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She wanted to leave Venice so badly. She hated being trapped and cornered. She hated that Giovanni had forced her to move into his home, and then he made it impossible for her to leave.
This visit to Venice had become a nightmare. She’d lost control the moment she rapped on the Marcello’s front door. Why had she thought she could manage Giovanni? Why had she thought this could turn out any other way but unhappy?
Rachel didn’t want to marry Giovanni. She didn’t want a pretend engagement, much less a real one, never mind a wedding ring. She didn’t want to live in Italy. But at the same time, she wasn’t going to walk away from Michael.
What she wanted was to go home with Michael and hire a sitter and return to work and have some order in her life. She was tired of the chaos, tired of the stress, tired of things she didn’t know and understand.
When Juliet got pregnant, it changed Rachel’s life, too. Juliet wasn’t the only one who became a mother, Rachel became the backup caregiver, and then after Juliet died, the surrogate mother. It hadn’t been an easy transition for her. Rachael hadn’t planned on becoming a mother for years. A decade or more. She’d planned on working until her midthirties at least, wanting to focus on career and the opportunity to save her money so that she’d have a proper nest egg, resources to sustain her in case of emergency, because God knew, life was full of emergencies. When one had spent one’s life struggling and scrimping, budgeting and worrying, the idea of financial security was huge. Being financially independent would be life changing, and her plan was to do it for herself. She’d never dreamed that she’d wait for someone to take care of her. The idea of looking outward for support made her almost ill. No, she wanted to be strong and capable. She wanted to respect herself, and she would if she could provide for herself and any children she had.
Money, finances—those were such sensitive topics. Her mother certainly found it impossible to discuss financial topics with Rachel. She’d become emotional and cry, tearfully repeating that she was doing her best.
Rachel didn’t want her mother crying or becoming defensive. She wasn’t trying to criticize her mom; she just wanted to understand and help. How could she make things better for the family? How could she help ease some of the worry? It was a large burden. Mom was good at so many things, but managing money wasn’t one of them.
Money, money, money...
Rachel wandered down streets until she approached St. Mark’s Square. The famous piazza was lined with raised boards as the water was deeper here, flooding the entire square. She balled her hands inside her pockets and lowered her head to watch her steps.
How was she going to do this? How was she going to protect Michael and placate Giovanni? Because she wasn’t about to marry a man she didn’t love, and she most definitely wouldn’t marry a man who didn’t love her.
Rachel was many things—loyal, hardworking, determined—and those traits were evident. But she had a secret few people
knew. She was privately, secretly terribly romantic.
She wanted love, big passionate love. She wanted the happy-ever-after and the lovemaking that resulted in fireworks and maybe even a few tears of joy.
She’d held out all these years for someone special, someone extraordinary. And she was determined to continue to hold out for the right one.
And the right one meant love, not lust. A small part of her—maybe a big part of her—desired Giovanni Marcello, but desire wasn’t the answer and she was ashamed that she responded to him so easily. From now on, she would keep her distance. She had to. Otherwise Giovanni would have her in his bed, taking her virginity and the last shred of her self-respect.
* * *
Giovanni saw Rachel leave. He’d been at the window when she left the house, walking down the front of the Grand Canal to turn the corner and continue down the block. She disappeared for a few moments, and then reappeared as she cut down a narrow street.
She walked with her head bent and her hands buried deep inside her coat pockets until she entered an arched tunnel. If she kept going along that street, she’d eventually arrive close to St. Mark’s square.
He wondered if that was where she was going.
He stood another moment looking out at the window before going to change into knee-high waterproof boots and his heavy winter coat.
He didn’t know why he was going after her. She’d eventually return. She had no choice but to return, and he knew she’d never leave Michael. He’d seen her with the infant and she was as attached as a mother. She’d taken the little boy into her heart and was determined to provide the best possible life for him. He knew all that, and he didn’t question her intentions, not anymore.
He didn’t question her values, either. He understood what she wanted and it was the same thing he wanted for Antonio’s son. But Michael couldn’t have the life he needed, not if he was being juggled between Seattle and Venice, torn between countries and cultures, languages and customs, and Gio wouldn’t lose Michael now that he was home.
Gio couldn’t look at the infant without thinking of Antonio, and even though it hurt to remember Antonio, it was better than the emptiness of the past year. Gio had grieved for his brother for months, his death overshadowing everything. His brother had been his best friend from the time they were toddlers until they graduated from university as young men.
For the past six months Gio had done his best to avoid Michael. He hadn’t wanted to meet this nephew of his, unable to tolerate more anger and more grief. And Gio was still angry, blisteringly angry that his brother decided not to try any of the experimental treatments that might have prolonged his life. He’d also been angry that Antonio spent so much of his last year alive in America instead of being home with his family, angry that his brother failed to take proper precautions and ended up conceiving a child with a shallow, self-serving woman who cared for no one and nothing but herself.
Antonio hadn’t just thrown the rest of his life away. He’d crushed it and smashed it into the trash bin. It baffled Gio. Antonio had been among the smartest and the brightest, and he’d been a light in the world. He’d lit up a room with his keen wit and quick mind. He had a razor-sharp intelligence that he never used against another, not because he couldn’t, but because he chose to build others up, to encourage them to be better.
Antonio had made Giovanni want to be better. Giovanni might have been the elder brother, but Antonio was his hero. Not because he was perfect, but because he genuinely tried to be good. To make a difference.
Gio’s chest ached with bottled air. His hands fisted. Giovanni had lost Antonio but as long as he had Michael under his roof, his nephew was safe.
The high tides had kept all but the most curious and determined tourists out of the flooded neighborhoods, and the streets were mostly empty. Normally Gio liked this Venice, when the streets were wet and he had entire blocks to himself, but today he could take little pleasure in anything until his personal life was settled. He wanted out of the press, out of the tabloid’s headlines. It was bad for his corporation to have his personal life become news, particularly when it was featured on the gossip page instead of the business section.
It didn’t take much to make investors jittery. It didn’t take much to shake the confidence of world markets. He needed to protect the company, and he needed to protect his nephew. That was his focus and his chief concern. Everything else was secondary.
The water grew deeper as he approached Piazza San Marco. His boots sloshed through ankle-deep water as he entered La Piazza, Venice’s most famous square, and the only one in Venice called piazza. He stepped onto the raised boards that skirted the square, elevating visitors and locals above the flooded area.
