by Nora Roberts
She never saw them in the dream, but she knew exactly what they looked like. The necklace was formed of long Venetian beads as clear as water, but with shimmers of real gold leaf trapped inside the glass. They were interspersed with tiny beads of granulated gold. The pendant that hung from it was a delicate ruby, set in a thin gold rim.
Claire tried to shake off the dream. It had been recurring more frequently and each time there was something more, something new. Each time the sensation of fear deepened. And she always awakened with the feeling that something terrible, something tragic and inevitable, was about to happen.
She swung her legs off the bed and sat up, afraid to fall asleep again.
The dreams had begun after she’d unpacked the crate of delicately tinted drawings that Count Ludovici had sent through an intermediary for a private auction: Titian, Bellini, Tintoretto, Giorgione, Caravaggio. Claire would never forget the thrill of holding them in her hands, of feeling a sense of the artists who had drawn them, across the centuries.
Her favorite had been the Carnivale scene: revelers celebrating the holiday in fanciful costume, their faces disguised with paint or elaborate papier-maˆché masks. It was the best of the lot, attributed to Titian, and had been expected to be the high point of the private auction. Oddly, it hadn’t met the reserve price and had been withdrawn.
Among the colorful throng was the figure of a young girl. She stood in the shadows of the foreground beneath an airy balcony, blond curls peeping out beneath the hood of a wine-colored cloak, her oval face covered by a silver mask. She wore a necklace of Murano beads, with a small ruby pendant in the shape of a heart.
From the moment she’d first spotted the girl in the drawing, Claire had had the uncanny feeling that she knew her. Or that the face, forever hidden behind that painted silver mask, resembled her own.
She rose, shaking off a little shiver. Her first meeting with the count wasn’t until dinner at the Ca’ Ludovici this evening. There was an entire afternoon to kill. “I’ll walk off some of this energy,” she told herself. “Do a little shopping.”
She dressed casually in a two-piece blue silk outfit, grabbed an ivory jacket and her purse from the sofa, and left. She wanted to put some distance between herself and the dream.
Her stomach rumbled as she went out through the gardens, but she didn’t want to run into Val in one of the hotel’s gilded restaurants. Claire decided she’d walk to the piazza and have a gelato, the heavenly Italian version of ice cream, and then stroll along the Mercerie, the main shopping thoroughfare, where many of the most exclusive shops were located.
It would be a sin against her femininity, she assured herself, not to buy some exquisite and comfortable shoes—a combination that seemed to be unique to the Italians. Something sexy and strappy.
Taking the Calle Barrozzi past the church of San Moise, she worked her way back around to the waterfront. The cafe in the Hotel Monaco tempted her, as did the famous Harry’s Bar, but she didn’t give it to either. She wanted to feel the pulse of Venice and knew she should begin her explorations at its beating heart: the Piazza San Marco.
A few minutes more and she crossed the lovely bridge over Rio del Giardinetti, the canal that surrounded the gardens Napoleon had built on the waterfront after Venice had surrendered her thousand years of independence to him. Claire stood on the molo, with the former Mint building on her left and the fanciful pink and white arches of the ducal palace to her right. She headed toward the open space between the tall pillars topped with statues that she’d seen from the launch. One held Saint Teodoro with his crocodile—there’s a story there, she decided—and the other with the winged Lion of Saint Mark, the city’s emblem.
It was amazing to see tourists in shorts and baseball caps, with cameras and shopping bags, mingling with fashionable Italian women, suited bureaucrats, and colorful souvenir vendors in front of the graceful, ancient buildings.
It was unsettling, Claire thought. As if time had collided with itself and been violently twisted about in the process.
A shadow fell across her, and she froze when a hand gripped her shoulder. It was Val, his dazzling eyes hidden behind sunglasses. “Don’t go between the pillars,” he told her. “It’s bad luck to walk there.”
