by Trish Morey
She looked up at him. ‘Are you sure it’s all right for me to come, in that case?’
‘I invited you, didn’t I?’
They stopped just shy of the fountain, halfway across the garden by the soaring side wall of the palazzo, so she could take in the gardens and their magical lighting. To the left, a low wall topped with an ornate railing bordered the garden. The canal lay beyond, she guessed, though it was near impossible to make out anything through the fog, and the buildings opposite were no more than shifting apparitions in the mist.
The mist blurred the tops of the trees and turned the lights of those distant buildings into mere smudges, giving the garden a mystical air. To Rosa, it was almost as if Venice had shrunk to this one fairy-tale garden. The damp air was cold against her face, but she was deliciously warm under Vittorio’s cloak and in no hurry to go inside. For inside there would be more guests—more strangers—and doubtless there would be friendships and connections between them and she would be the outsider. For now it was enough to deal with this one stranger.
More than enough when she thought about the way he looked at her—as if he was seeing inside her, reaching into a place where lurked her deepest fears and desires. For they both existed with this man. He seemed to scrape the surface of her nerve-endings away so everything she felt was raw. Primal. Exciting.
‘What is this place?’ she asked, watching the play of water spouting from the fat fish at the base of the three-tiered fountain. ‘Who owns it?’
‘It belongs to a friend of mine. Marcello’s ancestors were doges of Venice and very rich. The palazzo dates back to the sixteenth century.’
‘His family were rulers of Venice?’
‘Some. Yes.’
‘How do you even know someone like that?’
He paused, gave a shrug of his shoulders. ‘My father and his go back a long way.’
‘Why? Did your father work for him?’
He took a little time before he dipped his head to the side. ‘Something like that.’
She nodded, understanding. ‘I get that. My father services the mayor’s cars in Zecce—the village in Puglia where I come from. He gets invited to the Christmas party every year. We used to get invited too, when we were children.’
‘We?’
‘My three older brothers and me. They’re all married now, with their own families.’
She looked around at the gardens strung with lights and thought about the new nephew or niece who would be welcomed into the world in the next few weeks, and the money she’d wasted on her ticket for the ball tonight—money she could have used to pay for a visit home, along with a special gift for the new baby, and still have had change left over. She sighed at the waste.
‘I paid one hundred euros for my ticket to the ball. That’s one hundred euros down the drain.’
One eyebrow arched. ‘That much?’
‘I know. It’s ridiculously expensive, and ours was one of the cheapest balls, so you’re lucky to get invited to parties in a place like this for free. You can pay a lot more than I did, though. Hundreds more.’
She swallowed. She was babbling. She knew she was babbling. But something about this man’s looming presence in the fog made her want to put more of herself into it and even up the score. He was so tall, so broad across the shoulders, his features so powerful. Everything about him spoke of power.
Because he hadn’t said a word in the space she’d left, she felt compelled to continue. ‘And then you have to have a costume, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘Although I made my costume myself, I still had to buy the material.’
‘Is that what you do, Rosa?’ he asked as they resumed their walk towards the palazzo. ‘Are you a designer?’
She laughed. ‘Hardly. I’m not even a proper seamstress. I clean rooms at the Palazzo d’Velatte, a small hotel in the Dorsoduro sestiere. Do you know it?’
He shook his head.
‘It’s much smaller than this, but very grand.’
Steps led up to a pair of ancient wooden doors that swung open before them, as if whoever was inside had been anticipating their arrival.
She looked up at him. ‘Do you ever get used to visiting your friend in such a grand place?’
He just smiled and said, ‘Venice is quite special. It takes a little getting used to.’
Rosa looked up at the massive doors, at the light spilling from the interior, and took a deep breath. ‘It’s taking me a lot of getting used to.’
And then they entered the palazzo’s reception room and Rosa’s eyes really popped. She’d thought the hotel where she worked was grand! Marketed as a one-time palazzo, and now a so-called boutique hotel, she’d thought it the epitome of style, capturing the faded elegance of times gone by.
It was true that the rooms were more spacious than she’d ever encountered, and the ceilings impossibly high—not to mention a pain to clean. But the building seemed to have an air of neglect about it, as if it was sinking in on itself. The doors caught and snagged on the tiled floors, never quite fitting into the doorframes, and there were complaints from guests every other day that things didn’t quite work right.
Elegant decay, she’d put it down to—until the day she’d taken out the rubbish to the waiting boat and witnessed a chunk of wall falling into the canal. She figured there was not much that was elegant about a wall crumbling piece by piece into the canal.
But here, in this place, she was confronted by a real palazzo—lavishly decorated from floor to soaring ceiling with rich frescoes and gilded reliefs, and impeccably furnished with what must be priceless antiques. From somewhere high above came the sounds of a string quartet, drifting down the spectacular staircase. And now she could see the hotel where she worked for what it really was. Faded...tired. A mere whisper of what it had been trying to emulate.
Another doorman stepped forward with a nod, and relieved Rosa of both Vittorio’s leather cloak and her own wrap underneath.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, wide-eyed as she took it all in, rubbing her bare arms under the light of a Murano glass chandelier high above that was lit with at least one hundred globes.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, watching her, his eyes raking over her, taking in her fitted bodice and the skirt with the weather-inappropriate hem.
