Dark Fate
Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

AS THE lights went down in the theatre, Saskia suddenly knew Domenico was there.

Not only was he there, but he had seen her too, at the same moment. At the very instant that she sensed his presence she felt the surge of his rage and it was like being hit by lightning. Her whole body reacted with a jerk of terrible shock.

Sitting beside her, Jamie felt her shudder, and looked round at her, his face concerned, whispering, ‘Toothache back again?’

She drew a shaky breath and lied without stopping to think.

‘Just a jab; it’s gone now.’

In the blueish dimness cast out into the upper reaches of the rococo theatre by the footlights she glimpsed Jamie’s curly brown hair, his rugged, weatherbeaten face; and Jamie could probably see the gleam of her blue eyes, the shimmer of her skin. She bent her head and the shining bell of her dark auburn hair fell forward so that he couldn’t see anything more of her. It was instinctive, to hide her expression and the feelings she was afraid might show in it; Jamie knew very little about her—she had only ever told him what she felt he really needed to know, and she didn’t want him to know any more, especially about Domenico.

‘Sure?’ Jamie whispered, leaning closer. ‘If you need them, I’ve got some paracetamol in my pocket. I thought they might come in useful in case your tooth started playing up again.’

That was typical of Jamie, not only because he was warmly sympathetic to anyone in pain, but because he was so intensely practical and thoughtful in the way he responded. Jamie never simply used words; he immediately put his concern into action.

She lifted her head again to give him a faintly wavering smile. ‘You’re amazing; thanks, Jamie. I might take a couple in the interval.’

She had been to the dentist earlier that day to have some work done on a back tooth which had begun aching after she bit on a toasted almond, the decoration on a pastry served to them at dinner at their hotel last night.

Saskia had been kept awake half the night by toothache. The tour operator had made arrangements for her to visit a Venice dentist, and while the others had been taking a gondola tour of the smaller canals in the city Saskia went off to have the offending tooth excavated and filled.

She hated going to the dentist, and particularly hated having a tooth drilled, but anything was better than being kept awake with pain.

‘Tell me, why is toothache always worse at night?’ she had asked the dentist, who had laughed, then given her an admiring look which dwelt longest on her dark red hair and slim, rounded figure before he explained.

‘At night you have nothing to take your mind off it.’ He had smiled again. ‘Unless you are married!’

Saskia had flushed slightly, and the dentist had jumped to a very false conclusion, saying quickly, ‘You are not offended, signorina?’

‘No,’ she had assured him and he had smiled at her again, relieved.

‘You speak Italian very well, signorina.’

‘Thank you, signore,’ she had gravely answered, not explaining why she spoke his language so fluently. For two years she had been lying to people, and Saskia hated being forced to do it yet could see no way out of it. If she told a single soul the truth she might be putting herself at risk. The only safety lay in living a lie.

‘You don’t live in Venice?’ the dentist had asked and she had shaken her head.

‘I’m only here for a few days.’

‘You must go to the opera while you are here; there is a wonderful new singer at the Fenice this season,’ he had told her, his face lighting up with the excitement of the enthusiast.

‘Yes, we are being taken there tonight!’

‘Ah, La Traviata is playing at the moment; you’re so lucky to see it in the Fenice—that is where the opera was first performed, you know! Verdi wrote it especially for the Fenice, but the audience didn’t like it; it wasn’t a success, at first, not in Venice. But the Fenice is the most beautiful theatre in the world. Seventeenth-century, originally, although it was burnt down and rebuilt early in the nineteenth—even London does not have a theatre that old!’

‘Covent Garden Opera House is very old, too,’ Saskia had mildly suggested, but he had made a disparaging noise, shaking his head.

‘Much too big, too ornate and pompous. I don’t like those huge theatres. The Fenice is small, intimate, elegant.’

Looking around the theatre when they arrived Saskia had had to admit that his enthusiasm was understandable; the décor of the theatre was delightful, and as always with theatres of that period glittered with gilt and was swagged with elaborate stucco, the ceiling full of cherubs flying from all corners.

When the injection the dentist had given her had worn off the tooth had begun to ache again, but she had taken some pain-killers and the pain had ebbed away gradually during the afternoon. She had almost forgotten about the tooth until Jamie mentioned it, but now that she had thought of it again she felt it give a dull throb.

Pain was like that. If you ignored it, it often went away, but the minute you thought about it again, back it came.

She had been able to forget about Domenico for hours on end over the last few months. Now the pain was back; far worse than toothache and far harder to cure.

The audience around her were humming along with one of the better known arias being performed on stage at that moment. Italian audiences knew all the words and loved to join in with the performers, especially when a famous song had a good tune to it, and celebrated having a good time: wine, women and song. Saskia stared at the vivid party scene on stage, dancers whirling around, people raising champagne glasses to each other, but her mind was elsewhere.

It hadn’t once occurred to her that Domenico might be here tonight or she would never have taken the risk of booking for the opera; in fact, she would never have come to Venice at all if she had even dreamt that she might see him there.

Domenico was passionately fond of opera, of course, and went to La Scala, in Milan, frequently. He would never miss any performance of La Traviata there, especially by a soprano as fine as the woman singing the heroine, Violetta, tonight, but she never remembered him visiting Venice.

Apart from going to the opera, or to concerts, Domenico was engrossed in his work. He often went abroad, to America, or other parts of Europe, he visited other parts of Italy, and when he was at home he occasionally gave dinner parties, and went to them, but they usually had some business connection. Everything in his life had to fit in with his business.

‘I have no time for inessentials,’ he had often told her impatiently, when she tried to persuade him to take her to see a light-hearted film or play, or take a holiday in the sun somewhere.

She had often had a secret feeling that he saw her as inessential; a frivolity, a toy he had picked up in an idle moment and enjoyed playing with, but did not actually need.

Domenico had been essential to her; or, at least, she hadn’t been able to imagine life without him at one time. It was only when the pain hurt too much that she had fled. There was a limit to love, she had finally been forced to realise, or rather, a limit to how much you could bear in the name of love.

She hadn’t seen him since the night she left his house; she feverishly ached to see him now, and at the same time was terrified.

Where was he sitting? Not close to her, she was sure of that, but within sight of her, because he had seen her, before the lights went down.

There was no point in looking around, trying to see him in the darkened theatre. It was full; not a seat vacant in the house, which, the tour operator had told them, was normal for the Fenice. The Venetians loved opera. This particular production had been a runaway success as soon as it opened. The new soprano had a miraculous voice and was lovely to look at, too: black-eyed, with long, silky black hair, worn dressed up in the party scene, but loose and flowing when she was in her bedroom. Her voice had sensuality and so did her slim, sexy body and she had a way of walking across the stage that made every man in the opera house catch his breath and sigh. You couldn’t get a seat for months ahead, the tour operator had also told them, pleased with himself for having booked ahead long ago.

‘How’s the tooth now?’ asked Jamie.

Behind them someone hissed, ‘Shh...’ in an affronted voice.

Jamie made a rueful face at her and looked back at the stage.

Saskia’s eyes wandered restlessly. A sea of faces surrounded them; pale glimmering circles in the gloom, all eyes fixed on the party scene taking place on stage.

Which face belonged to Domenico?

She closed her blue eyes, concentrating on finding out exactly where he was sitting. It didn’t always work; so much depended on the other person giving off strong enough signals.

Slowly she turned her head, like a radar dish, homing in on his emotions. Anger; black and dark red, she could almost see it in the darkness, like a smouldering fire, which was how she found him, knew when she was looking in the right direction.

He was sitting in a box on the left-hand side of the stage.

She opened her eyes and looked that way, saw the silky curtains swagged and held back with tarnished gold tassels, and between them the stark outline of his head, an immediately familiar silhouette.

