The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

‘Mind you stay on your feet,’ they teased. ‘Not on your back.’

  ‘I intend to,’ said Emma. ‘I know Italian men are very amorous but this is strictly business.’

  ‘I wonder if you’ll still be saying that when you come back. If you ever come back.’ They tittered among themselves.

  Emma had had no time for their banter. There was too much to do. She had to pack, put her plants in the sink and hope they’d survive, and empty the refrigerator. Not that she had much in it. She did not spend a lot of money on food. The flat, council tax and heating ate up her salary.

  If she could keep her head, she might return to England with some savings. That would be a pleasant change. And set her up for the decorating she wanted to do in her flat. Her plain bedroom would be the first.

  When she opened her wardrobe door, she realized how little she had in the way of suitable clothes for the office of such a wealthy man. She had three business suits which she wore in rotation, grey, navy and black; and several good white shirts. The usual selection of jeans and sweaters. Nothing swish or glamorous. She was going to work, not to be entertained so the three suits would have to do.

  She had an up-to-date passport, mainly because everyone needed identity proof these days and she didn’t have or need a driving licence.

  She was downstairs and waiting when the car arrived to pick her up, a small wheelie suitcase at her feet. It was a chauffeur-driven limousine with pale-grey leather upholstery. The chauffeur opened the door for her.

  ‘Heavens, I’ve forgotten an umbrella,’ she said, making to go back up to her flat.

  ‘They have umbrellas in Italy. It rains a lot there,’ he added, as if he knew.

  He drove through the heavy evening traffic with skill. He was taking her to Gatwick Airport. It was like a dream. She could not believe that she was going to Italy with the best-looking man she had ever met. A man who set her pulses racing. A man who could also make her laugh. A man who even seemed kind and generous. It was almost too good to be true. No man could be that perfect.

  They passed the Christmas shops with their snow-filled windows and endless Christmas reindeers and baubles. She suddenly realized she might be away for Christmas. No microwaved dinner then, all alone. But maybe she would be alone if Signor Marco dell’Orto had a family.

  She knew nothing about his circumstances. He might have a wife and a brood of dark-haired children, waiting at home for him. It was a sobering thought. It would be easier to simply concentrate on her work, if he had a family. She was no home-breaker.

  ‘Mr dell’Orto will be waiting for you in the first-class lounge,’ said the chauffeur, unloading her small suitcase, which seemed to have shrunk on the journey.

  She found the desk for the Italian flight and there was a boarding pass waiting for her. She made her way up the escalator to the first-class lounge. It was good to get away from the noise and bustle of the airport. Perhaps she would get some sleep on the flight. Her endurance needed strengthening if she was to survive those searching dark eyes.

  The first class lounge was indeed a haven of civilized comfort. It had deep armchairs, newspapers, phones, WiFi, food and drink. Marco rose up from an armchair. His knotted tie was loosened now. He was reading an Italian newspaper.

  ‘Ah, Emma. You see I am pronouncing it right now. I have been practising all day. Would you like some coffee or something stronger? There is a bar.’

  ‘A coffee please, black.’ She was feeling too sick with nerves to eat or drink anything. Seeing him again had brought back all her tingling feelings. She felt a wave of apprehension. Going to Italy with Marco was suddenly a bad idea.

  ‘There will be some light refreshment on the plane. It is only a short flight, a couple of hours.’

  He brought over a cup of coffee, always the gentleman, returned to his newspaper and left her alone. Emma was immensely grateful. There was no way she could endure small talk with this man.

  Marco, too, was glad to hide behind his newspaper. Emma was even more disturbing now that she was travelling with him, all his for four weeks. It was a long time since he had wanted any woman. He knew he would not be able to resist her and that somehow he had to bring a gleam of happiness into those beautiful eyes.

  He wondered why she looked so wistful and sad. Some man had hurt her perhaps. It was always a man. Some stupid moron who was foolish enough to let her go, to break her heart. Marco hoped he would never hurt her. Although there was a chance that things could go wrong. His lifestyle was complicated and this English miss would be feeling strange and homesick.