‘No.’
Not cold. Her goosebumps had nothing to do with the temperature. Rather, without her cloak and the gloom outside to keep her hidden from his gaze, she felt suddenly exposed. Crazy. She’d been so delighted with the way the design of the gown had turned out, so proud of her efforts after all the late nights she’d spent sewing, and she’d been eager to wear it tonight.
‘You look so sexy,’ Chiara had said, clapping her hands as Rosa performed a twirl for her. ‘You’ll have every man at the ball lining up to dance with you.’
She had felt sexy, and a little bit more wicked than she was used to—or at least she had felt that way then. But right now she had to resist the urge to tug up the bodice of her gown, where it hugged the curve of her breasts, and tug down the front of the skirt.
In a place such as this, where elegance and class oozed from the frescoes and antique glass chandeliers, bouncing light off myriad marble and gilded surfaces, she felt like a cheap bauble. Tacky. Like the fake glass trinkets that some of the shops passed off as Venetian glass when it had been made in some rip-off factory half a world away.
She wondered if Vittorio was suddenly regretting his rash impulse to invite her. Could he see how out of place she was?
Yes, she was supposed to be dressed as a courtesan, but she wished right now that she’d chosen a more expensive fabric or a subtler colour. Something with class that wasn’t so brash and obvious. Something that contained at least a modicum of decency. Surely he had to see that she didn’t belong here in the midst of all this luxury and op
ulence?
Except he wasn’t looking at her with derision. Didn’t look at her as if she was out of place. Instead she saw something else in his eyes. A spark. A flame. Heat.
And whatever it was low down in her belly that had flickered into life this night suddenly squeezed tight.
‘You say you made your costume yourself?’ he asked.
If she wasn’t wrong, his voice had gone down an octave.
‘Yes.’
‘Very talented. There is just one thing missing.’
‘What do you mean?’
But he already had his hands at her head. Her mask, she realised. She’d forgotten all about it. And now he smoothed it down over her hair, adjusting the crown so that it was centred before straightening the lace of her veil over her eyes.
She didn’t move a muscle to try to stop him and do it herself. She didn’t want to stop him. Because all the while the gentle brush of his fingers against her skin and the smoothing of his hands on her hair set off a chain reaction of tingles under her scalp and skin, hypnotising her into inaction.
‘There,’ he said, removing his hands from her head. She had to stop herself from swaying after them. ‘Perfection.’
‘Vittorio!’
A masculine voice rang out from the top of the stairs, saving her from having to find a response when she had none.
‘You’re here!’
‘Marcello!’ Vittorio answered, his voice booming in the space. ‘I promised you I’d be here, did I not?’
‘With you,’ the man said, jogging down the wide marble steps two by two, ‘who can tell?’
He was dressed as a Harlequin, in colours of black and gold, and the leather of his shoes slapped on the marble stairs as he descended. He and Vittorio embraced—a man hug, a back-slap—before drawing apart.
‘Vittorio,’ the Harlequin said, ‘it is good to see you.’
‘And you,’ Vittorio replied.
‘And you’ve brought someone, I see,’ he said, whipping off the mask over his eyes, his mouth curving into a smile as he held out one hand and bowed generously. ‘Welcome, fair stranger. My name is Marcello Donato.’
The man was impossibly handsome. Impossibly. Olive-skinned, with dark eyes and brows, a sexy slash of a mouth and high cheekbones over which any number of supermodels would go to war with each other. But it was the warmth of his smile that made Rosa instinctively like the man.
‘My name is Rosa.’
She took his hand and he drew her close and kissed both her cheeks.
‘I’m right in thinking we’ve never met, aren’t I?’ he said as he released her. ‘I’d be sure to remember if we had.’
‘I’ve only just met Rosa myself,’ Vittorio said, before she could answer. ‘She lost her party in the fog. I thought it unfair that she missed out on the biggest night of Carnevale.’
Marcello nodded. ‘That would be an injustice of massive proportions. Welcome, Rosa, I’m glad you found Vittorio.’ He stepped back and regarded them critically. ‘You make a good couple—the mad warrior protecting the runaway Princess.’
Vittorio snorted beside her.
‘What’s so funny?’ she said.
‘Marcello is known for his flights of fancy.’
‘What can I say?’ He beamed. ‘I’m a romantic. Unlike this hard-hearted creature beside me, whom you managed to stumble upon.’
She filed the information away for future reference. The words had been said in jest, but she wondered if there wasn’t an element of truth in them. ‘So, tell me,’ she said, ‘what is this Princess hiding from?’
‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘An evil serpent. But don’t worry. Vittorio will protect you. There’s not a serpent in the land that’s a match for Vittorio.’
Something passed between the two men’s eyes. A look. An understanding.
‘What am I missing?’ she asked, her eyes darting from one to the other.
‘The fun,’ Marcello said, pulling his mask back on. ‘Everyone is upstairs on the second piano nobile. Come.’
Marcello was warm and welcoming, and nobody seemed to have any issues with the way she was dressed. Rosa began to relax. She’d been worrying about nothing.