He was sitting turned towards her, not towards the stage. She couldn’t see his face from this distance, but she didn’t need to see him. She knew what she would see if the lights came back up again: black hair brushed back from a high, bony forehead, chiselled features, cold grey eyes, a strong jawline and a mouth which was hard and reined in, yet hinted at potential passion. Domenico was not cold in bed; far from it. He was a possessive and demanding lover, but he kept his emotions in one compartment and his working life in another. The two were never allowed to meet.

Tonight, though, his emotions were uppermost; across the theatre she picked up what he was thinking, feeling, and it made her flinch and tremble.

Jamie felt her betraying movement, turned again and looked at her anxiously. ‘Is it getting worse?’

Everyone began to applaud at that moment, some of the men actually getting to their feet, calling out the soprano’s name and blowing her noisy kisses, throwing her red carnations.

Under cover of the uproar, Saskia whispered, ‘Jamie, I think I’m going to have to go—you stay, though; I don’t want to spoil the evening for you.’

‘I’m sure that if you take a couple of pills they’ll help,’ he urged.

She risked a quick glance towards the box where Domenico sat. His head was still turned their way. She knew he was watching them. He couldn’t see their faces or hear what they were saying, but if she got up to leave Domenico would follow her, catch up with her.

At the back of the box in which he sat she saw a faint movement, a darker shadow which detached itself as Domenico lifted his hand in a commanding gesture. A man came forward, bent to listen to him.

She drew a sharp breath. The bodyguards. She had forgotten them. He could send them round here to get her! She should run, now.

On the point of getting up she hesitated, biting her lip. Oh, what was the point? If she got away now, he would still be able to trace her through the tour firm. The theatre management would tell him who had booked those seats, and which hotel the tourists were staying at in Venice.

Oh, why didn’t I realise how risky this holiday was? she thought grimly. It was crazy to think of coming to Italy, any part of Italy; but after two years she had begun to think there was no need to be so nervous or take elaborate precautions against running into him again.

She didn’t know Venice at all, and, remembering that Domenico never went there either, she had decided it would be safe enough, especially as this would be a coach tour, constantly moving on each day until it reached Venice and halted there for a few days. There shouldn’t be any risk.

Wrong! she thought, shuddering. She should have stayed in England, in obscurity, where he could never find her. This was his country, his territory; she had made a serious mistake in coming here. Although if she hadn’t come to the opera he would never have known she was here, probably.

She wasn’t even able to enjoy the opera. She had hardly noticed anything that happened on stage—the girl in the lovely dress whirling around, singing, now that her party guests had gone and she was alone.

Saskia sighed as the girl’s singing broke through her own agitated thoughts, and the man beside her looked sharply at her again, leaning over to ask, ‘Toothache getting worse?’

She nodded. ‘At the end of this act, I’m going, Jamie. You stay, though; I really don’t want to ruin your evening.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not letting you walk through the city alone, especially when you’re not well.’

It was typical of him to insist on that. Jamie Forster was a warm, kind-hearted, friendly man who cared about other people. He wasn’t either ambitious or dynamic; all Jamie wanted was to enjoy his life, have plenty of friends, and earn enough to live on, comfortably.

He ran a garden centre, which he had inherited from his late father, in a small country town about forty miles from London. Jamie loved working in the open air, with growing things; he had large but capable and sensitive hands, green fingers, which could make anything grow. He almost casually pushed tiny plants into the earth and they sprang up rapidly, vigorous and hearty. His work was more than a hobby, it was a passion, perhaps his only real passion.

Saskia had grown fond of him since she started working there two years ago, but she had never let him get too close because there was so much she had never told Jamie about her past. She was not free to get involved with anyone. Luckily, although Jamie was clearly fond of her, too, he had never shown any sign of being in love with her. If anything, they were such good friends that anything more intimate was almost out of the question. Jamie had had a girlfriend until a few months ago when they had a big row and broke up because Jamie was more interested in his work than he was in his girlfriend. Now and then he took Saskia with him to parties, but only as a friend; Jamie had never even tried to kiss her.

But would Domenico believe that when he knew that she was on holiday in Italy with Jamie? Saskia bit her lip, her eyes flicking towards where Domenico sat, his head a dark silhouette in the glow from the footlights.

Of course he wouldn’t.

He must not meet Jamie. She was terrified of his reaction if he did. Domenico had an ice-cold manner, very controlled, and yet under that ran burning lava which could erupt without warning and devastate those it touched.

Jamie couldn’t possibly cope with Domenico in that mood. Nor could Saskia; she never had been able to; he terrified her when the frozen surface of his manner cracked and the fire beneath leapt out.

A moment later, to her relief, the first act finally came to an end. Saskia ruefully clapped with everyone else as the soprano whirled off stage and the curtains closed. She loved La Traviata, the romantic, piercingly sweet music and the tragic storyline, the nineteenth-century décor, the wonderful clothes the women wore at that time, the heartbreak of that last act. All day she had been waiting on tenterhooks for this evening.

Yet she hadn’t really been aware of anything that was happening on stage!

As the audience began to get up, Saskia ran for the exit, swerving round other people, pushing past anyone who blocked her way, muttering apologies. She didn’t look round to check if Jamie was following. She was too busy concentrating on getting out of the theatre before Domenico or one of his bodyguards caught up with her.

She was already a street away before Jamie panted up beside her. ‘Hey! You almost lost me! I stopped to explain to Terry that we were going back to the hotel; if he didn’t know we had left he would have panicked when he counted up heads and found two missing.’

She gave him an apologetic look. ‘Oh, you should have stayed; I’m sorry I’ve ruined your evening, Jamie! I know how much you were looking forward to La Traviata.’

‘It isn’t your fault; you didn’t ask to have toothache tonight!’ he said with a resigned sigh. ‘It’s just fate.’

No, he was wrong, Saskia thought. It wasn’t fate that had planned this evening; it was her own stupid folly. If she hadn’t come to Italy she would never have been in this theatre, she would never have seen Domenico again.

Yet...why had Domenico been there? Had fate been busy, after all?

They came to one of the rounded corners which were so typical of the labyrinthine streets of Venice which curled round and round like the inner spirals of an ear, and Jamie paused, looking up at a street name painted on the wall.

‘We go left here, don’t we?’

‘I can’t remember!’ Saskia looked around anxiously. She wanted to get as far away from the theatre as possible, quickly. She did not want Domenico to catch up with them.

Venice was such a maze of tiny streets and squares, alleys and canals. She hadn’t orientated herself properly yet, and, anyway, had a very poor sense of direction. She could get lost even when she had a map in her hand.

Jamie asked a man walking past and got directions; they started off again and as they approached their hotel at last she began to relax and feel safe. Domenico couldn’t catch up with them now.

She knew he had lost them completely. She didn’t need to see him to be sure of that. She could feel it; his anger, his frustration, as he realised she had got away again. He was searching the streets around the theatre, she sensed, as if she were watching him; moving with that prowling lope which was characteristic of his tall, loose-limbed, long-legged figure, while his eyes flicked, quick and intent, along alleyways, into empty, moonlit squares, hunting for her.

She knew what he was feeling, although not exactly what he was thinking. Domenico was too clever for her to be able to divine his thoughts. She could only tell what he was thinking when his feelings and his thoughts merged, were one. That rarely happened with Domenico, although with some people it often did.

She had discovered her gift many years ago, when she was a child; she hadn’t understood it then, and it was intermittent, so unpredictable, that sometimes months would go by before it happened again, that sudden flash of awareness of what someone else was thinking. Saskia had actually wondered if she was imagining it for a long time, until she reached puberty and it began to happen more frequently. At that age she had experimented with it, turned it almost into a party game for her friends, and been able to check that she was really picking up their thoughts and not imagining them.

