The stars seemed to follow the black gondola as it flowed along the
Grand Canal, and in the distance, a dark and narrow passage beckoned
for a romantic interlude.
Iridescent shards glistened in the moonlight. The golden glow and
the ripples in the water reminded Minola Grey of Shelley’s poem
Love’s Philosophy. “And the moonbeams kissed the sea.” As the
gondola glided along the canal, the old palazzos, one building after
another, appeared to sway with the hushed tones of the lapping water.
Peter Riley had wanted some peace and quiet and asked the
gondolier to choose a less travelled way along a narrow and more
“Welcome to Venice, Miss Grey.” Peter’s finger traced the line of
her cheekbone and then her neck. “I'm very much in love with you,” he
whispered in her ear and felt her lean into him. This was the way it
should be, just the two of them together. Alone. Nothing stood in their
way. They were in Venice for a wedding. Theirs. Minola loved glass
and art. Because of the Biennale Art Festival and Murano, another
island world-renowned for blown glass that was only fifteen minutes
away by water taxi, they had chosen Venice as the perfect destination.
Minola Grey turned toward him and brushed her lips against his,
the touch whisper soft. “I’m very much in love with you, too.
Anywhere with you is romantic, but Venice is magnificent.
Incomparable,” she purred like a contented kitten, nestling deeper into
his arms and gazing across the canal.
He was completely absorbed in the peaceful moment, until Minola
tilted her head away from him and murmured in his ear, “Peter. Isn’t
that strange?” She pointed above her head at the pier and stared at what
seemed like a mound of multi-colored mosaics. From her vantage
point, the glass appeared to be a colorful blanket. “It’s like a sculpture,
“Miss Grey, may I remind you we’re in a gondola in Venice. The
moon is shining.” He ran his fingers over her cheek once again, his
touch firm and persuasive. “I’m caressing your face. We’re together.
You, Love of my Life, should be looking at me, not glass. I know, after
our visit to Murano, you have glass on your mind, but really, where is
your sense of romance?”
“Peter, I’m sorry. I am romantic. You tell me I'm romantic when we
“Love? Yes, you are. Passionate and romantic, you turn my world
upside down, and not just when we make love. However, now would be
a good time to slip into that romantic mood again.” His lips curved up
in a smile. He couldn't help himself. Everything she did made him
smile, with the exception of getting into trouble and endangering her
life. She had an uncanny talent for finding bodies, and the end result
They had met in Paris. He was with Interpol, and his money
laundering case almost cost Minola her life. In Bath, her life was
threatened, and worse, he couldn’t control her impulse to help. Peter
loved his work—he excelled at it—but now he focused on keeping the
woman sitting beside him safe from harm. That was not as easy as it
appeared. She was a remarkable artist who knew how to get into
trouble and could never deny anyone’s cry for help.
“But, Peter, it’s unusual. I know we’re on the Grand Canal. Well,
we turned and are now on this lonely, dark, narrow, and romantic
canal—okay, sort of an alley, except that this is Venice and it is a canal.
Just take a peek…” Minola Grey would not let go and pointed again to
the glass enclosure when she heard Peter groan.
“I'm sorry. But…but…” She stuttered.
“Minola, what am I going to do with you? We have moonlight, a
dark intimate canal in front of us, a lantern, and a gondolier who is not
going to sing to us. A perfect setting.”
“Perfect setting? For what?” she asked, still captivated by the
colorful display on the pier, and she moved closer to the edge of the
gondola so she could see better.
“You’re going to reduce my vocabulary to Arrgh.” Peter’s voice
sounded resigned. He motioned to the gondolier. “Roberto, please bring
us closer to that pile of glass, whatever it is.” Peter watched as the
gondolier expertly used his foot and a wall to push off so he could
maneuver his gondola as close to the pier as possible, allowing Peter to
step out. “Stay put,” he ordered as she tried to follow him. “I mean it.”
He gazed back at her and frowned. “Stay.”
Minola bristled at the order. “I'm not a doggie.” She glanced at his
resolute expression and grudgingly replied, “Fine. I won't budge.”
Minola settled back in the gondola and saw Peter bend down.
Tiny pieces of glass were molded together to form what appeared to
be a blanket for whatever was underneath. The center was well-crafted,
and the colors brilliant. The edges, not finished well, were sharp and
haphazard. Suddenly, he felt those goose bumps on the back of his neck
that told him more than just glass rested on the secluded dock.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” he murmured.
A Hotel in Paris
A Hotel in Bath
A Hotel in Venice