The Wrong Sister(65)
Rebecca dredged up a shaky smile, and linked her arm awkwardly through his.
“I’m fine. Fiona’s fine. We’ll make sure Nicky’s fine too, later on. You’re a dear boy to worry about us all.”
He slumped down over the trolley handles and bowed his head with gratitude. Perhaps at last he could begin to hope again?
They walked on in silence a little further and Rebecca surprised him with her next question. “How do you like my new toy?” she asked, beeping her remote at a smart yellow convertible with DOC BEC registration plates.
“Bit racy for you, mother-in-in-law?” he suggested, finally unable to suppress the smile of joy that kept trying to spread itself over his face. He lifted his bags off the trolley and stowed them away.
“Greg thought I needed a treat by way of consolation. Not that a car could ever replace a daughter...”
Christian shook his head. “Never in a million years. His idea for the plates, I presume? I like it.”
A faint blush stained Rebecca’s carefully made-up face.
“People wave and toot at me now…”
He laughed and enjoyed the mental picture it conjured up. Doctor Rebecca was a quiet and conservative woman. Having her bright yellow transport noticed and acknowledged amused him.
“No exceeding the speed limit then,” he teased, knowing his broad grin was out of all proportion to the joke of the DOC BEC plates.
“It’s easy to drive this too fast—the old one was much better behaved,” Rebecca admitted with a guilty smile.
Her cheerful comment was almost lost on him. He was still processing the fact of Fiona not being at the horrendous risk he’d feared. Fiona was safe! Nicky was safe! His family dream was again a possibility.
Fiona walked into his arms without stopping. Simply crashed against him, dropped her overnight bag with a soft thud, wrapped her arms around him, and tilted her mouth up to his. If anyone watched or commented, Fiona and Christian were so lost in each other they were unaware of it.
His fingers ran through her hair. Her hands kneaded the dense muscles of his back. They drank in the taste and scent of each other as they stood pressed together in a dimension far away from the raucous arrivals lounge.
“You’re thinner,” he said, once their lips finally parted and conversation was possible.
“You’re harder,” she countered, tilting her pelvis and giving him a suggestive push.
“Not wrong there,” he agreed, scooping her bag up and holding it across his body with a sizzling grin.
“I’ve been pining away,” she teased, slipping an arm around his waist and turning to walk with him to the terminal exit. Joy sang through every fiber of her being.
Venice was silver with springtime. Silver sky over silver water, with the silhouettes of the distant city strung golden across low-lying islands.
They stood hand-in-hand as the sleek white water-taxi sped toward the shimmering outlines of domes and towers.
“Why Venice?” she asked, wondering if maybe he’d brought Jan to this magic place. She couldn’t bear to think of her sister’s intrusion into a time she hoped would be solely theirs.
“Because I want this to be special for us. I thought we should be in the most romantic place on earth.”
Fiona sighed happily and laid her face against his shoulder, breathing in the beloved scent of his skin through clean cotton.
“You’ve been here before, Chris?”
“Haven’t managed it, for some reason. Always wanted to visit. It’s a treasure I’ve been saving—and now I know why.”
He cupped her face up to his for a small sweet kiss.
“I suppose you’ve seen it dozens of times?” he asked, a rough edge of jealousy obvious in his voice.
“But never with you. And I’ve never stayed overnight on land here.”
He stroked her cheek, apparently satisfied.
The water-taxi entered one of the canals. They travelled along close to the ancient walls of the palazzos and emerged into the glistening lagoon. The imposing church of Santa Maria della Salute was dead ahead, domes soaking up the sun and reflecting it back in ravishing golds and pinks.
“I can’t believe the lack of traffic,” Christian said, gazing around in fascination.
“Incredible, isn’t it? Nothing but boats. No cars, no buses. Just the water-taxis and tourist gondolas and the vaporetto—which is their public transport—and all the other little boats.” She nestled closer to him. “Where are we staying?”
“A very discreet hotel, ideal for lovers.”
The water taxi deposited them at the private pier of one of the ancient palazzos. From the tiled entrance lobby Christian led her up a magnificent marble stairway, past dramatic old paintings in ornate frames, and to a heavy timber door. He produced an old-fashioned black key and handed it to her with a flourish.