From Venice With Love: Secrets of Castillo del Arco

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Secrets of Castillo del Arco (#u7d127a67-62e8-55ca-a8aa-62c80c72c398)

Trish Morey

He appeared out of the fog, tall, broad and dark as night as he moved stealthily between the funeral sculptures, and a shiver of recognition washed through her.

Raoul.

She had seen him at the service, and her heart had lifted at the prospect of seeing him again after so many years.

Raoul who, with his intense black eyes and passionate mouth, had been her every adolescent fantasy. Dark fantasies she’d had no right to imagine. Wicked fantasies that brought a blush to her cheeks just thinking about them.

And the air shifted and parted before him, and then he was there, standing before her, so tall that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He didn’t smile. She didn’t expect him to—not really, not this day.

‘Gabriella,’ he said, in a way that seemed to cherish every syllable.

And then he leaned down to kiss first one cheek and then the other. She breathed him in, taken by the way he smelled so familiar, and yet there was so much more besides—as if what she’d remembered had been but a shadow of his essence.

TRISH MOREY always fancied herself a writer—so why she became a chartered accountant is anyone’s guess! But once she’d found her true calling there was no turning back. Mother of four budding heroines and wife to one true-life hero, Trish lives in an idyllic region of South Australia. Is it any wonder she believes in happy-ever-afters?

Find her at www.trishmorey.com (http://www.trishmorey.com) or https://www.facebook.com/trish.morey (https://www.facebook.com/trish.morey)

With grateful thanks to Ellen, Charlie and Claire for being my captive carpool brainstormers. Thank you so much for your interest and your input and energy and most of all thank you for Venice. You guys rock!

And with thanks, as ever, to my fabulous Maytoners, for Coogee Beach and fish and chips, for making me laugh and cry and commiserate and celebrate, but with thanks, most of all, for once again making magic happen in the shape of words.

For it must be a kind of magic.

Thank you!

TrishXxx

PROLOGUE (#u7d127a67-62e8-55ca-a8aa-62c80c72c398)

Paris

‘PROMISE ME something, Raoul. Grant a dying man one last wish.’

The old man’s voice was thready and thin, little more than a whistle on his breath and no contest for the battery of machines beeping their presence around the bed. Raoul leaned closer. ‘You mustn’t talk that way, Umberto.’ Raoul placed his hand over the old man’s, trying not to damage the papery skin or nudge the needle projecting from the back of his claw-like hand; trying to pretend it was nowhere near as bad as it was. ‘You are as strong as an ox,’ he lied, wishing it were true. ‘The doctor said—’

‘The doctor is a fool!’ the old man interjected, dissolving into a fit of coughing that left him wheezing in its wake. ‘I am not afraid of death. I know my time has come.’

Wiry fingers clumsily overturned those of his visitor’s, squeezing down as if to emphasise the urgency of his words, even though his once-legendary strength was gone, his fingers grown weak. ‘But I fear what might happen once I am gone. Which is why I summoned you. You must promise me now, Raoul, before it is too late …’

The old man sagged against the pillows, his eyes closed in an ashen, sunken face, his sudden outburst taking its toll. For the first time Raoul was struck with the realisation that there would be no coming back: this time his oldest friend, his mentor—and the closest thing to family he had known for more than a decade—was dying. He had to force himself to stay and not flee from the room and the heavy knot tightening in his gut.

‘You know I would do anything for you, Umberto,’ he uttered in a voice that felt like gravel in his throat. ‘You have my word. Ask, and it shall be.’

An eternity passed, an eternity filled with beeping machines that were the only sign Raoul had that his old friend had not already passed, until with a sigh his eyes fluttered open, watery and dim, his voice tinged with affection. ‘Look after Gabriella for me. When I die, she will be vulnerable. I will not rest unless she is safe.’

He touched his free hand to the old man’s shoulder to reassure him, his fingers encountering little more than bone. ‘Then rest easy, old friend. Nothing will happen to her. I would be honoured to act as her guardian.’

The old man surprised him, snorting a protest instead of uttering the thanks he’d half-anticipated. Raoul was halfway to celebrating this spark of life, a glimpse of the Umberto that once was, until the words his old friend had said in response registered in his mind—impossible words, words that made the blood roar in his ears, sending thoughts of celebration tumbling and smashing like debris caught up in the first destructive wave of a tsunami.

He stood, unable to sit while the roar of the wave churned through him, and turned away from the bed, raking a damp hand through his hair and tugging at his tie, looking ceiling-ward for the air-conditioning vents. God, but it was hot in here.

‘Raoul, did you hear me?’ The thread of Umberto’s frail words came on a thin wire that dug its way into him, slowing his retreat.

‘I heard you,’ he said—every last word—but that didn’t stop Umberto from repeating them now, driving that sharp wire deeper and deeper into his psyche where it twisted and grew poisoned barbs.

‘You must marry her, Raoul! Promise me you will marry Gabriella.’

Madness! He dragged in air tainted with the smell of impending death, disinfectant and the chemical sprays designed to disguise them all yet failing miserably, and threw his head back, hating what was happening—hating even more what he was hearing. Wasn’t it bad enough that his old friend was dying? It had to be some kind of madness, he decided, for his friend to propose such insanity. ‘You know that is not possible. Besides,’ he added, remembering the last time he’d seen the girl, ‘Even if I was crazy enough to marry again, surely Gabriella is too young?’

‘A woman now.’ Umberto blinked away tears, his voice breaking with emotion. ‘Twenty-four years of age.’

Raoul was shocked by the invisible slide of time; cursed the years he had lost in the mire of another age. Had it really been that long? Then again, maybe this made it better, easier. ‘Then surely she is old enough to choose her own husband?’

‘And if she chooses Consuelo Garbas?’

‘Manuel’s brother?’ Raoul lifted disbelieving hands to his temples, driving fingertips deep into the veins that pounded like drums. God, but could this nightmare get any worse?