'I'm not sure. I haven't used it for a while. I'm out of practice. I can brush up on it here.'

'Not as easily as you think. In Venice we speak Venetian.'

After that he dived into the bags he'd brought, seeming to forget her, which was a relief. She took the chance to wander away to the window and stand with her back to them, watching the canal, but not seeing it.

Instead she saw Vincenzo in her mind's eye, trying to understand the darkness she sensed, in his looks and in the man himself. Everything about him was dark, from his black hair to his deep brown eyes. Even his wide mouth, with its tendency to quirk wryly, suggested that he was not really amused. Or, if so, that the humour was bleak and fit only for the gallows.

A man whose inner world was as grim and haunted as her own.

But still she tried to thrust him from her mind. He was dangerous because he saw too much, tricking her into blurting out thoughts that had been rioting in her head, but which she'd kept rigidly repressed.

I have to do it-I can't help who gets hurt.

Say nothing. Never let them suspect what you're planning. Smile, hate, and protect your secrets.

That was how she had lived.

And in one moment he had triggered an avalanche, luring her into a dangerous admission.

Nobody can hurt me any more-so there's nothing to stop me doing what I have to.

She looked around, and saw to her relief that Vincenzo had gone. She hadn't heard him leave.

Piero was beaming at her, waving a bread roll in invitation.

'We feast like kings,' he announced grandiloquently. 'Sit down and let me serve you the Choice of the Day. Trust me, I was once the head chef at the Paris Ritz.'

She wasn't sure what to believe. Unlikely as it sounded, it might just be true.

Her cold grew worse over the next few days. Piero's care never failed her. From some store room he managed to produce a bed. It was old, shabby and needed propping up in one corner, but it was more comfortable than her sofa, and she fell onto it blissfully.