by Noelle Mack
She dipped into the cream again, covering just the tip of the spoon with a dollop and eating it primly. She was grateful for the chance to get to know Marco a little before they ended up in bed somewhere. You’re in luck, she told herself. He was not only a gentleman but his English was excellent. “So, are you named after the patron saint of Venice?”
“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, looking relaxed despite the formality of his clothes. “But I am no saint.”
“A sinner?” Uh-oh. That kinda came out of nowhere. But it fit. His black hair and mysterious charm were standard issue for fallen angels.
He winked. “Sometimes.”
Ooh. He was custom made for a fabulous fling, from his beautiful, long-lashed eyes to his sensual lips to his…skip the inventory, Sarah thought. She was beginning to wriggle. The wrought-iron chair stayed where it was, fortunately.
“I see.” She looked down into her cup of hot chocolate. A reply like that oughta teach her to ask leading questions. “Well, small world. I mean, I wasn’t expecting to meet the nephew of the uncle—” She stopped herself. “Uh-oh. I sound like a language lesson. Sorry.”
A mischievous gleam came into his eyes as he laughed. “Yes, you do.”
She blushed and ran her hand through her hair, something she did when she was nervous. She immediately wished she hadn’t because she could feel it spiking.
“You remind me of Giulietta Masina.”
From the way he was smiling, that was a good thing. But Sarah didn’t have a clue as to who that was.
He guessed as much and answered her unspoken question. “A famous actress. The star of La Strada. She was Fellini’s wife. A friend of my grandmother.”
Sarah nodded casually, as if hanging around with movie stars and brilliant directors was something she did too. At least she had heard of Fellini. “How interesting. Are you, um, in the movie business?”
He shrugged. “I once financed an avant-garde film for the Biennale that was shown at the Venice Film Festival. An expensive and endless mistake. The final result was hailed as profound but very boring. I might as well have burned the money.”
“Oh. I thought you were…” She didn’t want to finish the sentence and she didn’t want to say what she was thinking: He looked like someone with money to burn. That was crass, but he really did, in an unostentatious, hand-tailored way. She glanced at the book he’d set down on the table. “I thought you were a poet. Or something like that.” She didn’t know enough Italian to make sense of the title. The book looked very old, too old for him to have written it.
Marco shook his head and turned it over, smoothing the center pages open with long fingers. “No, I am a producer of theatrical events and things like that. A friend of mine asked me to put together that party for her.”
“Aha. You did seem to be in charge.”
He rolled his eyes. “Up to a point. Such events have a way of becoming madhouses. The guests only go home when the sun scares them there.”
She could just imagine the bedraggled parade in the bleak light of morning and she was glad she wasn’t going to be in it. But the night was relatively young and they were heading for a private party of their own at a location…still to be announced. Sarah couldn’t think of a sophisticated way to ask that question.
“By the way, this is not poetry. Were you trying to read it over my shoulder when we were waiting?”
She turned as red as the café walls. “Certainly not.”
He chuckled as if he’d known the answer to his own question in the first place. “It is a book of spells and incantations in Venetian dialect.” He read a few lines aloud in a casual way, not bothering to translate them.
“Was that a spell?” She looked into his hazel eyes, liking the changeable color. A little magic never hurt. “Are you into that stuff?”
“Ah, I found the book by chance in an antiquarian shop,” he said. “I showed it to a friend of mine from Paris; he is a scholar of the arcane. He wanted a version in French and I have been working on that for him. Something to do. “
That didn’t exactly answer her question, but he didn’t offer anything more. She was on her own. He had finished his hot chocolate before she noticed that Signor Morelli had gone into a back room, leaving her alone with Marco. “Oh, then you’re not a sorcerer.”
“No.” He crossed his arms on the table and leaned in, giving her another amused look. “Are you in need of one?”
She picked up her hot chocolate and took a big sip, wiping her mouth on the unused napkin he slid over to her. “No. Just maybe…a guide. I was going to visit the Accademia. And the Ca’ Rezzonico.”
“Tomorrow, I assume.” He glanced toward the window and she did too, seeing only the reflection of the café’s interior and the two of them. Blurred by the snow that melted into water on the outside of the glass, the reflection seemed to shimmer. Sarah looked at it dreamily, feeling rather like she was sitting inside a painting.
Two white cups and a book on a table, a man and a woman facing each other, their knees nearly touching, their features indistinct, a feeling of understated intimacy between them brought out with expressive brushwork.
She should have brought her sketchbook. Watercolor would capture the moment perfectly. But she could work from memory. She would call it Café By Night. Or The Meeting. Or Young American About To Fool Around With Handsome European.
“There is the cat that followed us,” Marco said, breaking into her moment of reverie.
He pointed and she looked, seeing the little gray cat in a corner of the window, sitting on the low sill and watching them, looking wet and angry. Its eyes were chartreuse green, a bright note in the blurred colors of Sarah’s imaginary painting.
“Poor thing. Should we help her find a doorway or a box or something to get out of the snow?”
“It has stopped.”
Sarah looked through the window, focusing past the reflection. He was right.
“Besides, she will only run away. But how did you know that cat is female?”
