﻿‘Goodnight, signora, and thank you for a lovely evening,’ Salvatore said.

‘Wh-what did you say?’

‘I said goodnight. I think we both know the time isn’t right.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Helena demanded.

Salvatore spoke softly. ‘I mean that when I’m ready to make love to you, I won’t go to your room with the world watching.’

‘When you— How dare you? You arrogant swine! Are you fooling yourself that I’m waiting on your pleasure?’ she exclaimed.

‘I’m not fooling myself, but perhaps you are. The decision has already been taken for both of us. It’s only a question of when.’

Lucy Gordon cut her writing teeth on magazine journalism, interviewing many of the world’s most interesting men, including Warren Beatty, Richard Chamberlain, Roger Moore, Sir Alec Guinness and Sir John Gielgud. She also camped out with lions in Africa, and had many other unusual experiences which have often provided the background for her books. She is married to a Venetian, whom she met while on holiday in Venice. They got engaged within two days.

Two of her books have won the Romance Writers of America RITA® award, SONG OF THE LORELEI in 1990, and HIS BROTHER’S CHILD in 1998, in the Best Traditional Romance category. You can visit her website at www.lucy-gordon.com

VERETTI’S DARK VENGEANCE

BY

LUCY GORDON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

‘SHE’LL be punished for what she’s done. I’m going to make sure of that if it takes me the rest of my days!’

Salvatore Veretti took one last look of loathing at the photograph in his hand before pushing back his chair and going to stand by the window overlooking the Venetian lagoon, where the morning sun was clear, brightening the deep blue sky, adding glitter to the tiny waves that laughed and curled against the boats.

He stood here every morning, relishing the beauty of Venice, bracing himself for the day ahead. There was money to be made, critics to be silenced, enemies to be defeated by one method or another. But there was also this moment of peace and beauty, and the strength it gave him.

Beauty. The thought brought his attention back to the photograph. It showed a woman, not merely lovely but physically perfect: tall, slender, exquisitely proportioned. Any man would say so, for this was a body carefully tended to please men, to be judged by men.

Salvatore, well-equipped to judge the female form, having had so many of them naked in his bed, had studied this one carefully before letting his hatred explode from him. Now he looked at it again, estimating its many beauties, and nodding as though what he saw was no more than he had expected.

But there was no softening in his coldly handsome features. If anything they grew harsher as his eyes roved over the glorious shape that was barely covered by the minute black bikini; the lush breasts, the endless legs, the shapely rear.

Calculation, he thought. Every inch carefully sculpted, every move assessed beforehand, everything planned to inflame male desire and, by that means, bring her money. And now she had the money she’d schemed to get. Or thought she had.

But I too can calculate, he mused. As you are about to discover. And when your weapons prove useless against me—what will you do then?

There was a buzz from the desk and his secretary’s voice said, ‘Signor Raffano is here.’

‘Send him in.’

Raffano was his financial adviser and also an old friend who’d known the family through many troubles. He’d been summoned to Salvatore’s office in the Palazzo Veretti to discuss urgent business. By the time he entered Salvatore had moved away from the window.

‘There’s more news,’ Salvatore said curtly, waving the other man to a chair.

Raffano was elderly with white hair and a gentle face. In his youth he’d been flamboyant, but the passing years had left him thinner and more serious.

‘You mean in addition to your cousin’s death?’ he enquired cautiously.

‘Antonio was my father’s cousin, not mine,’ Salvatore reminded him. ‘He was always a bit of a gadfly, likely to do stupid things without considering the consequences.’

‘He was known as a man who liked to enjoy himself,’ Raffano mused. ‘People said it proved him a true Venetian.’

‘That’s a slur on all Venetians. There aren’t many with his reckless disregard for everything except his own pleasures. He’d spend it, drink it or sleep with it, and to hell with the rest of the world.’

‘I will admit he should have taken more responsibility for the glass factory.’

‘Instead he put the whole thing in his manager’s hands, and vanished into the distance, to have fun,’ Salvatore said grimly.

‘Probably the shrewdest thing he could have done. Emilio is a brilliant manager, and I doubt if Antonio could ever have run the place so well himself. Let’s remember the best of him. He was popular and he’ll be greatly missed. Will his body be coming home for burial?’ Raffano asked.

‘No, I gather the funeral has already taken place in Miami, where he lived these last two years,’ Salvatore said. ‘It is his widow who will be coming to Venice.’

‘His widow?’ Raffano queried. ‘But was he—?’

‘It seems that he was. Recently he bought the company of a flighty piece, no different from many others who had been in his life. I’ve no doubt he paid her well, but she wanted more. She wanted marriage so that in due course she could inherit his fortune.’

‘You judge people very harshly, Salvatore. You always did.’

‘And I’m right.’

‘You know nothing about this woman.’

‘I know this.’ With a sharp movement Salvatore pushed the photograph over the table.

Raffano whistled as he took it. ‘This is her? Are you sure? It’s impossible to see her face.’

‘No, it’s a pity about that huge sun hat, but what does the face matter? Look at the body.’

‘A body to burn a man up with desire,’ Raffano agreed. ‘How did you get this?’

‘A mutual friend happened to bump into them a couple of years ago. I believe they’d just met, and my friend took a quick snap and sent it to me with a note saying this was Antonio’s latest “little fancy”.’

‘You can just see that they must have been on the beach,’ Raffano said.

‘The perfect setting for her,’ Salvatore said wryly. ‘How else could she flaunt her expensive charms? Then she whisked him off to Miami, and when she had him to herself she persuaded him to marry her.’

‘When did the marriage take place?’

‘I don’t know. No word of it reached here, which was probably her doing. She must have known that if his family knew about the wedding they’d have put a stop to it.’

‘I wonder how,’ Raffano pointed out. ‘Antonio was in his sixties, not a teenager to obey your orders.’

‘I’d have stopped it, I promise you. There are ways.’

‘Legal ways? Civilised ways?’ Raffano asked, giving him a curious look.

‘Effective ways,’ Salvatore said with a harsh grin. ‘Trust me for that.’

‘To be sure. I would always trust you to do what was unscrupulous.’

‘How well you know me! However, the wedding took place. It must have been at the last minute, when she saw that he was near the end and moved fast to secure an inheritance.’

‘Are you sure there’s been a marriage at all?’

‘Yes, I’ve heard from her lawyers. The Signora Helena Veretti—as she now calls herself—is about to arrive and claim what she considers hers.’

The coldly sardonic edge in his voice startled even Raffano, who was used to it.

‘Of course you feel bad about it,’ he said. ‘The factory should never have been left to Antonio in the first place. It was always understood that it was to go to your father—’

‘But my father was busy getting into debt at the time and my great-aunt thought she was doing the sensible thing, leaving it to Antonio,’ Salvatore supplied. ‘That was all right. He was family. But this woman isn’t family, and I’ll be damned if I stand by and see Veretti property fall into her grasping hands.’

‘It’ll be hard for you to challenge the will if she’s his legal wife, however recent the marriage.’

A frightening smile came over Salvatore’s face.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘As you said, I know how to be unscrupulous.’

‘You make it sound almost like a virtue.’

‘It can be.’

