Secrets of Castillo del Arco by Trish Morey Page A

‘It is a beautiful day outside. Come and share it with me.’
    ‘But the library?’
    ‘Has waited this long. It will still be there tomorrow. Come, Bella—you
do
want to see something of Venice while you are here?’
    ‘Of course. I’ll just go and get changed.’
    ‘Please don’t,’ he said, his voice tight. ‘You look good in anything you wear—but in those jeans, Bella …’ And his words put a sizzle all the way to her bones. Then he tilted his head and looked almost genuinely contrite.
    ‘I probably should not say such things.’
    ‘It’s okay,’ she said, licking suddenly dry lips—the dust from the books, she assumed. ‘I don’t mind. I … I’ll just grab my jacket.’
    He had her
. From the moment he had kissed her on that Venice path last night, he had sensed that she was his. Ridiculously easily, as it happened. He could not imagine why any woman, let alone one as beautiful and filled with life as Gabriella, would be drawn to someone as dark and as accursed as him. But for whatever reason—maybe that trait in her that had her believing the best in everyone—she seemed all too ready to forgive him his faults, if he could only repress that dark part of him and act civilised every now and then.
    So he donned the air of a civilised man, not one plagued by dark deeds and darker moods. In the ensuing days, he showed her the best of Venice. He walked her to the Castello area in the evening, lingering in the Giardini—the gardens created only two short centuries ago after Napoleon’s invasion—then spent time in the Via Garibaldi, where they sipped bitter spritz with fat green olives amongst the locals taking time out. He took her to the museums and galleries, both the well-known and obscure, and he treated her to the best and least well-known of Venice’s restaurants on the outlying islands, while treating her to the most exclusive of Venice’s boutiques nearby.
    He listened to her talk, seemingly endlessly, about the books she’d discovered in his library where she explored every day. And he let her joy of discovery wash over him, knowing he must if she was to trust him.
    He had been the perfect host. And tonight would be no exception, he decided as he slipped on his jacket. Tomorrow he would take her to the glass-making factories and shops of Murano, but tonight would provide one more piece for the fairy-tale picture she was building up of Venice. And, if tonight’s excursion went as well as expected, they would be shopping tomorrow for more than just glass.
    He swallowed back on the now-familiar pang of guilt, that what he was doing might be wrong or unfair, or was somehow taking advantage of her. Because it wasn’t as if he didn’t like her. It wasn’t as if he had to pretend to be attracted to her; it wasn’t as if he had to lie about those things. They were old friends, he told himself, and it wasn’t as though he planned to hurt her. He was protecting her, just as her grandfather had requested.
    And Umberto had been right—there would be nothing worse for her than if she fell into the clutches of someone like Garbas.
    If marrying her was what it took to prevent that, he would do it.
    Gabriella’s body hummed with anticipation as she waited. Raoul had promised her something special tonight, a secret he had refused to reveal, even when she had teased him and begged him to let her in on the secret.
    He was different, she decided as she looked down from the balcony at the never-dull vista that greeted her. Could one ever get sick of the sight and sounds of Venice? It was a world unto itself—a place of incrediblebeauty on the one hand, of secrets and hidden depths on the other.
    Just like Raoul himself
.
    For even lately in these last few days, even when he had played the host role to perfection, there had been times—glimpses, really—when she would turn her head and look at him, catch him unawares and see
something
lurking in the depths. Something troubled, menacing and