One Christmas Night in Venice

“Well, I don’t want to hear it. I’ve heard enough. You’ve clearly moved on. I wish you and Valeria—I think that is her name—a long, happy marriage since it was denied us.” Determinedly she pushed herself to her feet with the aid of the staff and headed for the door.

Domenico intercepted her before she’d traveled halfway across the room, blocking her path with his powerful body. “It’s not that simple, my love. You can’t just walk in and walk out and expect everything to be the same. Nothing’s the same. You are here. And you are alive. And you are my wife.”

“Was your wife,” she answered fiercely, head tipped back to look at him. “Was, as in past tense. Because if you recall there was a funeral. According to Valeria, my ashes are somewhere in your chapel. I’m dead to you and I’d prefer to remain that way.”

“I can’t let you.”

“Why?” she practically shouted. “You’ve done just fine without me. You’re in love and engaged and ready to make another woman your wife—”

His hands clamped down on her shoulders as he dragged her up against him. “You’re wrong,” he retorted, his deep voice thundering in her head. “I didn’t do fine without you. I couldn’t live without you.” The words were torn from him, and they weren’t gentle. They were rough, tortured, like glass scratching metal, because his heart was made of metal. His heart was worth nothing at all. “And maybe I’m not who I was, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you walk out that door.”

Her eyes, still that arresting blue-green, shimmered with liquid. She’d always had the most beautiful eyes. The most beautiful heart. Tender. Loyal. Loving. “You don’t have a choice,” she whispered, the first tear falling. “Now, let me go.”

He stared into her beautiful face, studying the new faint lines at her mesmerizing eyes, the set of her full mouth, wanting to take her in, memorize every detail. He’d never known anyone like Diane when they’d met at the university in Florence. She’d been pursuing an advanced degree in Italian Renaissance Art. He’d been touring the recently restored university library—a restoration made possible through the generosity of the Coducci family, his family.

She’d been one of the two docents conducting the tour, and he’d been enchanted by her eyes, the shape of her face, her accent, her passion for Renaissance art. She’d been so real, so fresh, so expressive. He’d never enjoyed a tour quite as much as that one, and had watched her as she’d talked rather than look at the friezes, the arches, the canvases covering the enormous walls. He’d grown up in a palace, surrounded by relics and ruins, and his tastes ran to the modern. New. Bold. Controversial.

Like his apartment in Rome.

Like his choice of her for his bride.

The Coduccis were a rich, ancient, noble line, and Domenico was to have selected a wife from a suitably rich, ancient, noble line. But instead he’d chosen Diane. Diane from Chicago. Diane from a working-class family.

He’d always suspected that his mother would have overlooked Diane’s lack of ancestry if she’d been rich. But Diane’s sin had been that she was poor.

And thus he’d been cast off, isolated from his family. But Dom hadn’t cared. It was his life. His choice.

And now the past was back.

“I can’t,” he answered, trying to ignore the grief in her eyes and how her knuckles shone whitely where she gripped the staff.

“Why not?”

“The baby—” He broke off, took a deep raw breath. “He didn’t die.” Domenico’s eyes searched hers waiting for the news to register. “He lived. He’s alive. He’s here—with me.”

He’d expected a scream, a cry—something. But she stood utterly still, her enormous eyes locked on his.

“Diane, you’re a mother,” he pressed on, not understanding why she didn’t respond. “The baby didn’t die. You have a son.”

And then she did the strangest thing.

She laughed.

Laughed. Even as her eyes welled with fresh tears.

But her laugh wasn’t a happy laugh. No, it reminded him of ice cracking. Cold. Brittle. Fragile. “I don’t believe you. You lie.”

Diane tipped her head back and looked into the face of the man she’d loved with all her heart and mind and soul. The man who’d had everything. She’d never understood why he’d wanted her. Needed her. But he’d said he did.

He’d said.

And now he said their baby hadn’t died. Their baby was here. Alive.

Alive.

She shivered, shuddered, her blood freezing in her veins. There was no child. Her child had died. Her baby hadn’t survived. Domenico’s mother couldn’t have been so cruel. “I don’t want any part of this … deception … play … masquerade … whatever it is. Let me go. I must go.”

“Don’t be scared. It’s going to be okay. We’ll make it okay—”

She silenced him with a furious slap across his face, hitting him hard, as hard as she could. She could hear the slap echo shockingly loud in the chamber. Worse, the blow stung her hand, making her palm ache.