Page 21 of Casanova LLC

Normally, I’d pull up to the front dock entrance. It was elegant and impressive and typically Venetian. But in this weather, I swung down our side canal and used the clicker to open our ancient-looking porta d’acqua outward over the surface of the water. I steered into the Riva’s slip in the cavana and killed the engine, the boat rocking in the wake we’d created. The sound of rain battering the walls was muted by the echo of sloshing water.

Claire yanked out the hair band and bent at the waist, flipping her drenched head over and shaking her fingers through her mane. I wiped my face and ran a hand through my hair, turning to her just as she whipped herself back to standing.

She looked exhilarated, cheeks in full cherry blossom bloom. Her hair, face, and neck were dripping. Her breathing rapid. She giggled. It was fresh. It was real. Another thing I noted.

I handed her up onto the seasoned marble of the portico.

I watched as she took in the diamond pattern of the floor, the wood beams twenty feet above, the worn brick walls. I unsnapped the tarp, removed her suitcase and backpack, then hopped out of the Riva.

“Should we wipe her down?”

That she was remotely concerned with the boat was surprising. So much of her, I was realizing, came without warning. “No, no, I’ll do it later. Thanks, though.” I took her bags and walked toward the door.

But I heard her say, “Whoa,” and turned to find that she was gaping at Jacopo’s sailboat.

“My uncle’s.”

She stepped closer to it. “Extraordinary. Is it mahogany?”

“Yes, it is.”

“The mother-of-pearl inlay is exquisite. And what’s the…” She stood on tiptoe to peer down at the figure on the prow. Whatever a hood ornament for a boat was called. This was not my department. “A gryphon?”

“A gryphon, yes.”

“Bronze?”

“Copper, I think.”

A gasp. “Is that crushed turquoise embedded in the hull?”

“I believe?—”

“I believe, I think, of course it is turquoise.” It came from the bowels of the boat. “And, sì, bronze. Never copper.”

Great.

It wasn’t the correction that irritated me. It was the fact that he was here. Not to talk, surely, but to see. I knew him too well.

“Oh!” Claire moved around the bow, toward the sound of his voice. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize we weren’t alone.”

“I prefer to hide.” His voice got louder as he came up the three steps and unlatched the cabin door. There was no way to prevent what was about to happen. “But you have such an eye and, may I say, faultless taste. So, for you, I must not hide. I must come to meet this rarest of creatures…”

He was in old-school Casanova mode. The charm coated his accented English like hot fudge over vanilla ice cream.

As the top of his head appeared, I braced myself.

In unison, they said, “You!” Claire’s was an excited exclamation, whereas Jacopo’s was more reserved. It had an undertow of accusation, but only enough for me to notice. Total pro that he was, his grin didn’t falter as he moved forward, his hand never wavered as it reached for hers.

“So nice to see you again!”Claire enthused.

He held her hand and kept smiling. But he did not get out of the boat. “Such a pleasure to see you again. Benvenuti a Venezia, Bella.”

The “welcome to Venice” was for her, but the “Bella” was for me. He’d now seen that she was not just generally bella, as he’d guessed two weeks ago, but a very specific Bella.

“Thank you. I mean, grazie.” She turned to look at me, smiling. “He was with you at my rehearsal dinner.”

“Good memory. This is Jacopo. My uncle. I don’t think you were properly introduced.”

---