Not that she could read everything in their minds, or do so at will, but if ever they were very angry, or upset, or frightened she could tune into those emotions, tell them what they were feeling exactly.

It always amazed them, it even frightened some, who would keep away from her after one such experience, seeing her as someone weird, alarming, even dangerous. People did not like the idea that you could read their minds and know what they were really thinking, even though she assured them that her glimpses of their minds were fragmentary and arbitrary.

‘It’s like picking up radio waves,’ she had told Domenico once. ‘Like voices coming out of the air. I hear what people are thinking...but only if they’re very excited or upset; it only happens when there’s an extra charge of electricity in their brains, I think, boosting the signals so that I can pick them up. Anger or fear or happiness...I always pick up strong emotions.’

‘I can see I’ll have to be careful of you,’ he had said, those grey eyes of his watching her sardonically, and she hadn’t needed to tune into his thoughts to know that he didn’t believe her, he thought it was all nonsense, crazy imagination on her part.

Domenico did not believe in other dimensions—in horoscopes or signs of the zodiac, fortune-telling, mind-reading, the tarot, palm-reading or second sight. Saskia didn’t believe in most of them, either; she had often tried to explain that she didn’t do any of those things, she didn’t even pick up other people’s thoughts voluntarily any more, she hadn’t since her teenage years. She would be glad to stop doing it, especially now, she found it more and more disturbing, but she didn’t know how to switch it off or shut it out.

‘It just comes,’ she had said. ‘Out of nowhere, whenever there’s a crisis, or someone is really upset.’

Domenico had shaken his head at her, his mouth crooked and incredulous. He hadn’t understood or believed a word of what she said; it didn’t fit in with his view of the universe or human nature.

He had a clear, diamond-hard, ice-cold mind; logical and rational. Domenico was a perfectionist, about himself, his job, even his life. Even her, she began to realise. Domenico expected her to be perfect, too.

Perfect in looks, in the way she dressed and behaved, in everything she did, the perfect wife for a powerful man like Domenico Alessandros and, he expected, in time, the perfect mother of his no doubt equally perfect children.

Perfection was a hard act to sustain. Saskia was bitterly aware of being human, of failing in some areas of her life, of weaknesses, inadequacies which she could do nothing about, and which, she began to be afraid, Domenico would never forgive in her, when he recognised her imperfection.

He was not a man who forgave easily, and she had failed him. That was why she had run away from him, dreading the icy contempt of his stare, the cutting lance of his voice. She wasn’t normally a coward, but Domenico’s anger had frightened her; still frightened her.

Two years away from him and yet she still couldn’t face him and she knew now, after picking up his feelings across the theatre, that Domenico still hadn’t forgiven her, either. His pain and rage were still as bitter.

‘You’re very quiet—is the pain worse?’ asked Jamie anxiously as they collected their keys from the reception clerk and turned towards the hotel lift.

She made a wry, self-mocking face. ‘Would you believe...I’ve got a headache now, as well?’ It was true; her head was thudding as if a little man were perched on top of it banging hammers. She groaned. ‘This isn’t my day, is it?’

‘You must take two of these pills with a glass of water, and then ring Room Service and ask them to bring you some hot chocolate to help you sleep,’ Jamie told her, handing her a packet of pain-killers, as the lift slowly moved up to the third floor on which their rooms were situated.

‘Thanks, Jamie. I’m sorry...’ she began again, and he shook his head at her, smiling.

‘Forget it. I’ve had toothache, I know how you must be feeling. I often think there’s no pain worse. My mother often says she’d rather have a baby than toothache any day!’

They walked along the hotel corridor quietly. As they reached her door Jamie paused and looked down at her. ‘Now, you get to bed as soon as you’ve drunk some hot chocolate; and if you don’t feel better in the morning we’ll make sure you see a doctor, or go back to that dentist and ask him to take another look at your tooth!’

‘I’m sure I’ll be over the worst tomorrow. I probably just need a good night’s sleep. Goodnight, Jamie.’

Saskia didn’t bother with hot chocolate; she took the pills and went straight to bed, but although her headache soon died away she couldn’t get to sleep for hours. She lay awake in the dark, listening to the soft lapping of water against the piers outside the hotel which fronted the Grand Canal, fighting waves of panic as bad as anything she had felt two years ago.

Then, she had been obsessed with grief and fear and guilt; she had constantly been afraid that Domenico would find her, would track her down and confront her at any minute.

The hard physical exercise of working in the garden centre had helped to get her over those first months. She had not worked so hard for a long time; her muscles had ached heavily in the beginning. She would come in from work, muddy, weary, her skin filmed with sweat, have a long, hot bath in water scented with pine, trying to relax her muscles and ease their aching, and then she would eat a light supper in front of the electric fire before going to bed early. After one of those baths, having been out in the fresh air all day, she would find herself falling asleep the minute her head hit the pillow, and, although at first she had had nightmares every night, slowly over the months those bad dreams had stopped.

She had one tonight, though. Even though she eventually went to sleep, she woke up in the early hours, crying, trembling, and sat up in bed, staring at the paling sky without seeing it, remembering what had happened at the opera last night, wondering if Domenico had discovered that she was one of a group of tourists staying in Venice that week, or if he had believed she was there privately, with the man who had left with her.

For once she wished she could tap into private thoughts at will, but it didn’t happen. Her mind was blank. Perhaps Domenico was still asleep? But somehow she knew he wasn’t; she felt sure he was awake as well, and that he had had a bad night, too. It was no comfort to be sure of that.

She couldn’t stay in her room all day. At seven-thirty, Saskia slid out of bed, went into the bathroom and took a shower, put on a robe just as her breakfast arrived—orange juice, rolls, black-cherry jam, coffee.

She tipped the waiter, who opened the shutters for her, letting in the golden glory of a Venetian morning. When the man had gone, Saskia sat down on her balcony and ate her breakfast, reading the Italian paper which had been sent up on her tray.

She stiffened as she glanced down a business page and Domenico’s name leapt out. Hurriedly she read the short item, and understood why he was in Venice. If only she had known! She would never have come here at this precise moment.

Jamie had said to her last night, ‘It’s just fate,’ without realising quite how accurate she was in using those words. Fate had made Jamie suggest a trip to Italian gardens for them both, to get ideas for the garden centre at home; and fate had ordained that that garden trip should end with a few days in Venice before they flew home. Fate had been busy organising Domenico’s life, too. He was here, on business; she might have known. Domenico was in the process of negotiating with one of the major Italian hotel chains; he was planning to take over some of their top luxury hotels for his own chain and the chairman of the other company lived here, in Venice, so Domenico had come to Venice.

After breakfast she dressed in a simple apple-green linen dress, slid her feet into flat white shoes, and put on make-up, brushed her hair, before going down to meet up with Jamie and the others on the tour.

This morning they were going back to the Accademia art gallery, which they had already visited once, but which was so crowded with marvellous paintings that they had barely scratched the surface in their earlier visit.

‘This time we are going to concentrate on Giovanni Bellini,’ their guide told them, and launched into a long talk on the famous Venetian painter. Saskia tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but her mind kept straying back to her own problems. They were here for another two days. Even if she took a plane back to England this morning, Domenico could easily trace her, through the tour operators, get her address and track her down.

What am I going to do? she desperately wondered, following the others out of the hotel on their walk through Venice to the Accademia building.

She hated the thought of running away again, leaving her job, her friends, the little home she had set up over the past two years, having to start again, somewhere else, lying, hiding, maybe even running again at some future time.

Yet was she strong enough, even now, to face Domenico? Her courage failed her at the very idea.

