Lee Wilkinson
THE PADOVA PEARLS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE early June evening was damp and overcast, prematurely dark. Sophia Jordan, a plastic carrier bag in her hand, a stone-coloured mac belted round her slim waist, was hurrying home. Back to the ground floor flat in Roleston Square, Belgravia, she had shared with her late father, Peter.

The thought of the empty flat still filled her with sadness for though her father had been quite ill for the past year, his death, some twelve weeks earlier, had in the end been sudden and unexpected and had left her bereft and lonely.

Old Mrs Caldwell, a widow who owned the large house in Roleston Square and, along with her niece, Eva, occupied the flat across the hallway, had understood how she felt and been very kind.

Just that morning when Sophia had knocked at her door to enquire what shopping she needed, grey-haired and stooped, cheerful in spite of her arthritis, the old lady had urged, ‘Come across after work, dearie, and we’ll have some supper together.

‘Though with Eva being away on that special course,’ she had added, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do the cooking, if you don’t mind?’

‘Of course I don’t mind. Is there anything in particular you’d like me to cook?’

‘Would it be any trouble to make a paella?’

Stooping to stroke the marmalade cat that was winding sinuously around her ankles, Sophia said, ‘No trouble at all.’

‘Wonderful!’ the old lady had cried enthusiastically. ‘I haven’t had a paella since Arthur took me to Spain on holiday. Eva dislikes all rice dishes.’

‘Then I’ll do the shopping on my way home tonight, and pop across as soon as I’ve changed.’

Looking delighted, Mrs Caldwell had promised, ‘I’ll have the table set ready.’

Handing Sophia a list and some money, she’d added, ‘It’ll be lovely to have your company and a freshly cooked meal.’

On hearing about Sophia’s plans for the evening, David Renton, international art dealer and owner of A Volonté, the prestigious gallery where she worked, had suggested, ‘Why don’t you leave half an hour early? Joanna can cope, and you’ve put in a great deal of extra time over your father’s exhibition.’

Peter Jordan had been a very talented amateur painter and after his death, David—his long time friend—had remarked, ‘His work is brilliant. It’s a pity he was too modest to agree to me showing it.

‘I tried to persuade him by telling him that seeing his canvases would inspire other young amateur painters. But he still held back.’

‘I really think he was coming round to your way of thinking,’ Sophia had said. ‘He was talking about it a few days before he died.’

‘Then why don’t we put on an exhibition of his work as a kind of memorial? A celebration of his life? If we include his miniatures, there should be enough to fill the balcony.’

Liking the idea, Sophia had agreed.

She had collected together all her father’s paintings, except for a single canvas that hung in her bedroom.

It was a head and shoulders portrait of a handsome young man with fair hair and dark eyes, and a mouth that, with its combination of asceticism and sensuality, had always affected her strongly.

Since her childhood, the portrait had held a strange fascination for her, and as a teenager she had woven extravagantly romantic dreams around it.

Knowing how much she liked it, her father had given it to her for her sixteenth birthday.

His pleasure had been in the actual painting and, with little regard for his own talent, he had often given the finished portrait to his sitter. Which meant that there weren’t all that many for a lifetime’s work.

However, David had collected what there were and taken them over to the gallery.

There, Sophia had worked long hours to hang them, produce catalogues and organize the advance publicity. Now the one-man exhibition was ready and due to open the following morning.

That off her mind, she had accepted David’s kind offer and left the gallery at six-thirty, stopping at the local store to do the necessary shopping.

It was Friday night and the store was crowded. By the time she had succeeded in battling her way through an obstacle course of people and trolleys, one of her stockings was laddered and her heavy coil of hair was coming down.

Bundling it up again, she felt for the clip that held it in place, only to find it was missing.

The queue at the checkout was a long one and on leaving the store she found a fine drizzle had started to fall.

With an exasperated sigh, she turned up the collar of her mac and tucked the dark silky mass of hair into it as best she could.

Only when she was walking away from the ‘convenience’ store did she appreciate wryly that it would have been a great deal more convenient if her purchases, which included milk and tinned food for Mrs Caldwell’s three cats, had been put into two carriers rather than one.

As it was, she had to keep swapping the heavy bag from hand to hand as the thin plastic handles cut into her fingers, stopping the blood flow.

She was changing hands for the umpteenth time when one of the flimsy handles gave way, letting the bag drop and spilling its contents at the feet of a tall, fair-haired man who was walking some half a dozen paces behind her.

While the other pedestrians parted and flowed smoothly either side, like water round a rock, the well-dressed stranger stooped and with deft efficiency began to gather all the items together.

As she stared down at his bent head, noticing how the thick blond hair, dampened by the drizzle, was trying to curl, he replaced the groceries in the carrier. As he picked up the last item he laughed, ‘Good thing there’s no eggs.’

His voice was pleasant and well-modulated, with a fascinating hint of an accent she couldn’t quite place.

Holding the carrier to him with one arm, the other supporting the bottom, he rose to his feet, dwarfing her five foot seven.

Glancing up into his handsome face, she felt a jolt of recognition, a shock of surprise.

But while her brain insisted that it couldn’t be him, her heart and eyes told her it was.

Though she was unable to make out the exact colour of his dark, long-lashed eyes, the strong, clear-cut features, the beautiful, ascetic mouth with its controlled upper lip and sensuous lower, the cleft chin and squarish jaw, were as familiar to her as her own face.

She was filled with joy and wonderment, an overriding sense of fulfilment, as though she had been subconsciously waiting for this meeting. As though it had been preordained.

As she stared at him, he went on, ‘Oh dear, I’m very much afraid that the whole thing’s starting to tear open. Have you very far to go?’

Knocked off balance by the strangeness of it all, she stammered, ‘N-no, not far. Just a little way down Roleston Road.’

Hitching the carrier a little higher, he suggested, ‘Then suppose you lead on?’

Her natural good manners coming to the fore, she managed, ‘Thank you, but I don’t want to take you out of your way,’ then waited in an agony of suspense. If he just handed over the shopping and walked away she would never see him again.

But, to her vast relief, he did no such thing.

With a little smile, he told her, ‘As it happens I’m going in the same direction.’

The excitement of seeing him—only it couldn’t possibly be him—and the sheer charm of that white, crooked smile sent her heart winging, making her forget, momentarily, the sadness that had been her constant companion over the last few weeks.

After a second or two, she said breathlessly, ‘Well, if you’re sure it’s no trouble?’

‘I’m sure.’

She returned his smile and, feeling as if something momentous had happened, tried to contain the fluttery excitement that was so unlike her.

As they began to walk on, the stranger—for in spite of that instant, joyful recognition she knew they had never met before—queried, ‘So you live on Roleston Road?’

‘No, just off, on Roleston Square. I’ve a flat in one of the old Georgian houses that overlook the Square’s gardens.’

He raised a well-marked brow. ‘You live alone?’

‘I do now.’

‘You’re very young to live alone.’

‘I’m not that young.’

Glancing at her lovely heart-shaped face with its flawless skin and almond eyes, the winged brows, the small straight nose and generous mouth, the long curly tendrils of seal-dark hair that had escaped from her collar, he said, ‘You look about sixteen.’

‘I’m twenty-five.’

‘Twenty-five,’ he repeated, as though the knowledge gave him some satisfaction. Then, harking back, ‘So how long have you lived alone?’

