Claimed by the Wealthy Magnate

‘Shall we go in?’

Daniel nodded and they made their way into the courtyard.

‘It’s impossible to know what to

look at first,’ Kaitlin marvelled.

‘Yes.’

She glanced at him, observed the light in his blue eyes as they rested on her, and felt heat climb her cheekbones. Suddenly their surroundings, despite the magnificence of the giant ceremonial staircase, the enormous statues of Neptune and Mars, even the imposing yet ethereal beauty of the Foscari arch, faded into the background.

All she could see—all she was aware of—was Daniel. The strength of his features, the dark curl of his hair, the absurd length of his eyelashes and the growing heat in his eyes. A step closer to him and she was enmeshed by his aura, focused on the breadth of his chest, the toned masculinity of the sinews of his arms...

The sound of a man’s throat being cleared, followed by the uttering of their names, broke the spell and she turned, pinning a smile in place.

‘I am your guide for the tour. My name is Marco.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Follow me. As you know, this part of the palace is a separate tour—I will be showing you the nitty-gritty, the less salubrious side, as well as the places where the real work was done over the centuries.’

As the guide moved forward Daniel looked down at her. ‘You’re sure about this?’

‘Yes.’ She’d done some research before they left, and although there was a definite risk that some of the rooms might trigger panic, she wanted to give it a try. ‘I want to see the behind-the-scenes reality as well as all the treasures and art-work.’

Plus the tickets had been gifted to them, and she had no wish to explain why she hadn’t done the tour now they had got this far.

Kaitlin followed the guide through the narrow door and into the ‘pozzi’, and gave a shudder as she looked round in horror at the tiny stone-walled cells; their only ventilation small round holes. She saw the drawings on the wall—depictions of the prisoners’ despair. Moisture sheened her neck and for a horrible moment the walls seemed to close in, the dank atmosphere blanketed her and terror rippled her body with memories.

The turn of a lock...the cloying feeling of powerlessness...the remembered pain as she’d repeatedly thumped the door until she’d realised no one would come. No one would rescue her.

She shook her head and focused on Marco’s words, tried to remember that prisoners in times gone by had had it way worse than she had during her ten-day incarceration.

Then Daniel enclosed her hand in his and his deep voice offered reprieve.

‘Would it be possible to move on, Marco? I suffer from a touch of claustrophobia and these walls are enough to cause me discomfort.’

‘Of course, of course. Let us move on.’

For the next half an hour Kaitlin was transported back in time as they walked the chambers where the Council of Ten—a group of elected men with immense power—would have convened, rooms where they would have made life-and-death decisions, plotted and schemed. Then they toured the spacious Chamber of the Secret Chancellery, with its magnificent mirrored upper doors and cabinet-lined walls.

And the whole time the knowledge that Daniel still held her hand firmly in his grasp burned in her with a small white light of awareness. The sane Lady Kaitlin part of her told her that this was a public place and they were courting disaster. Yet his grasp made her feel safe, secure, protected, and therefore it behoved her to hang on. After all, there was no meaning to it—it was simply a tactic to keep panic at bay, the equivalent of a stress ball, nothing more.

You’re kidding yourself, warned the voice of reason. Because if his grasp was warding off panic it was also ushering in other sensations: a warmth, a thrill, a delicious ripple of sensation reminiscent of their time walking through Barcelona hand in hand. And look where that had ended up.

Yet as they explored the horror of the torture chamber, known as the Chamber of Torment, and listened to the chilling stories from the guide, she shifted closer to Daniel’s bulk, remained there as they viewed the wood-panelled prison cell that had once housed Casanova himself, before his daring escape.

Only once the tour was over and they’d returned to the majesty of the main rooms of the palace did she drop his hand, forcing herself to do so without so much as tremor. Simply a cool smile.

‘Thank you Daniel. Having something to hold did help.’

‘Glad to be of service.’

It was a service she must not allow herself the luxury of using too often, or her stupid body would get the wrong idea. Distance—she had to keep her distance.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

FOR HOURS KAITLIN did manage to do exactly that—to maintain distance. As they toured the rest of the palace she submerged herself in the spectacular splendour of the Doge’s apartments, in the ornate gold interior of the rooms, the impossible to describe detail of the frescoes, the sheer splendour of the art.