They had been in the Accademia for an hour when Saskia felt that familiar flash inside her brain, as if an electric spark jumped between two points.

She looked hurriedly around, and saw him instantly, at the other end of the room, a tall, lean figure dressed casually, in shades of brown: chocolate-brown brushed-cotton jeans, a matching brown cashmere polo-neck sweater, and worn over that a golden-tan brushed-suede waistcoat under a dark brown leather flying jacket. It all looked haphazard, thrown on in a moment’s whim, but Saskia knew Domenico was dressed by the best Italian designers; someone had put that look together, charging an arm and a leg for doing so!

He wasn’t looking at her, he was standing in front of a painting by Bellini which Saskia’s group had seen earlier: The Virgin and Child in the Garden. Domenico was staring fixedly at the mother and child, and the pain in his mind made tears sting under her lids.

She hadn’t paused in front of the altarpiece while the tour director was talking about it, she had walked on to the next picture. She hated to see paintings of mothers and babies. She hated even more to feel the anguish Domenico was feeling; it brought back her own, welling up inside her like an inexhaustible fount of tears.

She couldn’t bear it. Deliberately she wrenched herself away from those memories, and began to hurry towards the door. He hadn’t seen her yet; she could escape before he did.

But even while she skimmed a circuit of the room, avoiding him, she couldn’t stop watching him, remembering the tanned and powerful body under his casually elegant clothes, her mouth drying in helpless sensuality. It seemed an eternity since she had touched him, seen him naked, held him in her arms. She would have died to have him just once more.

She was almost at the door, almost out of sight of him, when Domenico’s head turned abruptly, as if a string had jerked it round.

He swung, his eyes leaping straight towards her, and she froze in mid-step, staring back, intensely shocked, hearing her heart thudding, her blood running, her body vibrating in response to a realisation that stunned her.

Domenico hadn’t known she was there behind him. He hadn’t seen her or heard her until now; it had not been one of his five senses that told him she was in the room and it wasn’t simply that he had suddenly sensed she was there.

No. It had never happened before, but just now, for the first time, Domenico had picked up her thoughts, her feelings, as she had so often picked up his. He had felt the passion with which she was watching him, even though he hadn’t known she was there, behind him, and across the room she felt the heat of his answering desire, like flames leaping out when you opened a furnace door.

CHAPTER TWO

SHE didn’t dare think about it too closely. Not now. Like a rabbit Saskia turned tail again to flee, but once more Domenico read her mind and anticipated the move. She hadn’t taken more than two steps when he caught hold of her.

‘Don’t...’ The word broke out of her in a hoarse whisper. She couldn’t think clearly. There was only that one simple thought in her head. Don’t! Behind it pressed all the pain and regret of the past, too complex to be put into words—language couldn’t contain it all, or her mind was too clouded and confused by misery to use any words that might express how she felt.

‘Don’t?’ he repeated in that deep, harsh tone which was so familiar although she hadn’t heard it for two years. ‘Don’t what, Saskia? Don’t ask you any questions? Don’t demand explanations? Don’t reproach you? Don’t be angry? Don’t come too close to you? What mustn’t I do, exactly?’

All of that, she thought, unable to look away from him and unable to answer, either.

‘Well, say something!’ he snarled, bending towards her, and she flinched away. Domenico observed that instinctive recoil, his frown deepening. ‘And stop jumping like that. What are you afraid I might do? Hit you? I don’t hit women, even if they deserve it, so you can stop pretending to be afraid of me.’

‘I’m not pretending!’

The reply was barely audible. He read the movement of her mouth, rather than heard the words, and his own mouth twisted in a cynical smile.

‘Good; it wouldn’t be wise. I think I’ll always know now when you are lying to me.’

Her blue eyes watched him wryly. ‘You always told me I was crazy, believing in any of that stuff!’

He grimaced. ‘Ah, but I’m a little crazy myself, these days, thanks to you.’

‘I’m sorry, Domenico—’ she began, and he interrupted in a savage voice that made her nerves crackle like fireworks.

‘Sorry! My God! Is that all you can say?’

Everyone in the room heard him; Saskia glanced anxiously around but the woman in widow’s black, the clergyman, the student in jeans, with long, untidy hair, and the two men in dark jackets with the watchful, hard faces of detectives, who were witnesses and who stared back at her, were all strangers, none of them belonged to her tour.

Where had the others gone? In the silence that followed Domenico’s outburst she heard the tour guide talking from the connecting room; he must have led the others in there while she was absorbed in watching Domenico. His voice floated clearly out to her.

‘Bellini was strongly influenced by Mantegna, who painted a little picture of St George, the patron saint of England, which we’ll find in the next room we visit. Come along, everyone—we must press on!’

Saskia looked pleadingly at Domenico. ‘I can’t talk here; my friends will come looking for me any minute. I’m not alone, I’m with a party.’

His face darkened with hostility, his voice hard. ‘I know, I saw them last night. You realised I’d seen you last night, didn’t you?’ He paused, staring down into her blue eyes, their dark centres enlarged and glazed with tension. Domenico nodded. ‘Yes, don’t bother to lie. You knew I was there; I felt your reaction. I knew you were going to run away again.’

She angrily glanced at the two bodyguards lurking near the door, still watching them. ‘And I suppose you sent those two to grab me! You still don’t go anywhere without them, I notice!’

His eyes hardened. ‘I’d be a fool if I did. You know that.’

Yes, she knew. Italy was a dangerous country; anyone with money had to protect themselves day and night.

Quietly, he said, ‘Anyway, it was easy to find out that you were part of a group booking and the name of your hotel. I went there this morning, but they claimed not to know where I could find your party. I simply had a gut feeling that I’d find you in the Accademia.’

She drew a sharp breath, turning paler.

So he hadn’t known she would be here! He had located her the way she had located him in the theatre last night. A strange, fierce excitement filled her. What did it mean, though? He had never been able to read her mind during the years when they lived together—why now, after two years apart, was he picking up her thoughts and feelings?

Domenico looked away from her, his hard eyes skimming around the room. ‘Where are they, anyway?’

‘Who?’ She was so absorbed in him that she had forgotten everything else and didn’t know what he was talking about.

He looked down into her eyes. ‘The others in your party.’

‘They must have walked into the next room.’ It didn’t seem to matter; she was too conscious of him for anything else to impinge on her at that moment. Then she frowned, disturbed by how quickly she was being sucked back into that old pattern of fear and helpless response. ‘I should catch up with them; they’ll wonder where I’ve got to.’

Domenico’s hand shot out, gripped her arm. ‘You don’t imagine I’m going to let you walk off again, now that I’ve found you?’ His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it had a harsh vibration that made her tremble.

She saw the two bodyguards tense, move closer, watching. Angrily she muttered, ‘Let go, Domenico! Do I have to scream the place down?’

A couple moved behind them to stare at a mediaeval fresco, standing far too close for Domenico to risk a public struggle. He had to let her go but his eyes were a threat; she couldn’t look away from the darkness in them.

‘Who is he?’ he muttered through almost closed lips and she tensed, jumping.

‘What?’ She was playing for time, knowing who he meant and wondering what she should tell him about Jamie.

‘I’ll find out so you might as well tell me! He’s here in the gallery, I suppose? If you won’t tell me, I can always ask him. Does he know about me?’ He watched her eyes, smiled coldly. ‘No, I had a shrewd idea he didn’t! What does he know about you? You must have told him something, and from that look on your face I suppose you invented a new past for yourself. He’s going to get a shock, then, isn’t he, when he is told?’

‘Stop it!’ she whispered, on the verge of tears. He was right, of course. Ever since she’d seen him in the theatre the night before she had known she was going to have to tell Jamie the truth about herself, and she knew it would be a shock to him to discover how much she had lied.