The question took her aback. “Same way you knew, I guess. Maybe it’s her eyes. There’s something feminine about the way she just…watches. Like she’s thinking.”
“Male cats do not think?”
Sarah shook her head. “Not the same way. Not so deliberately.”
“I don’t know whether to be insulted or not,” Marco said, laughing.
“I’m talking about cats, not men. Anyway, getting back to the museums, we could go tomorrow.” After a night of unbridled passion and sinful exploration.
He studied her for a moment without replying. Oops. She’d all but signed him up to go look at art he’d seen before. And she’d said we. She was making them into a couple. Sarah hoped he wouldn’t mind.
Marco nodded. “I know all the museums well. Certainly.”
He leaned back lazily, looking at her as if he very much liked what he saw. Sarah didn’t know what to make of his interest in her. She was anything but elegant. Well, maybe she was a change from the contessas and principessas and whatnot he usually dated.
“That would be great.” Sarah looked at him hopefully.
He shrugged. “But if I explain too much, you must tell me to stop. An intelligent mind does not need to be guided.”
She thought that over while she finished her chocolate at last. How nice of him to say so. She smiled, trying her best to look extremely intelligent and irresistibly sexy at the same time. But he probably got that a lot.
“I never thought of it that way.” She put down the cup, running a hand through her hair, which was mostly dry but not quite. “But I’d love to go with you. Let’s do it.”
Marco closed the book of spells and tapped it lightly on the table. “Shall we meet in the morning?”
Um. That meant they weren’t going to have a wild night. She would have to wait. And that was a good thing, she told herself insincerely. Half the time when you got to know a man you decided against him. But she had a feeling that wasn�
�t going to happen with Marco.
“Sure,” she chirped. “Thanks so much. Are you sure you won’t be bored, though? You’ve done it before—”
He stood up, the old book in his hand, and looked down at her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. “Not with you.”
A remark that could be interpreted in more ways than one. Sarah blushed again. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of blond hair behind her ear, a gesture so intimate and unexpected that it stopped her from saying anything more. He smiled with sensual tenderness, then bent down to swiftly press a kiss upon one of her hot cheeks and then the other.
“I must go, someone is expecting me.”
She felt her stomach contract and a sickish feeling seized her. She should have known he had a Someone.
“Is your hotel nearby, Sarah?”
“Yes, but—” Hotel, hah. Signora Dolcetti’s shabby bed-and-breakfast was short on charm and long on insect life. “I’m staying at a little inn right around the corner.” That sounded a lot nicer.
“My uncle will close the café soon. He will walk you there. I wish that I could.”
Sarah just gaped at him. Maybe he didn’t have a Someone.
“So, tomorrow we will start at the Ca’ Rezzonico. What time is best?”
“T-ten,” she stammered.
“I will meet you outside the building. See you then. Ciao, Sarah.” He walked away without looking back, collecting an umbrella from a ceramic stand and calling to his uncle that he would return it. The door swung open, and he was gone.
The gray cat in the window jumped down and followed him until they were both swallowed up by the darkness.
Once she’d made her way back to the bed-and-breakfast—Signor Morelli had been very nice about walking her there, even though she knew Venice was amazingly safe, even at Carnival—she stripped down to her underwear and ensconced herself in the sagging bed. Then she booted up Old Faithful, her laptop, and waited for a few minutes. There were probably about nine million Google pages for a name as common as Marco. She typed it in the box anyway and added the most specific reference she could think of: film investor venice biennale.
The familiar blue headings came up and there were a whole bunch of them. She opened the first one. There he was. No last name. Somewhat younger. With a gorgeous woman on his arm who looked Italian. Sloe eyes, raven hair, and uppity boobs that looked real. Sarah looked down. Stretch lace helped but she was nowhere near as bountiful in that department as his date.
OK, the picture was taken a few years ago at an international event he’d put together. Sarah hoped he wasn’t still with that woman—or married to her. She boinged around from one site to another. Didn’t seem like it. It was fun to find out about Marco.
No negative references. Nothing very specific, either. Most of the entries were from magazine archives. He had a palazzo, he was rich, he produced theater and events like tonight’s party, he wasn’t married, he supported the arts, following in the footsteps of his parents, wealthy collectors and opera lovers who’d helped to finance the rebuilding of La Fenice after it burned to a gutted shell. They had died a few years ago. He had no brothers or sisters.
She clicked out of the last page she’d looked at, grateful there was such a thing as a twenty-four-hour reality check. Marco was way out of her league. Of course it shouldn’t matter how rich he was but it did. And there were other considerations. For one, he’d had a lot of girlfriends.
So what. She wasn’t looking for anything long term. They would be together, with luck, until the date on her return ticket.
At least Marco had eclectic taste. He’d dated brunettes, redheads, one with blue hair who was a Venetian punk rocker. That one had no boobs at all. She could tell because Rockerina wasn’t wearing anything below the neck in the picture except nipple rings and a microkilt.
She glanced down at her own demure, unpierced, nicely rounded breasts. “Look perky. We have a fighting chance.”