“Dozens of people are doing it right now,” she said curtly, “and I don’t see lightning bolts blazing down from the sky.”
“Executions used to take place between the pillars. Hangings and beheadings,” he said cheerfully. He knew how superstitious she was. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
She ignored him, threading through the throng of tourists snapping photos and locals on their way to meet friends for drinks at Florian’s or Quadri’s. He was still there, just a few feet behind her. She knew the sound of his footsteps as well as she knew her own.
She threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “Go away! You’re spoiling Venice for me.”
His eyebrows raised. “I didn’t think you’d take it so personally.”
“There are few things more personal than a divorce,” she told him and walked a little faster.
Val kept pace with his easy cowboy stride. “You can’t avoid me forever,” he said casually. “We’re both dining tonight with Count Ludovici.”
Claire stopped dead in her tracks. “I didn’t know you were included in the invitation.”
“I wasn’t. But I paid a courtesy call on the old gentleman earlier and made arrangements to photograph the collection. One thing led to another, and when I mentioned knowing you, he thoughtfully asked me to join the two of you for dinner.”
She ground her teeth. She’d come to Venice hoping to put Val behind her. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she had might as well be gracious about it. “I’ll see you at eight, then.”
Val shoved his hands in his pockets. “We could share a gondola.”
“They’re overpriced.”
“Not if you know how to haggle with the gondoliers.” He smiled down at her. “And think how romantic it would be, lying back on the cushions as we glide silently past the glowing palazzi by moonlight.”
She shot him a glance of disgust. “And maybe I could push you over the side while we glide silently under a bridge, on some particularly dank and smelly canal.”
His smile wasn’t dented a bit. “Ah, now, that’s the spirit, Claire. A little passionate wrestling while the gondolier serenades us home.”
“Look!” She stopped and faced him, her arms braced on her hips. “This isn’t going to work. It’s bad enough that we’ll be thrown together on this assignment. I won’t have you following me around the rest of the time, trying to lure me back for a nostalgic romp between the sheets. I’m immune to your charm now. It’s like catching the measles: a one-time event—then never again.”
He just grinned at her, as if her lie was as transparent as glass. Claire felt her temper rising. “Go practice throwing out lures to some beautiful signorina and stop following me around.”
Val rocked back on the heels of his boots and considered. “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
“I’m sure of it.”
He turned his head. The arches of the piazza were reflected in the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “Hmmmm. What about that dark-haired beauty with the wide hat sitting outside Florian’s?”
She cut a glance over at the tables outside the famed cafe. They were mostly filled, but she spotted the woman almost immediately. She was exquisitely dressed in the European style: elegant, polished, and absolutely stunning. Probably one of the five most beautiful women in all creation.
Claire smiled. “Knock yourself out.”
Val bowed mockingly. “Your wish is my command.”
He crossed the long piazza with his easy stride and went up to the table. While Claire watched in amazement, the woman looked up and smiled. Val leaned down and greeted the woman. She offered him her hand—and her cheek to kiss. A moment later they were sitting close together, talking like longtime friends.
A
s they probably were, Claire realized. He’d set her up, damn it!
What a fool she’d made of herself, accusing him of following her, when all along he’d been on his way to Florian’s for a drink with the beautiful signorina! As she fumed, he looked up and smiled at her across the piazza.
“Arrogant bastard!” she mouthed.
Val lifted his drink to her and smiled his dazzling smile.
Claire swore, turned on her heel, and marched off.
3
CLAIRE HEADED TO the nearest gelato shop. After paying at the counter, she salved her wounded pride with a cone of three flavors, the way the Italians enjoyed it. She chose apricot, ice-white lemon, and what she thought was pale pink strawberry.
As she left the shop, she was still steaming. Why couldn’t a pigeon have made a direct hit on Val as he leaned over the beautiful signorina? But things like that never happened to Val. He was too lucky. She stepped back into the sunshine and had to laugh. Val always knew how to yank her chain, but this time she’d been the one to set herself up. He’d just let her forge a few of the links.
