His Lost-and-Found Bride

And the history-loving part of him would love to see the other fresco. This wasn’t such an unreasonable offer to accept. Anothe

r night in Venice might give him a little time to get to know Lucia again.

And it seemed as though the rest of Venice might be attending a concert somewhere, leaving the beauties of Venice still to be explored...

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. ‘Thank you, Lucia. You’re right. I probably won’t be able to find anywhere else to stay. As long as you’re sure it’s not too much trouble, I’d be delighted to stay.’

CHAPTER FIVE

WHAT HAD SHE just done?

Was her apartment even reasonably tidy? She didn’t have any food. Well, not the kind of food to entertain with and make dinner for a guest. Chilli-flavoured crisps and orange-flavoured chocolate might be her favourite dinner but she couldn’t offer it to a guest. What on earth had she been thinking?

She was desperately hoping that she appeared outwardly calm. But her heartbeat was thudding against her chest at a rate of knots. Logan gestured to the waiter and settled their bill, picking up his bag and giving her a casual smile. ‘Shall we finish this paperwork back at your place?’

It was a reasonable, rational question. He couldn’t possibly imagine the way the blood was racing around her system and the breath was sticking in her lungs.

‘Of course,’ she said as coolly as possible, with a nod of her head as she stood up.

‘How far away do you live?’ he asked.

She tried to smile. ‘Well, that depends entirely on traffic and the time of day.’

She weaved her way through the cobbled streets towards the water-taxi stop. ‘I’m only two stops along. It only takes a few minutes.’

They were lucky. The water taxis on this side of the canal weren’t quite so busy. They jumped on and back off within five minutes.

Her skin was prickling. Every little hair on her arms was standing on end even though the sun was splitting the sky. Now that Logan had had a chance to cool down he was back to his normal, unruffled self. She kind of wished he was still as flustered as he had been for a few moments earlier. It made him seem less infallible. A little more vulnerable—just like she felt.

But Logan had never been vulnerable. He’d always been rock solid. Even in grief.

He jumped out of the taxi before her and held out his hand for her as she stepped from the bobbing boat. She lifted her head and tried to walk with confidence. Although her apartment overlooked the Grand Canal the entrance of the traditional building was around the back. It had been hundreds of years since people had entered directly from the canal, and the original entrance had long since been plastered over.

She couldn’t hide her smile. The architect in Logan could never be hidden. His eyes were roaming over the traditional building, his smile growing wider by the second. ‘You stay in an old Venetian palace?’

The admiration and wonder in his voice was obvious. She’d always known Logan would approve of her choice. The fifteenth-century building facing the Grand Canal was one of the most photographed in the district. It had distinctive Venetian floral Gothic-style architecture. The façade was pink plaster facing with intricate white detailing around all the windows and balconies that overlooked the canal. The arches on the balconies were topped with delicate quatrefoil windows, resembling flowers with four petals.

She gave him a smile as she opened the entranceway. ‘Just wait until you see the inside. We have our own high ceilings, beams, alcoves and frescoes. The whole place is full of original features.’

Logan was nodding, his eyes wide as they stepped inside. She’d always loved this about him. The way a glimpse of architectural details of a building could capture his attention instantly. He would become instantly enthralled, desperate to know more about the building and its history. Architecture had always been Logan’s dream. But renovating ancient buildings? That was his calling. Always had been.

A bit like hers had been painting.

The memory swept through her like a gust of stormy weather.

Another part of life put into a box. When she’d first got together with Logan, their apartment had been littered with brushes, easels and oils. She had painted all the time, usually wearing nothing more than one of his shirts. She’d loved the feel of having him right next to her as she’d created, and if he hadn’t been there, the scent of him—his aroma and aftershave—would usually linger on one of his shirts waiting to be washed. Thoughts of Logan had always fired her creative juices.

A warm feeling crept across her stomach. Logan had always loved finding her like that, his shirt loose around her body and her hair twisted on top of her head with an errant paintbrush holding it in place. He’d usually pulled it free, followed by the shirt, and the following hours had been lost in a rush of love.

But that light had flickered out and died along with the death of their daughter. For a long time she couldn’t even bear to look at a paintbrush, let alone hold one.

