Loe raamatut: «Falling For The Venetian Billionaire»

CHAPTER ONE

Eight months later

NOW THAT IT was nearing the end of May, Ginger Lawrence’s work in Italy was drawing to an end. She had a laptop bulging with files. Some contained her work writing a series of stories about children around the world. Others contained the research on Lord Byron she’d amassed. The early nineteenth-century British romance poet and writer had been her reason for coming to Europe.

Yesterday she’d come from Genoa, Italy, where Lord Byron had lived in his last Italian home. Today she’d met some researchers in Ravenna, Italy, among them Dr. Welch and Dr. Manukyan with a group known in literature circles as the International Lord Byron Association.

They’d asked her if she’d like to join them for dinner aboard the Sirena, one of the passenger ships on the Adriatic docked outside Ravenna, Italy. She’d been pleased to be invited.

Their group had spent the better part of the day sharing new information on Lord Byron, who’d traveled and had lived in this region. It was here he’d turned to drama and wrote The Two Foscari and one of her favorite plays, Cain, his slant on the biblical Cain.

This evening they met with one of several other board members who’d be presenting material at the Byron Conclave in Armenia in July. Unfortunately, by then Ginger and her coworker friends would be back in California, preparing for fall semester.

Ginger admitted to the group seated with her that she was upset for not having allowed enough time to go to Venice and really explore it. She needed another month, but that was impossible. Her one day in Venice would have to count!

Dr. Manukyan, the Armenian professor and host, smiled at her. “Just remember that Byron’s most important time in Venice was spent at the Armenian Monastery during his San Lazzaro period in 1817.”

Ginger nodded. “I plan to spend the whole day there engrossed.”

“As you probably know, the island of San Lazzaro was named after Saint Lazarus, the patron saint of lepers,” he explained. “The four-hundred-year-old leper colony existed from the twelfth to the sixteenth centuries. At the end of that time, Mechitar, an Armenian monk, escaped from the Turks and arrived in Venice, where he was given the island for his Dominican congregation.

“Now there are a dozen-plus monks and Armenian students who come to study Italian and are in charge of its precious museum and library. During his travels in Europe, Byron turned to a new intellectual amusement to supplement physical pleasures and decided to learn Armenian.”

“That’s what I want to learn more about,” Ginger exclaimed. “I know he worked on an English-Armenian grammar book. I’m fascinated by the way Byron’s brain worked and what motivated him.”

Dr. Manukyan nodded. “Byron set himself a project to study the Venetian dialect, too. In truth, Lord Byron had one of his most productive periods in Venice. Besides his work at the monastery, he wrote the first half of Don Juan while there.”

Ginger couldn’t get enough of learning about Byron, while they enjoyed a delicious seafood dinner followed by dessert and coffee. Afterward, Dr. Manukyan announced some other Byron conclaves being held in the future. Too bad she would have to be back in California teaching during those dates and would have to miss them.

With her thoughts on her friends, knowing she would be with them soon, Ginger sat back in the chair pleasantly tired and drank her coffee. Since January, Ginger had been in Italy digging for any fresh information on the life of the poet. Before Christmas her department head at Vanguard University in Costa Mesa, California, where she’d been teaching, had approached her.

Would she like to attend a workshop in Los Angeles on a new academic project about Lord Byron for the famous Hollywood film director Magda Collier? Her revered mogul friend would be producing it, and research was needed to supply original material for the screenwriters.

Ginger would have to leave the university for a semester and travel to Europe. After having lost her husband, Bruce, to cancer over two years before, Ginger had jumped at the opportunity to work in Italy, hoping for new experiences that would help put her pain behind her.

No man could ever replace Bruce. Her pain was doubly excruciating because he’d died before they could have children. Ginger had wanted children more than anything. Her therapist had suggested that since she’d dabbled in writing over the years, she should work on a children’s story, something her own children would have loved.

After so much sorrow and anguish over broken dreams, Ginger knew she needed to concentrate on something else and took her therapist’s advice.

At the seminar she’d met Zoe Perkins and Abby Grant, who’d also been hired. All three had obtained master’s degrees in literature from UCLA, San Jose State University and Stanford respectively, focusing on the romance poets and writers.

Abby had been sent to Switzerland and Zoe had been assigned to Greece, but all three of them had kept in touch through Skyping and phone calls. Her travels and theirs began to feed her imagination, and she got the idea to write about children around the world when she couldn’t do her research.

As Ginger had explained to the others at the table aboard ship, tomorrow she would take the train to Venice and spend time at the monastery in the afternoon. That evening she’d meet Zoe at the airport and they’d take the night train to Montreux, Switzerland, where they planned to pick up a hire car and then join up with Abby at Saint-Saphorin on Lake Geneva, where they’d begin their vacation.

Magda had rewarded them with a month’s stay on a vineyard there. They could use it for their home base while they did whatever they wanted.

Ginger turned to ask Dr. Manukyan a few more questions, but he suddenly said, “Excuse me for a minute,” and got up from the table.