Domenico’s mouth curled like a whip; punitive, unrelenting. ‘Are you living with him? Have you been with him ever since you left me?’

Each question was like a blow across the face, his voice was so bitter and hostile. Saskia couldn’t bear it.

‘No, I’m not living with him, I just work for him!’ Her voice shook and the tears threatened to erupt at any minute. ‘We’re friends, that’s all!’

‘Friends?’ he repeated and laughed shortly. ‘You expect me to believe that? When you’re here on holiday with him?’

‘It’s...a sort of working holiday...’ she desperately insisted. ‘He’s my boss; he has a garden centre and I work there. He belongs to a professional association which arranges tours of famous gardens, sometimes in England, sometimes abroad. He knew I hadn’t had a proper holiday since I started working for him, so, as he was coming on this trip, he suggested I come along as well. He’s very friendly; he likes having company.’

Domenico’s eyes glittered like black ice. ‘And he hoped to get you into bed while you were in a holiday mood!’ he sneered.

Tensely she shook her head at him, willing him to believe her. She was afraid of what he might say or do to Jamie; she had to make him accept that Jamie was not her lover.

‘Please believe me, Domenico, Jamie isn’t interested in me that way.’

He did not look convinced. ‘That isn’t the impression I got, and it isn’t the impression the people at the hotel had. They seemed convinced that he was your lover.’

Appalled, she asked, ‘You questioned the people at the hotel? What did you say to them?’ Anything he had said to the receptionist would be sure to get back to the tour guide, who might well repeat it to the other members of the group. People always talked. They all knew she was with Jamie; if Domenico had told the hotel that he was her husband that fact would certainly be passed on, and someone might say something to Jamie before she had a chance to explain everything.

Domenico gave her a dry, cynical glance. ‘You’re worried about what he may think, aren’t you?’ She kept forgetting that he somehow seemed able to pick up on her thoughts, and started, her blue eyes flying wide again. Before she could answer his question, Domenico coldly added, ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t tell them anything. I simply checked that you were staying at the hotel, which was when they told me you were there with your boyfriend on a touring holiday. I asked where I could find you, and was told the Garden Tours group were already out, and wouldn’t be back until later in the day. Late afternoon, probably, they said.’

Relieved, she let out a sighing breath and nodded. ‘Yes, after we have spent the morning in this gallery, we’re having lunch at a local trattoria.’

‘What about dinner? Have they also made arrangements for this evening, or are you free?’ His eyes were hard, intent. ‘We’re going to talk, Saskia, sooner or later; you might as well get it over with.’

She had faced that now. There was no escape, unless she ran again, and she couldn’t bear the prospect of living the rest of her life as a fugitive. The last two years had been full of such tension and nagging dread; she didn’t want to live like that for ever. She would have to talk to him. She must make him see that their marriage was over.

Flatly, she said, ‘Very well—but not at the hotel. I’ll meet you somewhere...tomorrow morning? We have the morning free. I could get away, meet you for coffee at Florian’s?’

Florian’s was a tourist institution, the most famous café in Venice, with cloudy mirrors and unhurried waiters, on the opposite side of the Piazzo San Marco; it would be crowded with people, with young lovers whispering to each other, with friends, laughing, arguing, flirting, with tourists staring wide-eyed at the cheerful life of the loveliest city in the world, and nobody would notice two apparent strangers sharing a table and talking in low voices. It would be far less conspicuous than meeting somewhere more private, where someone would be bound to notice them together.

Domenico watched her, frowning. ‘Very well,’ he clipped out. ‘Ten-thirty? How much longer are you going to be in Venice?’

‘Another two days.’ She looked over her shoulder, hearing hurried footsteps approaching, recognising them. Jamie was coming to look for her. ‘I’ve got to go—I’ll see you at Florian’s at ten-thirty.’

She almost ran, praying that Domenico would not follow her. She and Jamie collided just inside the next room.

‘Oh, there you are!’ he said. ‘I was coming to look for you. What on earth have you been doing? Your tooth isn’t playing up again, is it?’

‘No, I was looking at the pictures, daydreaming.’ She tensed as Domenico strolled past them; she felt his lightning glance as he skimmed a look over Jamie. Saskia couldn’t breathe. What if he stopped and said something? She was terrified he would; she felt his anger like a physical blow, brooding, heavy with threat; but he walked away without a word and vanished towards the exit.

Weak at the knees, Saskia said to Jamie, ‘I want to get out of here, I’ve seen enough paintings to last me for a year.’

He laughed. ‘I know how you feel. My calf muscles ache—all this walking and standing about looking at paintings is getting a bit much. Why don’t we sneak off and have a coffee and sit at a café table out in the sun for half an hour, then take a stroll to the trattoria, to meet the rest of them for lunch?’

‘We ought to tell them we’re going, or they’ll be anxious about us.’

‘OK, make your way out of here and wait for me, while I run and tell them what we’re doing.’

Saskia wandered out into the sunshine. She looked around warily, but Domenico wasn’t in sight, and a few moments later Jamie ran out of the Accademia. They made for a café they had visited before, bought postcards and sat out in the sun, writing messages for friends back in England. Jamie sent one to his parents, another to his sister. Saskia had no family now; her mother had died three years ago, her father some time before that, and she had been an only child. Her closest relative was an aunt in Scotland but they had been out of touch for years. Saskia sent cards to the others working at the garden centre, a friend she played squash with once a week, a struggling young actress who lived in the flat next to hers.

At twelve-thirty they met the others in the trattoria, on a pleasant, sunny side canal leading into the Grand Canal eventually. The meal had been arranged in advance by the tour company. She suspected it was the same one every tour was offered here, but it was very good. They began with brodetto, a local fish soup which was cooked all together but served separately yet at the same time; first the broth itself, made with tomato and garlic, in one dish, and in another the fish, clams and squid which had been cooked in the liquid. Along the centre of the table the waiter put down wicker baskets of thick-sliced, golden-crusted Italian bread. Everyone enjoyed this first course, and it was followed by a selection of huge pizzas, from which they could cut themselves whatever they liked: the toppings varied, from simple cheese and tomato with onion, to seafood or chunks of local spicy sausage and garlic. For dessert they were offered ice-cream.

Saskia skipped dessert and just had strong black espresso coffee made in a gleaming chrome machine on the counter of the trattoria.

After lunch the guide told them they could have the rest of the afternoon free. Jamie fanned himself with his straw hat, yawning widely, and decided that what he needed was a siesta in his hotel room.

‘I shall do some shopping,’ Saskia said.

‘Well, be careful; don’t talk to strange men!’

She said wryly, ‘I won’t.’ She was always far too cautious to talk to strange men, and today she didn’t want to talk to anyone, even Jamie. She needed time alone, to think. ‘See you later, Jamie; enjoy your siesta,’ she said.

She walked away slowly as if to make for one of the main shopping areas of Venice, but once she was out of sight she doubled back, to wander along the quiet less-used canals, over bridges, through squares, watching the afternoon sun glinting on the ever-present water which made this city so magical. Sunlight gleamed everywhere, on the worn stone of ancient palaces, on geraniums on ironwork balconies, on washing hanging between houses high above alleys, above the narrow canals. She heard the dying echoes of voices along the water, from the backs of crumbling houses, the sound of children laughing, water rippling, women gossiping on their doorsteps, pigeons flapping in the sunny air.

It was a peaceful afternoon, yet she continually had the feeling she was being watched or followed, and kept pausing to look back, her nerves prickling.

There was never anyone there, except Venetians busy about their own lives, shopping, talking, unloading boats on to a quayside, washing windows, watering flowers. None of them ever looked her way.