Her voice wasn’t quite steady as, with remembered grief, she told him, ‘Since my father died a few months ago.’

He caught the sadness in her tone and asked, ‘Was it unexpected?’

‘In a way. He’d been ill for quite a long time, but in the end it was sudden.’ Sophia could feel a tear begin to form but quickly brushed it away.

He probed gently, ‘And your mother?’

‘She died when I was about seven.’

‘Any brothers or sisters?’

‘No. I was an only child.’

He frowned a little. ‘Your father couldn’t have been very old?’

Sophia shook her head. ‘Dad was just sixty-two. He didn’t marry until he was thirty-six.’

‘And after your mother died he didn’t remarry?’ he questioned.

‘No.’ She shook her head again. ‘I’ve never understood why. Apart from the fact that he was good-looking and talented, he was kind and thoughtful, a really nice person with a wonderful sense of humour…’

‘In what way was he talented?’

‘He painted.’ Sophia smiled at the memory of her father’s talent.

‘It was his profession?’

‘No. He was a diplomat. Painting had always been his hobby. But when, after his accident, he retired from the diplomatic service, he did a lot more.’

‘Landscapes?’

‘Some, but portraits mainly. He painted one that’s very like you.’

He gave her a quizzical glance and, embarrassed, she wondered what on earth had made her blurt that out. Except that it was the simple truth.

‘Very like me?’ He sounded amused.

‘Yes.’

‘Really? And is his work good?’

‘I’ve heard it described as brilliant.’

Seeing a look on her companion’s face that might have been scepticism, she added defensively, ‘There’s going to be an exhibition of his paintings at the art gallery where I work.’

‘Which gallery is that?’ he enquired politely.

‘A Volonté.’

‘Then you’re an artist too?’

She shook her head. ‘Though I wanted to be, and went to art school with that intention, unfortunately I don’t have his talent.’

‘What exactly do you do at the gallery?’

‘As well as helping to sell pictures, I value them, set up exhibitions, take care of the photography and cataloguing and do any cleaning and restoring that may be necessary.’

Seeing her companion raise his eyebrows, she explained, ‘Before I joined the gallery I spent two years working in a museum cleaning and restoring old or damaged paintings. I found I had a flair for it, and it was work I really enjoyed.’

‘An invaluable skill.’

‘Dad thought so.’

‘You must miss him.’

‘I do. Very much.’ She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

‘I still haven’t got used to being on my own…’ She let the words tail off as common sense shouldered its way in. Normally she was somewhat reserved, even with her friends, so why on earth was she opening her heart like this to a man she didn’t know?

Only she did know him.

She had always known him.

‘Surely there’s a special boyfriend?’

‘Not now. I was engaged to be married, but when Dad became worse and I didn’t want to leave him alone in the evenings, it put a strain on the relationship. Philip resented the fact that I was no longer a free agent, and finally I gave him back his ring.’

‘It must have been hard for you.’

‘Not as hard as it might have been,’ she admitted honestly. ‘After he’d gone, I realized that, though I’d been fond of him, I hadn’t really loved him.’

She had also realized that she’d only imagined herself in love because he’d reminded her a little of the man in her portrait.

‘And there’s been no one since?’

She shook her head.

With a grin, the stranger said, ‘From the amount of shopping, I felt sure you must be feeding a small army of suitors.’

His teasing lightening the mood, she told him, ‘It’s for the old lady who owns the house and lives in the flat opposite. She’s on her own at the moment and she’s invited me to supper.’

‘Any chance of her taking a rain check? I was about to ask you to have dinner with me.’

Sophia’s heart leapt and then plummeted as she realized she couldn’t accept his invitation.

It took a lot of willpower, but still she said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t let her down. She’s really looking forward to the evening, and I’ve promised to do the cooking.’

‘Pity.’

He said nothing further and she wondered if he had regretted his spur-of-the-moment invitation and been relieved when she’d refused.

But somehow she didn’t think so.

They turned the corner into the quiet, tree-lined Square, its central gardens set with green lawns and bright flower-beds, and stopped outside the porticoed entrance of number twelve.

Yellow light from one ground floor window and the fanlight above the door was spilling across the pavement. But, as she might have expected, the upper windows were dark. The whole of the upstairs was one flat, and its tenants—a husband and wife team of lawyers who owned a boat and went sailing every weekend—would be gone.

Glancing at the lighted window, Sophia noticed one of the curtains move, and guessed that Mrs Caldwell had been looking out for her and seen them arrive.

As she fished in her handbag for her keys, hoping very much that the stranger would ask to see her some other time, she queried, ‘Do you live in this area?’

‘No. I don’t live in London at all. I’m just here on business.’

‘Oh.’ Her heart sank.

Holding the carrier with one arm, he took the keys and, choosing the right one at his first attempt, opened the front door and held it wide for her.

As they crossed the hall, Mrs Caldwell appeared at her door. ‘Oh, there you are, my dear!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you’d been forced to work late.’

‘I actually left early, but it took me rather a long time to do the shopping,’ Sophia explained.

‘Friday nights have always been busy,’ Mrs Caldwell agreed. Then, glancing with interest at the tall, good-looking man by Sophia’s side, she suggested, ‘If you want to opt out of our arrangement and make other plans, I don’t mind.’

Aware that the fair-haired stranger was waiting for her answer, after an almost imperceptible hesitation, Sophia said, ‘No, of course I don’t…’

Sensing that he was still staring at her, and wondering if he was annoyed because she hadn’t taken advantage of the old lady’s offer, she went on resolutely, ‘I’ll be over as soon as I’ve changed out of my suit.’

‘There’s no need to hurry, dearie. In the meantime I’ll leave the door on the latch and pour us both a glass of sherry.’ The old lady beamed at her and disappeared back inside.

Having opened Sophia’s door and waited until she had switched on the lights, her companion followed her through the small lobby and into the pleasantly spacious combined living room and kitchen.

While she took off her mac, he put the groceries carefully on the coffee table and, glancing around, remarked, ‘I’m surprised to find it’s open-plan.’

When he looked straight at her again, she could see that his eyes, like those of the portrait, were a clear grey and so dark they were almost charcoal. Eyes that were intriguingly at odds with his naturally fair hair.

Dragging her gaze away with an effort, she told him, ‘When Mrs Caldwell had the house converted into three flats, she decided on extensive alterations.’

Nodding his head in approval, he said, ‘I must say it works extremely well. It must be a pleasant place to live.’

‘I’ve always liked it,’ Sophia agreed. Then, anxious to know more about him, ‘So where do you live?’

‘Since I left university, I’ve been living mainly in New York.’

‘Oh.’ Did that mean he still lived in New York? If he did, that seemed to rule out any chance of getting to know him better.

Swamped by disappointment, she took a deep, steadying breath. Even so her voice was a little jerky as she said, ‘I’ve been wondering about your accent…It doesn’t seem typically American.’

‘It isn’t,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a bit of a mixture. I was taken to live in the States as a child but, following a long family tradition, I went to university in England.’

‘Then you have English roots?’

‘On my father’s side, but my mother’s Italian.’

An Italian mother might well explain why he had olive-toned skin rather than being fair skinned like most natural blonds…And no doubt it accounted for that subtle and intriguing difference in his accent.

With a little stir of excitement that they had something in common, she remarked, ‘My mother was Italian too.’