And she’d be damned if she’d let him get away with it. The thought of pushing him into the Grand Canal grew ever more enticing.
He knew her too well. That was apparent. He could always see through her, and yet Claire always felt as if she didn’t have a handle on what made Val tick. The magnetism between them was always potent, the affection tender, the sex passionate. She felt her body temperature rising just thinking of it.
He could be a delightful companion: charming, easygoing, and laid-back. In fact, his quirky humor was always part of his appeal to her. Or he could be intense, impassioned by his work. So much so that he could focus on it to the exclusion of everything else.
Including me.
He could change from one to the other in the twinkling of an eye. Just like the eagle her grandfather had compared him to. Ah, Val! Her sigh turned into a chuckle. I’ll get even, you sonofabitch.
Moving through the crowded piazza, Claire took a lick of the pink gelato. It was the most amazing flavor, delicate yet complex. At first she couldn’t place it. Then it came to her as a complete surprise.
Roses, she thought. Roses in the sun. She sighed with pleasure. “Only the Italians,” she murmured, “could make an ice cream that tastes like summer.”
The piazza was suddenly more crowded than ever, and she realized it was time for the feeding of the pigeons. As long as the birds stayed in Venice, so legend said, the city would remain in all her glory. A few fluttered down all around her, to the delight of the children and visitors. The local people, well-versed in the habits of pigeons, prudently ducked under the piazza’s arcades.
Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, Claire saw a great swirl of movement, the flash of light from a hundred multicolored wings. For a moment she was a child again, gazing up at the pigeons swirling up past the domes of San Marco, the pale tiles of the Doge’s Palace, their wings shifting color in the late-afternoon light. Could smell coffee and hot rolls on the outdoor table where she sat with her nurse, feel her fingers sticky from a striped piece of candy as she tried to wipe them, unseen, on her frilly blue dress.
Could see a woman’s face smiling down at her, filled with love.
“I remember,” she exclaimed beneath her breath.
She’d been only four when her mother had died in a fall down the steps of their ancient apartment building, and her father packed her up and went back to the States. He’d always told her that she was too young to have any memory of her early years in Venice, but Claire had always known that he was wrong. She could remember if only she could find the key to her bank of memories. Pictures of the beautiful city might account for some of her dreams, but none of them captured the shimmering, transparent light of Venice in the way she’d always seen it in her mind’s eye.
The way it really was.
“I do remember!”
Her eyes were filled with tears, her heart with emotions long buried, and her mouth with the taste of heavenly gelato. After all these years she was back in Venice, far from the Idaho ranch where she’d spent her grammar school years, farther still from the hazy San Francisco Bay Area where she’d gone to college. Half a world away from everything that was most familiar to her.
She was home.
She wished she could share this moment with someone. Couples strolled by, families of tourists, locals meeting friends for drinks. She seemed to be the only one alone in the crowds. She looked across the piazza to the table where Val and the Italian beauty had been talking, but the table was empty, and there was no sign of them. Had they slipped away to some lovely room overlooking the canal to make love?
Jealousy sliced through her to the bone.
It amazed and outraged her. She’d been the one to file for divorce. The one to say the marriage was a mistake, that it was over, and that she would pick up the pieces and go on as if he’d never existed.
Claire stood stunned while the crowd jostled around her. “It’s not love,” she told herself fiercely. “It’s not even lust.”
Although, thinking of the way heat had curled through her body when Val touched her back at the hotel, she had to admit it was close.
No, it was just a simple dog-in-the-manger attitude. She didn’t want him. Not really. She just didn’t want anyone else to have him either.
Laughing at her foolishness, Claire turned around and headed for the arched gateway to the Mercerie. Val was an adult, unmarried, and free to follow his own desires. And so was she.
The two bronze Moors above the gate swung their bronze hammers against the great bell to mark the hour. She pushed Val and the dark beauty out of her mind and lost herself in exploring Venice.