Working for the heritage board had helped her heal. She didn’t paint her own creations any more. But she did paint. Restoration work was painstaking. In every fresco she restored she tried to re-create the passion and drama that the original artist had felt when he’d envisaged the work.

There was still a little part of her that longed to feel like that again too.

There was a lift inside her building but Logan was captivated by the grandiose staircase inside the entranceway. As it curved upwards there were archways hollowed out in the plaster in the walls. A long time ago each had been painted individually and had held sculptures. In between each hollowed archway was a large circular fresco embedded into the plaster on the walls.

Logan moved quickly up the stairs, stopping to admire each individual one. ‘These are amazing,’ he said, his hand hovering about them. Logan’s professional expertise knew far better than to actually touch.

She followed him upwards. A warmth was spreading through her. She was proud of her home—and secretly pleased that the man she’d shared part of her life with loved it just as much as she did.

As they walked upwards she leaned a little closer and whispered, ‘I might have restored some of these.’

His head shot around towards her. ‘You did?’

She nodded as his eyes fixed on the walls again. His fingers were still hovering just above a fresco of Moses. ‘You’ve made an amazing job of these.’

‘Thank you,’ she said simply, as they reached her floor and she pulled out her key and opened the apartment door.

He walked inside and looked around. Her living area was spacious and held a dining table and chairs and two wooden-footed red sofas. As with most Italian traditional apartments the floor was marble. A dark wooden bookcase adorned one wall, jam-packed with books.

But the most spectacular aspect of the apartment was the view. Lucia strode across the room and pulled open the black-and-gilt-edged glass doors. The warm air and noise from the Grand Canal below flooded in. It was like flicking a button and bringing the place to life. Next to the doors was a small wooden table, a chaise longue and an armchair. It was like having a real-live television. You could sit here all day and night and watch the world go by.

She knew his head must be spinning. This apartment was sumptuous. Well out of her price range. She stood shoulder to shoulder with him, watching the vaporetti and private boats motor past. On the other side of the canal stood another magnificent long-abandoned palace. Renaissance in style again, with Gothic-styled windows and ornate frescoes on the outside of the building.

He turned towards her and smiled. ‘It’s almost like your perfect view, isn’t it?’ There was an edge of curiosity in his voice. But he wasn’t going to ask the question out loud. Logan was far too polite for that.

‘Coffee?’ she asked, as she walked towards the kitchen. It was right next door to the open living area and again had windows looking out on the canal. He nodded and walked in next to her, sitting down on one of the high stools lo

oking over the canal. She switched on her coffee-machine and put in her favourite blend.

She leaned back against the countertop. ‘I haven’t always stayed here,’ she said quietly. ‘After I’d been in Venice for two years one of my colleagues retired from the heritage board. They subsidise our living arrangements because—as you know—Venice can be very expensive.’ She held out her hands. ‘I sort of inherited this place. I pay roughly the same as we did for our apartment in Florence.’ She watched his eyebrows rise and couldn’t stop the smile. ‘It was like all my Saturdays at once.’ She laughed as she watched the coffee brew and pointed across the waterway. ‘Do you know, they actually asked me how I’d feel about staying here? It was all I could do not to snatch the key and just run.’

The warm feeling was spreading further. She rarely brought friends back to her apartment. This place was her sanctuary. From the moment she’d stepped inside it had always felt like that.

She’d thought having Logan here would be unbearable. She’d been so busy focusing on all the negatives she hadn’t even considered the positives.

He was fascinated by the building’s history and traditional architecture. He respected the heritage just as much as she did.

She poured the coffee into two mugs and set them on the table, watching the steam rising while she frothed some milk and added it to the mugs.

She gestured with her hand. ‘Come and I’ll show you where your room is.’

She hadn’t even had time to prepare anything and she had to hope that nothing was out of place in her barely used guest suite. She led him down the corridor off the kitchen. It was the only place in her apartment that didn’t have natural light.

He grabbed her elbow as they walked down the corridor. ‘Are you sure this is okay?’

She turned to face him. He was much closer than she’d expected, his warm breath hitting her cheek. For a second she was frozen. This was as up close and personal as she’d been to Logan in years. The closeness took her breath away.

Even in the dim light of the corridor his green eyes made her struggle to think clearly. He was worried. He was worried about her. And glances like that brought back painful memories.