‘Just the same, be a little careful, Salvatore. I know you’ve had to be ruthless ever since you were very young, to save your family from disaster. But sometimes I wonder if you’re going a little too far for your own good.’

‘My own good? How can being firm possibly harm me?’

‘By turning you into a tyrant, a man to be feared but never loved, and consequently a man who will end his days alone. I wouldn’t say this unless I was your friend.’

Salvatore’s face softened. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘A better friend no man ever had. But don’t worry. I’m well-protected. Nothing can touch me.’

‘I know. That’s what worries me most.’

Everything was done. The funeral was over, the paperwork was in order, and all that was left was to check out of the hotel and head for Miami Airport.

Before starting the journey Helena went to the cemetery, to lay a final offering of flowers on her husband’s grave.

‘I guess this is goodbye,’ she said when she’d arranged them carefully. ‘I’ll come back and see you again, but I don’t know exactly when. It depends what I find when I get to Venice.’

A step on the path behind her made her turn far enough to see a group of people walking past, slowing so that they could see her better. She gave a faint smile.

‘It’s happening again,’ she whispered to Antonio. ‘Do you remember how we used to laugh when they stared at me?’

Her beauty had always drawn eyes, first in her years as a model then, after her retirement, the attention had continued. Her long hair was a luscious honey-colour, and her figure had remained perfect; five feet ten inches, slender but rounded.

Her face was remarkable, with large eyes and full lips that commanded attention. Those generous lips were her chief beauty for they made her smile impossible to ignore, and when held softly together they seemed to be on the verge of a kiss.

That, at least, was what one of her admirers had said. Helena had thanked him graciously, then turned away to hide her chuckles. She could never quite take her own achievements seriously, which was part of her charm. Photographers wanting to convey ‘voluptuous’ had always asked for her, and she was soon known in the trade as ‘Helen of Troy’, which made her laugh even more.

Antonio had enjoyed every moment of it.

‘They look at us and say, “What a lucky fellow to have won the heart of that beautiful woman!”’ he’d said with relish. ‘They think what a wonderful time we must have in bed, and they envy me.’

Then he’d sighed, for the wonderful time in bed had been an illusion. His heart had been too weak to risk physical exertion, and in their two years together they had never once made love. But he’d derived much innocent pleasure from the world’s speculation.

‘I’m going to miss you terribly,’ she told him now. ‘You were wonderful to me, always so kind, giving much and taking little. With most men it’s the other way around. For the first time in my life I felt loved and protected, and now suddenly I’m alone again.’

Tears streamed down her face as she touched the marble headstone.

‘Why did you have to die? We always knew it was going to happen but we thought, if we were careful, we could prolong your life. And we did. You had all those extra months and things were looking good, but then suddenly…’

She could still see him as he’d been then, laughing, then stopping suddenly, his face becoming strained, laughter turning to choking as he was enveloped by his final heart attack. And it was all over.

‘Goodbye,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll always be in my heart.’

They had been so close in spirit that she felt he was still with her as the cab conveyed her to Miami Airport and she boarded the flight. In the long dark hours crossing the ocean he was there again, reminding her how their strange marriage had come about.

She’d abandoned modelling at the height of her career, tired of the life, meaning to become a businesswoman. She’d built up a healthy fortune, and only needed a way to invest it.

She’d thought herself knowledgeable, but soon discovered her mistake when a con man persuaded her to invest in a dud company. Before she’d actually signed any cheques Antonio had come to her rescue, warning her of a friend who’d been tricked in just such a way. That was how they’d met, when he saved her from disaster.

They’d become close friends. He had been in his sixties and already knew that his life could not be long. When he’d asked her to stay with him until the end she agreed without hesitation, feeling that he would ease her loneliness for whatever time they had together, as she would ease his. Their marriage ceremony had been as quiet as they could arrange and she’d tended him lovingly until the day he died in her arms.

He’d talked quite frankly about the time to come, and the provision he’d made for her, excessive provision in her opinion. She’d known he owned a glass factory on the Venetian island of Murano.

‘When I’m no longer here Larezzo Glass will be yours,’ he said. ‘And you will go to Venice to claim it.’

‘But what would I do with a glass factory?’ she’d protested.

‘Sell it. My relative, Salvatore, will make you a good offer.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because I know how badly he wants it. He wasn’t pleased when it was left to me instead of him.’

‘But didn’t you tell me that he already has one of his own?’

‘Yes, Perroni Glass is his, and they’re the two best. When he owns Larezzo as well he’ll dominate the whole industry. Nobody will be able to challenge him, which is just how he likes it. You can demand a high price. There’s a bank loan to be paid off but there’ll be enough money left after that to keep you safe. Don’t refuse me, cara. Let me have the pleasure of knowing that I’ve looked after you, as you have looked after me.’

‘But I don’t need money,’ she reminded him. ‘I have plenty of my own, which you saved for me. You looked after me very effectively then.’

‘Then let me look after you some more, to thank you for your care of me.’

‘But we cared for each other,’ she thought now. ‘He showed me that all men aren’t grasping and rapacious. Now he’s gone and I can’t see the way ahead.’

It was a long journey, first across the Atlantic to Paris, then a three-hour wait for the connecting flight to Venice. By the time she reached her destination she was nodding off. When she finally emerged from Customs she was met by an escort from the hotel. It was bliss to leave everything to him.

She had a vague awareness of the motor-boat trip across the lagoon and down the Grand Canal to the Illyria Hotel, where hands assisted her from the boat. Once in her room she nibbled at the meal that was sent up, before climbing into bed and sinking into a heavy, jet-lagged sleep.

As the hours passed her sleep became lighter and she found that Antonio was there again in her dreams, cheerful, jokey, despite his impending death, because it was his way to ignore the future as long as he could enjoy the present.

Because he flourished in hot weather they had gone to live in Miami, where they spent long, lazy days together, in contented mutual devotion. To please him she’d learned to speak Italian, and then also learned the Venetian dialect because he’d bet her she couldn’t do it.

He’d tricked her about that. She’d thought it would be easy, imagining a dialect was little more than a change in pronunciation. Too late she’d discovered that Venetian was a whole different language.

Antonio had enjoyed the joke, laughing until he brought on a coughing fit and had to use his inhaler.

‘Fooled you!’ he gasped. ‘Bet you can’t do it.’

After that she had to try, and surprised herself and him by becoming good at both languages.

Antonio showed her pictures of his family, especially Salvatore, his cousin once removed, he told her, carefully stressing the ‘removed’, because he admired Salvatore only in a distant way, and tended to avoid him. He hadn’t invited him to the wedding, or even told him about it.

‘He’s a hard man,’ he said. ‘I was always the black sheep of the family, and he disapproved of me.’

‘But you’re more than twenty years older than he is,’ she pointed out. ‘Shouldn’t it be you disapproving of him?’

‘I wish!’ Antonio said ruefully. ‘I preferred to leave running the factory to my manager, so that I could enjoy myself.’

‘And Salvatore doesn’t enjoy himself?’

‘Well—it depends what you mean by enjoyment. Ever since he grew up he could have any woman he wanted, but they always came second to ruling the roost. He’s a bit of a puritan, which is odd in a Venetian. We tend to think more about relishing life today and letting tomorrow take care of itself. But not Salvatore.