‘An odd coincidence,’ he observed smoothly. ‘What was her name?’

‘Maria.’

She waited for some further comment or question about her mother but, rather to her surprise, he changed the subject to ask, ‘Will you be staying here now you’re on your own?’

‘I’m not sure. With three bedrooms, it’s a lot bigger than I need. When Dad was alive it was ideal. He used the third bedroom, the one on the north side, as his studio.’

‘That reminds me, do you still have that portrait? The one you said looks like me?’

‘Yes.’

‘If I may, I’d rather like to see it. You’ve succeeded in whetting my curiosity.’

Feeling distinctly awkward, she explained, ‘It hangs in my bedroom.’

Looking into those beautiful eyes he could now see were a dark green, flecked with gold, he assured her with gentle mockery, ‘I won’t let that bother me, if you don’t let it bother you.’

The simple fact that it did hang in her bedroom wouldn’t have bothered her. What made her hesitate was that it was so like him, and it would be akin to baring her soul if he picked up how strongly she felt about it.

Noting her hesitation, he began carefully, ‘If it does bother you—’

Pulling herself together, she assured him, ‘No, no, of course it doesn’t bother me.’

Looking unconvinced, he suggested, ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to show me some of your father’s other work?’

She shook her head. ‘All the rest of Dad’s paintings are over at the exhibition.’

‘So why was that particular one left out?’

‘Because it was never finished.’ Making up her mind, she added, ‘Come and take a look.’

Her heart racing uncomfortably fast, she ushered him along a wide corridor to her bedroom and, switching on the light, led the way inside.

It was simply furnished, with a dusky-pink carpet and off-white walls. The picture, the only one in the room, hung between the two windows.

Standing in front of it, the stranger stared at it in silence.

The column of the throat, the broad shoulders and the suggestion of an open-necked shirt, had been merely sketched in. But the well-shaped head, with its thick fair hair and neatly set ears, and the face, with its strong features and dark grey eyes beneath level brows, its beautiful mouth and cleft chin, was complete.

Glancing from one to the other, Sophie saw that the likeness between the portrait and the stranger was just as striking as she had imagined.

She felt a queer tug at her heart.

The only difference she could spot was that her companion’s hair was somewhat shorter than that of the man in the portrait, and his brows and lashes were several shades darker.

Other than that, he could have been the sitter.

Only of course he couldn’t.

It must have been painted either before he was born or when he was still a very young child.

After a moment or two of absolute stillness, the stranger said slowly, ‘Surely this could have been put in the exhibition?’

It could. The simple truth was that she hadn’t wanted to share it with anyone else. It would have been like other people being given access to a secret and very personal diary.

When she said nothing, he went on, ‘Your father was a very fine artist. Those eyes are alive…And you’re right about it being like me. I could be looking in a mirror. When did he paint it?’

‘I’m not sure. Certainly before I was born. I’ve known it all my life.’

‘Have you any idea who the sitter was?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t. I once asked my father, but he said, “Oh, just someone I met briefly a long time ago.”’

‘I see. Well, thank you for showing it to me.’

She was expecting him to say something further, to speculate on the likeness, remark on the coincidence, the strangeness of it all.

But he turned away and, noticing the box standing on her dressing table, commented, ‘Your jewellery box is a lovely piece of work.’

‘Yes, it was Dad’s last gift to me. I found it hidden in his bureau.’

‘Filled with priceless jewels, no doubt?’ It was said quizzically, as though he’d recognized her sadness and was hoping to alleviate it.

She smiled. ‘Empty, unfortunately.’

As she led him back to the living-room, he asked, ‘When does your father’s exhibition open?’

‘Tomorrow morning, for a month. Though David—the owner of the gallery—did say he would keep it open for as long as people kept coming in to see it.’

Then, sensing that he was about to go, and still hoping against hope that he might suggest seeing her again, she queried, ‘How long are you in London for?’

Her last shred of hope vanished when he answered, ‘I’m flying out tomorrow.’

Before she could think of anything else to say, he remarked with stunning finality, ‘Well, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I guess I’d better go and let you get changed.’

Desperate to keep him, she began, ‘I really can’t thank you enough for your help…’

‘It was my pleasure,’ he said formally. ‘Enjoy your evening. Arrivederci.’

As she stood stricken, the latch clicked behind him. A second or two later she heard the slam of the front door.

He was gone.

And she didn’t even know his name.

Why, oh, why, had she let him walk out just like that?

Though what else could she have done?

She could have invited him to have supper with them. Mrs Caldwell wouldn’t have minded, she felt sure, and there was more than enough food for three.

That way at least she would have had his company for an hour or two longer.

But she’d missed her chance. He was gone, and it was too late for regrets.

If only she had been free to have dinner with him. Though what could it have led to? If he did live in New York, there would have been little chance of seeing him again.

Still the nagging ache of disappointment, the futile longing for what might have been, the empty feeling of loss, persisted as she tried to make sense of the brief encounter.

Why had fate brought him into her life only to let him walk out again?

She felt as though she had been robbed of something infinitely precious, something that should have been rightfully hers…

Becoming aware that she was standing like a fool staring at the closed door and Mrs Caldwell would be waiting for her, Sophia pulled herself together and went to dry her hair and change.

Resisting the desire to stand and stare at the portrait, she swapped her business suit for a skirt and top and leaving her hair loose, hurried back to the living-room.

There, she quickly sorted out the old lady’s change, picked up the carrier bag and glanced around for her keys.

They were nowhere to be seen.

But the stranger had actually opened the door, so he might have left them in the lock.

She took a quick look, but they weren’t there.

So what had he done with them?

When another glance around failed to locate them, it occurred to her that he might well have dropped them into the carrier when he’d put the shopping down.

In that case she’d find them when she unpacked.

Taking the spare set of keys from the sideboard drawer, she switched off the light and, closing the door behind her, hurried across the hall.

As she approached the old lady’s partly open door she could hear what sounded like one of the soaps on the television.

Calling, ‘It’s me,’ she let herself in and went through to the living-room.

Like Sophia’s own, the old lady’s flat was light and spacious, with a combined living-room and kitchen. A long fire was throwing out a welcome warmth and two schooners of pale sherry were waiting on the coffee table.

Mrs Caldwell, who was standing by the window looking through a chink in the curtains, turned to say, ‘Do make yourself at home, dearie.’

Sophia put the old lady’s change on the coffee table and, having crossed to the kitchen, began to unpack the shopping, while Sam, the boldest of the two marmalade kittens, rubbed against her leg, purring like a small traction engine.

Picking up the remote control, Mrs Caldwell switched off the television and, settling herself on the couch, urged, ‘Why don’t you sit down and drink your sherry before you start cooking?’

Aware that the old lady went to bed fairly early, Sophia suggested, ‘It might make more sense to drink it while I’m getting the paella ready. That way we won’t be too late having supper.’

‘Perhaps you’re right.’

Sophia unpacked the last of the groceries and, finding no trace of the missing keys, collected her glass of sherry.

While she sipped it, with swift efficiency she sliced onions, peppers and tomatoes, added a crushed clove of garlic and began to fry them lightly.

‘The paella smells nice already,’ Mrs Caldwell commented. ‘I must say I’m starting to feel distinctly hungry.’

‘In that case, I’m rather pleased I decided to buy most of the ingredients ready-cooked and make the quick version.’