Surprised, she watched him walk toward a thirtyish-looking man with raven black hair who’d just entered the dining room. Everything about him, including his elegant dark blue suit and tie, shouted sophistication and an aura of authority he probably wasn’t even aware of.

He stood tall and was the most gorgeous, virile Italian male she’d ever laid eyes on in her life. Every feature from his olive skin to his powerful jaw mesmerized her.

Her heart thumped as the two men walked over to the table. “Everyone,” Dr. Manukyan began, “I’d like to introduce you to Signor Della Scalla. He’s not only responsible for the souvenir menus you’ve all been given, he’s the one who made it possible for us to have dinner aboard ship this evening.”

“I hope you’re enjoying it.” The striking man spoke excellent English with an enticing Italian accent.

Della Scalla. The name was synonymous with one of the most renowned shipping and passenger lines in Italy, let alone Europe. But there were probably hundreds of Italians with the same last name.

Ginger listened while their host introduced the five members of their party to the stranger. When it came her turn, she found herself captivated by a pair of black-fringed cobalt-blue eyes the color of handblown Venetian glass.

Those penetrating orbs seemed to take her all in, as if he were searching for the very essence of her. For the first time since Bruce’s death, another man had managed to take her breath away. Who was he?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he spoke to all of them, but his gaze remained focused on her.

“Won’t you sit with us for a moment?” Dr. Manukyan asked.

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m pressed for time. If you’re finished with your meal, does anyone need a ride back to Ravenna? It’ll be on my way. You’re welcome to come in the limo.”

Dr. Manukyan looked pleased. “We’re staying at the Palazzo Bezzi Hotel and were going to call for a taxi. But we’d love a ride, if it isn’t too far out of your way.”

“Not at all.”

“We appreciate your kindness for everything.”

“Let me escort you out.”

Ginger couldn’t credit that they’d be driving back to town with him. She stood up and followed the others to the elevator. It took them down to the deck, where they walked through the covered passageway to the dock.

A black gleaming limousine stood parked right there. Ginger was the last person to climb in. She decided this man had to be an important person, but she couldn’t ask Dr. Manukyan because they weren’t alone.

When Signor Della Scalla came around to help her in, she felt his arm brush hers by accident. A shiver of awareness ran through her.

He rode in front with the chauffeur. Before long they arrived at the hotel near the old town where she’d gone exploring early in the morning before meeting the group. Again, he was there to open the door. Everyone thanked him and said goodbye. Then it was her turn.

“Signora?” She looked up at him before getting out. She found herself drowning in his gaze once more. “How long are you going to be in Ravenna?”

Ginger’s heart was still overreacting, especially when she noticed he didn’t wear any rings. She wasn’t wearing any rings either. Whoever he was, Ginger couldn’t believe she felt such an instant attraction to him. Though she’d been coming to terms with her loss, she wasn’t sure about loving another man again. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

He’d put both hands on the frame of the door, blocking her exit though she knew it wasn’t on purpose. “Where are you going next?”

“To Venice.”

“For a long visit?”

“Don’t I wish, but no. I only have one day before I leave on vacation.”

He cocked his head. “Only one? Couldn’t I convince you to stay on several more? We could meet at your hotel and I could show you around.”

A tremor shook her body. Ginger couldn’t help but be flattered by his interest. Other men had flirted with her while she’d been in Italy, but she’d never been tempted. Not until now. This Italian’s charisma was so overpowering, she couldn’t believe a man like him existed.

“I won’t be in Venice long enough to get a hotel.” Ginger’s heart was in her throat. “There isn’t enough time. I have to spend a good part of the day at the monastery where Lord Byron spent so many hours. It’s part of my job and the reason I’m here at all.”

For some reason the revelation caused his eyes to gleam. “Then be sure to ask for Father Giovanni. I know him well. He’s the resident expert.”

Dr. Manukyan hadn’t mentioned the monk’s name. “Thank you for the information. I’ll remember.”

“Where will you go next?”

He really wanted to know? “My friend and I will be taking the night train to Switzerland.”

His gaze played over her. “I see. He’s a lucky man.”

Ginger sucked in her breath. “No, no. I’m going with my friend Zoe, who’s flying in from Greece. She and I will be meeting another friend at a vineyard on Lake Geneva.”

Good heavens. Ginger had practically told him her life story and had found herself babbling like a schoolgirl. “Thank you for giving all of us a ride. Do you live here in Ravenna?” She found she wanted to know more about him.

“No. I’m a Venetian,” he said in his deep voice. “Unfortunately I have to get back to Venice tonight on business. But perhaps our paths will cross again.”

He moved aside to help her out of the limo. She felt his touch on her arm once again, and felt fingers of delight dart through her body.

“Alla prossima, signora.”

Until next time? There couldn’t possibly be a next time. In two days’ time she’d be in Switzerland with her friends. But the thought of seeing him again made Ginger’s pulse leap. Deep down she didn’t want to say goodbye to him.

Since Bruce had died, Ginger hadn’t paid attention to other men or encouraged them. She couldn’t. The thought of falling in love again only to lose that person in such a terrible way frightened her.