‘It might be something to do with his father, my cousin, Giorgio, a man who really knew how to have a good time. Perhaps he overdid it a little with too many women. His poor wife certainly thought so. Salvatore also takes his pleasures freely, but he’s more discreet, and no woman is allowed to impinge on his real life.

‘Everyone’s afraid of him. Even me. Venice wasn’t big enough to hold both of us, so I left, travelled the world, went to England, met you, and have been happy ever since.’

Salvatore’s picture showed that he was handsome, slightly fierce, with a face that was a little too firm and a mysterious air about him that Antonio told her attracted women.

‘They all think they’ll be the one to soften him, but none ever has. I keep meaning to take you to Venice to meet him, but I dare not.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You’re so beautiful he’d make a play for you in minutes.’

‘Then he’d be wasting his time,’ Helena had told him, laughing. ‘Let’s make that trip. I should like to see Venice.’

Now she was seeing Venice, but not in the way she’d hoped.

‘We should have come here together,’ she told Antonio, and on the words she awoke.

At first she didn’t know where she was. Then she saw the high painted ceiling, elaborately decorated with cherubs, and the exotic furnishings that might have come from the eighteenth century. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on a light robe and went to the window, pushing it open to find herself bathed in dazzling light.

It was like stepping into a new universe, brilliant, magical, and she stood entranced. The water that flowed past the building was busy with boats. The landing stages were crowded with people, and everywhere she looked there was activity.

A shower brought her fully back to life, ready to go out and explore. She chose clothes that were elegant but functional, being particularly careful about the shoes.

‘The stones of Venice are the hardest in the world,’ Antonio had groaned. ‘If you’re going to walk—and you have to walk because there are no cars—don’t wear high heels.’

To placate his nagging ghost she selected a pair that were flat and efficient and that looked good with hip-hugging wine-red trousers and a white blouse. Her glorious hair was swept back and fixed so that it hung down her back. Then she stood before the mirror to regard herself critically.

Neat, slightly severe, nothing that would hog attention. Good.

Having breakfast in her room would be too dull, so she went down to the restaurant to confront the banquet there.

It was one of the pleasures of her life that she could eat whatever she liked without putting on weight. Now she enjoyed herself to the full, then went to the information desk to collect some leaflets about the city. Serious business could wait while she had some fun. The young man behind the counter asked politely if she had any special reason to come to Venice.

‘I’m interested in glass,’ she said casually. ‘I believe there are several glass factories here.’

‘They are on the island of Murano, just across the water. Murano glass is the very finest in the world.’

‘So I’ve heard. I believe there’s one called Larezzo that’s supposed to be the best of all.’

‘Some say it is, some say that Perroni is the best. They’re about equal. If you’re interested in seeing a glass works there’s a tour going to Larezzo today.’

‘Thank you, I should like to join it.’

An hour later a large motor boat drew up by the hotel landing stage and she boarded it, along with five others. Ten tourists were already there, and the driver proclaimed that they had now made the last stop, and could head for Murano.

‘Once the factories were in Venice,’ Antonio had told her. ‘But the city fathers were afraid of those roaring foundries, in case they started a fire that would consume the whole city. So, in the thirteenth century, they banished the glass makers to Murano.’

There they had remained ever since, dominating the art with their inventive techniques and the unrivalled beauty of their products.

Now Helena stood near the front of the boat, full of curiosity about what she would discover, and revelling in the sensation of the wind whipping about her. Of course, it made good business sense to inspect her property incognito before confronting Salvatore, but she knew, if she was honest, that she was simply enjoying this.

After fifteen minutes they arrived. Hands reached out to help them ashore, and a guide pointed out the factory.

She had never been anywhere like it before. The exhibition of finished glass objects was pleasing enough, but beyond that were the secrets of how these beautiful things were made. The furnaces, the designers, the vases being blown by hand—all these things entranced her.

She let herself fall back to the edge of the crowd, then slipped away out of sight. Now she was free to wander alone, pausing to watch as the fancy took her. It was like another universe, one where the most dazzling arts were practised with an almost casual skill.

At last she reckoned she should rejoin the others. They were just below, at the foot of the stairs, and by passing a nearby door she could reach them quietly.

The door was half-open, giving her a glimpse of a man talking into the telephone in a harsh, angry voice. She slipped past, unnoticed, and would have proceeded to the head of the stairs, had not the sound of her own name pulled her up short.

‘Signora Helena Veretti, I suppose we must call her, though it goes against the grain.’

Slowly she moved backwards until she could just make him out again. He had his back to her, but suddenly he turned, giving her a glimpse of his face and making her pull back sharply.

Salvatore Veretti.

She might be mistaken. She had only an old photograph to go on.

But there was no mistake about what he was saying.

‘I can’t think why she’s not here yet. I came to Larezzo to see if any of the staff had heard anything, but they all swear blind that there’s been no sign of her.’

Now she was glad that she’d learned Venetian dialect, for without it she wouldn’t have understood a word, although the ill-will in his tone was unmistakeable.

‘Don’t ask me what happened to the stupid woman. It doesn’t really matter, except that I don’t like being kept waiting.’

Really! thought Helena with wry humour.

‘Whenever she arrives I’m ready for her. I know just what to expect; some smart miss on the make who married Antonio to get her hands on his money. She may have fooled him, but she won’t fool me. If she thinks she’s going to take over here, she’s mistaken. And if she thinks I don’t know the kind of woman she is, she’s even more mistaken.’

There was a pause, during which Helena reckoned the other party was actually managing to get a word in edgeways. It didn’t last long.

‘It’s no problem. She won’t know what Larezzo is worth, and she’ll jump at whatever I offer. If not, if she’s mad enough to try to keep the place, I’ll simply drive her to the wall, then buy her out for peanuts. Yes, that’s fighting dirty. So what? It’s the way to get results, and this is one result I’m determined to get. I’ll call you later.’

Helena moved away quickly, hurrying down the stairs to rejoin the party. Now she was seething.

She’d been ready to do a reasonable deal, but this man wasn’t reasonable. He wasn’t even civilised. And his behaviour was beyond bearing.

If she thinks I don’t know the kind of woman she is…

Those words burned into her consciousness.

I’ll tell you the kind of woman I am, she mused. The kind who won’t put up with your behaviour, that’s for sure. The kind who’ll give you a black eye and enjoy doing it. That kind.

Right! If that’s how you want to play it, I enjoy a good fight.

CHAPTER TWO

HELENA slipped quietly back into the group, relieved that nobody seemed to have noticed her absence. Rico, the guide, was announcing the end of the tour.

‘But before we take you back, you will please honour us by accepting some refreshment. This way please.’

He led them into a room where a long table was laid out with cakes, wine and mineral water, and began to serve them. As he was handing a glass to Helena he looked up suddenly, alerted by someone who’d just come in and was calling him in Venetian.

‘Sorry to trouble you, Rico, but do you know where Emilio is?’

Helena recognised the name. Emilio Ganzi had been Antonio’s trusted manager for years.

‘He’s out,’ Rico said, ‘but I’m expecting him back any moment.’

‘Fine, I’ll wait.’

