His Lost-and-Found Bride

A tiny little part of her wished that Logan was looking at her in a different way. The way he used to, with passion and laughter in his eyes. She wanted to reach up and touch him. Touch the skin on his cheek, the shadowed outline of his jaw, and run her fingers through his dark hair. She wanted him to step forward just a few inches to see if their bodies still fitted together after all this time.

Her heart was racing and Logan blinked. He was staring at a spot on her neck where she was sure he could see the rapid beating of her pulse.

She took a deep breath and turned away, trying to blink back threatening tears. This was why everything about this was a bad idea.

She swung open a dark wooden door, flooding the corridor with light and stepping into a white and blue room. It was still traditional. A double bedroom with a window overlooking the canal, pale blue walls and fresh white bed linen. It wasn’t quite as sumptuous as the other rooms in the house as it was rarely used.

She nodded her head. ‘The bathroom is next door. Don’t worry, we won’t have to share. The box room was converted to an en suite. Would you like some time to settle in?’

He shook his head. ‘Your coffee smells too good to let it go to waste. Let’s finish the paperwork then we can decide where I’m taking you to dinner.’ There was a glimmer in his eye. ‘I don’t expect you to cook for me—not if I want to live to tell the tale.’

He’d caught her unawares and she threw back her head and laughed. ‘I offer you a room for the night and this is the thanks I get?’

He gave her a steady smile. ‘Let’s just wait until dinner.’ She could almost hear his brain ticking over and her stomach gave a little leap.

What on earth did he have planned?

* * *

Logan washed up and changed his wrinkled shirt. Thank goodness he always had a spare in his bag.

He looked around the room. It was comfortable but sparse—it was clear this room didn’t get much use. Didn’t Lucia have friends to stay? She’d had a few girlfriends at university but he had no idea if they’d kept in touch.

He sighed and looked out of the window. It was ridiculous but he was having a hard time with this.

Lucia had a job she loved and a fabulous apartment in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world. He should be overjoyed for her. In his head, all he’d ever wanted was for her to be happy. In a twisted kind of way this was his ideal situation.

She was happy. She was settled. But there was no husband and kids on the scene to let the tiny leaves of jealousy unfurl. To let him know that she’d taken the final steps.

He couldn’t quite work out why he was feeling so unsettled. All he knew was that there was something in her eyes. A guarded part. A hidden part. A little piece of her that didn’t look quite...alive.

That was what bothered him. Lucia had a fabulous life. But was she really living?

He glanced around. While this room was sparsely furnished, the rest of the apartment was sumptuous. The reds and golds complemented the grandeur of the ancient palace. There were lots of similar buildings scattered across Venice. It seemed everyone who’d ever been slightly royal had built a palace in Venice. It was no wonder the heritage board wanted to keep someone in here.

He walked through to the main room. Lucia was sitting in a chair next to the open doors, the sights and sounds of the Grand Canal drifting up towards them. She’d changed into a purple jersey wrap-around dress, her dark chocolate-brown hair falling over her shoulders in waves. Her legs were curled up underneath her and she was reading a book.

Sitting on the table next to her was a glass of red wine. He smiled. ‘Merlot or Chianti?’

Her head lifted in surprise. ‘What do you think?’

He glanced out at the busy traffic on the Grand Canal. ‘A warm summer evening? An aperitif before dinner?’ He put his finger on his chin. ‘I’m trying to think what you’ve planned for dinner—will it be meat or pasta?’

She used to be so fussy. He could imagine there were only certain local restaurants that she’d visit.

She held up her glass towards him. ‘Maybe it will be both?’

She was teasing. He shook his head and pointed to the glass. ‘It must be Merlot. It’s too warm an evening for steak. You’re planning for pasta.’

Something flickered across her face. She didn’t like it that after twelve years he could still read her. She gestured towards the dining table where the bottle of wine and another glass sat. ‘Find out for yourself.’