  Suddenly he leaned forward and touched her hand. It was like an electric shock. A tidal wave of feeling engulfed her. Emma almost dropped her coffee. It was as if he caressed her body.

  ‘Do not worry, Emma. You will be ’appy in my home,’ he said. ‘I will make sure you are ’appy.’

  Emma smiled and the radiance lit up her face like a burst of sunshine. Marco was astonished at the change. She was an angel, she was perfect, she was made for the medieval splendours of Venice.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, keeping the amusement out of her voice. ‘I’m sure I will be very ’appy.’

  A hostess escorted them to the plane when the flight was announced. There was no hurry. First-class passengers were the last on. They did not have to sit for hours on the flight deck, listening to announcements.

  There were eight big, comfortable armchairs in pale upholstery in first class, each with its own swinging television set and a retractable table. There were extending foot-rests for catching up on some sleep. No beds. It was not a long-haul flight.

  Emma hesitated in the doorway to the cabin. ‘Which is my seat?’ she asked, looking around for seat numbers.

  ‘You can sit where you like,’ said Marco, waving his arm. ‘Choose one.’

  ‘Doesn’t my ticket have a seat number?’

  Marco led her down the centre aisle. A white-coated steward was waiting with a tray of champagne and canapés, ready to serve them. The champagne was already poured and sparkling. It was Prosecco champagne, of course.

  ‘Take a window seat and you will see the Alps,’ he said. ‘It is a magnificent sight. All that snow.’

  ‘Which window seat?’ Emma was thoroughly confused by now.

  ‘Any window seat,’ said Marco. ‘I have bought all the seats here in first class. The whole cabin. This I always do. I buy my privacy.’

  Emma slept on the flight. A glass of champagne, a few smoked salmon canapés and she was soon dozing off. A blonde hostess brought her a monogrammed blanket and a pristine white pillow. She also brought a dish which contained folded hot towels.

  ‘Would signorina care to refresh her hands and face?’

  Emma wondered who she meant, not used to the Italian word. She smiled at the young woman. She was slim and smart in her uniform.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Emma, unfolding a hot towel. She ought to try this at home.

  She missed the Alps and Marco did not have the heart to wake her. She looked so peaceful, her wild hair in disarray on the white pillow, the blanket tucked round her legs. He wanted to slip into the wide armchair beside her and take her in his arms. He wanted that softness near to his body, to breathe in the scent of her pale skin.

  As the plane descended to Marco Polo International Airport, Emma woke up. Her ears were popping and they hurt. She clamped her hands over her ears. Even first-class passengers were not immune to this pain.

  ‘Keep swallowing,’ said Marco, obviously not troubled. He sat in the seat beside her, as near as possible. She had taken off her jacket and the white shirt barely covered her breasts. She had twisted while sleeping and the material was tight, outlining her swelling shape and the pert rise of her nipples. ‘Suck a sweet.’

  ‘I don’t have any sweets.’

  ‘I ’ave sweets,’ he said, producing a bag of highly coloured fruit drops.

  ‘Almost there. We will be landing soon.’

  The lights of the airport were brilliant belo
w. Emma saw strings of light for motorways. But everywhere else was dark, so dark, like a black sheen over the landscape. She did not know where she was. She was suddenly frightened. She was in a strange country with a strange man. The language was foreign to her and she had little money, only a few euros.

  ‘There’s no point in this. I am not a detective,’ she said.

  ‘But you have a good brain. Maybe you will spot the discrepancy in my accounts.’

  Marco seemed to know what she was feeling, as if he had direct connection to her thoughts. ‘Do not be afraid, Emma. We shall soon be at my palazzo. A car ride to Venice and then in my launch along the Grand Canal. You will next be in bed, ready to sleep. I have spoken to my housekeeper and she is preparing a special room for you. Not so big that you will be lost.’

  ‘You have a housekeeper?’

  ‘Maria. A good, kindly woman. One of the old – what is it, you say?’

  ‘One of the old school?’

  ‘That is it. She has been with the family for years. And her sister, Paola. She will treat you like a daughter. And probably tell you off if you do not eat enough of her good cooking.’