It was him, the man she’d seen in the office, and now Helena had no doubt that this was Salvatore. She stayed discreetly back, taking the chance to study her enemy unobserved.

He bore all the signs of a worthy opponent, she had to admit that. Antonio had said he was a man who expected never to be challenged, and it was there in the set of his head, in an air of assertiveness so subtle that the unwary might fail to see it.

But she saw it, and knew exactly what Antonio had meant. Salvatore was tall, more than six foot, with black hair and eyes of a dark brown that seemed to swallow light. Helena wondered if he worked out in a gym. Beneath his conventional clothing she sensed hard muscles, proclaiming a dominance of the body as well as the mind.

His face told two different stories; one of sensuality just below the surface, one of stern self-control. He would yield nothing except for reasons of his own. Remembering the angry frustration in his voice so recently, and comparing it to the civilised ease of his manner now, she guessed that the control was in full force.

Yet, despite being masked, the sensuality asserted itself in the slight curve of his mouth, the way his lips moved against each other. There was an instinctive harmony in his whole being, a sense of power held in reserve, ready to be unleashed at any moment.

He was moving among the group, discovering that they were English and switching easily to that language, asking politely why they had wanted to visit a glass factory, and why this one in particular. His manner was friendly, his smile apparently warm. Under other circumstances Helena would have found him charming.

When he noticed her he grew still for a brief moment, which was what men always did, noticing her beauty, only half believing it. For a moment she contemplated her next move.

Why not have some fun?

Driven by an imp of wickedness, she gave him an enticing smile.

‘Can I get you a glass of wine?’ he asked, approaching her.

‘Thank you.’

He produced it, took one himself, and walked aside with her, enquiring politely, ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

She preserved a straight face. He had no idea that she was the enemy that he was so confident of defeating. As a model she’d often needed acting skills. She used them now, assuming a note of naïve enthusiasm.

‘Oh, yes, I really am. I’m fascinated by places like this. It’s wonderful being able to see how things work.’

She gave him the full value of her eyes, which were large and deep blue, and had been known to make strong men weep. He rewarded her with a wry half-smile, clearly saying that he liked her looks, he wasn’t fooled by her methods, but he didn’t mind passing the time this way, as long as she didn’t overdo it.

Cheek! she thought. He was appraising her like a potential investment, to see if it was worth his time and trouble.

Helena was as free from conceit as an accredited beauty could well be, but this was insulting. After the remarks she’d overheard it was practically a declaration of war.

But she had also declared war, although he didn’t know it. Now it was time to discover the lie of the land.

‘It’s just a pity that the tours of this place are so short,’ she sighed. ‘No time to see all I wanted to.’

‘Why don’t I show you a little more?’ he asked easily.

‘That would be delightful.’

Envious looks followed her, the woman who’d captured the most attractive man in the room in two and a half minutes flat. As they departed a voice floated behind them.

‘We could all do that if we had her legs.’

She gave a soft choke of laughter, and he smiled.

‘I guess you’re used to it,’ he murmured.

He didn’t add, ‘A woman who looks like you.’ He didn’t have to.

The trip was fascinating. He was an excellent guide with a gift for explaining things simply but thoroughly.

‘How do they get that wonderful ruby-red?’ she marvelled.

‘They use a gold solution as a colouring agent,’ he told her.

Another marvel was the row of furnaces, three of them. The first contained the molten glass into which the tip of the blowpipe was dipped. When the glass had been worked on and cooled a little it was reheated in the second furnace through a hole in the door, known as the Glory Hole. This happened again and again, keeping the glass up to the ideal temperature for moulding. When the perfect shape had been achieved it went into the third furnace to be cooled slowly.

‘I’m afraid you may find it uncomfortably hot in here,’ Salvatore observed.

But she shook her head. True, the heat was fierce, but far from being uncomfortable it seemed to bathe her in its glow. She stood as close as she dared to the red-white light streaming from the Glory Hole, feeling as though her whole self was opening up to its fierce radiance.

‘Get back,’ Salvatore said, taking hold of her.

Reluctantly she let him draw her away. The heat was making her blood pound through her veins and she felt mysteriously exalted.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, keeping his hands on her shoulders and looking down into her flushed face.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she murmured.

He gave her a little shake. ‘Wake up.’

‘I don’t want to.’

He nodded. ‘I know the feeling. This place is hypnotic, but you have to be careful. Come over here.’

He led her to where a man was blowing glass through a pipe, turning it slowly so that it didn’t sag and lose shape. Watching him, she felt reality return.

‘It’s incredible that it’s still done that way,’ she marvelled. ‘You’d think it would be easier to use a machine.’

‘It is,’ he said. ‘There are machines that will do some kind of job, and if “some kind of job” is what you want, that’s fine. But if you want a perfect job, lovingly sculpted by a glass worker who’s put his soul into his art, then come to Murano.’

Something in his voice made her look at him quickly. Until now their conversation had been a light-hearted dance, but his sudden fervour made the music pause.

‘There’s nothing like it,’ he said simply. ‘In a world where things are increasingly mechanised, there’s still one place that’s fighting off the machines.’

Then he gave a brief, self-conscious laugh.

‘We Venetians are always a little crazy about Venice. To the outside world most of what we say sounds like nonsense.’

‘I don’t think it’s—’

‘There’s something else that might interest you,’ he said as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘Shall we go this way?’

She followed him, intrigued, not by whatever he had to show her, but by the brief glimpse behind his eyes that he discouraged so swiftly.

‘The glass isn’t all blown,’ he said, leading into the next room. ‘Figurines and jewellery take just as much art of a different kind.’

One piece held her attention, a pendant in the shape of a heart. The glass seemed to be dark blue, but with every movement it changed through mauve and green. She held it in her hand, thinking of one just like it, except for the colour, safely tucked away in her jewel box in the hotel. It had been Antonio’s first gift to her.

‘From my heart to yours,’ he’d said, smiling in a way that had moved her, because he seemed almost shy.

She’d worn it for their wedding, and again as he lay dying, just to please him.

‘Do you like it?’ Salvatore asked.

‘It’s really beautiful.’

He took it from her. ‘Turn around.’

She did so, and felt him pull her long hair aside, put the chain around her neck and clasp it. His fingers barely brushed her skin but suddenly she wanted to clench her hands and take deep breaths. She wanted to take flight and run as far away from him as possible. She wanted to press closer and feel his hands on the rest of her body. She didn’t know what she wanted.

Then it was over. His touch vanished. She returned to earth.

‘It looks good on you,’ he said. ‘Keep it.’

‘But this belongs to the firm. You can’t give it to me, unless—oh, my goodness, you’re the manager.’ She put her hand over her mouth in simulated dismay. ‘You are the manager, and I never realised. I’ve been taking up your time—’

‘No, I’m not the manager.’

‘Then you’re the owner?’

The question seemed to disconcert him. He didn’t reply and she pushed her advantage.

‘You do own this place, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘At least, I will soon, when some trivial formalities are cleared up.’

Helena stared at him. This was arrogance on a grand scale.

‘Trivial formalities,’ she echoed. ‘Oh, I see. You mean the sale is agreed and you’ll take over in a few days. How wonderful!’

He made a wry face.

