. I must go.”

“Don’t be scared. It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it okay—”

She silenced him with a furious slap across his face, hitting him hard, as hard as she could. She could hear the slap echo shockingly loud in the chamber. Worse, the blow stung her hand, making her palm ache.




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