She reached for the bowl Ivar offered her, and Yvania spooned something that looked like crème fraiche into the center of Giselle’s bowl.
“You must to try with homemade smetana, my sour cream. I made best in my village. I am told it is best of any place.”
Together the four went about the business of eating. The bread was a feathery-soft revelation with a moist interior and an addictive cracker crust. It was by far the best bread Giselle had ever tasted, but her hosts ate it without comment. The butter was whipped from fresh cream, with light flakes of sea salt added that melted on her tongue. The goulash was a symphony of rich peppers, sweet onions, and deep, rich spices simmered together. Finishing her bowl, she smacked her lips discretely.
“This was an incredible lunch,” she continued in an impulsive gush. “I absolutely love your cooking, Yvania.”
Ivar ladled more goulash into their bowls, and Markus sliced more bread to pass around. The proud hostess puffed out her chest and then flipped a pudgy hand casually.
“Just goulash. I am glad you like. I am not being mad at Markus, but if I knew I was making lunch for company, I would have make something else.” Then she abruptly dropped her palm onto the table with a thump. “Tell me. You were always so beautiful? I mean since baby?” She looked across the table at Giselle with eyes comically magnified by her thick cat’s-eye glasses.
Ivar barked a laugh, while Markus chuckled and ducked his head. Clearly the two men were used to being embarrassed by her directness.
“Wot?” Yvania reproved her men with a glance. “The swan can start as ugly leetle bird. Giselle, here, is not minding this question. Ach! Such beauty cannot be ignored!”
Giselle laughed, and the men joined her. “I don’t know. I think all babies are beautiful. Right?” Changing the subject she said, “So, Ivar, you teach the art of window making?”
“I do. The old Crimean glass process that I teach makes the most beautiful light inside the home.”
Markus pointed toward the front of the building. “You must have noticed the quality of light in the entryway?”
“I did actually. Did you make the skylights and those unusual windows?”
“Da, those are my work.”
“They’re wonderful!”
“I am glad you like them. So you are seeing how Markus makes his sculptures?”
“Uh-huh. I’ve never seen anything like them…or him.”
“Is he maybe influencing your next artistic creation?”
“He’s influencing me, but I couldn’t work like him.”
“Can his method be so different from other artists?”
“Absolutely! I’m also studying the way he moves.” She tried to mimic his minimalistic movements with her hands and body. “He has the precision of a surgeon, but his hands…he has…refinement, I guess is the word.”
Ivar seemed to be considering her comments, and Markus was obviously pleased as he wiped his mouth with his napkin.
She looked over at him. “Markus, you join components as if you’ve assembled them many times before. Like you move from memory.”
“I have never given it thought.” He tilted his head thinking. “It is the only way I know.”
“Now we have leetle cup of chocolate.” Yvania got up from the table and turned the low flame off from under a pot of cream and chocolate on the stove. She then gave it a couple of brisk beats with an old-fashioned wooden frother. While pouring their drinks into cups, she gushed, “The wonderful Countess Giselle Verona, here in our home! You know, everyone loves you! Loves your art! Loves your husband! So handsome he is!”
After relaxing over the chocolate, Giselle looked down at her watch and announced, “Oh, I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave soon. I’m meeting my mother-in-law. Would you excuse me while I call my driver?” While Giselle stepped into the hall to use her phone, Markus returned to the workshop to retrieve her gift, and then rejoined her as she said her goodbyes.
“Ivar, what a pleasure it’s been to meet you. I hope I never startle you again. I’d like to be a frequent guest in your home.” She turned to her hostess. “Yvania, thank you for sharing your lunch with me. I’d like to introduce you to my mother-in-law, Juliette. She’s a great Italian cook, but what you do with spices and peppers would knock her out.”
“Sure! I could do the knocking out! You tell the countess to come!”
Markus escorted Giselle outside to her car. After trading phone numbers, she blurted impulsively, “Markus, what are you doing tomorrow? Can I come watch you work again?”
“I will be here.”
