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‘Tell me something, Mrs Vin Santo. Is it only when I kiss you that you listen to reason?’ He stood, his intent obvious as he moved towards her. He came so close, and she held her breath, waiting, knowing what was coming. Knowing she could move away, be firm.
She didn’t.
She stood her ground and stared right back.
No, she did more than that. She willed him to kiss her. For his kisses didn’t only take away her senses and stir her desire. They took away her pain too.
And she longed for that moment of peace. Of clarity and pleasure—of happiness.
‘I don’t want you trying to swim in the canals again.’
‘I’ll keep my land legs.’
‘Perhaps.’ His eyes glinted with determination. ‘But I’ll be there to make sure of it.’
* * *
There really never had been any sense arguing with Matteo. He always got what he wanted. Throughout their marriage, certainly, but even their marriage itself was proof of the lengths to which he’d go to achieve his aims.
She walked beside him, retracing routes that were instantly familiar to her. Paths that she’d travelled often in the past, when she’d been in love and Venice had been the physical representation of that state of mind. When she’d been keen to explore every last crevice of this beautiful city, letting its ancient stories breathe into her.
They passed a gelateria and she slowed a little, staring in at the beautifully arranged piles of confectionery, each colourful heap decorated with a piece of fruit or a wedge of chocolate.
‘You want some?’ he asked, apparently attuned to her every thought.
She bit down on her lip and nodded.
‘Bacio still your favourite?’
The memory was one of her favourites but the cruel irony of it slapped her in the face.
Kisses.
The gelato she’d loved and that he’d teased her with, kissing her as he’d spelled it out, dribbling the ice-cream over her flesh as he’d kissed her everywhere.
‘No,’ she said quickly, shaking her head to dislodge the recollection. ‘Strawberry.’
He arched a brow, perhaps understanding why she was keen to substitute a different flavour. ‘If you’re sure.’
He approached the vendor and she watched for a moment before turning her attention down the street. It was like so many of the little paths she loved in Venice. The water to one side, the lines of houses built so that they were all attached, though painted in different colours, all shades of yellow and orange, some pale, some bright, with window boxes overflowing with flowers. Some houses had rooftop gardens like Matteo’s, and greenery bloomed overhead.
There were not many people in the street, but her eyes landed on a small boy just a little way down. He looked frightened. Her brows drew together as she looked around for an adult who might be accompanying him and saw no one.
She smiled at him encouragingly.
He didn’t return it.
He could only stare.
She drew closer on autopilot, and as she got nearer she noticed new details about him. His clothes were perhaps a size too small. His jeans finished about an inch up from his ankles and his shirt just met his waistband, so that the smallest movement would drive it upwards, separating it and exposing his stomach. His hair was close-cropped.
She paused just in front of him. ‘Hi.’
He blinked.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked in halting Italian. More memories—Matteo in bed, teaching her phrases, laughing at her mispronunciations and penalising her with kisses that made her head spin so that, in the end, she’d longed to say the words incorrectly even when she knew them by heart.
‘Yes, madam,’ he replied in his own tongue, then said something else. Something too fast and accented for her to understand.
