The Last Time I Saw Venice

He had to stop her turning away from him again, running off again without even making an effort to resolve what had gone wrong between them. If it meant avoiding any rash confrontations or sore points for the time being and just enjoying each other again, the way they’d managed to do four years ago, he’d damned well do his best to curb his impatience. Gaining her trust again, her confidence, was top priority and he mustn’t rush things and risk wrecking everything.

And regaining her love? Would that be possible as well? Or was it too late for that?

He recalled the shocked concern in her eyes when he’d announced that he’d injured his hand and given up neurosurgery. It gave him a flare of hope. Maybe she still felt something for him. She’d always encouraged him in his career, as he’d supported hers. The thought that she could feel some concern for him now, after what his so-called surgical skills had done to their lives, to their precious daughter, was like a glimmer of sunlight through dark clouds.

And what about her brilliant legal career? He hoped her recent illness hadn’t jeopardized her chances of a partnership, after she’d worked so hard to reach her cherished goal, assuming she hadn’t achieved it already. She’d given away nothing about her current status at work over dinner, and he hadn’t wanted to ask in front of Tom and Tessa. He needed to be alone with her, to find out everything she’d been doing in the past two years.

When she was ready… He’d be mad to put any pressure on her. She’d already run away from him once…he didn’t want to lose her again.

At a thin cry from the baby in the capsule, Tessa pushed back her chair. “I think Gracie’s ready for a change of nappy…and maybe another feed. Would you mind if I called it a night? Tom, you stay and have coffee…”

But Tom was already on his feet. “I’ll come with you. I’ve some notes to look at before tomorrow…”

“Time I went, too,” Annabel said at once, rising swiftly to her feet as a rush of nervous tension gripped her. Despite all the questions she longed to ask Simon, particularly about his injured hand and his disrupted career, she wasn’t sure she could handle being alone with him just yet. Especially not late in the evening, in romantic, moonlit Venice…

Tomorrow, perhaps…in more calming daylight…if he wanted to see more of her.

She saw a dark eyebrow rise ever so slightly as Simon stood up, too, but other than that he showed no reaction, no trace of the disappointment she’d expected—or perhaps had hoped—to see. It threw her a bit, making her conscious of a contrary sense of pique. If he pressed her to stay, or even invited her to join him for an evening stroll along the Riva, she wasn’t sure she would have the willpower to resist.

“Have you been back to the Basilica yet?” he asked her, and she paused, her heart picking up a beat. Was he remembering the vow they’d made four years ago?

“I’ve only seen it from the outside. I was thinking of going there in the morning before the queue grows too long.” She spoke carelessly, glancing away to hide any hint of an invitation in her eyes. He’d hurt her badly in the last weeks of their marriage and she wasn’t going to easily fall back into his arms, if that was what he was hoping. Her heart couldn’t bear any more hurt.

“I had the same idea,” he said in a similar offhand tone, with no sign of a suggestive glint in his eye as she flicked her gaze back to his. At one time, there would have been a distinct roguish twinkle evident. She wondered pensively if he’d lost it forever.

“If you’ve no objection to some company,” he was quick to add. “I’ll get there well before the doors open at nine-thirty and hold a spot for you at the front of the queue. That’ll give you a chance to sleep in a bit and not rush your breakfast.”

He’d always been considerate that way, she remembered with a bittersweet pang. At least, until the tragedy of Lily’s death had changed him, turning him into a closed, distant stranger.

“Let’s just play it by ear,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Is your hotel far from here?” she asked, expecting him to head for the lobby, while she took the lift up to her room.

The firm, well-shaped lips she’d always found so irresistible—and still did, she realized with a tremor— eased into the familiar curved smile she’d thought lost forever, at least to her. Seeing it again gave her spirits a lift. “Actually, I’m staying here,” he said. “Fourth floor. We can ride up in the lift together.”

She almost missed her step. It was the last thing she’d expected to hear. Staying here? On the floor above hers? Maybe his room, his bed, were directly over hers. How would she ever be able to sleep, knowing he was so close to her, just a few floorboards separating them?

“After you,” he said, his voice sounding dangerously seductive all of a sudden.

As she stepped into the empty lift ahead of him, she realized that his room on the fourth floor was the least of her worries. The walls of the tiny lift seemed to close in on her as he followed her in, standing far too close, filling the small space with his tall, potent presence, surrounding her with his familiar male scent, the heady warmth of his breath.

Inwardly, she felt herself gasping for air, clutching for normality and reason. They were only sharing a lift, for heaven’s sake.

Maybe it was her heightened imagination, but it seemed to take an age to reach the first floor, another age to reach the second, and finally, with her heart thumping so loudly by then she was sure he must hear it, the lift doors swung open.

“Good night, Simon!” Her voice was a ragged gasp as she lurched out without looking back.

So much for acting cool! She’d failed dismally, and now he’d know she wasn’t indifferent to him. He’d been indifferent to her for so long, withholding the love and warmth he’d once shown for her, that she should be guarding her heart a whole lot better than this.

