Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor / The Bridesmaid's Secret: Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor
level of shock was bottomless. She drew in a sharp breath that quivered like an arrow in flight. A judder racked her spine. Yet not a single word burst from her throat. No scream. No cry at all.
Somehow she kept upright, determined to stay that way. He was dressed very oddly. He might have stepped out of another century. Could it be some sort of fancy dress? Venice was famous for it. But even as she considered that she had to reject it.
Push back the panic.
He remained eerily still. Where had he sprung from? The terrace? Had he been hiding out there? Had he slipped in earlier in the night when the maid came in to turn down the bed?
“What are you doing here?” she cried as she spun to confront him. Aggression seemed the best way to go, though some part of her brain had signalled he meant her harm.
She required an explanation.
Only she was by herself.
Quite, quite alone.
How could that be? A kind of dread started cold in her veins. She had a well-organised mind. She was certain she wasn’t losing it. Her eyes darted all around the room. This was alarming. He’d had no time to get anywhere within a framework of seconds. There had to be a logical explanation. Yet her view of life as she had known it started to waver. The parameters were suddenly blurred. She leaned against the canopied bed. Had he stepped out of a parallel universe? Was there any such thing? Many people believed there was, but she was far too rational to believe in—
Ghosts?
The word presented itself, only it was seriously weird. She’d had more than a glimpse of her visitor. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light. More than a touch of dizziness beset her. The air had definitely chilled around her. Indeed, the opulent room was filled with an impenetrable thick silence, as if she had cotton wool stuffed into her ears. Except she could distinctly hear the tinkling of the chandelier above her head. Something had set the lovely crystal lustres in motion.
There was no breeze.
Sometimes life can depart from the easily explained.
It had to be a trick of the light. Her imagination. The legendary mystique of Venice at work?
She made a big effort to get control of herself. None of those explanations would wash. What she saw, she saw. No way was she crazy or mildly intoxicated. The walk after dinner had cleared her head in any case. Already a strong suspicion was with her. There just could be a paper-thin wall between this world and that. The majority of the population managed to keep it at arm’s length. But many learned people, academics and the like—one had to discount the fanciful—had theorised that ghosts did exist. And they were notorious for hanging around castles and palaces.
She was fairly sure now what her visitor was.
An apparition.
One she had done nothing to summon up. Her mind’s eye retained a snapshot of that long, narrow face, the black beard, the shoulder-length dark hair, the strange dress like a priest’s cassock. His hands, as white as his face, had been quietly folded. A glinting medallion hung around his neck. He hadn’t appeared hazy. Quite the contrary. He’d been substantial. Someone strong enough to materialise if only for a moment. Energy, perhaps? Something of a person that lingered in the atmosphere? She was striving to rationalise what she had seen.
Only she was certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep here. Imagine if he came back again? Imagine if he sat down on the side of the bed?
If anyone had asked her that morning if she believed in ghosts she would have laughed and quoted some lines from Hamlet:
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth,
Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
She wasn’t laughing now. She was a quaking bundle of nerves.
Corin answered the phone almost immediately.
“Pronto!”
“It’s me,” she said at a rush, ashamed of the tremor in her voice. “Can you please come down to my suite? Now!”
His answer was sharp. “You’re okay? What’s happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you arrive.”
She needed his strong arms to enclose her. His powerful presence. At least whatever she had seen was long gone. How did ghosts come by their clothes anyway? she pondered weakly. Did they have access to communal wardrobes? She began to feel mildly hysterical. Jewellery pools? How did he manage to hold onto the medallion he wore around his neck?
What she had so briefly experienced had opened up a nest of snakes. She didn’t feel at all foolish. She had her wits about her. She had seen what she had seen for long enough to be sure.
Vast relief swept her as Corin strode in. His thick, lustrous hair was tousled into deep waves. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans, hurriedly pulled on.
“For God’s sake, Miranda, you’re as white as a sheet. What’s happened? Did something frighten you?” He looked at her, then beyond her, obviously searching the room, and then just as she had hoped he reached for her and drew her into his arms, clamping her close. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Solid warm flesh, strong arms, vibrantly male. She could feel the strength and power in him. The dizziness eased.
“And am I glad!” she muttered into his warm chest. “Listen, I don’t want to make an issue of it—wake up the manager, demand an exorcism—but I think I’ve had a visit from Signor Vivaldi.” She was capable now of attempting a joke.
He drew back a little so he could stare into her eyes. “What are you talking about? Did someone get in here?”
She shook her head. “Trust me. It was Signor Vivaldi. Only he wasn’t carrying his violin. Don’t let go!” she cried out as his grip slackened in his surprise.
“I won’t.” He sounded gentle, but perplexed. “Come and sit down.” He led her, still with his arms around her, to the sofa, upholstered in rich scarlet, amber and gold brocade to match the bedspread and the hangings around the canopied bed.
“Do you believe in ghosts, Corin?” she asked, staring into his eyes. “Serious question, here. And please don’t laugh.”
“Who’s laughing?” he answered soberly. Indeed, there was no trace of a laugh in his face or his voice. “Are you telling me you saw a ghost?”
“Right there in the mirror,” she said. “Go on. Take a look. You’re so tall and strong you’ll probably frighten him off.”
“More like he’d frighten me!” Corin rose to his feet, moving position so he could stare into the ornate antique pier glass.
“I confess I’m only getting a reflection of you,” he said. She looked profoundly shaken, but it was obvious to him she was trying hard to keep herself together. That impressed him. “The brain does funny things sometimes. Miranda,” he said very gently. “Both Zara and I saw our mother in all sorts of places for ages after she’d gone. On the landing. The stairs. The end of the hallway. The rose gardens especially. It’s grief. It’s trying to come to terms with it. The sense of loss drives you to conjure up the loved one’s presence.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Of course, Corin. I understand about you and Zara. I’ve had my own moments with my grandparents, but I knew them for what they were. I don’t know this guy. I’m pretty clear-headed. Strong-minded, if I say so myself. I wasn’t hallucinating. I’m not losing my marbles. I know what I know. I saw what I saw.”
Corin resisted any attempt to convince her she had to be mistaken. “Well, it wasn’t Vivaldi. He had red hair. He was called the Red Monk.”
“Then it was one of his cronies. The whole