“Bon! Au revoir.” She kissed him lightly on both cheeks and got into her car. Giselle gave instructions to her driver, and then laid her head back to think about Markus. It was good to have a discreet new friend that she could trust. This gave her an idea of something she’d like to do with him, and she felt a secret thrill.
CHAPTER
3
Markus looked out the window at the gray morning rain. Giselle had called before breakfast asking if she could come over within the hour, and now here she was. She dismissed her driver with a wave and made her way to the factory door, thigh-high black boots flashing from the front slit of her bottle-green trench coat. Despite the dismal weather, she looked happy and energetic.
He opened the door and drew her inside. Taking her umbrella, he pointed it out the open door, flicked the water off, retracted it, and set it over a drain in the corner. Closing the big door, he noticed she was watching his movements again, and it made him happy.
“Good morning, Giselle.” He pulled her into his arms for a hug.
“Oh, no,” she sputtered, “I’m getting you all wet.”
He held her against him. “I do not mind.” After a slow squeeze, he released her and stepped back as she untied the belt of her trench.
“Let me take that for you.” He slid his fingertips beneath her coat collar, eased the raincoat off, and hung it on a peg. He admired her deep-green dress. It formed to her body like a wetsuit from her neck to her hipbones, where it flared away creating an extreme version of the feminine form. “I am glad you are here.” He opened his hands as if heat was radiating off her. “And I have never seen anything like this dress…beautiful!”
“Isn’t it? I didn’t wear designer clothes growing up, but now that I’m a Verona it’s expected of me…” She shrugged casually and then picked up where they’d left off yesterday. “Can I ask you some questions about copper alloy?”
He took her hand and led her back to the workshop. When they were seated at the workbench, Ivar shuffled in and kissed her cheek.
“Wonderful to see you, my angel.”
Yvania bustled in and set mugs of coffee in front of them. She bent close and exchanged little cheek busses with Giselle.
“I am so happy you are coming back to us!” Chuckling, she straightened up and swatted her hands in front of her own face as if waving off a desire to prattle on. “I will be in kitchen with making the lunch. Please, you will stay to have varenyky with filling of fried onions, and my homemade farm cheese.” Chugging out of the room, she scooted past Ivar as he closed the door.
Markus had dressed in his usual grey work shirt and pants, but he’d chosen heavier material for the chilly morning. He looked at Giselle with concern.
“It is cold in the workshop. I will bring you something warm. Although I do not think it will go with your dress.” He disappeared through a side door and returned with a soft, grey cardigan, which he draped around her shoulders in a courtly gesture.
“Merci.”
He smiled and picked up his coffee cup. “Last night I began a new piece, so you will want to watch me work on it while we talk about copper?”
“Please. I’m glad you don’t mind having me watch you.” She lifted her cup to her lips and blew across the hot foamed milk. “I told Vincenzo that watching you is like good theatre.”
“Theatre? Ha!” He twirled a spool of copper wire and looked at her. “
I have shown you my process. What about you? When can I see you work?”
Giselle swallowed a mouthful of coffee, and then said in a confidential tone, “Well…I’m about to begin assembly on a really big piece. The materials have been shipped out to the country where I’ll be working on it.” Her eyes watched his hands as he twirled a segment of wire with his pliers.
“Oh? When will you go?”
“Next week.”
“That is soon.” He tried not to let his disappointment show. “How long will you be away?”
“I don’t know, a few months maybe. I’ve never attempted a piece this massive.”
“You do this massive piece alone?”
“Well, you see, it’s a secret.” She leaned over, touching her shoulder against his conspiratorially and whispered, “I haven’t told anyone what it is.”
“Your husband knows this secret, does he not?”
“No, he doesn’t.” She squared her shoulders and pivoted in her seat to face him. “He only knows that I’m going to the country to work. I haven’t told a single soul what it is.”
Markus set his pliers aside and he faced her. She looked like a cat that had eaten the family goldfish. He narrowed his eyes and tried to discern what she was trying to tell him.
“Your husband will know when you both arrive in the country, will he not?”
