Free Secrets of Castillo del Arco by Trish Morey Page B

Her hand fitted well in his, she mused; his long fingers were warm and strong. She squeezed her hand and he squeezed back, looking down at her. ‘I want you to be happy, Bella. Are you glad you came to Venice?’
    She smiled, thinking she would be happy to be with Raoul anywhere when he was like this—charming, warm and the perfect host. But to be here with him in Venice, against the backdrop of mediaeval
palazzos
, with the rumble of the
vaporettos
and the snatches of love songs from passing gondoliers, she couldn’t think of a better place to be. ‘It’s magical, Raoul. Thank you for insisting I come.’
    He stopped and pulled her to him, his free hand curving around her neck and sending delicious shivers coursingthrough her as leaned down, his eyes on her mouth. She gasped as their lips met, breathing in the taste of him, dark, rich and potent, much like the man himself. His mouth weaved some kind of magic on hers. So tender and evocative was his kiss that she wanted to fall into it and go with it wherever it might lead so that, when he lifted his head, she almost mewled a protest.
    ‘What was that for?’ she asked, suddenly breathless and dizzy, hoping for all kinds of things that were probably as unlikely as building an entire city on water—yet here it was.
    ‘Because,’ he said, his dark eyes swirling with heated intent, ‘There was no way earthly way I could not.’
    She lay awake a long time that night in the big king-sized bed surrounded by the endless orgy, a celebration of the act of love in all its iterations, still reeling from Raoul’s kiss, still tingling at the memory of his touch and the sensual brush of his lips against her own.
    Buzzing at the erotic images on the walls around her.
    On the wall before her a nymph kissed her lover, his hand at her plump breast. She could almost imagine that hand on hers, tweaking her nipple, coaxing it to hardness. With a groan she turned over, willing herself to think of something less sensual, less arousing—only to be welcomed by a wild-eyed woman, her head thrown back in ecstasy as her lover pressed close behind her. She turned on her stomach, buried her face in the pillow and tried to ignore the ache in her breasts and the pulsing insistence between her thighs.
    Such a big bed.
    Such a lonely bed.
    Such a waste
.
    And when she did fall asleep it was to restless dreams of potent, well-built gods, wicked satyrs—and a dark and dangerous man who kissed like one of those gods, who probably made love like one of those gods and who was sleeping a mere room away …
    Raoul was out when she rose the next day, so she pulled on jeans and sneakers and a singlet top that could afford to get dusty and threw herself into the task of cataloguing the library while he was away. Marco found her a step ladder so she could reach all but the highest shelves and promised he would help her when she got to those. Even on the lower shelves, the breadth of the collection dazzled her. Mostly they were books printed in Italian, as she had expected, but a quick scan revealed titles on geography, the sciences, history and the arts, with some dusty tomes at least a century old; a veritable treasure trove.
    She flipped through one volume, a history of the
palazzos
of Venice by the looks of it, its spine creaking with age and stiffness. But the illustrations were still wonderful, leaping from the page with life, the buildings along the Grand Canal instantly recognisable even now. Her heart raced with the possibilities of her task—maybe there were volumes here that had never been documented before. Why not?
    But with only her schoolgirl Italian to help her she would need help. One of her colleagues from the library would be able to help her, she was sure. She needed tocall her boss anyway. She would call later today, when she had more idea of the size of the task ahead.
    Then with a pang she remembered she needed to find out what was happening with Consuelo. She had barely spared him a