‘That was good thinking,’ the old lady agreed. Then, eagerly, ‘Who was the perfectly gorgeous young man who came in with you?’

Trying to sound casual, unconcerned, Sophia admitted, ‘I’m afraid I’ve no idea.’

‘But surely you know him?’

‘No, not at all. He just offered to carry the shopping when one of the handles on the bag broke.’

Mrs Caldwell was clearly disappointed. ‘Didn’t you find out anything about him? Where he lives? What he does for a living? Whether or not he has a steady girlfriend? I would have done at your age.’

Forced to smile, Sophia said, ‘All I know is that he’s in London on business…Oh, and that while his father has English roots, and he went to university in England, his mother comes from Italy.’

‘Well, that’s something you and he have in common. Oh, by the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you still got relatives in Italy?’

‘If I have they’re distant ones. Like me, my mother was an only child, and her parents have been dead for quite a few years.’

‘I wondered, because the man who came to see your father was Italian.’

Sophia was surprised. ‘Someone visited Dad? How long ago?’

‘Quite a while ago now,’ Mrs Caldwell answered vaguely. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

‘No, this is the first I’ve heard of it.’

The old lady was obviously taken aback. ‘That’s peculiar…Well, this man arrived one day while you were at the gallery. He came in a taxi.’

‘What was he like?’

‘He was a good-looking man, short and thick-set, the same kind of build as my Arthur, with a thatch of white hair. He must have been somewhere in the region of sixty, but he looked younger because his eyebrows were still jet-black.

‘He found your front door buzzer wasn’t working properly and rang mine. When I answered, he explained to me in very poor English that he was looking for a Signor Jordan. He had a package for him.’

‘What kind of package?’ Sophia asked curiously.

‘It was a parcel, about so big…’ The old lady sketched the size in the air. ‘I told him to go across the hall and ring the bell of your flat. Then I waited until I saw your father open the door and let him in.

‘He only stayed a couple of minutes, then left in the same taxi that brought him.’

Sophia frowned. Why hadn’t her father said anything about having a visitor? It was most unlike him. And, with so little happening in his life, he couldn’t have forgotten…

‘But, to get back to the young man who carried the shopping—’ Mrs Caldwell broke into her thoughts ‘—I’m surprised he didn’t ask you out.’

Stifling a sigh, Sophia remarked with determined lightness, ‘I’m afraid we’re just destined to be ships that pass in the night.’

‘But you were attracted to him.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Trying to dissemble, Sophia asked, ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Dearie, it was obvious.’

Feeling her colour rise, Sophia said, ‘For all I know, he’s married.’

She had judged him to be in his late twenties or early thirties, so it was odds-on that he was either married or in some kind of stable relationship.

Oh, surely not, when he’d invited her to have dinner with him…

But the fact that he’d asked her out didn’t necessarily mean he was unattached. Perhaps if he travelled a lot he took his pleasure where he could find it…

‘I happened to notice his left hand,’ Mrs Caldwell told her. ‘He wasn’t wearing a ring.’ With a sly glance, she added, ‘It’s high time you started to look for a husband.’

Sophia poured rice into a large cast-iron frying pan and began to stir in the stock. ‘I don’t know where to start looking.’

‘You know what they say—love is where you find it. All it takes is mutual attraction to spark it off.’ Then, thoughtfully, ‘There was something about the way that young man looked at you that showed he was attracted. Very attracted.

‘Oh, I know what you’re thinking…I only got a quick glimpse of you both together. But that’s all it takes. I felt sure he would ask you out. Perhaps tomorrow he’ll—’

‘He’s going home tomorrow,’ Sophia said flatly.

‘That’s a shame. One date might have been all that was needed to start a transatlantic courtship. An old-fashioned word, but a nice one, don’t you think?’

Before Sophia could answer, she went on, ‘It’s a pity you didn’t ask him to have supper with us.’

‘I only thought about it after he’d gone. Of course he might not have accepted.’

‘I rather fancy he would. When I heard the front door close, I looked out. He didn’t just walk away, you know. He stood under that tree for several minutes watching your window. In fact he’d only just disappeared when you came over.’

Sophia was filled with disappointment. If only she’d looked out and seen him there, she might have plucked up the courage to go and issue an invitation.

But it seemed it wasn’t to be.

CHAPTER TWO

PERHAPS Mrs Caldwell picked up that disappointment because she changed the subject by asking, ‘Are you showing your father’s miniatures?’

‘Yes. There’s plenty of space for them, and they’re some of Dad’s best work.’

‘My favourite is the one of the dark-haired girl in that beautiful blue silk ball gown. She’s wearing such exquisite pearls and holding what looks like a carnival mask…It always reminds me a little of you…’

Sophia knew the one she meant. It was another of her father’s portraits that particularly appealed to her. Judging by the gown and the hairstyle, it had been copied from a much older painting.

But when she had asked him where he’d first seen the original, he had replied that it was so long ago he’d quite forgotten.

‘When I mentioned to Peter how much I liked it,’ the old lady went on, ‘he told me that it was his favourite too…

‘I miss him, you know,’ she added abruptly. ‘I enjoyed the games of cribbage we sometimes used to play in an afternoon.’

‘I know he enjoyed them too.’

Her eyes suspiciously bright, Mrs Caldwell sat up straighter and demanded, ‘So how is the exhibition coming along?’

‘We’re all set to open tomorrow morning.’

While the paella finished cooking they talked companionably about the exhibition in particular and painting in general.

When the meal was ready, Mrs Caldwell suggested frivolously, ‘Let’s have a bottle of wine. There’s several in the rack. Make it a Rioja and we’ll pretend we’re in Spain.’

After they had toasted each other, they tucked into the paella, which the old lady declared to be the best she had ever tasted.

Warmed by her pleasure, Sophia put aside her low spirits and made a real effort to be cheerful. She succeeded so well that, after she had cleared away and stacked the dishwasher, they talked and laughed and played cribbage until almost eleven o’clock.

Suddenly catching sight of the time, she cried, ‘Good gracious, I’d better get off home and let you go to bed.’

With Mrs Caldwell’s thanks still ringing in her ears, she hurried back across the hall and unlocking her door, went inside and switched on the light.

The first thing she noticed were her keys lying just under the edge of the coffee table. She must have knocked them on to the floor when she’d moved the bag of shopping.

She had closed the door behind her and stooped to pick them up when a sudden strange, unprecedented feeling of unease made her stiffen and glance around.

Nothing seemed out of place and her handbag was where she’d left it, but a sixth sense insisted that something was wrong. Not as it had been.

But what?

Still puzzling, she dropped one set of keys into her handbag and put the spare ones back into the sideboard drawer, while she continued to look around.

Yes, that was it! At both the front window and the kitchen window at the side of the house, the curtains, which had been open, were now closed.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose and her skin goosefleshed as though a cool breeze had blown over it, while her thoughts flew backwards and forwards.

Someone must have been in the flat after she had gone across to Mrs Caldwell’s.

Impossible. There was only the old lady and herself in the house.

However, the fact remained that curtains didn’t draw themselves. And they must have been drawn for some specific reason.

It seemed to point to a burglar, or someone with nefarious intentions who hadn’t wanted to be seen by anyone passing.

But the back door was always kept locked and bolted and no one could come in the front way who didn’t ring one of the flats or have a key.