“When I go to work, I go alone. He stays here in Paris to work, or goes to Italy to be with family and his best friend Leonardo. He visits me for a day or two once in a while, but he leaves me to my process.” Markus didn’t try to hide his surprise as she continued. “Vincenzo doesn’t like to be stuck out there when I’m working. He used to come with me, but he’d just spend days driving around the countryside or riding his horse to neighboring farms looking for company while I worked.”
“You know, to hold a secret is to carry a weight.” Markus picked up his coffee and took a drink. “Would you consider sharing your burden with me?” He could see that she wanted to tell him, but she was hesitating. He set down his cup and took both of her hands. “You can trust me.”
“Well, one of the elements that I’m going to use in the creation is not…”
He raised one eyebrow slowly, requesting her to continue.
“…legal.”
“Ah. Not a confession I would expect from a woman like you. You are not worried about the authorities?”
“I’m going to build this sculpture,” she shrugged, “and then the authorities will do what they must.”
Markus tipped his head to the side, regarding her. He could see that she was excited at the prospect of her forbidden art. What a fascinating woman. “You have great conviction, or are very stubborn.”
Giselle clapped her hands and rocked back in her chair. “Both!” she grinned.
It was late in the day when Ivar came into the workshop and told Markus he had a phone call. Markus left the workshop to talk on the old landline down the hall, and Ivar sat down to keep her company.
“You do not need a nap after eating our big lunch?”
“Ah, no,” she grinned. “Yvania’s cooking is really special.”
“Da.” Ivar tapped a fingertip on the worktop and said matter-of-factly, “Giselle, I want to pay you the compliment of being frank with you.”
“Okay.” She felt a pang, because that preface was usually followed by something hard to take. Bracing herself she said, “Of course.”
“You have a special quality that makes people lose their heads.” That didn’t seem to need any response, but she nodded her understanding. “Now, I would like for you to ask yourself if you have any intention of toying with Markus’ heart—as hidden as that intention might be—or if you are only here to learn his craft.”
“I would never toy with his heart. I’m only… I assure you, I’m only interested in his techniques.”
“All right. Then perhaps you could think of your affect on him and wear something less…” He gestured to the sprayed-on effect of her dress. “…distracting.”
“You’re right, this was thoughtless. I won’t wear things like this around him anymore.”
Ivar chuckled in spite of his attempt to counsel her. “This dark mermaid dress sparks the imagination even of an old man like me.”
They were both chuckling when Markus returned. “My employer called with news of more delays on his project. But he says my work visa is safe.”
She stayed at the factory four more hours, engrossed in watching Markus, and was surprised when she glanced at her watch that the day had slipped past her.
“Oh, Markus, I’ve got to go now.” Retrieving her phone, she sent a quick text to her driver.
“You could stay for dinner. I am sure Yvania is already cooking something memorable.”
“No doubt.” Her eyes involuntarily grew big for an instant at the prospect of going back to Yvania’s table. “But no, I’ve got a ball to get dressed for.” She stood up and eased out of the cardigan.
His eyes swept over her as he took it from her, and she thought of Ivar’s plea.
“A ball? That sounds like fun.”
“It will be, and Vincenzo hates to be late, so I’ve got to run.”
Vincenzo had just arrived home when Giselle rushed through the front door and over to him, offering reassurances.
“We won’t be late. I’ll be ready before you know it.” She put a hand on his shoulder, raised her left leg, and offered her foot to him. “Here, help me off with my boots.” She took hold of both his shoulders as he crouched down to help.
“You know, Marcella would do this for you, darling.”
“I always feel guilty when I have to manhandle her as she wrestles my boots off. You’re my husband. We’re supposed to wrestle.” She leaned down and nipped his ear with her teeth, and he laughed while they did, indeed, end up wrestling the black boots off her feet. He handed them to her, and watched as she trotted up the stairs toward her dressing room and waiting maid.
