He was wearing sunglasses and she couldn’t read his eyes, but he was giving her a self-congratulatory grin. And, unlike her, seemed perfectly at ease as he ordered his coffee.

‘Still strange,’ she said, trying to calm herself. ‘Us being here in Venice at the exact same time.’

Jared smiled. ‘True. But I’m a firm believer in synergy.’

When his coffee arrived, he stirred the chocolate carefully into the foam. ‘It’s good to see you, Connie.’

There was an obvious reply, but Connie couldn’t say it. Is it good to see Jared? On one level, yes. She found, against her will, that the frisson his presence engendered was agreeable. But on another level, no. She didn’t want him here, didn’t want to be reminded of that kiss.

‘When you’ve finished your chocolate, there’s something I’d love to show you,’ Jared was saying.

Her peaceful drink had been ruined by his presence. Now she finished it almost unconsciously, desperate for something to do, something that would distract her from his charming smile. ‘I’m working, Jared. I can’t just swan off.’

Ignoring her reproving tone, he replied, with a sly grin, ‘You don’t have to meet them till twelve, according to your client in the queue.’

She glanced at her watch. ‘Twelve, yes. We’ve got tickets for the basilica this afternoon.’

He raised his sunglasses and she was treated to those extraordinary eyes again. ‘This won’t take long. Half an hour, tops.’ He stood and held out his hand to her. ‘Please … it’s special.’

She did not take his proffered hand as she reluctantly got to her feet. ‘OK. But I have to be back in good time.’

She followed Jared as he wove in and out of the crowded piazza then chose the same street on the south side down which Gianni had earlier led her tour. They wiggled through the maze of alleys, crossed over one canal, then another, to an unassuming white-stone Renaissance building right up against the waterside, not heralded by any billboards or crowds.

Jared pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside was a small chapel, only dimly lit. It took Connie’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dark. But what she saw took her breath away. Around the room, above head height, was an array of vividly painted panels.

‘Vittore Carpaccio,’ Jared whispered, although the place was empty, apart from the shadowy figure who had sold them tickets. But the atmosphere was almost reverent. ‘Look, St George and the dragon …’

Connie was no art expert, although she had seen a lot in her time, but she immediately appreciated the vibrant charm and humour, the drama and detail of the paintings: St George’s story on the left-hand wall, St Jerome’s on the right.