Yet someone had been in.

And perhaps still was.

Chilled by the thought, she shivered.

Then, nerving herself, she went to look, switching on lights as she went.

The bathroom door was ajar and it only took a moment to satisfy herself that no one was in there.

Then she opened the door of her father’s studio and, her nostrils full of the familiar smell of paints and turpentine that lingered even now, looked around.

Apart from his easel, his unused canvases propped against a wall and, on the racks, his paints and brushes, his pallet and pallet knife, his cleaning fluids and soft rags, it was empty.

His bedroom too was free of intruders.

It was still as he had left it.

One of these days she would have to go through his private papers, and give his clothes and belongings to charity, but the grief was still too new, too raw, to be able to do it yet.

The only thing she had moved had been his last gift to her, which she had discovered hidden in his bureau, along with some letters.

Though only about the size of a small shoebox, it had been quite heavy. Wrapped in gold paper, it bore a printed tag which had read simply:

For Sophia, with all my love. Have a very happy twenty-fifth birthday.

Finding it like that had made her tears flow.

When they were under control, she had stripped off the paper with unsteady fingers to reveal the exquisite ebony jewellery box that the stranger had commented on.

It was like a miniature chest, the thick, arched lid beautifully carved with what appeared to be one of the signs of the zodiac. A moment or two later, though it wasn’t the conventional portrayal, she recognized it as Pisces, her own birth sign.

Caught in a curling wave were two tiny sea horses, one obviously frolicking, the other melancholy. It perfectly captured the dual personality, the moods and emotional depths, attributed to Pisceans.

Fresh tears had trickled down her cheeks while she wondered where her father—who had been housebound for quite some time—had managed to find such a lovely and appropriate birthday gift.

Her heart overflowing with love and gratitude, she had put it on her dressing table where she could see it the moment she woke up.

Suppose it had gone?

Almost more concerned about losing her gift than the possibility of finding an intruder, she took a deep breath and, flinging open her bedroom door, switched on the light.

To her immense relief the box was where she’d left it and the room appeared to be empty, but—sensitive to atmosphere—to Sophia it didn’t feel empty.

Her divan bed was only an inch or two from the floor, so the only place anyone could possibly hide was the walk-in wardrobe.

Though she told herself she was being a fool, she slid aside the doors and peered in.

It occurred to her with wry amusement that if she did find anyone hiding in there, she would probably die of fright.

In the event, it was innocent of anything but clothes and accessories.

As she caught sight of the box once more, the thought struck her that it was the right shape and size to be the package brought by the mysterious visitor Mrs Caldwell had let in.

Maybe it had been a special delivery ordered by phone? If that was the case, it would account for her father not mentioning anything about a visitor.

The fact that the man had been Italian was no doubt quite irrelevant.

But would a delivery of that kind be made by taxi?

Well, the box had come from somewhere.

Giving up the riddle, her thoughts went back to a possible burglar. The box was still here, but what about its contents?

Mostly it was costume stuff. The only items of any real value were her few good pieces of jewellery and her father’s signet ring…But surely any would-be thief would have taken them?

A glance inside showed that nothing was missing, so maybe the whole concept of a burglar had sprung from her imagination?

But what about the curtains?

Perhaps, her mind taken up with the fair-haired stranger, she had closed them herself without registering the fact?

As if to add weight to this theory, she realized that none of the curtains at the rear of the house had been closed.

Common sense jumped in and pointed out that they wouldn’t need to be. The garden was surrounded by a high wall, so no one could have looked in and noticed anything amiss.

Oh, well, if someone had come in—and it was starting to look less likely—they had gone out again without taking anything or doing any damage, so she must try and put the whole thing out of her mind.

She was about to move away and prepare for bed when she caught sight of something that looked like a wisp of stocking dangling from the drawer she kept her underwear in.

Frowning a little, she pulled it open to find that one of her fine silk stockings had somehow escaped from its protective wrapper and snagged on the top of the drawer.

She stared at it, a chill running through her, certain, or almost certain, that she hadn’t left it like that.

A quick glance in her other drawers suggested that someone had looked through them, leaving them marginally less neat.

But, if that was so, as well as the puzzling—how did they get in? was the equally perplexing—what had they been looking for?

While she showered, brushed her teeth and put on her nightdress, she turned the whole thing over and over in her mind, but it made no sense.

By the time she climbed into bed, heartily sick of the fruitless exercise, she determined to think no more about it.

At once, thoughts of the fascinating stranger who had looked so like the man in her portrait brought to life flooded in.

The joy she’d felt on first seeing him came back to linger like some sad ghost. And she knew now that, as though under a spell, she had spent all her life just waiting for him.

But a one-sided enchantment was no use, and that was all it had been. Otherwise he wouldn’t have walked away as casually as he had.

So what was the point of repining?

None at all, she told herself stoutly. She would try not to think about him. Though, with his face only a few feet away, that was easier said than done.

Reaching out a hand, she switched off the light, but blotting out sight didn’t stop the thoughts and regrets that tramped ceaselessly on the treadmill of her mind.

She slept badly, tossing and turning restlessly, and awoke headachy and unrefreshed to find the light of another grey, overcast day filling the room.

A bleary glance at her bedside clock showed that, for once in her life, she had badly overslept.

As quickly as possible, she showered and dressed in a neat business suit, coiled her dark hair and put on a hasty dab of make-up. Then, having swallowed a cup of instant coffee, she pulled on her coat and made her way to A Volonté.

Despite walking fast, she was over half an hour late by the time she hurried through the heavy smoked glass doors into the oval-shaped gallery.

Quiet and elegant, with its white, gold and dark green decor, its graceful sweep of staircase, its classic columns, which supported the encircling balcony, it was a Mecca for the art world.

On her way to the staff room, she glanced up at the balcony. Several people were already strolling round looking at her father’s paintings. At the far end a couple with their backs to her—a tall fair-haired man and a petite woman with a black shoulder-length bob, were studying the miniatures.

The exhibition appeared to be getting off to a good start, thank the Lord.

When Sophia had hung up her coat and tapped on David’s office door to give him her apologies—which he waved away—she went back to take her place at the discreetly positioned desk.

Over in the lounge area she could see Joanna sitting on one of the dark green velvet couches talking to a balding man she recognized as a Parisian art critic and private collector.

A glance at the balcony showed the woman was still admiring the miniatures, while her companion had moved away a little and was looking at a collection of Venetian scenes which had been hung together.

More people were starting to drift in, but the gallery’s policy was to let them browse in peace until they had a question to ask or were ready to buy, so Sophie turned her attention to the latest auction room catalogues.

There was a Joshua Roache coming up next week, and an early Cass that David might be interested in for his private collection…

A woman’s voice said, ‘Scusi signorina…’

Putting the catalogue to one side, Sophia looked up with a smile. ‘How can I help you?’

Judging by the smooth bell of black hair, it was the same woman who had been up on the balcony a few minutes ago.

She was extremely well dressed and vividly beautiful, with large black eyes, a creamy skin, a straight nose and full red lips. Her figure was voluptuous, her scarlet-tipped hands smooth and plump. As well as several dress rings, she wore a wide chased wedding band and a magnificent matching diamond solitaire.

At close quarters, Sophia could see she was somewhat older than she had first appeared, probably in her middle thirties.