She’d told Zoe and Abby that she didn’t want to give her heart a second time to another man, only for it to end in tragedy. In fact Ginger had never expected to meet a man who could ever help her get over the pain of having to say goodbye to her beloved husband. Only a miracle could cause that to happen.

She didn’t believe in miracles like that. But something shocking had happened for this stranger to take over her thoughts like this. It made no sense that for once she wasn’t thinking about Bruce.

Ginger’s legs felt insubstantial as Signor Della Scalla walked her inside the foyer of the hotel.

“Buona notte, signora,” he whispered.

“Buona notte, signor.” She sensed his eyes still on her until she rounded a corner to take the elevator to her room.

To her dismay when she finally got in bed, Ginger’s thoughts were still haunted by one incredibly handsome Italian male and the way she’d felt when his gaze swept over her at the dinner table. It was as if every cell in her body had been ignited by a bolt of electricity. She’d never lay eyes on him again, but that didn’t mean his image would go away. Not ever.

* * *

At nine o’clock the next morning, a showered and shaved Vittorio, wearing a black suit, left the centuries-old Della Scalla palazzo on the Grand Canal. Last night he’d flown back to Venice in the helicopter with a plan in mind to meet up with Signora Lawrence the next day at the monastery.

But this morning, after his flight home from Ravenna last evening, he’d awakened to the gut-wrenching news that his father had passed away early in the morning.

Overnight Vittorio’s world had changed forever. After leaving his grieving family with the doctor, he drove his speedboat out to the lagoon toward the nearby island of San Lazzaro two kilometers away.

Many boats crowded the canal. He passed by the boat ferrying passengers who intended to visit the Armenian monastery, the sole feature of the island. After pulling up to the jetty, Vittorio alighted and hurried past the welcoming signs printed in several languages to the main building. A plaque had been placed there commemorating the famous English writer and poet Lord Byron, who was known as a “Faithful friend of Armenia.”

Since it was always open in invitation, Vittorio entered the doors to the cloister that enclosed a garden. Beyond it lay the incense-filled chapel covered in mosaics. He hoped to find his brother, Gaspare, who was known among the brothers as Father Giovanni, but only a few monks were present in here. That meant he was probably in the famous museum, which had many treasures, including a mummy and a bust of Napoleon’s son.

But further exploration didn’t lead Vittorio to his thirty-four-year-old brother. If he wasn’t in the private enclosure for the monks, then he had to be in the room designated as Lord Byron’s studio.

Vittorio’s brother, who’d studied in England before joining the priesthood, had a passion for Byron. Vittorio entered the studio with a reproduction of a painting of Lord Byron above the door.

In the early 1800s the poet had studied the Armenian language here over a two-year period while he’d been in Venice. Prized books and manuscripts in this library drew crowds of tourists as well as serious scholars at all seasons of the year.

Vittorio scanned the room and saw his brother in his brown habit at the other end, talking to some visitors. Their backs were toward him while they were discussing a manuscript under glass.

Vittorio moved closer with a heavy heart, knowing their father’s death would come as a great blow.

“Gaspare?”

His brother looked around, having been taken by surprise. “Vittorio—”

After a pause, he turned back to the visitor. “I must ask to be excused,” he said in English. “I’ll send Father Luca to assist you.” On that note, he joined Vittorio and they moved out of earshot.

Since Gaspare had become a monk, the only consolation for Vittorio had been the ability to visit his brother here on occasion and confide in him. Just three years separated them. They loved each other and had been close growing up.

“Something tragic has happened. I see it in your countenance.”

Vittorio stared into the same blue eyes of his sibling. The two bore a superficial resemblance to each other in height and their black hair. Both were taller than their father. His throat tightened in fresh pain.

“Papà died early this morning,” he spoke quietly. Vittorio could still visualize the scene at the palazzo a little while ago.

Dr. Farini, the longtime physician of the family, had examined their father before sliding the sheet over his face. Count Mario Goretti Della Scalla, beloved husband, father, brother, friend and CEO of the Della Scalla Shipping and Passenger Line Company, was officially dead.

The doctor had stared into Vittorio’s eyes. “You are now Count Della Scalla. Your father has been blessed to have a son like you ready and able to step into his shoes.”

There was another son Vittorio felt should be taking his place, but that wasn’t possible. Soon the news would be out. The bells would toll throughout Venice for the loss.

“How did he die, Vittorio?”

“Dr. Farini said it was a heart attack. It happened quickly, the only blessing I can see.”

Gaspare’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “He was too young.”

“No one expected it.”

A deep sigh of pain escaped. “How are Mamma and Maria?”

“I’m sure you can imagine.”

He bowed his head. “They worshipped him.”

“We all did,” Vittorio whispered. “I left a message with Uncle Bertoldo’s maid. He and Aunt Miah are due back from Rome before the day is out. The doctor is with the family and will stay until you and I arrive. Being with you will help all of us get through this.”

His brother stood stock-still, but Vittorio saw the mask of sorrow that had already settled. “Wait here for me. I have to talk to the abbot and gather a few things. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”