Chapter Three

Despite barely sleeping a wink all night, Annabel didn’t sleep in. Instead, she rose early and dived straight into the shower. She both dreaded and longed to see Simon again, fearing how things might turn out, yet hoping desperately that some life still glimmered in the ashes of their marriage.

There was a basket of fresh fruit in her room and she ate a banana and an apple instead of going down to the dining room for breakfast, not wanting to face anyone before spending some time alone with Simon. She felt confused about so many things and wanted answers that only Simon could give her in private.

When she did finally leave her room she avoided the lift and slipped down the stairs to the lobby, pausing only to leave a note in Tessa’s mailbox before hurrying from the hotel.

The crisp air and the silvery early morning sunlight jolted her fully awake as she scurried along the Riva toward St. Mark’s Square. Hordes of tourists were already disembarking from boats and swarming along the promenade in the same direction. She hoped they weren’t all rushing to queue up at the Basilica.

Was Simon already there at the head of the queue, or had a boatload of tourists beaten him to it and already crowded in front of him? She felt a smile twitching her lips. He’d never had much tolerance for crowds. Or for waiting around doing nothing, for that matter.

As she passed the pink marble walls and lace-like arcades of the Doge’s Palace, she saw a long queue snaking from the Basilica, and groaned. That long already? It was barely eight-thirty—an hour before opening time!

And then she saw Simon, standing close to the decorative arched doorway at the very head of the queue. Heavens, he must have been here at dawn!

She felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t come even earlier to keep him company. An American tour group had gathered behind him, led by a flag-wielding female who was striding back and forth shouting facts about the Basilica to keep her flock amused. Annabel braved their stares as she strode up to Simon, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

“I feel as if I’m pushing in,” she whispered, ready to slink away. But Simon’s smile—a real smile for the first time, even reaching his eyes, those incredibly blue eyes—stopped her in her tracks. He’d always been sexy as the devil, with the height and bearing to make him stand out in any crowd. But with that heart-stopping smile, his deeply bronzed skin enhancing the blue of his eyes, his longer hair and the casual denim jacket and jeans that he wore so easily, he was a sight to snatch a girl’s breath away.

“They’ll see we’re together, so don’t even think about running off,” he growled, reaching for her arm and pulling her closer.

She glanced down at the tanned hand circling her arm. It was his right hand…the skilled, sensitive, long-fingered hand that had once held delicate surgical instruments and tackled the most intricate operations… until he’d somehow damaged it.

Simon dropped his hand at once, mistaking her glance for a warning look—no touching—until she looked up and let him see the glistening compassion in her eyes.

“How did you injure your hand?” she asked softly. “Is it still…?”

“No, it’s fine now,” he assured her, and grimaced. “Self-inflicted, I’m afraid. A moment of pure cussedness. I lost it and punched a brick wall.”

Her eyes snapped wide in shock. “Lost it? How? Why? You mean…you were drunk? You didn’t know what you were doing?” Why else would he have done such a crazy, destructive thing? Simon, who’d never drunk heavily, who’d never done anything to jeopardize his finely honed surgical skills. It didn‘t make sense.

“Oh, I knew what I was doing all right.” There was no self-pity in his voice, only irony and self-mockery. “But I didn’t care at the time.”

“You didn’t care about your career?” She stared at him in disbelief.

“I didn’t care about anything. I’d lost my daughter, I’d lost the will to work—hard as I was driving myself at the time—and then I lost you.” He glanced round, as if remembering there were others within earshot who could understand English. She could see him retreating and sensed, with a dip in her spirits, that he was regretting the admissions he’d already made. “Now’s not the time to go into all that,” he muttered.

She nodded, swallowing. Was he intending to tell her more later, when they were alone? Or was he slipping back into his dark, unreadable shell, shutting her out again?

I didn’t care about anything, he’d said. Did that mean he was still too hurt and heartbroken about Lily to care what happened to him? Or had he “lost it” and punched that brick wall because he was hurt and angry that his wife had run out on him? Angry enough to lash out in a blind, self-destructive rage?

She’d thought at the time, with her husband so cold and distant, that he would have been relieved to see the back of her, that he wouldn’t even care. Knowing that he blamed her in his heart for Lily’s accident, she’d felt miserably sure that her presence must be a constant reminder of the baby daughter he’d lost, and that he wouldn’t miss her when she was gone.

And yet…here he was in Venice, seeking her out again. Why? Simply because they’d met again purely by chance and he was curious about her life since she’d left him? Or…was there still some spark left of the love, the bond they’d once shared, enough to make him want to find out if it could flare into life again? She felt a quiver, a yearning deep down in her bruised heart.

She had to keep the lines of communication open. She couldn’t bear it if he froze her out again.

“What’s this about you going sailing for a year?” she asked, assuming the lightest tone she could manage. “In a yacht, you mean? Not by yourself, surely?” She’d never known him to go sailing before, or even to be interested in boats.

It made her realize soberly how little she knew about the man she’d married. They’d both been such high-powered, single-minded workaholics, even after Lily had arrived, that they’d barely had time to talk about the things that had happened to them in the past, before they’d met. Simon’s past in particular—other than the little he’d told her about his mother and his ambitious career path, and the fact that his father had walked out on his family—had always been a closed book.