In fluent but heavily accented English, she said, ‘I would like to know more about this picture…’

To Sophia’s dismay, she had taken down the miniature that Mrs Caldwell had remarked was both her favourite and Peter’s.

Stretching out a hand, and trying hard to keep her voice even, Sophia suggested, ‘Perhaps you’d like to give it to me?’

In spite of all her efforts, it must have sounded too much like an order because, with a haughty look, the woman informed her, ‘You are talking to the Marquise d’Orsini.’

‘I’m sorry, but no one is allowed to remove any of the paintings.’

‘You do not understand. I intend to buy it.’

‘I’m afraid it’s not for sale.’

‘How can you say such a thing?’ the Marquise cried angrily. ‘An art gallery exists to sell paintings, does it not?’

Aware that the woman’s raised voice was attracting curious glances, Sophia said soothingly, ‘Of course. All the paintings on this floor are for sale, including some excellent miniatures.’

‘But it is this one I want.’

‘I’m extremely sorry, but that one and the other miniatures on the balcony are part of a Peter Jordan exhibition, and not for sale.’

‘Nonsense! I wish you to—’

Sophia heard no more as, glancing up, she saw a tall, good-looking man approaching. He was dressed in smart casuals, his carriage was easy and there was a quiet assurance in the way he held his blond head. His dark grey eyes were fixed on her face.

Rooted to the spot, she gazed at the man she had never seriously expected to see again.

Was his coming into A Volonté a coincidence?

No, surely not.

A surge of gladness filled her and brought a glorious smile to her face.

He smiled back, that white, slightly crooked smile that made her feel hollow inside.

The Marquise, realizing she had lost Sophia’s attention, turned and, seeing him, grasped his arm and broke into a rapid stream of Italian. ‘This girl had the nerve to tell me I shouldn’t have taken down the miniature—’

Speaking in the same language, he said, ‘Didn’t I advise you not to?’

Her hot temper making her reckless, she snapped, ‘I get tired of being “advised” what to do. Men always think they are right. They always say, “I told you so”. You should be on my side, not agreeing with this insolent chit of a girl who—’

Putting a finger to her carmine lips to interrupt the flow, he warned, ‘It’s quite likely that the signorina speaks Italian…She is—’

‘I know what she is…A little nobody with an inflated sense of her own importance. Well, she’s making a mistake if she thinks she can—’

‘Cara, you are the one who is making the mistake. I advise you to calm down and—’

‘I don’t need advice,’ she flared. ‘I will act as I think fit.’

‘Very well.’

Though he spoke quietly, without any trace of anger, she clutched at his arm. ‘Stefano, darling, I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that…’

When he said nothing, tears welling in her black eyes, she whispered, ‘Forgive me. I had no right to get angry with you…’

Watching his face soften, Sophia wondered—was he this beautiful woman’s husband?

The thought made her feel as though she’d been punched in the solar plexus.

Even if he wasn’t, he was almost certainly her amante. There was no other way to explain the feeling of intimacy between them, the possessive touch of her hand on his sleeve, the way she was gazing up at him. Her voice soft, seductive, she begged, ‘Please tell me what I should do.’

‘I suggest you apologize to the signorina and return the painting.’

‘Apologize! But Stefano—’

‘It might be expedient,’ he told her.

After a moment or two of silence, she turned to Sophia and, handing her the miniature, said grudgingly in English, ‘I am sorry.’

‘That’s quite all right,’ Sophia assured her pleasantly, and even managed a smile.

Looking far from mollified, the Marquise said, ‘I understand that the artist is no longer living?’

‘No, unfortunately he died early in March.’

‘Perhaps you can tell me who the sitter was and precisely when it was painted?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

Glaring at Sophia, as if she were being deliberately obstructive, the Marquise ordered, ‘Then give me a catalogue, so I can look for myself.’

Handing her a catalogue, Sophia told her politely, ‘The miniature is listed on page twelve. You’ll find it just says, Portrait of a Venetian Lady at Carnival Time.’

Throwing the catalogue angrily on to the desk, the Marquise said, ‘I have wasted enough time. I want to buy this picture and I—’

‘I’m sorry but, as I’ve already explained, it isn’t for sale.’

‘I have had more than enough of your impertinence…’

The man she had called Stefano put a warning hand on her arm but, too furious to heed it, she rushed on, ‘I insist on speaking to the owner of the gallery or someone in authority.’

‘Very well.’ Sophia picked up the phone and, when David’s voice answered, asked quietly, ‘Could you please come to the desk?’

Alerted by her tone, he asked, ‘Trouble?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Replacing the receiver, she braced herself for the storm she could see was about to burst.

‘You may well look apprehensive,’ the Marquise cried. ‘If you think you can treat me like this and get away with it, you are mistaken. I will make sure you lose your job and—’

‘That’s enough, Gina.’ The man by her side spoke with a quiet authority that brought the Marquise up short. ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’

After that first smile, Sophia had never looked directly at him, but she had been conscious of his presence. And, while the surface of her mind had been taken up with the Marquise, her whole being had been focused on him, aware of his steady regard, aware too of the unspoken empathy.

At that instant David appeared, immaculately dressed, a cream carnation in his buttonhole, and approached the little group.

Of medium height, he was a slim, elegant bachelor in his early fifties, an art connoisseur to his fingertips. His silvery hair worn slightly long, his pale blue eyes guileless, his air of bonhomie, all combined to disguise the fact that he was also a shrewd, hard-headed businessman.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked mildly.

‘Indeed there is. I am the Marquise d’Orsini, and this chit of a girl—’

He gave her a courteous little bow, stopping the threatening torrent of words. ‘And I’m David Renton, owner of A Volonté. If you and the Marquis would—’

‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension,’ the other man broke in with grave politeness. ‘I’m not the Marquis. My name’s Stephen Haviland.’

So he wasn’t the Marquise’s husband after all. Sophia experienced such a rush of relief she felt almost giddy.

As the two men shook hands, his glance and his smile including the Marquise in his apology, David murmured smoothly, ‘I do beg your pardon.’

Obviously won over by his charm, she said, ‘Please do not apologize, Mr Renton. It was an easy mistake to make.’

‘You’re very forgiving. Now, if you and Mr Haviland would care to come through to my private suite, I’m sure we can sort things out to your satisfaction.’

As the Marquise flashed Sophia a look of malicious triumph, David continued avuncularly, ‘Will you please come too, Sophia, my dear?’

Sophia was aware that David had intended the ‘my dear’ to be both a statement and a subtle warning to the Marquise of where he himself stood.

Lifting a hand, he signalled to Joanna that the desk was unattended. Then, his smile pleasant, his manner affable, he turned to usher them through to his inner sanctum.

As Sophia made to follow, Stephen Haviland stood to one side to allow her to precede him.

With a murmur of thanks, she did so.

David’s sitting-room was quietly luxurious, with beautiful antique furniture, an Oriental carpet, two soft natural leather couches, a designer blind at the window and a small semicircular bar in one corner. Pictures, each worth a small fortune, lined the walls and fresh flowers scented the air.

Waving a well-manicured hand, David said, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

The Marquise settled herself on the nearest couch and, with an inviting glance at Stephen Haviland, patted the seat beside her.

‘Sophia, my dear, perhaps you’ll sit here?’ David suggested blandly.

Stephen Haviland remained standing until Sophia was seated on the other couch.