Saskia walked on each time, trying to shake off her jumpiness, intent on absorbing Venice through every pore. She felt she was learning more about the city this way than in all the sightseeing their guide had been getting them to do.

She got back to the hotel eventually at about five when the sun was beginning to go down and the spring afternoon had cooled.

She felt as if she had been far away, her nerves were quiet, her mind tranquil, but as she crossed the marble floor towards the reception desk she stopped in shock, hearing a voice from a salon leading off the foyer.

Domenico!

What was he doing here? He knew she didn’t want anyone on the tour to know about their old relationship; he had agreed to wait until tomorrow to talk, at Florian’s. So why was he here now?

She slowly walked towards the open door of the salon, halted on the threshold, stricken at what she saw.

There were only two men in the room, standing by the window, deep in conversation. One was Domenico. The other was Jamie.

She must have made a sound, the merest inhalation, because they both looked round at the same instant.

Saskia had lost every trace of colour. She was white, her blue eyes wide and dark.

Domenico stared back at her, his face coolly expressionless. Jamie, though, was flushed and bright-eyed, and broke out immediately, ‘There you are, Saskia! I was just talking about you. Signor Alessandros, this is my assistant, Saskia Newlyn; she is the design wizard. I’m sure she’ll be fascinated to see your gardens and will come up with exactly what you want.’

Saskia was dumb, her eyes held by Domenico’s, hearing what Jamie was saying without understanding a word of it. What was he talking about?

‘Saskia, this is Signor Alessandros...’ Jamie said, coming towards her, and Domenico moved beside him, like a hunting animal, light on his feet, yet tense, his body poised to leap for the kill.

Still holding her eyes, he proffered his hand and she automatically put out her own. The first touch of his flesh sent a shiver through her; his skin was cool, his grip powerful. Possessive, she thought. His fingers swallowed her small hand; she felt she would never escape again. She pulled her fingers free in witless panic; for a second he resisted, as if to underline his capacity to take and keep her, then he slowly let her go.

Jamie was quite unaware of any atmosphere between them; he was too excited.

‘Signor Alessandros and I got into conversation out on the terrace, Saskia, while I was having some tea. He noticed me leafing through that book on Italian gardens we bought before we came to Italy, and told me it wasn’t always accurate. Well, we noticed that ourselves, once we saw some of the gardens, didn’t we? The book’s full of stupid mistakes; I started to wonder if the guy had actually been to half the gardens.’ Jamie laughed, pausing, and, realising that he was waiting for her to agree, Saskia blindly nodded and forced a smile.

‘Yes, I remember.’ At that moment she didn’t; she couldn’t think, let alone remember. Her whole body was still shuddering from the effect of touching Domenico again.

‘The book is out of date, I think that’s the problem,’ Domenico said in his deep, husky voice and her body vibrated to the sound. He was watching her, not looking at Jamie; he knew what was happening inside her. ‘It was first published years ago,’ he drawled, ‘but it must be popular because they keep bringing it out again, and some of the descriptions are no longer accurate.’

‘A lot of them!’ nodded Jamie.

Saskia couldn’t take her eyes from Domenico. Earlier that day, in the Accademia’s low lighting, she had thought he was unchanged, exactly the same, but the more she looked at him, the more she realised that wasn’t true.

His face was thinner, his body leaner; he had visibly lost weight. He had always looked tough; now his olive, tanned skin was drawn tightly over his cheekbones, his face all angles, hard and austere, his grey eyes glittering like razors.

‘I explained to Signor Alessandros that I had a garden centre back home in England, and you worked for me,’ Jamie said. ‘Which was why we took a professional interest in the gardens we’d seen on this trip, and I told him we wished we could have seen some of the gardens of the villas along the Brenta canal.’

Saskia vaguely remembered Jamie talking about the Brenta canal. It was an ancient canal, he had said, on the mainland of Italy, which started somewhere opposite Venice, and flowed inland in the direction of Padua, but she couldn’t quite remember why Jamie had been so keen to visit it, nor did she understand why he had talked to Domenico about it.

‘But of course there hasn’t been time,’ Jamie added. ‘As we’re only here for two weeks, we only just had time for a few days in Venice before we went back, I told him.’ He gave her an excited smile. ‘And then guess what? Signor Alessandros told me that he actually owned a sixteenth-century villa on the Brenta canal, Saskia!’

Saskia was startled into a gasp, her eyes widening. Domenico actually lived just outside Venice now? Had he sold the house near Milan? When had he moved here?

Their eyes met. ‘I haven’t owned it for long,’ he said, watching her remorselessly, reading her thoughts and answering them. ‘I inherited it from a great-uncle a year ago.’

‘And guess who designed it?’ Jamie burst out eagerly; he didn’t wait for her to guess, which was just as well as she wasn’t even capable of thinking about it, let alone remembering the names of Venetian architects. ‘Palladio!’ he said, his face lit up.

During their exploration of Venice he had become a big fan of the Italian architect whose neo-classical styles had influenced architecture all over Europe, including some of the most famous buildings in England. Nothing they had ever seen at home, though, she had decided, could match the beauty of the churches of Venice which Palladio had designed. The grave classical style he used was given an extra dimension of beauty by the water running beside the churches day and night, reflecting the white stone, the pediments and columns, the measured elegance of proportion, by sun or moonlight.

Saskia was startled. ‘Palladio!’ The villa must be worth a fortune, then, although that in itself did not surprise her.

Domenico’s family were incredibly wealthy; they headed a conglomerate which owned various companies: food-manufacturing, paper-milling, a drug company, a hotel chain. They were hard-working, ambitious, clever men, the men of the Alessandros clan, but they had not got rich suddenly—the family was a very old one; you could trace the name back to the fifteenth century and beyond. They had begun as merchants, acquired land and castles, married the daughters of the nobility. Domenico’s father was the head of the clan, and intended that Domenico should take his place in time.

Old Giovanni Alessandros had been obsessed with his family’s pedigree, their place in Italian history, their future influence; it was his driving passion. Arrogant, proud, domineering, he had had his own ideas of the sort of woman his son should marry, and when Domenico had first brought her home his father had made it clear that he disapproved of her, resented her, despised her. She simply wasn’t good enough for his son. In time he had come to hate her. In fact, he had been one of the main reasons why she had fled two years ago.

Coolly, Domenico said, ‘It’s a national treasure, one of the few private commissions Palladio fulfilled, but the house is in a bad way. My uncle was a miser, obsessed with not spending money. He hadn’t had any work done on the place in half a century; he didn’t so much live in it as squat in it, with a couple of old servants who barely did a stroke of work. There’s a lot to be done, including work on the gardens, which are a mess, but which I plan to restore to their original design.’

‘And he’s thinking of adding a classic English-style rose-garden, he loves roses,’ Jamie said in a rush. ‘Even more exciting, he might consider letting us design it for him, and supply all the roses, Saskia, if you can come up with a design he likes!’

Stiffening, she looked at Domenico. What was all this? What lies had he been telling Jamie? What was he up to?

He smiled at her lazily, narrow-eyed, watchful. ‘I gather your tour ends in two days so there isn’t much time if you are to come and look round my gardens; you’ll have to come tomorrow,’ he drawled, and watched her face tighten with comprehension.

So that was it. He was using Jamie to get her to visit his new house? He could think again; she wasn’t going within miles of the place.

‘There’s nothing important on the schedule for tomorrow, is there, Saskia?’ burbled Jamie. ‘Just a trip out to Murano—we can skip that.’

‘I want to see Murano, actually; I was looking forward to that visit,’ she stubbornly said, without taking her eyes from Domenico’s face, sending him the message she wanted him to get. He might have waited until they had had that talk over coffee at Florian’s, he might have given her a chance to explain why she had gone, why she wasn’t coming back.

