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Last time around she’d felt numb. She’d been unable to cope with her own grief so she certainly hadn’t coped with his. But now he looked just as exposed as she felt.
His hair was mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it. The wind was rippling his shirt around his shoulders and chest. She almost hated the fact he could relate to how her life had turned out. To how every relationship she’d had since him had turned out.
But she hated even more that he’d mirrored her life with his own. She’d told herself that she’d always hoped Logan would move on, meet a girl, fall in love and have a family of his own.
Seeing him in Tuscany a few days ago and feeling that flicker of excitement when he’d told her he was unattached had revealed a side to her she didn’t like.
He was fixed on her with those green eyes. They were burning a hole into her. To the rest of the world they would be the picture-perfect couple with the backdrop of Venice behind them. No one else would know the way their insides had been ripped out and left for the vultures.
Her heart squeezed. She was bad. She was selfish. Part of her did wish Logan had a happy life but then again part of her always wanted him to belong to her. But at what price?
He hadn’t moved. One hand was still wrapped around her waist, pressing her body against his, the other interlocking their fingers. She could break free if she wanted to. But after all these years she just didn’t know how.
He blinked. ‘I won’t pressure you any more. I won’t bring it up again. Just promise me you’ll give it some thought. You can tell me before I return to Tuscany tomorrow.’
She gave the briefest nod and it coincided with a swell of relief from her chest as he stepped back, breaking their contact. In their exposed position on the observation deck a gust of wind swept between them. It startled her, sweeping away the feeling of warmth from Logan’s body next to hers.
The expression in Logan’s eyes changed. Gone was the tiny smudge of vulnerability that she’d seen before. It had been replaced by the determined, focused look she knew so well.
‘Are we done with photos?’ he asked, just a little brusquely.
She nodded as she pushed her phone back in her bag. He took her hand again, firmly this time, no gentle touch, as if he was determined not to let her escape. They walked back to the lift. ‘Tonight I’m going to pick the venue for dinner.’
It was clear there was no point arguing. She gave a brief nod as the doors slid closed in front of them.
The stiff atmosphere remained for the next thirty minutes. His hand grasped hers rigidly as they boarded the vaporetto and made the short journey back to Piazza San Marco.
It was even more crowded but Logan seemed to have got his bearings in the city and led her through some of the backstreets. Her phone rang just as they were about to cross one of Venice’s bridges.
She pulled it from her bag. ‘It’s work,’ she said. ‘I need to take it.’
‘No problem. I’ll have a look in some of the shops around here.’
As her boss spoke rapidly in her ear she lost sight of Logan’s broad shoulders in the crowds. It was twenty minutes before the conversation was over and Logan appeared at her side holding a large loop-handled bag with a designer logo on the side. He held it out towards her.
‘What is it?’
‘Yours. For tonight.’
She was more than a little surprised. She opened the bag and saw a flash of red but he shook his head.
‘Leave it. You can try it on when we get back to the apartment.’
In some ways she should feel flattered. Logan had always had exquisite taste. He’d bought her clothes in the past and she’d loved every single item. But they weren’t a couple any more—they weren’t lovers and she wasn’t sure this felt entirely appropriate.
‘Why on earth would you buy me something?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s a thank-you gift,’ he said casually. ‘A thank you for letting me stay at your apartment when I obviously should have planned better.’ He made it sound so matter-of-fact, so easy and rational. But the contents of the bag didn’t seem impartial.
Red was her favourite colour. And although she hadn’t had a chance to examine the dress she was sure it would fit perfectly and be a flattering style. It was all part of Logan’s gift.
‘What was your call?’ He wasn’t giving her time to think about this too much. Probably in case she started to object.
She gave a little smile. ‘The electronic comparison of brushstrokes indicates the fresco is indeed by Burano. The paint sampling won’t be completed until early next week.’