David produced a bottle of fine old sherry and four sparkling crystal glasses and, at his most urbane, asked, ‘May I offer you a glass of sherry?’

‘That would be very nice,’ the Marquise accepted graciously.

The sherry poured and handed out, David took a seat by Sophia’s side. ‘Now, how can I help?’

The Marquise had obviously read into David’s attitude towards Sophia what he had intended her to read and, instead of launching into a denunciation, she began carefully, ‘I am afraid your employee and I…how do you say…got off on the wrong feet. I made an error of judgement, for which I have already made my apologies…’

When he merely waited politely, she went on, ‘I took down one of the pictures, a miniature. I hoped to buy it, but I was told it was not for sale.’

‘May I ask which one?’

‘The catalogue described it as a Portrait of a Venetian Lady at Carnival Time.’

‘I’m afraid that particular miniature forms part of our current exhibition and is merely on loan.’ As though to make it quite plain, he added, ‘It doesn’t belong to the gallery.’

‘Perhaps you can tell me who it does belong to?’

In response to David’s glance, Sophia said quietly, ‘It belongs to me.’

‘It belongs to you?’ the Marquise repeated after a moment as though doubting her ears.

‘Yes.’

‘Then why did you refuse to tell me who the sitter was and when it was painted?’ she demanded angrily.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know. My father painted the portrait many years ago, before I was born.’

‘Your father…Then you must be…’

‘Sophia Jordan,’ Sophia agreed.

The Marquise turned to Stephen and, in Italian, began, ‘Why didn’t you—?’ Seeing the unmistakable glint in his eye, she broke off abruptly.

For a moment or two there was silence, then, rallying, the Marquise addressed Sophia and, speaking English now, said earnestly, ‘Signorina Jordan, I would very much like to add the miniature to my collection. I am willing to pay well.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you but, as I said earlier, it isn’t for sale.’

The Marquise bit her lip. ‘I know we have got off on the wrong feet, but—’

‘Believe me, it has nothing to do with that. My father’s paintings are precious to me and I have no intention of parting with any of them.’

Seeing how downcast she looked, Sophia felt almost sorry for this fiery-natured woman.

‘Perhaps you would care to see the miniatures that are for sale?’ David suggested. ‘There are some extremely fine ones, and two that are very like the portrait of a Venetian lady.’

‘Thank you, but no.’

‘Then is there anything else I can do for you?’

As she started to shake her head, Stephen Haviland said, ‘We’re flying back to Venice today…’

We’re flying back to Venice today…Did that mean he was living in Venice? Sophia wondered.

‘Which means we have to start for the airport shortly, but I would be grateful if you could spare just a few more minutes.’

‘Of course,’ David agreed politely. ‘In what way can I help?’

‘There’s a somewhat urgent matter I would like to discuss with you…’

Sophia rose. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I should get back to the desk.’

‘Please don’t go, Miss Jordan,’ Stephen Haviland said. His grey eyes on her face, he added, ‘As what I’m about to ask particularly concerns you, your presence is essential.’

She resumed her seat, satisfied that this was merely a further attempt—on his part—to persuade her to sell the miniature.

Judging by the hopeful glance the Marquise gave him, she thought so too.

He put down his sherry glass and, his eyes on Sophia’s face and his long, well-shaped hands resting lightly on his knees, began, ‘I’ll endeavour to be as brief as possible while I put you in the picture.

‘When my aunt died earlier this year, she left me the Fortuna family home in Venice…’

He paused, almost as if he were expecting some reaction from her.

When she just waited quietly, he went on, ‘The Palazzo del Fortuna is a beautiful place but, with the decline of the family fortunes over the last couple of hundred years, unfortunately it has been somewhat neglected.

‘When my aunt discovered that one wing of the Palazzo was sinking and in urgent need of substantial structural repairs, she asked me for financial help, which I was more than willing to provide.

‘As soon as the money was made available she brought in the builders, but as the work progressed it became clear that it was going to cost a great deal more than originally estimated…’

‘Isn’t that always the way?’ David murmured.

‘Too true,’ Stephen Haviland agreed. He added, ‘Luckily it wasn’t a problem, and the restoration was finished on time.

‘But, in order to have some spare money in hand for the ordinary day-to-day maintenance, and unwilling to accept any more help from me, my aunt made up her mind to sell some of the paintings which have been in the family for many generations.

‘Museums and art galleries worldwide and a number of rich private collectors expressed their interest, and she engaged an expert from Milan to examine the paintings in order to assess their value and condition, and also to do any cleaning and restoring that might prove to be necessary.

‘That done, she went on to plan a series of private viewings for the interested parties, but no sooner were all the arrangements in place than she became ill and died within quite a short space of time.

‘It was her stated wish that when I took over I should carry through the plans she had made. The first viewing is scheduled to take place in just over six weeks’ time…’

It was all very interesting, Sophia thought, but what had it to do with her?

With his next words, Stephen Haviland answered that unspoken question.

‘The expert my aunt engaged was due at the Palazzo on Monday to start getting the first batch of paintings ready. But just this morning I heard that he had been injured in a road accident and would be unable to fulfil his commitments. So I’m in urgent need of someone to step into his shoes.’

Turning to Sophia, he went on levelly, ‘When we were talking last night you mentioned that, as well as assessing their value, part of your job was cleaning and restoring old paintings…’

Though David never so much as batted an eyelid, Sophia could tell he was surprised to learn that they had met before.

‘If Mr Renton can spare you for a few weeks and you’re willing to come to Venice,’ Stephen Haviland went on, ‘you’re just the woman I need.’

The thought of keeping contact, of actually going to Venice to work for him, made excitement run through her veins like molten lava.

Catching sight of the dismay on the older woman’s face was like a douche of cold water.

‘What are you thinking of, Stefano?’ the Marquise said sharply. ‘Surely you could find someone closer to home?’

‘No doubt. But it would take time, and time is something I don’t have.’

Turning back to Sophia, he added, ‘I would be prepared to pay whatever salary you ask, and meet all your travelling expenses. You would, of course, stay at Ca’ Fortuna.

‘Have you ever been to Venice?’

She shook her head. ‘Though my mother was born at Mestre, I’ve never visited the area at all.’

‘In that case, this would be an excellent opportunity to combine business with pleasure.’

Then, addressing David, ‘As far as you’re concerned, Mr Renton, I’m willing to compensate you for losing Miss Jordan’s services by giving you first choice of the paintings at ten per cent less than their agreed market value.’

‘That’s very generous,’ David said slowly, ‘and for my part I have no objection to the plan, but of course it’s up to Sophia.’

‘Perhaps you would like a few minutes of privacy to discuss it?’ Stephen suggested.

‘An excellent idea,’ David said briskly. ‘If you and the Marquise would be kind enough to wait here? May I offer you more sherry?’

Having refilled their glasses, he led Sophia through to his office.

As they left the room she heard the Marquise—who since her previous outburst had been sitting still and silent—break into a flood of Italian.

‘You must be stark staring mad to consider bringing her to the Palazzo. What good can it possibly do? And it will be playing clean into the girl’s hands if she has any…’

The door closing behind them cut off the rest.

CHAPTER THREE

DAVID’S office, with its large imposing desk and state-of-the-art technology, was as businesslike as his sitting-room was sumptuous.

Waving Sophia to a black leather chair, he said, ‘Sit down, my dear.’