Logan walked over and filled his glass, resisting the temptation to smile. ‘Where do you think we’re eating tonight?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘What makes you think we’ll be eating anywhere? Haven’t you heard—it’s the busiest night of the year in Venice?’

He sat down on the chaise longue next to her chair. ‘But I might know an out-of-the-way place that the tourist hordes don’t know about—like Erona’s in Florence.’

There was a flash of something behind her eyes and she stood up quickly. He’d upset her.

She didn’t want direct reminders of their time in Florence. ‘You’re not from here. How would you know where to eat?’

‘Let’s just say that your boss, Alessio, gave me a few hints.’

She slid her feet into a pair of red-soled black patent stilettos with impossibly high heels.

‘Wherever we’re going, I hope they have flat surfaces,’ he muttered. Alessio had told him to get to the restaurant—just not what the streets around it were like.

‘Let’s go, Logan. Our viewing is early tomorrow morning. I want to get an early night.’

The words sent a flurry of sparks across his brain. An early night. With Lucia Moretti. It was enough to send his whole body into overdrive.

His eyes focused on her behind as she crossed the room ahead of him in her impossibly high heels. Her dress clung to every curve.

He swallowed. This was going to be a long, uncomfortable night.

* * *

Venice was virtually silent at this time in the morning. The private motor boat glided through the water towards the Venetian island of Giudecca.

Logan was curious. ‘I thought all the artefacts of historical value would have been commandeered by the Italian Heritage Board?’

Lucia gave a sigh. ‘In theory, they can. But part of this island is private—has been since before Renaissance times. It’s owned by the Brunelli family. They built the church here and commissioned the artist, Burano, to paint the fresco. Technically, we’re just their guests. We’re allowed access to the fresco on request. You’ll understand why when you see it—it’s a little unusual.’

The boat came to a halt at the dock and they disembarked onto the wooden structure. A white stone path led them directly to the church, where a dark-suited man was waiting for them. Logan recognised him immediately—Dario Brunelli was frequently nicknamed Italian’s most eligible bachelor. He knew Lucia?

‘Lucia,’ he said swiftly, bending to kiss her on both cheeks, ‘it’s good to see you again. How have you been?’

His familiarity with Lucia grated instantly. Her reaction was even worse—she seemed relaxed in his company. ‘I’m good, thank you.’ She turned towards Logan. ‘Dario, this is Logan Cascini, a specialist restoration architect from Florence. He’s working with me on the project in Tuscany.’

It was completely true. But it made it sound as if they’d only just met. As if there was no shared history between them at all.

For a second he held his breath, wondering if Dario was having the same thoughts that he’d had this morning when he’d first seen Lucia. Her cream fitted business suit and pale pink shirt hugged her curves. The knee-length skirt exposed her slim legs. And her dark hair and eyes complemented the package perfectly. Lucia looked good enough to eat.

Dario nodded towards

Logan but it was clear his focus was on Lucia. ‘So, do you think you’ve found another of Burano’s frescoes?’

Lucia’s smile was broad. ‘I think there is a distinct possibility. With your permission, I’m going to take some high-resolution digital shots to compare the brushstrokes.’

Dario was nodding enthusiastically. ‘In Tuscany? I wonder how in the world Burano ended up working there? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it was another of his works?’

A Renaissance art lover. The passion and enthusiasm in his eyes was for the art, not for Lucia. Not for his woman.

Where had that come from?

Cold air prickled his skin and he shifted on his feet. Lucia hadn’t been his woman for twelve years—she hadn’t wanted to be.

And he’d had to live with that. He’d had to support the fact she wasn’t able to continue their relationship and allow her the space she’d needed to heal. No matter how much it had ripped his heart in two.

No one else had ever come close to the love he’d felt for Lucia. How could they? She’d been the mother of his child. And even though that was something she wanted to forget, her place in his heart had been well and truly cemented there.

But even he hadn’t realised how much.