His Lost-and-Found Bride

He laughed. ‘I should get Nonna to package up some food for you.’

She waved her fork at him. ‘Nonna should package up food for the world. She could make a fortune if she released a recipe book, or sold them to a food manufacturer.’

Logan’s eyes connected with hers. ‘You really expect Nonna to reveal her secret family recipes to an unsuspecting world?’ He was teasing. She could tell. This was the way it used to be with them. Constant joking back and forth.

She shrugged. ‘I’m just saying you have an untapped family fortune out there. That could be your nest egg, you know.’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’d live to tell the tale.’

‘Probably not.’ She took a sip of her wine. This wasn’t quite as bad as she’d feared. Logan wasn’t being difficult, he was his usual charming self. She’d just forgotten how hypnotic those green eyes could be. Every time his gaze connected with hers she had to blink to remind herself to breathe.

Logan had always been charming. His family had joked he could charm the birds from the trees and the gods out of Olympus. And she’d loved it. She’d loved the way he could make her feel like the most important woman on the planet. Because even though Logan had been a charmer, he’d also been a one-woman man. He’d never shown a glimmer of interest in anyone else when he’d been with her. She’d felt assured in his love.

It had been a long time since she’d felt so cherished.

A little warm wave rushed over her skin as she smiled at him and took another sip of her wine. She was relaxing more as the night went on, remembering the good times instead of the bad.

Logan didn’t deserve the negative associations that she’d built up in her brain. He deserved much more than that.

But if that was how she remembered him, how did he remember her?

* * *

This was more like the Lucia he’d once known. It was the first time he’d seen a genuine smile since she’d got here. When she’d walked outside to meet him earlier his heart rate had rocketed. With her perfect hourglass figure, the white flared skirt, fitted red shirt and silk scarf knotted around her neck she’d looked like a nineteen-fifties movie star. As for those killer red stilettos...

With her tumbling locks and red lips her picture could have adorned a thousand walls. His fingers couldn’t decide whether they wanted to unknot the scarf around her neck and pull it free, or run down the smooth skin on her tanned legs towards those heels.

Lucia. It was odd. She tried to act so independent, so aloof, but there was an inherent vulnerability about her that made him lose focus on everything else. He felt strangely protective and proud of her. The last time he’d seen her she’d been a shell of her former self. Losing their child had devastated them both.

Although the pregnancy hadn’t been planned they’d both been delighted when they’d found out a baby was on the way. They’d spent hours talking about their future together and making preparations for their baby. At one point it had seemed that the whole apartment had been full of brochures for cribs, cabinets, prams and high chairs.

The twenty-week scan had revealed a perfect daughter waiting to be introduced to the world.

No one could explain the unexpected premature labour.

No one could explain why Ariella Rose hadn’t managed to take those first few vital breaths.

Of course, the doctor had tried to say that her lungs hadn’t been developed enough and there had been no time to give Lucia steroids to help Ariella’s lungs mature.

It had been that terrible time when doctors tried to decide if a baby’s life was viable or not.

Some babies did breathe at twenty-three weeks.

Ariella Rose hadn’t.

The beautiful, vivacious woman he’d known had disintegrated before his eyes, their relationship crumbling around him. He’d spent months desperate to get her to talk to him. But Lucia had put up walls so thick nothing had penetrated.

Every time he’d tried to draw her out of her shell she’d become more and more silent and withdrawn. He’d pulled back too, focusing on his work, because right then that had been all he’d had. But Lucia had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand from the beach.

He’d been grieving too, watching the days tick by on the calendar, waiting for the day they would have welcomed their daughter into the world.

That had been the day Lucia had packed her cases and left.

No amount of pleading had dissuaded her. Florence had had too many bad memories for her—too many painful associations. She’d accepted a job in Venice. She’d wanted to leave, and she hadn’t wanted him to follow.