Together they ascended the staircase to the piano nobile, where the principal reception rooms of the palazzo were housed one level above the waters of the canal. With its soaring ceilings, and rock crystal chandelier, Rosa could see that this level was even more breath-taking, more opulent, than the last. And the pièce de résistance was the impossibly ornate windows that spread generously across one wall.
‘Is there a view?’ she asked, tempted to look anyway. ‘I mean, when it isn’t foggy?’
‘You’ll have to come back,’ Marcello said, ignoring the crowded reception rooms either side, filled with partygoers, and the music of Vivaldi coming from the string quartet, and walking to the windows before them. ‘On a clear day you can see the Rialto Bridge to the right.’
Rosa peered through the fog, trying to make sense of the smudges of light. But if the Rialto Bridge was to the right... ‘You’re on the Grand Canal!’
Marcello shrugged and smiled. ‘Not that you can tell today. But Venice wearing its shroud of fog is still a sight to behold, so enjoy. And now please excuse me while I find you some drinks.’
‘We’re in San Polo,’ she said to Vittorio.
The hotel where she worked was in the Dorsoduro sestiere, the ball she was supposed to be attending was in the northern district of Cannaregio. Somehow she’d ended up lost between them and within a whisker of the sinuous Grand Canal, which would have hinted at her location if only she’d found it.
A smudge of light passed slowly by—a vaporetto or a motorboat carefully navigating the fog-shrouded waterway—and Rosa’s thoughts chugged with it. Vittorio had been kind, asking her to accompany him, but strictly speaking she wasn’t lost any more.
She turned to him. ‘I know where I am now.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘I mean, I’m not lost. At least, I can find my way home from here.’
He turned to her, putting his big hands on her shoulders as he looked down at her. ‘Are you looking for yet another reason to escape?’
A wry smile kicked up one side of his mouth. He was laughing at her again, and she found she didn’t mind—not when seeing his smile made her feel as if she was capturing something rare and true.
‘I’m not—’
He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why are you so desperate to run away from me?’
He was wrong. She wasn’t desperate to run away from him. Oh, sure, there’d been that moment when she’d panicked, at the end of the path outside the side gate, but she knew better now. Vittorio was no warrior or warlord, no demon or monster. He was a man, warm and real and powerful...a man who made her blood zing.
Except the warm weight of his hands on her shoulders and the probing questions in his eyes vanquished reasoned argument. There was only strength and heat and fear that it would be Vittorio who might change his mind. And then he’d take his hands away. And then she’d miss that contact and the heat and the zing and the pure exhilaration of being in his company.
A tiny worm of a thought squeezed its way through the connections in her brain. Wasn’t that reason enough to run?
She was out of her depth with a man like him—a man who was clearly older and more worldly-wise, who moved in circles with people who owned entire palazzos and whose ancestors were amongst the doges of Venice. A man who made her feel stirrings in her belly, fizzing in her blood—things she wasn’t used to feeling.
Nothing in the village—not a teenage crush on her maths teacher nor a dalliance with Antonio from the next village, who’d worked a few months in her father’s workshop, had prepared her for meeting someone like Vittorio. She felt inadequate. Underdone.
She was dressed as a
courtesan, a seductress, a temptress. But that was such a lie. She swallowed. She could hardly admit that, though.
‘You invited me to this party tonight because I was lost and you felt sorry for me, because I was upset and was going to miss my own party.’
He snorted. ‘I don’t do things because I feel sorry for people. I do things because I want to. I invited you to this party because I wanted to. And because I wanted you to be with me.’ His hands squeezed her shoulders. ‘So now, instead of trying to find all the reasons you shouldn’t be here, how about you enjoy all the reasons you should?’
What could she say to that? ‘In that case, it very much seems that I am stuck with you.’
‘You are,’ he said, with a smile that warmed her to her bones. ‘At least for as long as this night lasts.’
‘A toast.’ Marcello said, arriving back with three glasses of Aperol spritz. He handed them each a glass. ‘To Carnevale,’ he said, raising his glass in a toast.
‘To Carnevale,’ said Rosa.
‘To Carnevale,’ echoed Vittorio, lifting his glass in Rosa’s direction, ‘And to the Venetian fog that delivered us Rosa.’
And if the words he uttered in his deep voice were not enough, the way Vittorio’s piercing blue eyes looked at her above his glass made her blush all the way down to her toes. In that moment Rosa knew that this night would never last long enough, and that whatever else happened she would remember this night for ever.
* * *
She was skittish—so skittish. She was like a colt, untrained and unrehearsed, or a kitten, jumping at shadows and imaginary enemies. And it wasn’t an act. He was good at spotting an ingénue, a pretender. He was used to women who played games and who made themselves out to be something they were not.
Just for a moment Vittorio wondered if he was doing the right thing, pitting her against Sirena. Maybe he should release her from her obvious unease and awkwardness and let her go back to her own world, if that was what she really wanted, back to what was, no doubt, the drudgery of her work and the worry of losing the paltry sum of one hundred euros.
Except Vittorio was selfish enough not to want to let her go.
