Lee Wilkinson - The Venetian's Proposal

“Really?” Dominic drawled. His cynical expression told her clearly that he didn’t believe a word of it. “So you’re saying it wasn’t a come-on?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

He smiled grimly. “I suppose next you’ll be swearing you didn’t want to go to bed with me, and trying to blame me for seducing you?”

“I’ve no intention of trying to blame you for seducing me. I did want to go to bed with you.”

Dominic raised a dark, mocking eyebrow. “Tell me, Nicola, do you feel the urge to sleep with every new man you meet?”

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in an English village, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy traveling and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spend a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Lee’s hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbeques for her long-suffering family and friends.

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CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

‘PLEASE come in and take a seat, Mrs Whitney.’

Tall and slender in a navy suit, her corn-coloured hair taken up in a smooth knot, Nicola found herself ushered into a room that was solidly old-fashioned. Plum-coloured carpets, heavy velvet curtains, and above an empty fireplace a wooden mantel that held a ticking clock.

After coffee and condolences, Mr Harthill got down to business. ‘The last time my client was in London he asked me to draw up a new will. In my capacity as executor, I can now tell you that you are the sole beneficiary of that will.’

Staring across a polished mahogany desk at the saggy-jowled solicitor sitting impassively in his brown leather chair, Nicola could only manage to stutter, ‘I—I beg your pardon?’

‘You are the sole beneficiary,’ Mr Harthill Senior repeated patiently. ‘When all the formalities have been observed, you will be a wealthy woman.’

A polite letter summoning Nicola to the West End offices of Harthill, Harthill and Berry had merely stated that Mr John Turner had passed away some three weeks earlier, and that if she would call she would learn ‘something to her advantage’.

Shocked and saddened by the death of a man she had known for such a short time but liked immensely, she had kept the appointment.

The news that John Turner had made her the sole beneficiary to a fortune she hadn’t been aware existed had come as a bombshell.

‘But why me?’ She spoke the thought aloud.

‘I gather that Mr Turner didn’t have any children of his own…’

No, John had never mentioned having a family.

‘As well as his business interests,’ Mr Harthill continued staidly, ‘my client’s estate includes the proceeds from the sale of his London home, and a small palazzo in Venice, known as Ca’ Malvasia. He and his wife were very happy there, I understand.’

The London house Nicola had known about. John had mentioned his intention of putting it on the market, saying it was too big and too empty and he was hardly ever there. But his ‘small palazzo’ in Venice she hadn’t. Though she was aware that John’s deceased wife, Sophia, had been Italian.

‘Is that where he died?’ was all she could think of to ask.

Mr Harthill, used to euphemisms and looking a little distressed by her plain speaking, answered, ‘No. Ca’ Malvasia has been shut up since his wife passed away some four years ago. My client was in Rome on business when he suffered a fatal heart attack…’

She hoped someone had been with him. That he hadn’t died alone.

‘It wasn’t totally unexpected,’ the solicitor went on, ‘and he had made provision. In the event of his death I was to give you this package, which I believe holds a set of keys to the palazzo.’

He handed her a small, thick envelope sealed with tape which bore her name and the address of the Bayswater flat she shared with her friend Sandy.

‘If you wish to view the property I can put you in touch with my Venetian counterpart, Signor Mancini, who has been the family’s solicitor for a number of years. He will be only too happy to help with your travel arrangements and show you the palazzo. Should you decide to sell, he can take the appropriate measures to have it put on the market.’

Sounding as dazed as she felt, Nicola said, ‘I’ll need to make some plans…take time off work.’

‘Of course.’ Mr Harthill rose to his feet to show her out. ‘If I can be of any further service in the meantime, please let me know.’

‘Thank you. You’ve been very kind.’ She smiled at him. A smile that brought warmth to her heart-shaped face and lit up her green eyes.

A beautiful woman, he thought as they shook hands, and tragically young to be a widow. Even a rich one.

When Nicola let herself into the flat Sandy, a small vivacious redhead, was waiting, agog with excitement.

‘I’ve made some tea. Come and tell all.’

Friends since their days at business college, and flatmates for the past three years, the pair were complete opposites. One an introvert. The other an extrovert.

Even before her young husband’s fatal car crash Nicola had been quiet and self-contained, a woman who tended to stand alone in the wings and watch.

Whereas Sandy, outgoing and outspoken, was at her best bouncing off people.

In what seemed to be a case of role-reversal Sandy worked from home, as an information consultant, sitting in front of a computer screen in what she described as solitary confinement, while Nicola liaised with people, travelling almost non-stop as a conference organizer for Westlake Business Solutions.

Together they went through to the bright little kitchen and sat down at the pine table, where Sandy poured tea for them both.

Nicola accepted a mug and said simply, ‘John made me his sole beneficiary. It seems I’m going to be a wealthy woman.’

Sandy gave a silent whistle.

‘Apart from his business interests and the money from the sale of his London house, there’s also a small palazzo in Venice.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Did you know he had a place in Venice?’

‘No, he never mentioned it.’

‘Sure you haven’t got it wrong?’

‘Certain. It’s called Ca’ Malvasia. I’ve even been given a set of keys to it.’

Taking the padded envelope from her bag, Nicola tore off the tape and tipped the contents on to the table.

As well as a bunch of ornate keys on an iron ring there was a small chamois pouch with a drawstring neck and a letter.

While Sandy examined the keys, Nicola unfolded the letter and read in John’s small, neat writing: