From Venice with Love. Alison Roberts
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ALISON ROBERTS lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, and has written over 60 Mills & Boon® Medical Romances™.
As a qualified paramedic, she has personal experience of the drama and emotion to be found in the world of medical professionals, and loves to weave stories with this rich background—especially when they can have a happy ending.
When Alison is not writing, you’ll find her indulging her passion for dancing or spending time with her friends (including Molly the dog) and her daughter Becky, who has grown up to become a brilliant artist. She also loves to travel, hates housework, and considers it a triumph when the flowers outnumber the weeds in her garden.
From Venice
With Love
Alison Roberts
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader
Do you have a bucket list?
I do :-), and a year or so ago I was lucky enough to tick off one of the bigger items—travelling from Venice to London on the Orient Express.
It was the culmination of a fabulous trip. Along with writing friends Fiona McArthur and Trish Morey I had attended the Women’s Fiction Festival in Matera, Italy. Then Fiona and I headed off to tick off her bucket list item of a Mediterranean cruise, which just happened to finish in Venice and dovetailed perfectly with my dream train journey.
Being a writer has a unique advantage. I don’t have to rely solely on photo albums or journals to remember a special time. I can weave my memories into a story.
Come and share my trip of a lifetime. Let’s start in Venice and finish in London and see what happens on the way to the cast of characters I chose—Charlotte and Nico and Charlotte’s loveable gran Jendi who, like me, has always wanted to travel on the Orient Express.
And, just to make it even more special, let’s make it happen at Christmastime.
Enjoy—and Happy Christmas!
With love
Alison xxx
To Fi, with lots of love.
Here’s to friendship. And memories xxx
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
THE SOUND OF more than one person shouting got steadily louder as Nico Moretti turned into the narrow Venetian alleyway that would get him to his destination a little faster.
He tried to ignore the sound. He was in a hurry and it wasn’t as if the sound of shouting was anything unusual for a large Italian city but he could feel his frown deepening. It was a disturbing echo of what was already occupying too much of his head.
The noise was loud enough to have people stopping in the street now. Turning their heads and asking each other what they thought it might be about. The slowing pace and knots of people forming made it harder to move forward and Nico heard a growl of frustration escape his own throat.
He could tell them what it was about if he had either the time or the inclination. It was about people who wanted different things. People who were passionate about what they believed in. People who weren’t prepared to even try and understand each other and left broken lives in their wakes. But he didn’t have the inclination. Not when he felt so out of place in this city of his birth and with the sound of his childhood language surrounding him and reinforcing that exclusion. And he certainly didn’t have the time. Not when the real reason for his return to Venice was due to start in less than thirty minutes.
At least he had the advantage of his height. And plenty of practice in cutting through obstructions to get to the heart of an emergency. All he needed to do was take on the mantle of an expert consultant en route to an urgent call in an emergency department or at an accident scene.
‘Scusi.’ The word was a command, not a request, and, as always, it had the desired effect. A path appeared through the gathering crowd. Those closest to him actually stopped talking to stare at him but that only made the sound of whatever was happening ahead clearer.
Whatever it was about, it wasn’t simply a misunderstanding or disagreement. There was a language barrier as well. He could hear English being spoken by a forceful, female voice.
‘Stand back. Don’t move him yet. Call an ambulance. Ambulanza.’
More shouting. In Italian. Had someone called an ambulance? Where was it? Why wasn’t it here yet? They were right beside the Grand Canal, for heaven’s sake. Practically a highway in Venice. Where were the police? Where was a doctor when you needed one?’
‘Sì.’ The English woman had understood something in the furore. ‘Dottoressa. I’m a doctor. Let me get close. I have to find out if he’s breathing.’
‘He’s not,’ someone close to Nico muttered. ‘He’s dead. He has to be, falling off the roof like that. He must have broken his sorry neck. Who does that English woman think she is? An angel who can work some kind of miracle?’
‘It’s almost Christmas,’ a black-clad Italian grandmother said sagely. ‘A good time for a miracle to happen.’
‘Scusi.’ Nico schooled himself not to show any personal frustration as he