‘Not quite as fast as that. Sometimes things take a little negotiating.’

‘Aw, c’mon, you’re kidding me. I bet you’re one of those—what do they call them?—speculators. You see, you want, you’re sure to get. But someone’s being awkward about it, right?’

To her surprise he grinned.

‘Maybe a little,’ he conceded. ‘But nothing I can’t cope with.’

It was marvellous, she thought, how amusement transformed his face, giving it a touch of charm.

‘What about the poor owner?’ she teased. ‘Does he know it’s “in hand,” or is that delightful surprise waiting for him as he steps around a dark corner?’

This time he laughed outright.

‘I’m not a monster, whatever you may think. No dark corners, I swear it. And the owner is a woman who probably has a few tricks of her own.’

‘Which, of course, you’ll know how to deal with.’

‘Let’s just say that I’ve never been bested yet.’

‘There’s a first time for everything.’

‘You think so?’

Helena regarded him with her head on one side, her eyes challenging and provoking.

‘I know your kind,’ she said. ‘You think you can “cope with” anything because you’ve never learned different. You’re the sort of man who makes other people long to sock you on the jaw, just to give you a new experience.’

‘I’m always open to new experiences,’ he said. ‘Would you like to sock me on the jaw?’

‘One day I’m sure I will,’ she said in a considering voice. ‘Just now it would be too much effort.’

He laughed again, a disconcertingly pleasant sound, with a rich vibrancy that went through her almost physically.

‘Shall we store it up for the future?’ he asked.

‘I’ll look forward to that,’ she said, meaning it.

‘Do you challenge every man you meet?’

‘Only the ones I think need it.’

‘I could make the obvious answer to that, but let’s have a truce instead.’

‘As long as it’s armed,’ she reminded him.

‘My truces are always armed.’

He stopped a passing young woman and spoke to her in Venetian. When she’d departed he said,

‘I asked her to bring us some refreshment outside, where we can sit down.’

Outside was a wooden seat on a terrace that overlooked a small canal with shops along the bank. It was pleasant to sit there drinking coffee.

‘Is this your first visit to Venice?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’ve thought about it for years but never got around to it before.’

‘Do you travel alone?’

‘Quite alone.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘Let us not play games. You don’t need me to say that a woman as beautiful as you need never lack company.’

‘But perhaps you need to hear that a woman may prefer to be alone. It isn’t always the man’s choice, you know. Sometimes she consults her own preferences and consigns men to the devil.’

He gave a wry smile. ‘Touché! I suppose I asked for that.’

‘You certainly did.’

‘And have you consigned us all to the devil?’

‘Some of you. There are men who are fit for nothing else.’

He nodded. ‘You must have met quite a few of them.’

‘A fair number. The virtues of solitude can be very appealing.’

‘And so you travel alone,’ he said slowly.

‘Alone—but not lonely.’

That seemed to disconcert him. After a moment he said quietly, ‘Then you must be the only person who isn’t.’

‘To be enough for yourself,’ she answered, ‘safe from the onslaughts of other people, and happy to be so—it isn’t really very hard.’

‘That’s not true, and you know it,’ he replied, looking at her intently. ‘If you’ve achieved it, you’re one in a million. But I don’t believe that you have achieved it. It’s your way of fooling the world—or yourself.’

She felt as if a hand had been laid on her shoulder, halting her in her tracks. It was a moment before she drew a deep breath and said, ‘I don’t know if you’re right. Perhaps I never will.’

‘But I would like to know,’ he said in the same quiet tone. ‘I’d like to see behind that mask you keep so firmly in place.’

‘If I removed it for everyone, there would be no point in having it,’ she pointed out.

‘Not everyone. Just me.’

Suddenly she found it hard to breathe. It was as though a cloud had crossed the sun, throwing the world into shadow, making complex things that had seemed simple only a moment before.

‘Why should I tell you what I tell nobody else?’ she managed to say at last.

‘Only you can decide that.’

‘That’s true. And my decision is…’ She hesitated. Something in his eyes was trying to make her say what he wanted to hear, but it had to be resisted. ‘My decision is that I’ve kept my secrets safe so far, and I’ll go on doing just that.’

‘You think your secrets are safe, do you?’

Something in his voice filled her with the conviction that nothing in the world was safe, her secrets, her heart, herself—nothing.

‘I think—I think I shall work hard to keep them safe.’

‘And woe betide intruders?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But don’t you know that your attitude is, in itself, a challenge to intruders?’

She smiled. She was beginning to feel at ease again.

‘Of course I know. But I’ve fought this battle before, and I always win.’

He raised her hand and brushed the back of it with his lips. She took a long, shaky breath.

‘So do I,’ he assured her.

‘Do you know, that’s twice you’ve told me you’re invincible, once about business and once about—well, whatever?’

‘Why don’t you give it a name?’ he asked.

She met his eyes. ‘Perhaps names don’t matter.’

Before he could reply her attention was caught by the sound of a motor. Turning her head, she just made out the boat that had brought her here, appearing around the edge of the building and streaking away across the water.

‘Hey, they should have waited for me,’ she protested.

‘I told them not to. I said I’d take you back myself.’

‘You told them to go without me?’ she said slowly. ‘Without asking me first?’

‘I was sure that you would agree with me.’

‘No you weren’t. That’s why you didn’t tell me. You’ve got a cheek!’

‘In that case I apologise. I meant no harm.’

‘Of course not,’ she said affably. ‘Just to get your own way with the least inconvenience. Where’s the harm in that?’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘I suppose the poor idiot who owns this place is going to get the same treatment until she gives in.’

‘Don’t pity her; she’s no idiot but a very clever woman who got her hands on Larezzo by cunning and will sell it for the highest price she can extort.’

‘And since you want the place, she’s laughing.’

‘I doubt she’ll be laughing when I’ve finished. Let’s not talk about her further. She isn’t interesting and you still haven’t told me your name.’

She was saved from having to answer by the sight of Rico appearing behind him.

‘I think you’re wanted,’ she said.

Rico was anxious to let him know that the manager had now returned and awaited his pleasure. Salvatore thanked him and turned back to Helena.

She was gone.

‘What the—? Did you see where she went?’

‘Round that corner, signor,’ Rico said.

But when Salvatore followed he found himself facing a small piazza with no less than four exits and nothing to show which one she had taken. He made a token pursuit, hurrying from one little street to another, peering vainly down the narrow length of each, but knowing it was useless.

At last he stopped, furious at how easily she’d given him the slip on his own territory. Before returning he adjusted his expression so that he could say casually to Rico,

‘Do you happen to know who she was?’

‘No, signor. She just came as one of the group. Is it important?’

‘No, not important at all,’ he said heartily. ‘Let’s get back to business.’

Helena found that it was simple to return to Venice. Taxis were as easy to come by as in any other city, except that they moved on water. Soon she was streaking back across the lagoon, trying to sort out her conflicting emotions.

Satisfaction warred with annoyance. She’d bearded the enemy in his lair, looked him over, assessed him, been intrigued by him, and come off best in their parting. All that remained now was to make him suffer for his cheap opinion of her.

And she knew just the way.

Antonio had told her about the Venice grapevine.

‘Whisper a secret at one end of the Grand Canal and it’ll reach the other end before you do,’ he’d said.