He and Giselle were attending a charity gala for human rights at the Louvre’s Pavillon de Flore, where he would accept an award on behalf of his family for the three million euros they’d donated to the cause. The celebrity attendees liked to wear the most outrageous formal wear, but that kind of fashion had never appealed to Vincenzo. He was a man of simple style, and after showering he donned a classic Armani tuxedo. As he peeked into Giselle’s dressing room, his breath caught at the sight of her in a fiery coral couture gown.
“My God, Gigi...”
“You like?” She looked pleased and raised her hands up in a “ta-da” gesture.
“You look exquisite.”
“You look exquisite yourself,” she said as she picked up her crystal-encrusted evening bag and came to take his arm.
They chatted in the car, and he heard more about the Ukrainian artist Giselle was currently studying—something to do with glass and copper. She was even more preoccupied than usual. Tonight he’d have to work harder to lure her out of her art bubble.
Dinner was prepared by a celebrated Parisian chef who had a flair for sauces and an affinity for shallots, but gossip was on the attendee's lips far more frequently than their forks. When the dinner portion of the evening gave way to dancing, their enjoyment of one other was apparent to everyone, and the society photographers couldn’t get enough of their embraces on the dance floor. Vincenzo loved dancing with Giselle. She was a perfect partner, with the grace to follow his lead and the athletic ability to make any dance step look effortless. As was expected of them, they both danced with other partners, and meeting their social obligations while traveling around the polished floor song after song was harder work than it looked.
It was after two a.m. when Vincenzo escorted Giselle to their front door and entered the security code. The staff wasn’t required to wait up for them, and even Dinofrio had gone to bed at his regular time. Acting like naughty teenagers returning past their curfew, they didn’t wait to shed their formal wear. Kicking off their shoes in the foy
er, they undressed as they climbed the main staircase. Vincenzo dutifully unhooked Giselle’s buttons and zipper as she offered them to him, and she unhooked his cuff links and removed collar stays for him in return. Ready to be rid of her couture confection, Giselle stopped mid-flight and raised her arms lazily over her head. Vincenzo climbed up another stair and bent to whisk her gown up over her head. She leaned against the balustrade for balance as she stripped off her silk stockings, while he continued upward shedding his tuxedo. Arriving at the top of the stairs, they piled their clothing on the side table outside his dressing room, and he followed Giselle into her bedroom. She freed her breasts from her corset, tossing it aside, and collapsed onto the bed dramatically, wearing nothing but a skimpy half-slip that made clear she wasn’t wearing panties.
“Oh! I don’t know how many times my feet were stepped on.”
She flung herself back onto the bed, lifted her legs in the air, and bent her knees to inspect her smarting toes. Vincenzo was down to boxers as he regarded his wife holding her feet with her sex exposed, like a baby waiting to be diapered.
“Gigi, for the most feminine creature I’ve ever known, that is one unladylike pose.”
“What? You don’t like my frog-holding-feet-pose?” She dropped her legs demurely and yawned.
He collapsed next to her, picked up one of her feet, gently massaged it, and echoed her yawn.
She yawned again, gave a satisfied “mmm” at his ministrations, and smiled as she stuffed a pillow under her head.
After another long yawn, he set her foot down and laid his head back. “Let’s have breakfast together before I leave for the airport.”
She murmured, “Yum,” as she began to fall asleep.
He pulled the cover over them and was snoring softly beside her within moments.
Raphielli Scortini had been married to Salvio for over a year, and it was a constant strain on her good humor. She’d lived in an abbey until she was eighteen, and had thoroughly enjoyed her life there—studying theology and languages, and even perfecting the painstaking art of hand-copying church scrolls with a quill and ink. But now her life had no purpose, and Salvio refused to let her out of this cold dark palazzo unless she was attending Mass with her mother and grandmother who she secretly thought of as the Dour Doublet. She didn’t spend any other time with them because Salvio didn’t like them, and so they served only as chaperones for church trips. She’d been six-years-old when her father had died, and the very next morning the Dour Doublet had taken her to live at the abbey. Now that she was married, Salvio wanted her to spend her days reading the Bible, but he generally avoided her at all cost.
Stealing Venice Page 5
