Suddenly she felt cold, exposed, standing in the middle of the massive living room of the luxury suite wearing nothing but skin. It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud, which was ridiculous. She had only to look out the high leaded-glass windows to see it shining down on the water. It was only her imagination.
She took the fastest shower she’d taken in three days, the first one she’d taken alone, ignoring memories of what they’d done in the marble-sided shower stall, and dressed quickly. Her jeans and loose T-shirt weren’t proper attire for a place like the Danieli, and James had promised to take her shopping for some decent clothes, but of course she’d refused. Even if they’d really been married she wouldn’t have let him pay for her. It would have stretched her budget beyond bearing, but she could buy her own dress. Provided she found one on sale.
But they’d never gotten that far. Never gotten out of the bedroom, and she felt her skin heat as more memories flitted through her mind. His mouth everywhere, tasting, sucking, biting. They’d been with each other every second since he’d first walked into the shower at the Villa Ragarra, and this was the first time she had a chance to think. Had she lost her mind, going off with a perfect stranger?
No, he was hardly a stranger. She’d known that the moment she saw him, up at that mountain church. She’d looked into his deep brown eyes and known . . . something. He’d felt the same. He’d whispered about love at first sight, a ridiculous concept, but she grinned like an idiot every time she thought about it.
She was grinning now, her strange misgivings leaving her. She hadn’t eaten since last night, and it was midday. What she needed was a good meal and a call home to her parents. Not that she’d tell them she was married, or even engaged. She’d just say she’d . . . met someone.
Without James the suite seemed vast, almost cavernous. Here she was in Venice and she hadn’t even been outside. She pushed open the window and stuck her head outside. The walkways were packed with early-summer tourists, but the Grand Canal glittered in the sunlight as the water taxis and vaporettos rubbed shoulders with the gondolas. Could she talk James into taking her on a gondola ride? They were tourist bait, ridiculously expensive, and she’d never had any interest in such a ridiculous thing. With James everything was different. She knew what he’d do. He would slide his beautiful, strong hand beneath whatever clothing she wore and make her come, covering her mouth with his. She smiled at the thought, but for some reason her eyes filled with tears.
She shook them away. Had she suddenly become a silly, dependent woman? That wouldn’t do at all. That wasn’t who she was. Except when James put his hands on her.
She couldn’t stay immured in their elegant suite, waiting for him, and the room-service menu, fabulous as it was, had its limitations. She wanted a Diet Coke and some Pasta ai Quattro Formaggi with the tang of gorgonzola. She wanted to sit by the canal and watch the pigeons and think about nothing at all.
There was no missing the disapproving looks as she walked through the lobby of the Danieli in her jeans, T-shirt, and Asics, and it took her longer than she expected to find a dress she could afford. She finally discovered one in a tiny shop with a cheerful mongrel curled up outside to greet her. The dress was a rose color, clung to every inch of her, and made her green eyes sparkle and her cheeks flush. She’d surprise James when she got back to the hotel. She’d make him wait in the salon while she changed, and then they’d end up back in the bed again, and maybe she wouldn’t wear the dress out into the hotel for days . . .
She ate a late lunch in the bright sunshine, watching the tourists. She wasn’t far from the hotel, and she kept her eye out for James, but there was no sign of him. He’d probably already gone back to the suite, and she was suddenly in a rush to finish, happiness bubbling inside her as she practically ran back to the hotel.
The suite was still empty. She searched the place, but there was no note from him, only her own left untouched. She shook off her unease and went to change into the dress. She should have bought stiletto heels but even for James she couldn’t go that far, and her thin, strappy sandals would do. She even put on makeup, then looked for her diamond studs.
She couldn’t find them. At first she thought she’d misplaced them—after all, she hadn’t had a brain in her head these last three days, and she’d had much more important things to think about. But the more she searched, the colder she grew. She dumped her meager belongings on the neatly made bed but there was no sign of them.
Maybe James had found them lying around and put them away for safekeeping. She went for his suitcase, opening it, momentarily surprised to find it empty. No diamond earrings, no change of clothes, and yet he hadn’t unpacked.
She didn’t hurry. There was no need to rush, no need to find out the truth more quickly than she had to. His shaving supplies, his toothbrush were missing. She hadn’t even noticed that when she woke up. Everything was gone except for the empty suitcase.
She went back to it, looking for some clue. There was a thin bulge in one of the outer pockets, and she pulled out his passport and wallet, and relief poured through her. The wallet had his American driver’s license, credit cards, even a Costco card, and she wanted to laugh. She’d panicked for nothing. He’d tease her when he got back, tell her she’d promised to trust him, and th
en he’d kiss her . . .
She put the wallet down and picked up the passport. The picture was a good one—weren’t passport photos supposed to be terrible? His was gorgeous. Except, why was his passport here? They’d had to leave theirs with the front desk when they registered. Of course she’d been so besotted with her new wedding ring on her finger that she hadn’t been paying much attention, but surely she remembered being asked for hers.
There was something else in the pocket, wrapped in cloth and tied with a black ribbon. She ripped it open and felt her blood freeze.
More passports. Half a dozen of them, from the US, the UK, France—she didn’t know all the myriad colors, but they each represented another country. She knew what she would find when she opened them, and she went through then, staring dully. Photos of James Bishop in every one, each with a different name, a different identity. He wasn’t James Bishop at all. He was a liar and a thief.
She looked around at the elegant bedroom. Her father had had her earrings valued for insurance, and they’d been estimated to be worth thirty thousand dollars; two nights in this palatial suite would wipe out any profits. Why would he spend more money than the earrings were worth just to steal them?
She reached for the phone, then drew her hand back. She couldn’t do this. Not this way. She went into the bedroom and ripped off the fucking dress, dumping it on the floor, and pulled on her jeans and T-shirt once more. Shoving everything in her backpack, she paused by the wide row of windows overlooking the Grand Canal. Then she yanked off her wedding ring and threw it into the dark, murky waters before heading down to the lobby.
It was early evening and the vast atrium of the ancient hotel was almost empty. She straightened her shoulders and headed for the desk.
“May I help you, miss?” the starched concierge asked, barely lifting his gaze from his paperwork. He’d taken one look at her clothing and known she wasn’t worth his time.
“I wanted to ask if you’d had any messages for me from Mr. Bishop.”
One elegant eyebrow rose, and with a weary sigh he went over to a computer station and began typing into it. “Your name, miss?”
“Morrissey. Evangeline Morrissey. We’ve been staying in the suite on the second floor.”
That caught his attention, and he let his superior gaze run up and down her rumpled appearance. He was clearly not impressed, and suddenly Evangeline longed for Silvio’s cheerful presence. “The Emperor Suite. Yes, I see. You’re paid up till tomorrow. But there are no messages. And no Mr. Bishop is currently enjoying our hospitality.”
“Then who have I been sharing a room with?” she snapped, her annoyance finally trumping her desperate anxiety.
“The suite was registered to a Monsieur Pierre Boussan, but he retrieved his passport this morning and checked out. He left no messages and no forwarding address.”
She just stared at him, his words not making sense.