Jamie looked amazed, frowning at her. ‘Oh, we can fit in a trip to Murano as well before we go, on our own—we don’t have to go with the group—and this is such a wonderful opportunity, Saskia, something we couldn’t have hoped for, a visit to one of the private villas along the Brenta, especially one designed by Palladio. It’s manna from heaven, as far as I’m concerned. I can’t wait. But you must come too; you’re the rose expert; we’ll need you there.’

Domenico smiled drily at her. ‘Yes, you must come, Saskia; I insist that you do,’ he murmured, and she tried to read his secret thoughts, to penetrate the bland exterior he was showing her and find out what he was really planning, but she couldn’t.

She had never been able to read his mind at will, of course; she never knew when she would pick up his thoughts or feelings; the flashes only came in moments of stress or intense emotion. But this time she sensed something different, something new. Domenico was shutting her out deliberately; his mind was like the blank screen of a computer; she felt no impulses at all coming from him and she had never met that before.

Until now, even when she couldn’t read his mind she had always felt the energy of his thoughts, like the hum of an electric machine.

Now there was nothing, no buzz of activity at all, as if his mind had been switched off.

That wasn’t possible, of course. His mind was operating all the time. She looked into his hard grey eyes and saw amusement, mockery there, and was startled by that, too. This mood of his was puzzling; at the opera last night she had sensed rage, hostility; this was very different.

It hadn’t occurred to her until now that Domenico might have changed inwardly as well as outwardly, but she saw now that he had. His mind as well as his body was different, and not in some small way—he had changed radically; he was not the same man she had left two years ago.

‘The easiest way to get there is for me to pick you up in my motorboat,’ he said to Jamie. ‘What time do you get up? Can you get up early, have breakfast at seven-thirty? Would eight-thirty be too early for me to pick you up?’

‘No, that’s fine,’ Jamie quickly said before Saskia could argue any more, and Domenico gave a satisfied nod.

‘Good. Then until tomorrow—I’ll see you both on the quay, outside the hotel. Oh, and bring raincoats—the weather forecast is for spring showers—and some strong walking shoes, if you haven’t got boots with you—the gardens are large and some of the older paths are overgrown with grass, and can be muddy.’

Jamie gave him a complacent look. ‘We did bring boots, actually, because we thought we might need them for some of the bigger gardens, and the tour people warned us that Venice gets lots of rain and some parts of it flood.’

‘That’s very true—the Piazza San Marco is often under water; that’s why the duckboards are often out in the square, and even San Marco itself can be flooded, unfortunately, at certain times. You’ve been very lucky with the weather so far—we’ve had fine weather for the past week—but it is about to change, I’m afraid. Spring is always unsettled here.’

‘It’s just as unsettled back home in the spring!’ grinned Jamie, and Domenico nodded.

‘I know.’

‘You’ve been to England?’ Jamie was interested; it was obvious that he was very curious about Domenico, and Saskia was nervous of that curiosity, it might make Jamie far more observant than usual.

‘Many times,’ Domenico said. ‘Especially lately; I’ve been going there often over the past couple of years.’

Saskia tensed again, and he looked into her eyes, his mouth twisting with cynical derision.

‘I suppose you have business interests there?’ asked Jamie, quite unaware of any undercurrents.

‘I do, but my visits were mainly personal,’ Domenico said, still watching Saskia.

He had been looking for her. She had always known he would; he wasn’t a man to give up anything easily. At times over the past two years she had been tensely aware of Domenico brooding over her; she had even felt sure he was in her own country, looking for her, and she had been on tenterhooks until she sensed that he had gone back to Italy again.

She couldn’t stand any more. Huskily, she said, ‘I’ve got to go upstairs to change for dinner—excuse me.’

‘See you later,’ Jamie said as she retreated.

‘See you tomorrow,’ Domenico said, with a silky threat hidden in his smooth tone.

Safely in her room, she went into the bathroom and ran a bath, took off her apple-green linen dress, was about to take off her slip when she heard a sound in her bedroom. She ran back in there, her nerves thudding as she saw Domenico closing the door.

‘How did you get in here? What the...?’

He leaned his broad shoulders on the door in a cool pose, smiling mockingly. ‘I told the floor maid I’d forgotten my key and my wife was in the shower and hadn’t heard me knocking, and she let me in with her pass key.’

‘She must have realised you weren’t part of our group! She can’t have believed you were with me; this is a single room!’

‘She must have forgotten that. She was a charming girl, and very helpful; I gave her a handsome tip.’

Saskia shook with anger. ‘You mean you bribed her to let you in here! My God, I’ll call the manager!’

‘And lose the girl her job?’

‘Someone that untrustworthy shouldn’t be working in a good hotel. She could be letting thieves into rooms, if she let you in here!’

He didn’t seem to be listening; he was too busy staring, his grey eyes intent on her naked shoulders and half-covered breasts, the way the silky slip clung to waist and hip, a wide hem of lace ending mid-thigh.

In a mirror on the wardrobe behind him Saskia caught sight of herself and was shocked to realise that with the sun streaming through the window behind her the slip was totally transparent. She might as well have been naked from her waist down, the flat stomach, rounded hips, the dark triangle of hair and below.

Saskia suddenly couldn’t breathe. She backed away, watching him with her heart knocking in her throat, her hand going out to catch hold of a white towelling robe on the end of the bed.

Domenico moved faster, caught hold of her, his hands splayed across her smooth, bare shoulders.

‘No!’ she cried out in panic, but her body was burning, aching, and his body moved against her, one hand sliding down her back to push her closer until they were touching. She trembled, mouth dry, perspiration prickling on her skin.

The conflict between wanting him and being afraid of the pain of loving him made her almost helpless. She had escaped this trap before; now she was back in it again, betrayed by her own desire, weak in the face of his.

Domenico’s mouth hunted for hers; she evaded it, turning her head from side to side. He bent his head and she gasped as his lips brushed her shoulder, crept along the collarbone to her neck, pressed deep into the soft skin. One hand caressed her back, followed the deep indentation of her spine, the other hand moved up to her breast and cupped the full, warm flesh.

She gave a smothered moan and wrenched herself free, retreated to the door, opened it before he could get to her.

‘Do I have to scream, or will you leave quietly?’

Darkly flushed, breathing audibly, Domenico sat down on her bed. ‘OK, you win—I’ll go in a minute; I just want a word with you first.’

She didn’t lock the door again, she held it almost shut, watching him warily.

‘Well?’

‘I want to make sure you aren’t going to bolt for it again, because I’m having the hotel watched, you wouldn’t get far, so don’t bother to try it.’ He gave her a dry smile. ‘I just thought I’d save you the trouble and embarrassment of attempting to get away and being caught.’

She wasn’t surprised, but the threat made her angrier. ‘Go away,’ she said, opening the door wide.

‘And I would have to break the news to your friend Jamie that you’re my wife, wouldn’t I?’ he murmured, then got up, walked past her, his eyes on her every step of the way, making her body shudder.

She slammed the door shut on him, shaking so much that she sank down on the floor, her eyes shut, rocking herself like a distraught child, dry sobs in her chest.

Her bath was cold when she remembered it. She had to run some more hot water into it to make it bearable. She only spent a short time in the lukewarm water, towelled herself and put on her robe, lay down on her bed, trying desperately to think.

She had to confess the truth to Jamie, and she knew he would be sympathetic; he’d understand why she had fled, why she had lived a lie for two years. But she still couldn’t bear the thought of talking about it. The past was an unhealed wound; it would hurt too much to tell Jamie about it.

But what was she going to do about tomorrow? Be on the quay with Jamie, let Domenico take her to this Palladian villa he had inherited? But would he ever let her leave again?