Now she put it to the test.

Returning to the Illyria, she headed back to the information desk, where the same young man was still on duty.

‘I’ve had the most wonderful day,’ she enthused. ‘Isn’t Venice just the loveliest city? And to think I own a little part of it!’

She bubbled on, making sure that he knew she was the widow of Antonio Veretti and the new owner of Larezzo Glass. He understood precisely, as she could tell from the way his eyes were popping. As she danced into the elevator she was sure he was reaching for the telephone.

In her room she settled down to make enjoyable decisions. This dress? No, too blatant. That one, then—black, elegant, slightly severe. But she didn’t know when their meeting would occur. It might be daytime, so perhaps something more businesslike would be suitable. In the end she laid out several outfits, ready for her final decision.

As she got out of the shower the telephone rang. She answered cautiously, meaning to disguise her voice, but the man at the other end wasn’t Salvatore.

‘Am I talking to Signora Helena Veretti?’

‘You are.’

‘I am secretary to Signor Salvatore Veretti. He asks me to say that he was very glad to hear of your arrival in Venice, and looks forward to a meeting.’

Helena assumed her most formal voice to say,

‘How kind of Signor Veretti.’

‘Would this evening be too soon?’

‘Not at all.’

‘He suggests dinner at the Palazzo Veretti. His boatman will call for you at seven-thirty.’

‘I look forward to it.’

She hung up, and sat still for a moment, caught off-guard by something happening inside her.

The invitation was exactly what she’d wanted, so it was illogical that she was assailed by doubt, but she had the sudden shocking feeling of confusion. It made no sense, she told herself. She had nothing to fear from this man. The power was in her hands, not his.

Hands. The word seemed to leap out at her. His hands on the nape of her neck, caressing fingers touching, retreating, touching again. And herself trying to breathe through the storm that had engulfed her without warning.

Never, never again! She’d promised herself that long ago as a child of sixteen, when the brutal end to her first love had left her hostile to men and frozen to their caresses.

They didn’t know. Stupid as they were, there wasn’t one of them who could see past the façade of sexual availability that had been her trademark, to the bleak, icy truth within. She’d played them off against each other, used them to climb to the pinnacle of her career, made money out of them. And she’d slept alone.

In all those years she’d never again known the dizzying, irresistible desire that had once carried her to disaster. Once or twice a faint whisper of pleasure had troubled her but she’d controlled it, fleeing the man, never letting him suspect. With time, those occasions had grown rarer.

Looking down the vista of her future life, she’d been prepared for loneliness. Instead she’d found Antonio, a man who’d adored her without being able to risk a physical relationship. They had been perfect for each other. And his true legacy wasn’t wealth, but the fact that he’d made her strong, strong enough to face an uncertain future.

‘Hell!’ she thought, exasperated with herself. ‘I’m thirty-two. Next stop, middle-age. I’ve managed so far. I can manage the rest.’

So, the black dress, one of Antonio’s last gifts to her, chosen for its allure. It was silk, tight-fitting, with a neckline that dropped just a little. The hem came to just above her knees, not high enough for immodesty, but high enough to show off her long legs. And after a day in sensible shoes it was a pleasure to don high heels.

She let her luxuriant hair hang loose, not drawn back as during the day, but free-flowing over her shoulders.

Her jewellery was restrained. Apart from her wedding ring she wore only a dainty gold watch, two tiny diamond studs in her ears and Antonio’s glass heart. Unlike the blue shading of Salvatore’s gift, this one was dark red, sometimes lightening to deep pink, but always returning to a hue that was like red roses.

‘Right,’ she told the mirror. ‘Let battle commence.’

CHAPTER THREE

SHE waited downstairs, and at last the doorman came to escort her out to the waiting boat, which turned out to be a gondola. The gondolier bowed as he handed her in, saw her comfortably settled and moved off.

Early evening was the best time to see the Grand Canal. Lights blazed from the windows of the buildings lining the banks, and the April sun was setting, casting a glow on the water with its throng of boats. At this time of day they were mostly gondolas, conveying tourists to dinner, sightseeing, music, romance. The air was alive with the anticipation of pleasure.

‘Is it very far?’ she called up and over her shoulder to where the gondolier was standing behind her, plying his single oar.

‘Very little distance, signora. The Palazzo Veretti is further along the Grand Canal. It is magnificent. Everyone admires it.’

A moment later she saw what he meant as they turned the canal’s curve and the building came into sight. It was, as he’d said, magnificent, pale grey marble, ornately decorated in the Renaissance style, rising four storeys, each with ten windows facing the canal, all lit up.

She drew an admiring breath at its beauty, at the same time noting the message of dominance that came from every line. This was the home of a man who was powerful, and wanted everyone to know it.

The gondola was turning, heading for the landing stage at the front of the palazzo. And there, standing in readiness, his eyes fixed on her approach, was Salvatore.

She watched his face and saw that in the evening light he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. As the gondola drew up to the landing stage he reached out to help her from the boat. She felt the strong clasp of his hand, drawing her up until they were level. His hand tightened as he saw her face, but there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes. Was she? Wasn’t she?

She gave him a deliberately challenging smile, full of amusement at his expense, calculated to annoy him.

‘Good evening, Signor Valetti,’ she said sweetly. ‘How kind of you to invite me here tonight.’

‘You?’ he said slowly. ‘Did I invite—you?’

‘You invited Signora Helena Veretti,’ she said, ‘and I am she. I hope I don’t come as a disappointment.’

His eyes narrowed.

‘Not a disappointment, signora. A surprise perhaps.’

‘You mean a shock, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps I do,’ he said slowly.

‘Ah, that little trick I played on you this afternoon. Was it very bad of me? Are you angry?’

‘Of course not. I hope I can appreciate a joke as well as the next man.’

He was lying, Helena knew. His smiling civility was for the boatman’s benefit. Beneath it he was furious at being wrong-footed.

Good!

He paid the gondolier, who seemed pleasantly surprised by the amount, and made himself scarce.

Offering her his arm, Salvatore led her into the brightly lit downstairs hall, with its sweeping staircase. Only then did he look at her closely enough to see what she was wearing around her neck. He drew a sharp breath as he saw the glass heart, so like the one he’d given her that afternoon, but deep red.

‘A gift from my husband,’ she said, touching it.

‘I congratulate you, signora, a very clever performance. No wonder you wouldn’t tell me your name.’

‘It would have been a pity to spoil a good joke.’

‘It would indeed. But let us leave that matter for later. I’ve brought you here to enjoy the very best meal of your life.’

You’ve brought me here to crush me, she thought, amused. Now you need a delay to regroup your forces.

He led her into a large room, ornately furnished with items that seemed several hundred years old. In her first confused impression she could only tell that everything here was costly.

Antonio had told her the history of the palazzo, which had once belonged to a noble family called Cellini.

‘But they spent all their money about a hundred years ago. Then along came the upstart Verettis, with no title but plenty of money, and bought them out at a rock-bottom price—which is how they always prefer to buy. Remember that when you’re negotiating with Salvatore.’

Oh, yes, she thought. I’ll remember.

Salvatore showed her to a sofa and turned to the drinks table.