She obeyed, the hostile words she had just overheard still echoing in her ears. You must be stark raving mad to consider bringing her to the Palazzo…

The Marquise had said bringing rather than taking, which strongly suggested that the Palazzo del Fortuna was her home too. And what had she meant by, it will be playing clean into the girl’s hands?

Watching Sophia’s abstracted face, David perched on the edge of his desk. After a moment or two, he said, ‘Far be it for me to pry, but how long have you known Mr Haviland?’

She blinked before answering, ‘We met last night.’ Leaving out any of the deeper aspects, she briefly explained the circumstances. ‘He told me he was flying home today, so I really hadn’t expected to see him again.’

David could sense her reaction from the tone of her voice. ‘But you were pleased to?’

‘Yes.’ Sophia nodded shyly.

‘And the Marquise?’

‘Today is the first time we’ve met.’

‘I won’t ask you if you liked her,’ David said dryly. ‘Reading between the lines, I imagine she made herself quite unpleasant.’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Sophia agreed.

‘So how do you feel about going to Venice?’

‘It’s something I’ve always dreamt of. Dad, who knew the city well, always said that one day we’d go. But somehow we never got there…’

‘Does that mean you’re considering accepting Haviland’s proposition?’

‘I’d very much like to…But I’m not sure.’

‘Because of the Marquise?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Perhaps you wouldn’t need to come into contact with her,’ David said practically.

Sophia shook her head. ‘From the way she spoke about the Palazzo, I get the distinct impression that that’s where she lives.’

‘Even if she does, if you feel like taking the job, don’t let her put you off.’ David smiled, keen that Sophia make the choice that she wanted, without the influence of the Marquise.

‘She doesn’t want me there.’

‘Judging by what he’s prepared to offer, Haviland certainly does,’ David countered her argument. ‘And, if you don’t want to risk living under the same roof as the Marquise, you can always insist on staying at a hotel.’

When she said nothing, he asked shrewdly, ‘Something else bothering you?’

‘She’s very beautiful.’ Sophia made an effort not to sound wistful.

‘And married.’

‘Yes, I know, but…’

‘You still think that she and Haviland are rather more than just good friends?’

‘Don’t you?’ she countered.

‘It’s possible,’ David replied cautiously. ‘But, though they obviously know one another very well, from what I’ve seen of his attitude towards her, I tend to think not…’

David was a good judge of human nature, and his answer—combined with the thought that if Stephen and the Marquise were lovers, he would hardly have asked her out—made Sophia’s spirits rise.

‘In any case it’s really none of my business,’ David went on. ‘And it’s certainly not like you to worry about other people’s morals.’

Then, his glance sharpening, ‘Unless…Do I take it you’re seriously interested in him?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘If you don’t accept his offer, what are the chances of seeing him again?’

‘Nil, I imagine.’

‘You’ve been looking peaky lately. I think a complete break and some Italian sunshine is just what you need. You may come back feeling a new woman.’

‘And I may come back with a broken heart.’ She spoke the thought aloud.

David had known Sophia since she was a girl and was well aware that where men were concerned she tended to remain cool, unmoved, a veritable ice queen. Even after her engagement had ended, she had never spoken the words a broken heart.

Now, hiding his surprise that she should use them about a man she had only just met, he said firmly, ‘Then again, you may not.’

‘She’s a very beautiful woman,’ Sophia repeated.

‘So are you.’

Sophia, who had no great appreciation of her own looks, half shook her head.

‘Plus you have a lovely nature,’ David went on, ‘and in the long run it’s what’s underneath that really counts.’

Seriously, he added, ‘I’d like you to be happy, my dear, so if you feel Haviland may be the man for you, go and give this thing a chance.

‘Of course on closer acquaintance he may turn out to be so obnoxious you wouldn’t have him as a gift. But until you’re sure, then my advice is to ignore the Marquise and stay at the Palazzo, fight for him if you have to.’

Thinking of the other woman’s vivid beauty and voluptuous figure, Sophia said wryly, ‘I’m afraid I can’t see myself winning, and I don’t want to forfeit my self-respect.’

‘Knowing you, I’ve no fear of that. And if you don’t try, if you chicken out and stay at home, you’ll have lost anyway.’

‘You’re right, of course. But there’s a snag…’

‘What’s that?’

She made a self-deprecating moue. ‘I don’t know how to…Fight for a man, I mean.’

David laughed, as she had intended him to do. ‘Just be yourself. Now, shall we go back and give Haviland the good news? Oh, by the way, if you have any stipulations, don’t hesitate to say so.’

When they returned to the other room, the Marquise and Stephen Haviland, her gleaming black head and his blond one close together, were deep in a low-toned, earnest conversation.

If they weren’t lovers they were certainly very old and intimate friends, Sophia thought as, breaking off, Stephen rose to his feet and, his eyes on her face, asked evenly, ‘So what’s the verdict?’

Only too aware that the Marquise was going to be anything but pleased by her acceptance of the proposition, Sophia began, ‘I would be happy to come to Venice…’

He smiled at her and took her breath away.

Hearing David clear his throat, she added hastily, ‘On one condition.’

‘Name it.’

‘I would prefer to stay at a hotel rather than at the Palazzo del Fortuna.’ She hoped very much that he wouldn’t ask why.

He didn’t. ‘Certainly, if that’s what you want,’ he agreed. Then, crisply, ‘Can you be ready to travel by Monday afternoon?’

‘Yes,’ she answered without hesitation, ‘so long as I can get a flight.’

‘Though the Venetian tourist season is well under way, as you’ll be travelling mid-week there shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Now, would you like me to make the arrangements, or would you prefer to make them yourself?’

After a moment’s consideration, deciding she would prefer to have a free hand, she said, ‘I’ll make them, thank you.’

‘Have you any particular hotel in mind?’

She shook her head.

‘Then may I suggest you try the Tre Pozzi? Without being luxurious, it’s both comfortable and central…I presume you can speak Italian?’

‘Yes. My mother always spoke to me in Italian and for some years after her death my father carried on the practice.’

The Marquise looked momentarily discomposed, while Stephen Haviland nodded his approval, before saying, ‘I’ll give you the phone number.’ He produced a pen from his jacket pocket and, on a page torn from a small diary, jotted it down.

‘And this is my home number…When all the arrangements are in place and you know the time of your arrival, perhaps you’ll give me a ring?’

‘Of course.’

He held out his hand and, with a strange feeling of having irrevocably committed herself, she put hers into it.

It was the first time he had touched her and, as his strong fingers closed around her slender ones, every nerve in her body responded to that touch and her heart lurched crazily.

Even when his grip loosened, it was a moment or two before she was able to withdraw her hand.

Turning to David, he said, ‘Thank you for your time and for loaning me Miss Jordan. If you would like to come to Venice yourself and take a look at the paintings, you’re welcome to stay at Ca’ Fortuna.’

David murmured his thanks and the two men shook hands cordially.

The Marquise rose to her feet and held out her hand with a forced smile, ‘Thank you, and goodbye.’

Taking her proffered hand, David bowed over it. ‘May I wish you a pleasant journey home.’

Turning to Sophia, the Marquise said stiffly, ‘I’ll see you in Venice, Signorina Jordan.’

As David opened the door to escort them back to the gallery, his phone started to ring. Excusing himself, he went back to answer it, leaving Sophia to show them out.

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