The madness of Carnival was far from over and the tourists were still sleeping off last night’s revelry in hotels all over Venice. They would throng the streets again tonight, patching together yesterday’s costumes or getting new ones and masks to replace the old. It was probably easier to buy a pirate’s costume than a loaf of bread in Venice at this time of year.
Sarah was pleased that Marco had on jeans and a sweater when she saw him waiting for her in front of the Ca’ Rezzonico. Things seemed more equal that way. He waved to her as she leaned over the vaporetto’s railing and pushed the hair out of her mouth to shout his name. The weather hadn’t improved much, but the snow had blown through without leaving a trace and the sky was a uniform gray.
He helped her off, taking her hand. The contact was electric. Other than that he was just as cool as when he’d been wearing evening clothes.
She couldn’t help noticing that the jeans were ripped along one strong thigh, just enough for her to glimpse the tawny color of his skin. Mmm. Tawny was good. Strong was even better. It was tough to work up sexual enthusiasm for skinny white legs on a man, no matter how great the rest of him might be.
She took a brochure from a rack inside the stately building and unfolded it, but he took it away and put it in his back pocket.
“You don’t need that. Just use your eyes.”
She followed him, looking at his muscular butt first and then at her surroundings. The Ca’ Rezzonico was filled with art from the eighteenth century.
The subjects varied but masquerades were a favorite: the gallants dressed alike in black capes, breeches, and stockings, though the women’s gowns were strikingly beautiful and varied. Deeply décolleté, the gowns left very little to the imagination.
“I wouldn’t mind wearing that one,” Sarah said, admiring a woman painted in her best black satin. The bodice was extremely low cut and tightly fitted, and the skirt opened in front to reveal creamy lace beneath it.
“What a civetta. You could be her cousin,” Marco said.
“What’s a civetta?”
“A flirt. A gown like that would look fantastic on you,” Marco replied. “Would you like to go to another masked ball, Sarah? A formal one, not like last night. I have several invitations.”
The idea stopped her in her tracks. “I don’t have a real dress.”
He smiled. “That can be arranged.”
Arranged how? Had a glamorous ex left heaps of ball gowns and dance-all-night shoes in his closet? The thought made her frown.
Marco grinned as if he’d read her mind. “A couturier I know sometimes lets friends of mine borrow gowns. Even for private parties, she knows they will be photographed on the steps going in and well publicized.”
How very exclusive. That meant that she would be photographed, as if she was somebody. Scary thought. Her hair and makeup would have to be perfect, and that was a lot of work. She gave him a polite smile, not really sure how to answer. She wanted to say yes.
“Just let me know if you would like to go.” Marco stopped in front of a painting by Longhi, The Exhibition of A Rhinoceros, showing a group of men and women in fancy dress and masks gathered to view the marvelous beast. “It seems quite indifferent to them,” Marco said with a smile. “Look, it’s eating hay.”
She studied the painting. “It’s not a very big rhinoceros. Was it a baby?”
He looked more closely. “Ah—I couldn’t say. But perhaps.”
Some of the little group of Venetians in the painting wore masks, Sarah noticed. “Was it Carnival time?”
He glanced at the plaque on the wall. “I think so. Yes. But many Venetians wore masks at other times when they went out in the streets, especially the nobility. In disguise, they could have a rendezvous with a lover or an impromptu erotic encounter with a stranger. Their real identities were safe—it was very bad form to recognize someone who was wearing a mask.”
“Right. Perfect for married men.”
He chuckled. “Such pleasures were not only for husbands. A married woman in Venice at t
hat time was considered virtuous if she had only one lover.”
“Really.” Sarah supposed she ought to look shocked. But she wasn’t—she’d read up on the history of Venice on the plane and she liked to hear him talk about lovers and amorous encounters. She just plain liked the sound of his voice. “Tell me more.”
“The beautiful or the charming often had more than one. No one thought badly of them for it. The men did the same thing, whether they were handsome or not. Of course, money makes a man handsome in all women’s eyes.”
He deserved a good kick for that last remark. Even if it was true.
“The great families of Venice married for dynastic reasons or to add to their fortunes. Love was a private pleasure.”
She looked curiously at the mask of one woman in the painting. It was black, molded to her delicate features, and covered her face. Marco followed her gaze. “That is a moretta. Only women wore it. You cannot quite tell from this, but it was kept on by a button held in the teeth. She could not talk. But men might talk to her.”
Sarah laughed. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“I would have to agree.”
He took her arm, which thrilled her, and they moved along, looking at other paintings. The ones of the great courtesans fascinated her. She admired their beautiful clothes, the jewels bestowed on them by one lover after another, and most of all, their confidence. The bold look in their eyes made their portraits seem almost alive—and it said something about the freedom they enjoyed.
Sarah wondered about their sexual skills. Did they know things that other women didn’t? If she got to have one outrageous wish in her whole life, that would be it, she decided. To be a courtesan in Venice, desired and loved by powerful men, her portrait painted by the great masters, a woman who did what she wanted when the world didn’t let respectable women do anything.
They stopped in front of yet another portrait of a beauty. “She’s a courtesan, right?”
He cheated and read the plaque on the wall. “Yes, but how did you know?”