‘I think I can offer you something a little better than this afternoon,’ he said.

‘But this afternoon you were only a surrogate host for the real owner,’ she reminded him gaily.

‘How true,’ he said, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘I suppose I owe you an apology.’

‘Don’t apologise. I’ve never been so entertained in my life.’

She saw a flash of real anger in his glance, suppressed so quickly that anyone less alive to his reactions might have missed it. It was dangerous to taunt him, but that only made it all the more exciting.

The wine was excellent, almost a statement of superiority in itself. She sipped it slowly for a brief moment, then set it down.

‘A little more?’ he asked.

‘No, thank you. I’m keeping my wits about me tonight.’

‘In that case, why don’t we eat?’

He led her to a table by a tall window that opened onto a balcony looking down onto the Grand Canal, and politely held out a seat for her.

At first the Venetian cuisine held her silent, being too delicious to interrupt. But at last she glanced up, smiling, to say,

‘This really is the best food of my life, just as you said.’

‘Signora—’

‘Why don’t you just call me Helena? Surely we’re already beyond the need for formalities?’

‘I agree. Helena—’

‘I expect we’re ready to get down to business now. We’ve both had time to get our thoughts in order.’

‘Ah, business. You’re right. Name the price.’

She stared.

‘Did I hear right? You dare say that to me—after everything I heard you say today?’

‘You tricked me.’

‘Just as well, or I wouldn’t have known what you were really thinking.’

‘You were enjoying yourself, weren’t you?’ he accused.

‘Well, can you blame me? You were so certain you could make me dance to your tune that you were an irresistible target.’

He made a wry face, conceding her point.

‘Perhaps I was a little incautious,’ he agreed. ‘I naturally assumed that you’d be glad to sell for the best price you could get.’

‘Why naturally? Perhaps I want to stay and enjoy my husband’s legacy.’

He made a sound of impatience. ‘Please, let’s not have that pretence.’

‘Ah, yes, of course, you’re so sure you know the truth about me.’ She began to quote, speaking in the Venetian she’d heard him use earlier that day. ‘“Some smart miss on the make who married Antonio just before he died, to get her hands on his money. She may have fooled him, but she won’t fool me.”’

‘What?’

‘“If she thinks she’s going to take over here, she’s mistaken,”’ Helena continued quoting. ‘“And if she thinks I don’t know the kind of woman she is, she’s even more mistaken.”’

She waited for him to reply but he only watched her with eyes as hard as stone.

‘I went to the factory in all innocence,’ she continued. ‘I just wanted to see it after Antonio had told me so much. It was sheer chance I happened to pass the office while you were on the phone. I’m glad I did. When somebody has a cruel and insulting opinion of you, it’s always best to know.’

Salvatore rose sharply and strode away from the table as though he couldn’t bear to be near her. Turning, he stared as though he’d just seen her for the first time, and didn’t like it.

‘You—speak—Venetian?’ he said slowly.

‘Antonio taught me. He bet me that I couldn’t learn that as well as Italian. And there’s something else you’d better get straight. Here.’

Opening her bag, she took out a paper and held it out to him. It was her marriage certificate.

‘Look at the date,’ she said. ‘If Antonio had lived a little longer we’d have celebrated our second anniversary. I did not marry him “at the last minute”.’

She had the satisfaction of seeing him redden.

‘And nor do I need his money,’ she finished. ‘I didn’t marry him for money and I don’t need a quick sale now. Please understand that.’

‘All right.’ He held up his hands. ‘We got off on the wrong foot—’

‘No, you got off on the wrong foot, jumping to conclusions about me and spreading inaccurate rumours all over Venice. I could probably sue you for slander.’

‘Have you finished?’

‘No, I’ve barely started.’

‘Suppose I don’t want to listen?’

‘Did I ask what you want?’ Helena saw his surprise and moved in for the kill. ‘It isn’t nice being bullied, is it? Not that I suppose I do it as well as you, but give me a little time to practise.’

‘And I’m sure you’ll take every opportunity,’ he observed, regarding her ironically.

‘Do you blame me?’

‘Not at all. In your position I should do exactly the same. Always kick the enemy when he’s down. It’s the most efficient way.’

‘So you don’t deny that you’re my enemy?’ she said.

‘I’d look rather foolish denying it now, wouldn’t I? Why expose myself to your derision by trying?’

Before she could reply the door opened and the maid appeared with the next course. He returned to the table and they both remained silent until they were alone again.

‘I could always apologise,’ Salvatore said carefully.

‘For everything?’

‘Everything I can remember. If I forget anything I dare say you’ll remind me.’

‘I can forgive everything except that last remark—“the kind of woman she is”. What kind of woman am I, Salvatore?’

‘Please—do we have to go into that?’

‘I think we do. Surely you’re not asking me to spare your blushes. Or is it mine you’re trying to spare? “A smart miss on the make—married him for his money.” Why don’t you just call me a prostitute and have done with it?’

She had the pleasure of seeing that her frankness made him uneasy.

‘Let’s say instead a very clever lady,’ he said.

‘No, let’s say prostitute because that’s what you meant. Have the courage of your convictions. If you’re going to call me names, do it to my face.’

‘You’re right, signora, I don’t like being bullied—’

‘No, you prefer doing the bullying.’

‘Silenzio!’ he snapped in a voice like a whip crack. ‘If you don’t mind I’d like to speak without being interrupted and without having words put into my mouth. I did not call you a prostitute—’

‘It was what you meant.’

‘Kindly don’t tell me what I mean. I will tell you what I mean. If you were married to Antonio for two years then I must respect that, but it doesn’t change my opinion that you saw a good thing and secured it for yourself. Why else does a young and beautiful woman marry a man in his sixties?’

‘There are a dozen reasons, none of which you would understand.’

‘To be sure, anyone who doesn’t see the matter through your eyes is an ignorant buffoon—’

‘Your words—’

‘But you know the truth about yourself, although for some reason you pretend not to. If I say you’re beautiful I’m not paying you a compliment. Beauty like yours is a trap, a menace. You see it every time you look in the mirror and work to bring it to perfection so that your snares are laid and your victims are helpless.’

‘And you think Antonio was my victim?’

‘No doubt of it. He was a lover of beauty, and an even greater lover of sexual allure. You must have found him easy prey. Did you look for him the way you look now?’

‘Yes, he liked me this way. The more I flaunted myself before other men the more he enjoyed it, because it made them jealous of him.’

‘And did he also tell you to go on flaunting yourself when he was dead?’ Salvatore demanded ironically.

‘Oddly enough he did. He actually bought me this dress and ordered me to wear it because he said, “Don’t you dare hide yourself behind widow’s weeds. I want the world to see you as I knew you.” You were wondering why a widow of only a few weeks dresses in this fashion, well, now you know. I’m obeying my husband’s command.’

He was about to make a sound of disbelief when it came to him that this was exactly the kind of thing Antonio would have said. The old reprobate had a way of coming out with things no other man would have said.

‘I wonder why you obey this particular command right now,’ he mused. ‘Am I supposed to become a helpless victim?’

‘You don’t seem very helpless to me,’ she remarked.