An hour later she had a Fendi bag, a pair of sling-back leather shoes, and another hour to kill before returning to the hotel to dress for dinner. Not enough time to drop in at one of the fascinating museums or galleries but certainly enough to visit one of the intriguing shops on the streets that branched off to either side. What was the name of that place the launch pilot had told her about?
She couldn’t remember, so she just wandered contentedly. She stopped when she came to a tiny place displaying Carnivale masks in the window. Others hung on the walls inside. Claire examined them through the glass. Some were plain silk strips made to cover the eyes, while others hid the entire face. There was the eerie mask of the “plague doctor” with its long snoutlike nose funnel, and there were silver moons and gilded suns and spiky stars. Lovely female faces painted in rainbow colors or stark white, blank as stone.
There was something fascinating yet sinister about them. With the anonymity of one of the cleverly painted papier-maˆché creations, it was possible to merge with the crowd and become anybody—or nobody.
She wondered if the girl in the drawing had done that. Or the girl in her dream. Claire was sure they were the same. Something about that drawing had triggered the dreams that started out so enchantingly and ended with her waking in terror. It was the only logical explanation.
Was she a young lady of a noble family, savoring an adventure? Or a servant who’d taken her mistress’s cloak and mask so she might slip away and meet a lover? Did she ever walk along these same streets in her dainty embroidered slippers?
I wonder what her name was, and where she was going when the artist captured her likeness. Claire looked around. Hell, I wonder where I’m going!
She’d taken a wrong turn while her thoughts were rambling. She found herself halfway along a steep calle, and there wasn’t another soul in sight.
Her heart stopped, then skipped a beat, when she saw the ancient door set into the blank wall. A familiar decorative iron grill was set high in the thick wood, and there was no handle on the outside. Just like the door in her dreams.
Wisps of panic curled through her. Something from the dream. Something she couldn’t quite recall…
Claire forced herself to go to the door. Her fingers touched the time-roughened wo
od, and the panic grew. She wanted to run away, but she held her ground. The bottom of the wrought iron was at the level of her chin. She peered inside, although the dead leaves of a vining plant obscured the view.
There was nothing to distinguish the place. Nothing to see but sections of the terra-cotta-colored walls that formed the building, a pot of purple basil, the edge of a dark blue shutter, and a child’s leather sandal. It might be any private courtyard in the city.
There was a sudden blur of movement, and Claire jumped instinctively. The low yowl of an irritated cat sounded nearby. A moment later a sleek yellow feline hurtled from the wall to the courtyard pavement, like a heat-seeking missile. Claire backed away from the door.
Rather than turn back, she continued on her way.
She was still thinking of the girl who haunted her when she came out into a small square. It was utterly charming. Real estate was so precious in Venice that it startled her to find a patch of green. Whoever had lived in the grand palazzi surrounding it must have had power and influence. Now most of them were made into apartments, their first floors turned into enticing shops.
She was about to enter the jeweler’s when she saw the reflection behind her: FRASCATTI, a sign said in faded gilt letters on black. The place the boatman had mentioned to her. Crossing over the bridge to the opposite side, she examined the offerings arranged on burgundy velvet in the small shop window.
They were a mixed lot, with an engraving of the Rialto Bridge on an easel beside a porcelain doll, half a dozen antique Murano glass wine goblets the color of ripe plums, an ornate set of monogrammed silver hairbrushes, slightly tarnished, a cracked cherub’s face of ebonized wood.
And a necklace.
An echo of her dream came shivering back. She stared at the antique bauble. It was made of clear Venetian glass, shimmering with gold and strung between granulated golden beads. There was some sort of pendant hanging from its center. Could it be the heart-shaped ruby?
No. Impossible. But her heart was ticking like a bomb inside her chest. Shading the glass, she tried to see it better. The light was wrong, bouncing off the window.