Her only chance was to stick to Jamie like glue while they were at the villa. Whatever Domenico tried to do she wouldn’t let him separate them, or, at least, she would always keep Jamie in sight and make sure Jamie could see her all the time.

The trouble was, she knew how Jamie could be once he was looking at a strange garden, especially an old garden which would no doubt have some old and possibly forgotten, or rare, species in it; he would be too absorbed in plants and trees to notice what was happening to her.

Another, even more disturbing thought hit her. What if other members of the Alessandros clan were living at the villa? They were such a close family, always visiting each other.

What if his father was there?

Ice trickled down her spine.

She could not face Giovanni Alessandros. The very prospect was a nightmare. Two years ago he had tried to kill her, and she was afraid that if he thought she was coming back into his son’s life he might try again.

CHAPTER THREE

JAMIE explained to Terry, the tour organiser, that they would be going off separately next day, taking great pride in explaining where they were going.

Terry frowned at him. He had constantly stressed security while they were travelling around Italy, but since they had reached Venice he had seemed less concerned about that, claiming that Venice had the lowest rate of crime in Italy because criminals found it far too much of a problem to get away after committing a crime. Unlike most cities in the world, Venice suffered from little urban theft; muggers and pickpockets rarely tried their luck. Without roads, they had to rely on boats for an escape, and the police could soon catch up with any boat, however fast, in these waterways. The local police had the advantage of knowing everything there was to know about the local waters, and in such a small city most people knew their neighbours far too well for anyone to get away with a life of crime for long.

Now, though, Terry looked uneasy. ‘Sounds a bit fishy to me. What did you say this chap’s name is? Did he give you any proof that he owned a Palladian villa on the Brenta? Far-fetched story, isn’t it? Have you any idea how much a place like that is worth? He’d have to be as rich as Croesus.’

Jamie looked startled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. But come to think of it, he dressed as if he had money. His shoes were handmade, I’m certain of it. I coveted them, anyway, I noticed how good they were, and I know I could never afford to buy shoes like that; they must have cost a fortune.’ He made a wry face. ‘But then I spend most of my time wearing wellington boots! I take your point, Terry, but I don’t think there’s much doubt he has money, wouldn’t you say so, Saskia?’

She didn’t reply, but that didn’t matter because it was a purely rhetorical question; Jamie didn’t wait for her to say anything, he just went on thoughtfully, ‘Although, I have to say, it was odd, getting into conversation with him out on the terrace; I mean, he went out of his way to talk to me.’

‘There you are, then!’ Terry said, and Jamie looked uncertainly at him.

‘I remember now, he came and sat at my table, when there were plenty of other tables free. Mind you, he said it was because he noticed I was reading a book on Italian gardens, and maybe it was. After all, why should he lie to me? What would be in it for him?’

Terry looked pityingly at him, sighed heavily. ‘Well, Jamie, I can think of several motives—Venice is the safest city in Europe, but now and then a conman does slip through their net, and if he’s talking of taking you off alone with him, in his boat, you could end up anywhere.’

‘Oh, that’s ridiculous!’ Jamie broke out, laughing. ‘Why on earth would he want to kidnap me?’

Terry looked at Saskia, his eyes sly. ‘Maybe it isn’t you he’s interested in?’

She went pink, her nerves jumping and her eyes opening wide, startled by his shrewd guesswork.

Jamie looked at her, too, his face changing. ‘Saskia? Oh, that hadn’t occurred to me. Mind you, I did notice him staring, but...well, that isn’t unusual, especially in Italy. Italians always notice pretty women.’

‘Italians notice women, period!’ Terry said. His eyes slipped down over Saskia again and she quivered with distaste, looking away. She had thought for an instant that he might know something about her and Domenico, but now she saw that that wasn’t it at all. Terry had a nasty mind. No Italian had ever looked at her with that expression; their admiration was usually warm and open, it didn’t make her feel sick, the way she felt now with Terry staring at her like that.

‘You think he’s hoping to impress her with his money?’ Jamie asked.

‘Let’s just say I wouldn’t trust him,’ Terry shrugged. ‘After all, a rich man would surely get a local expert to design his rose-garden! Someone from around here would know local conditions better than you could, however good you are, and I’m not being rude, Jamie. Just that a local would know what grows best here, what never thrives, what the weather does at various times of year, and so on, now, wouldn’t he?’

Jamie reluctantly had to agree. ‘Yes, you’re right, I suppose so, but we do specialise in roses, as I told him; we have a huge variety of them in stock, and we do get orders from the continent all the time, especially from France, where they’re very fond of English roses even though they grow some marvellous roses themselves.’ He frowned, silent for a while, then his face cleared and he burst out, ‘No! You know, I do think you’re wrong; I don’t believe he was just interested in Saskia, because he invited me to see his villa before she arrived! He had never set eyes on her until then.’ He beamed at Saskia. ‘Mind you, he could be trying to pick our brains without having to pay us a penny. If he takes us round his gardens as tourists we can’t charge him for any advice he gets from us. You know how mean people can be about paying for advice! And the richer they are, the more they hate parting with money!’

‘Well, I hope you’re right,’ Terry said flatly, sounding unconvinced. ‘In your place, though, I’d think twice about taking him up on his invitation.’

Jamie frowned while he finished his main course, a dish of calf’s liver fried with fresh leaves of sage, served with onions.

‘That was delicious!’ he said to the waiter as the man whisked away his plate, looking cross because Jamie was the last at table to finish that course.

The waiter mumbled a reply and Jamie suddenly did a double take, catching his arm. ‘Giorgio! You were serving tea on the terrace this afternoon, weren’t you? Did you notice the man who joined me at my table?’

‘Signor Alessandros?’ The man shrugged. ‘Yes, signor.’

‘You know him?’ asked Jamie eagerly.

‘But, of course, signore—he owns this hotel!’ said the waiter, sniffing.

Saskia drew a shaken breath.

Terry sat up in his chair, staring at the waiter. ‘Signor Alessandros?’

‘He owns the hotel?’ repeated Jamie, his face incredulous. ‘Are you sure?’

The waiter nodded vehemently. ‘Very sure, signore. He bought it last year; he lives on the mainland, opposite Venice, in a very beautiful, historic house on the Brenta canal, and is often here, in the hotel. I have served him many times.’

Terry was scowling. ‘If you had told me his name was Alessandros, I’d have known who he was,’ he said, his face envious and faintly resentful. ‘I haven’t actually met him myself, but of course I’ve heard of him—he owns a number of hotels we use, his family own a hotel chain with hotels all over Italy; he must be one of the richest men in the country.’

‘Well, I’m relieved to find I was right to trust him!’ Jamie said cheerfully, drinking some of his red wine.

‘Good heavens, yes,’ said Terry, staring at him in a puzzled way. ‘You’re very lucky to be invited to his home! I can’t get over it. You say he just came over and introduced himself? It’s amazing. I tell you what, I’ll get down early tomorrow morning and see you off, just to check that it is him—I’d know his face anywhere; I’ve seen pictures of him in Italian papers a hundred times.’

Saskia gave him a dry look. Now that he believed Jamie had really met Domenico, Terry was eager to scrape acquaintance too. She wasn’t surprised; she had met that attitude far too many times during the years she’d spent with Domenico. Money had that effect on people; it drew them like a magnet.

Terry caught her cynical glance and went an ugly red. ‘Well, time to make my little talk to everyone,’ he said hurriedly, getting up. ‘I must get my notes for tomorrow, to check our itinerary. Excuse me.’

When he had gone, Jamie grinned at her. ‘I think he’s jealous; he’d have liked to meet Mr Alessandros.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Saskia said, smiling back at him.

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