‘That’s because I’m protected. I know women like you. I know how you think, and calculate, what you want and how you go about getting it. You don’t even try to hide it, I’ll give you that.’

‘You flatter yourself if you think I’m trying to add your scalp to my collection. Why would I want to do that?’ Helena asked incredulously.

‘Because I’m an enemy, of course. What could be more satisfying? Since you prefer honesty, let’s be honest. Subdue the enemy first, then make your demands.’

His voice was cold and dangerous. Recklessly she upped the ante.

‘And just what do you think I want from you, Salvatore? I hold all the cards, which means I make the terms. I don’t even need to “subdue” you, the way you imply.’

He drew a sharp breath. ‘You’re a very courageous woman.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m just the woman who’s got something you want and isn’t going to meekly hand it over. Why would I need courage for that?’

‘For several reasons that I can think of but you probably can’t. You’re a stranger here. You should ask around. There are many who will tell you that I always get what I want, because my methods are—irresistible.’

‘I’m shaking in my shoes—I don’t think.’ In a deliberately provocative voice she added, ‘If I don’t choose to sell there isn’t a thing you can do about it.’

‘There’s a great deal I can do about it.’

‘Oh, yes, now I remember! You were going to drive me to the wall and buy me out for peanuts. How could I possibly have forgotten that? Probably because I was in a fit of laughter.’

His face darkened as though he was containing his fury with difficulty, but she was on a high, and nothing would make her stop now.

‘And don’t count on me not knowing what Larezzo is worth,’ she went on. ‘You’ve told me what a powerful man you are in Venice, but powerful men have enemies. I’ll bet there are a dozen people willing—no, eager to tell me about the value, and give me tips on your weaknesses.’

He was on his feet, looking down into her eyes.

‘So you think you can find my weaknesses?’ he said.

She moved a little closer so that her breath brushed his face.

‘I think I’ve found one now,’ she whispered.

He took hold of her arms and she knew at once that she was right. He was trembling. How far, she wondered, did she dare push him? Just a little further?

But she was thwarted by the sound of footsteps, and broke away from him just as the door opened. It was the maid.

‘Signor Raffano is on the telephone.’

Salvatore was pale, but his voice was calm. ‘I’m just coming.’ To Helena he said, ‘Will you excuse me a moment? I must just deal with this.’

‘Of course.’

In the next room Salvatore picked up the phone. ‘Pronto!’

‘I just had to find out how you were doing,’ came Raffano’s voice. ‘Have you set the price yet?’

‘No, this is going to take time.’

‘Difficult, is she?’

‘Let’s just say she’s not what I expected.’

‘What does that mean?’

Salvatore ground his teeth. ‘It means that she wrong-footed me.’

‘Heaven help her!’

‘It might be heaven help me,’ Salvatore admitted reluctantly. ‘This is one very clever lady. I made the mistake of underestimating her.’ In a reflective voice he added, ‘Which I won’t do again.’

Left alone, Helena began to explore the room, which, at one end, became a picture gallery, and she walked slowly along the portraits. Many were of the Cellini family, as the notes beneath them proclaimed. But the last ones were Valettis, stern-faced makers of money in the nineteenth century.

More recently the pictures weren’t paintings but large photographs, one of which made her pause and regard it fondly.

There was Antonio, years before she’d met him, probably in his late thirties, before his hair had turned from black to grey and started to fall out. She’d known him as a ruin, but once he’d been this fine young cavalier. Some of his wickedly handsome looks had remained to the end, and she could still see the Antonio she’d known.

Salvatore, coming to find her, found her standing before Antonio’s picture, so lost in it that she didn’t hear him. From this angle he could just make out the fond look on her face, the tenderness of her smile. As he watched she raised her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss. She might, or might not, have given a little sigh. He couldn’t be sure.

Helena seemed to become aware of him.

‘Look at his eyes,’ she said, indicating the picture. ‘He was a real devil, wasn’t he?’

‘He was in his youth. What about when you knew him?’

‘We—ell,’ she mused, remembering Antonio’s frailty, and thinking that a man didn’t have to be physically capable to be a devil. There were other ways, charming ways that ended in laughter. Remembering those times, she smiled, her eyes fixed on the distance.

Salvatore, watching intently, saw what he’d expected. She had seduced Antonio into action, driving him beyond his strength until he reached the inevitable end. Suddenly he was angry with himself for forgetting so easily that she was an experienced temptress. Her smile, with its hint of a secret history, told him everything he needed to know.

It was a useful reminder not to forget again.

She passed on and he stood for a moment, considering the soft seductiveness of her walk, the way one part of her body moved against another, which could drive a man to distraction.

Or to death, he thought.

He caught up with her as she paused before a wedding picture.

‘My parents,’ he said.

It was the bride who held Helena’s attention; young, beautiful, glowing with joy and love, she couldn’t tear her gaze from her groom. The man was clearly Salvatore’s father, yet there was something missing. His features were similar, but he lacked the driven intensity of his son, an intensity that would always make Salvatore stand out in the world.

Near-by was a picture that showed more of the family. There was Salvatore, seemingly in his early teens, surrounded by older people, presumably aunts and uncles.

‘And there’s Antonio,’ she said, peering. ‘Who’s the woman sitting beside him?’

‘That’s my mother.’

‘What? But she—?’

Astounded, Helena stared, trying to believe that this middle-aged woman was the same person as the glorious bride of the earlier picture. She was too thin, her whole aspect was tense and strained, and Helena had the feeling that she was putting on a brave, defiant face for the world. She stood just behind the young Salvatore, her glance turned slightly towards him, her hand possessively on his shoulder, as though he was all she had.

She looked back and forth between the two pictures, horrified.

‘How did it happen?’ she asked. ‘She’s so changed.’

‘People do change with the passing of time,’ he observed.

‘But it can’t have been many years after the wedding, and she looks as though some dreadful tragedy had happened to her.’

‘My mother took her duties very seriously, not only in the home but also in the many charities she supported.’

He spoke in a distant voice that made Helena feel he was warning her off the subject. She was dissatisfied. There was more here than simply passing years. Yet she supposed she had no right to ask further. She took one last look at the picture.

‘Poor woman,’ she sighed. ‘How sad she seems!’

Salvatore didn’t answer, and she guessed he was offended by her continued interest. But when she glanced at his face she saw it strangely softened.

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘She was. Shall we go back?’

It was almost a surprise to discover that there was still food on the table from their abandoned meal. So much had happened since, not outwardly but inwardly. They had confronted each other from behind carefully erected barriers of mistrust and dislike, but neither had allowed for the random chance of physical attraction.

It defied belief. It was unexpected, unwanted, but undeniable. As malign and frisky as a jester, it danced between them, laughing at them both, caught in its trap.

Helena had no doubt that he was as trapped as herself. She knew it, not through vanity, but through her senses, fiercely alive as they hadn’t been for years, not since—She shut the thought off there.

Her mind swung obediently into action. Stay cool. Stay in charge.

She sat down, aiming a smile at him like a missile.

‘Now I must finish this cake. It’s delicious.’

‘Some coffee?’

‘How delightful!’

They were back behind their defences, looking out, keeping watch, big guns primed, ready for anything.

‘So,’ he said at last, ‘you’re going to make me wait for the factory?’

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