  A bump and screeching reverse engines told Emma that they had landed, and she had not really noticed. Marco helped her into her suit jacket, refusing to let his fingers touch the softness of her neck. The desire was almost too much to bear. He wanted to sweep her into his arms, to carry her away, anywhere.

  The hostess brought her raincoat, which had been on a hanger in a cupboard, and her briefcase.

  ‘Your coat, signorina. Welcome to Venice,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Emma followed Marco in a dream through the brightly lit halls of the airport. Marco seemed to know everyone. She did not know where they were or where they were going. Somehow her small case was retrieved and a porter was wheeling it. Marco had no luggage.

  A big black limousine was waiting for them outside the airport, similar to the one that had driven her to Gatwick. Perhaps Marco dell’Orto had a fleet of cars too. She could see nothing of the mainland countryside as they drove away. It was far too dark.

  ‘So you grow grapes,’ she said, struggling with pathetic small talk.

  ‘I grow grapes,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘And make champagne?’

  ‘No. Champagne comes from France. My wine is the best Prosecco. This is Italy’s sexy cousin to champagne. You will love it. It is crisp with a slightly bitter finish.’

  ‘And your vineyard is near Venice?’

  ‘North of Venice, in the Trevisco province of Veneto. Venice is a floating city on several hundreds of islands, built on thousands of timber piles driven into the clay. I don’t know how many. No one has ever counted them. You have never been to Venice before?’

  ‘I’ve never been anywhere before.’

  ‘Everyone should see Venice, at least once in a lifetime. It is the most beautiful city in the world. It will blow your mind away. It is sinking, so now is the time to see it.’

  She stayed as far away from him as possible in the back of the car. They were driving over the bridge which connected the mainland to Venice. She felt she might fall asleep on his shoulder and that would be disastrous. Then she heard the sound of lapping water and realized that they were near the Venice Lagoon.

  ‘To arrive this way along the Grand Canal is always the best way to approach Venice. Better in daylight. But the lights are still magic. You will see. This way, here into my private launch.’

  He helped her out of the car, across a paved quayside and down into his launch. The driver was smartly dressed in dark blue. Marco spoke to him in rapid Italian.

  ‘I told him to drive slowly so that you can view the palaces,’ he said.

  It was a magical journey. She almost forgot that Marco was standing beside her. He now had a light wool coat slung over his shoulders. But when he felt her shiver as the wind blew in from the sea, he removed the coat and put it on her shoulders. It still held the warmth of his body. His warmth added to the magic.

  ‘It is cold in the winter in Venice. But in the summer it is so hot, one can barely breathe.’

  The palaces were a parade of perfection. Emma could not believe that such elegant houses had been built so long ago, water washing up the steps to grand front doors. Many were lit with outside lights. No falling into the Grand Canal in the dark, not like Byron. She glimpsed crystal chandeliers twinkling in tall windows.

  She was enchanted. There was the sound of music from somewhere. She felt their hips touching. She wanted to turn to him, to say how beautiful everything was.

  But her voice had gone. Venice was as magical as his presence.

  The air was scented. Spices, coffee, the sea, incense. She was in a different world. Every palace was perfection, delicate tracery and carvings, balconies, columns, arches and portals. They seemed unreal, like some exotic James Bond film set built on water.

  ‘In the summer it does not smell so good,’ said Marco. ‘It is a problem.’

  The launch drew alongside some steps, awash with water.

  ‘So here we are. This is my house. Palazzo dell’Orto. Mind the step, Emma. Do not slip. It is often slippery. My palazzo is also sinking. But not tonight. I forbid it to sink tonight.’

  She could not see his palazzo, but she sensed it was smaller, tall and narrow but still elegantly beautiful.

  She followed Marco’s tall figure, but she knew not where, into a sinking palace. The hall was huge, high-ceilinged, the floor tiled with black and white tiles. A naked statue at the bottom of the stairs shot arrows of love into the skies. She followed Marco up the marble stairway to the first floor, half-dead with exhaustion. She could barely collect her wits.

