Swept Away By The Venetian Millionaire. Nina Singh
she’d lost her parents, Gran had been one of the people to step into the sudden massive hole in her life where her family used to be. Sure, her uncle, aunt and cousins had all provided her with a substitute family, and she’d be forever grateful to them for that. But the bond she felt with Grandmama went far deeper than any other relationship in Maya’s life. Gran had been as broken as Maya was over the tragic loss. The older woman’s loving comfort had been the sole factor in pulling Maya out of the overwhelming grief and pain after the accident.
Maya wanted to crumble at the thought that she was about to deliver yet another, albeit much smaller, bolt of pain to the older woman.
“Thanks, Gran. I just...”
Grandmama jumped into the silence. “Are you sure you packed that red dress with the thin shoulder straps? You look so nice in that dress, dear.”
This conversation was even more difficult than she’d thought it would be. Gran had actually been thinking of the wardrobe Maya would be taking. She really was living the trip vicariously through Maya.
“Oh, and it would go so well with those strappy sandals you wore the last time you came to visit. This is all so exciting, dear!”
Maya bit her lip as she faced reality: she didn’t have it in her to disappoint her grandmother. Not after the woman had already endured so much in her life. She just couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Grandmama was so happy on her behalf.
Somehow, some way, she would make herself go on this trip. For her grandmother’s sake if not for her own. Besides, who knew? Wasn’t one of Matt’s complaints about her that she always played life too safe? That she always took the path of least resistance? Not that she had much concern any longer about what Matt thought. But maybe he’d been right about this one thing. Maybe she would take this as an opportunity to try to be different, more adventurous. Going on a solo trip through Europe would certainly be an adventure. Maya decided she would do it.
Though misery was certain to follow her at every stop.
* * *
In all his thirty-two years as a resident son of Venice, Vittorio Rameri had never actually seen anyone topple out of a gondola before. He supposed it happened, though it was quite rare. He’d just never witnessed it firsthand.
That appeared to be about to change. For the woman he was watching as he sat at an outdoor table at his favorite waterside café was clearly about to lose her balance completely. Vito had no doubt she was American. Everything, from the tiny clutch purse she carried to the sensible capri pants she wore, tagged her as a young professional from a large US city. Maybe New York. Or Los Angeles.
He thought about going over to help but at this distance there was no way he would make it in time. He was right; it took mere seconds. The gondolier reached for her but the poor man wasn’t quick enough. With an inelegant gasp, she toppled over the side and landed with a sharp splash in the water.
Vittorio blinked his eyes against the bright sunshine. She had to be drunk, despite the relatively early hour of the afternoon. He’d seen his fair share of tipsy tourists, and certainly wasn’t one to judge. He’d just never seen one actually drunk enough to fall out of a gondola before. She’d attracted a crowd of onlookers as she splashed and spluttered in the water. None of them seemed to be of much help, however. The gondolier wasn’t having much luck pulling her out, either.
So much for a nice relaxing afternoon.
He didn’t know what compelled him to leave his much-needed espresso and the unread newspaper in order to go over and assist the lady. Perhaps it was the look of utter despair on her face just before she tipped over. Her expression clearly stated that she’d been through quite enough already. And that this fall into the murky Venetian water might ultimately be the last straw.
When Vito reached the gondola, it took extreme effort from both himself and the gondolier to manage to hoist her out of the water and onto the wooden walkway where the gondola was docked. She came out cursing in English. He’d been right about the American guess. Being fluent, Vito understood every one of the curse words she muttered. Or slurred, to be more accurate. Yep, she was definitely drunk. She was also soaked to the skin.
“Are you hurt, miss?” he asked when she stopped swearing long enough to take a breath.
He got a good look at her then and a strange sensation shot through his chest. Her eyes were the color of the Venetian sky at sunset. Thick, dark hair now clung to her face and scalp. Her makeup had clearly not been the waterproof kind.
Yet it struck him that she still looked quite lovely despite her accident of seconds ago.
The gondolier stood next to them, pale and silent. Vito couldn’t decide which one of them looked more shocked, the boatman or the American. For an insane moment, he had to bite back the urge to laugh. He barely managed to withhold a chuckle. How rude of him. Her state was no laughing matter, after all. For all he knew, she could be sporting some nasty injury. She still hadn’t answered his question.
She shook the water off her face. “Thank you for your help, whoever you are.” Turning back to the boatman, she said in a surprisingly steady and deadly serious tone, “I’ve changed my mind about the gondola ride, sir.”
That did it. Vito couldn’t hold it in any longer. A small chuckle escaped him before he could stop it. She whirled on him with such force, he thought she might topple over again.
“You think this is funny, do you?”
Her golden hazel eyes blazed bright with fury. Fury directed at him.
“I’m sorry, miss. I certainly did not mean to laugh at you.”
She continued to glare at him, despite his apology. The gondolier had apparently heard enough. Without another word, he jumped back onto his vessel and began to pole away. All too hurriedly, Vito thought.
The man had essentially just left him alone with this wet, tipsy American woman.
A woman who looked very good in wet clothes that clung to her skin. Vito gave himself a mental shake. Where had that wayward thought come from?
“You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded her.
“What question?”
“Are you all right? You didn’t hurt yourself or anything, did you?”
She rubbed a hand down her face. Vito watched as the anger suddenly seemed to just melt away from her. Replaced by something akin to total resignation. With a jolt of surprise, he realized that made him sad for some reason. He preferred her angry to defeated. As if it meant anything to him. He’d never laid eyes on the woman before.
“I’m okay,” she answered. “Just embarrassed,” she added, glancing to the crowd around them which hadn’t fully dispersed yet.
He waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t give it a thought. People fall out of gondolas all the time in Venice,” he lied.
She studied him up and down. Her eyes really were stunning. A rich amber color that shouldn’t have worked at all with her dark olive skin tone. But somehow it served to lend her a rare and striking look that he couldn’t help but feel drawn to, given his artist’s instincts.
He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from her eyes. He tried to look away to avoid staring at her face too long, but failed.
“Why don’t I believe you about that?” she wanted to know. The slightest hint of a smile graced her full, pink rosebud lips.
“Bene. Perhaps because I’ve just made it up.”
Her smile grew. “Nice try. You’re quite the gentleman. First you come to my rescue from a certain and tragic watery death. And now you’re trying to rescue my pride.” She glanced down at the soaking-wet fabric of the red shirt she wore. It now clung to her like a second skin and accentuated her feminine curves.
What in the world had gotten into him? When was the last time he’d noticed a woman’s curves? Certainly