Prologue
Contrary to popular belief, Giselle was brave. But it was a quiet, understated bravery, which was why it went largely unnoticed, sometimes even by her own sister. In some ways it wasn’t surprising, since they were total opposites in personality (although not in looks, as they both had silvery blonde hair and pale skin, despite being non-identical twins), which was why Giselle had left Izzy and her friends in Milan and was currently on the train to Venice this morning.
It was late September, so the fierce heat of the summer had diminished somewhat. Apparently.
It still felt roasting to Giselle, who was more used to Scottish summers where anything above twenty degrees Celsius was considered a heatwave. Despite the lightweight floaty dress and her long hair tied up off her neck, she was roasting, and when she got off the train at Stazione di Venezia Santa Lucia, a wall of heat hit her. Since it wasn’t quite ten a.m., she feared it was going to be another hot day.
Hitching her bag higher onto her shoulder, she consulted her map. It was a paper one, because although she was brave, she wasn’t daft. She looked like a tourist, she behaved like a tourist and she was alone in a strange city, but that didn’t mean she intended to be a target for pickpockets or mobile phone snatchers. Which was why she kept her euros and her bank card in her bra. Her phone was in her bag, buried beneath a hat, a spare pair of knickers, a tiny wash bag containing some toiletries, a T-shirt, a pair of shorts and the all-important factor 30. Oh, and a bottle of water and some sandwiches that she’d made before she’d crept out of the hostel early this morning. Hopefully they would sustain her until this evening, when she intended to treat herself to an evening meal with a view of something impressive, like the Grand Canal, for instance.
Giselle wanted to save her money for more important things, and there was so much to see that she didn’t think she’d manage everything in a day (or even a week), so she might have to stay overnight – assuming she could find somewhere that a) had vacancies and b) didn’t break the bank. Izzy wouldn’t mind, and she wouldn’t miss her either.
Giselle had hardly seen her twin or the others since they’d arrived in Milan, and the reason for that was Fashion Week. Unlike Giselle, they were doing a fashion degree and would start their second year at university shortly, so unless stick-thin people wearing weird clothes were involved, they weren’t interested. Giselle, on the other hand, was desperate for the romance, history and culture of Venice, and she was perfectly happy to explore the city on her own. It would have been nice to have had her twin with her, but they were two very different people, interested in different things, so she was used to going solo. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t a strong bond between them, because there was. So strong that when Giselle had fallen while climbing over the garden fence when she was seven and had broken her arm, Izzy had been the one crying with pain!
Having spent several weeks planning this trip, Giselle had a list of must-sees, and a secondary list of like-to-sees. She was pretty sure she’d not make it halfway through the first one. Never mind; she fully intended to come back again one day when she’d saved up enough money and had decided what she wanted to do with her life – because, unlike Izzy, Giselle didn’t have a clue.
She did have one thing in common with her sister, though – they were both creative. But whereas Izzy had settled on fashion, Giselle flitted from one pursuit to another. She had yet to find her niche, because she was currently a jack of all trades but a master of none. Painting, sewing, embroidery, decoupage, weaving… she’d tried loads and really enjoyed them, but she wished she had an interest as consuming as Izzy’s. And if she could combine that with nature and wild places, she’d be in her element. It was a big ask!
Giselle breathed deeply, inhaling sun-warmed air, redolent with the scent of brine, coffee and perfume, along with a waft of mouthwatering pastry. There was also a scent she recognised as damp stone. After visiting numerous old castles in her homeland, it was an aroma she was familiar with, and she happily set off to explore the city.
By mid-afternoon, Giselle was hot, tired, thirsty, hungry and kind of lost. She’d bought a St Mark’s Square Museums ticket which had allowed her to visit the Doge’s Palace, the Museo Correr and a couple of others, and by the time she’d emerged, blinking, into the bright sunlight, she’d felt an urge to see some of the less popular areas of the city.
After wandering along narrow streets that opened into surprising squares and bridges arching over canals, it hadn’t taken long before she’d become hopelessly lost. But she felt as though she was beginning to discover the real Venice, since there were fewer tourists around.
The tall narrow streets were like deep ravines with high canyon walls, gated doorways, shuttered windows, smooth-worn cobbles, tiny shops and white, cloth-draped tables outside aromatic restaurants.
Giselle halted and stared upwards at the sliver of cerulean sky visible between the tall buildings. A woman leaning over a Juliet balcony caught her eye, and she wondered what it might be like to live in an apartment here.
Engrossed in her thoughts, she stepped back, still gazing upwards, and promptly banged into a table, sending it and its contents flying.
‘Oh, gosh, sorry, so sorry!’ she cried, frantically trying to think what ‘sorry’ was in Italian, closely followed byOh, my God he’s hot, when she spied the man who’d been sitting at the table she’d upended.
She hurried to right the table, but the guy beat her to it, just as a waiter emerged from the restaurant, tutting.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated, surveying the damage with dismay. Broken glass was strewn over the cobbles, along with several pieces of cutlery and a menu.
‘No worries.’ The guy had an English accent, she noticed with relief.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said to the waiter, who crossly shooed away her attempts to clear up the mess she’d made.
Giselle straightened and turned to the man whose drink she’d annihilated. ‘What were you drinking? Can I get you another? And I’ll need to pay for the damage.’
He shrugged. ‘No need. It was only water.’
Water wasn’t free. It wouldn’t have been the stuff out of the tap. ‘I insist,’ she said, reaching down the front of her sundress for a ten-euro note. Hopefully that would cover it, but this was Venice, so… ‘Will this be enough, do you think?’
‘You’re going to need another one of those,’ he said, and with a resigned sigh she withdrew another note and held it out.
‘Maybe one more?’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘Thirty eurosfor a glass of water? You’ve got to be kidding me!’
‘I am. I just wanted to see you rooting around down the front of your dress.’
‘Oh!’
He was laughing at her, but in a nice way, and he washot. Like, the centre of the sun hot. Dark, almost-black, curling hair, tousled and sexy as hell; grey eyes, a deeper shade than her own; square jaw, patrician nose and a hint of a beard. He wore beads around his wrist, a silver chain around his neck which disappeared beneath a scruffy, tie-dye T-shirt in shades of grey and black, a loose linen-type jacket and black jeans.
Could he be a model? An actor? He looked like one. He had a little dip at the base of his throat, and she could see his collarbones under the T-shirt, along with a hint of muscled shoulders and chest.