  They went into a large room with tall, brocade-draped windows that looked out onto the canal below. It was furnished in a modern style, nothing over-elaborate, had several wide white sofas, coffee tables, a flat-screen television, bookcases brimming with books, thick white carpet. It was a bachelor room. No family, no kids, no scattered toys.

  ‘Would you like some refreshment?’ Marco asked, his eyes devouring her. But he knew it was the wrong time. Her delicate face was drawn, eyes dimmed. She was not ready for love. The accountant needed good sleep.

  Emma shook her head. The day had drained all her energy. Her feelings had gone underground. She was ready to sleep, alone.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so tired. There’s a lot to do tomorrow.’

  ‘I understand. Maria will show you to your room. Sleep well, signorina. Tomorrow is another day. Then we will work to find if my business is housing a cyber-criminal.’

  Maria took her to another floor, up another flight of marble stairs. They passed walls hung with paintings, some oil, some watercolour, elegant statues in alcoves. It was as if Marco came with her, showing her his treasures. She hated him for making himself so appealing. The man was dangerous. She did not think the work would be dangerous. She would only be dealing with figures.

  Marco turned on his phone, sat on a sofa and crossed his legs. He was also tired but this could not wait until the next morning.

  ‘Commissario Morelli? Come sta? Do you remember me? Marco dell’Orto. Si, it is a long time ago. But I need your help. Someone is stealing my fortune. Domain? Grazie, Commissario.’

  When Emma awoke, a wintry sun was streaming in through a gap in the cream brocade curtains, and she did not know where she was. It was not a large room, but it was twice the size of her bedroom in Brixton. She had slept diagonally across a double bed, not used to so much leg space. The linen sheets were pristine white and uncreased. The padded quilt was cream, matching the curtains.

  She saw a figure standing by her bed. For a second, she was alarmed but then she realized it was the portly figure of Maria, the housekeeper. She was a kindly woman, in her fifties, greying hair in a bun, neatly belted black dress. She was carrying a silver tray.

  ‘The signorina would like tea? The English always like the tea to start
the morning. Signor Marco, of course, prefers coffee,’ she said politely, but she was smiling.

  Emma struggled to sit up, her M&S floral nightdress slipping off her shoulders. She knew she was dishevelled but it was early and she had fallen into bed the night before, not caring about anything.

  ‘How lovely,’ she said. ‘A cup of tea. Just what I need. Thank you, Maria.’

  ‘The signor asks that you join him for breakfast on the balcony at eight o’clock,’ said Maria.

  ‘Breakfast at eight, on the balcony.’ Emma nodded. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Is there anything you prefer to eat? The fried eggs and bacons of the full English breakfast?’ Maria asked. Her English was good, only slightly broken.

  ‘No, thank you. I’d like to have an Italian breakfast. I’ll eat as you do while I am here.’

  Maria beamed. ‘Grazie,’ she said. ‘That is good, signorina. My cooking is ver’ good. I hope you will be ’appy here.’

  Did all Italians have trouble with the word happy?

  ‘Thank you,’ said Emma, smiling. ‘I’m sure I shall be very ’appy.’

  three

  Commissario Claudio Morelli was already up and walking the short distance from his small flat to the Questura. He had work to do before he went to meet Marco dell’Orto. He knew his old friend was one of the wealthiest men in Venice. They had little in common now. Marco probably spent in a day what Claudio earned in a month.

  But he recognized the annoyance in Marco’s voice. It was serious. He knew Marco was a good employer. If someone was cheating him, then it would cause pain.

  He bought a bag of figs on the Rialto Bridge. This was breakfast. He would turn on his computer in his office and scan the internet, learning what he could about the business matters of his friend. But first he needed a black coffee. He was out of coffee at his flat and to start the day without a coffee was unthinkable.

  Emma was seduced by the impressive en suite bathroom. She could have stayed in it all morning, sampling the bottles and jars of sweet-smelling toiletries. Thick cream towels of several sizes were piled on a padded basket chair. The walls were cream tiles edged with a gold Roman pattern. Even the taps and shower fitments were gold. Not real gold, she felt sure. Gold coloured. But still classy enough.