The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  ‘No,’ said Emma firmly, but not as firmly as she hoped. ‘I don’t lead a dull life. I go to films, the theatre, exhibitions, that sort of thing. My life is extremely busy.’

  ‘Exhibitions?’ Marco snorted. ‘These are fun, these exhibitions? You meet many handsome men and they take you out to dinner, make love to you?’

  Emma’s heart plunged, unable to unscramble her brains. The rose and purple of the evening seemed to overwhelm her. It was more than the absence of sound because the restaurant was as noisy as ever.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘They do not make love to me. I don’t allow it. We have a different approach to life in Britain. It’s more reserved, slower.’

  ‘I could be very slow,’ said Marco, finishing his drink. He stood up. The evening was over. Emma had forgotten the black cardigan, it was the last thing on her mind. It had slipped behind the seat.

  But outside, the night chill caught the flimsy silk of her dress, whipped it against her body. Emma shivered despite the drink and the warmth of the meal. Marco took off his wool jacket and draped it round her. Again, it held the heat and scent of his body. They began to walk.

  ‘But we came in a gondola,’ said Emma.

  ‘It was a new experience for you. We could have walked. It is not far.’

  The walk was along narrow pathways, up and over bridges, along the quayside. Marco held her hand. He said it was in case she fell in a canal. Emma didn’t care. All she cared about was the warm clasp of his fingers and the way his thumb rubbed over the soft skin of her wrist.

  It seemed that they walked for miles but it was all twists and turns and over bridges.

  She did not know when they reached the Palazzo dell’Orto. It was the back door to the world. It was plain and ordinary at the back, although the face of the palace rose three storeys high to the crenulated roof. They were going in by the tradesman’s entrance, where Maria received her deliveries of groceries and food. It seemed strange to go into a modern kitchen with counters and tables and ovens. Emma went straight to the tap and poured herself a glass of water.

  ‘Ah,’ said Marco, disappointed. ‘I wanted to taste the Bellini on your lips.’

  Emma let out a long, despairing sigh. Marco had a depth and power that frightened her. She knew he might blot out years of anguish but this was not the time, nor the place. She was here to work. Her job came first.

  He came close, pushing her against the counter. He did not want it like this. He wanted to steer her towards the soft white sofa upstairs, to put on some music, to feed her grapes. But the desire was so strong that he could not stop himself.

  Marco wrapped his arms round her, his mouth coming down on hers in a deepening kiss. He was crushing her with a passion that made her cry out with a harsh sobbing cry. Their thoughts were running swiftly out of control. Emma could feel his hardness against her thigh, through the thin silk of her dress.

  This was not what she wanted, although her body longed for him. His hands were learning the contours and shape of her back. She could feel the fierce warmth in his fingers. She was tasting his mouth, the texture of his tongue, the smoothness of his skin.

  He went for the zip at the back of the dress and Emma stiffened.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not that, please.’

  ‘Let me take you upstairs,’ he said softly. ‘Let me unzip your dress very slowly so that you will not be afraid. Whoever hurt you before will be forgotten. This will be so different.’

  Emma could barely control her terrible, aching need. His cheek was close to hers and she could feel his breath fanning her face, her hair. She wanted to cling to him with fierce abandon, to let him heal the past. To let him give her body what it needed, what it wanted. To feel him against her, if not with love, at least with genuine care and desire.

  But she couldn’t. The past was too strong. She pushed Marco away.

  ‘I can’t. I won’t,’ she cried.

  ‘Please, cara,’ he urged. ‘It will be good. I will make it good for you.’

  ‘It’s the wrong time,’ she said abruptly.

  Marco stopped. ‘You mean, the wrong time … of the month.’

  It was not what she meant, but she let him think it. It was a way out that had not occurred to her before. She stood back, her breath ragged, her breasts heaving.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she faltered.

  ‘But I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Italians are different to the cold English.’

  ‘But I do mind,’ she said.

  Marco took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers. ‘Then I will let you go to your bed and to sleep sweet dreams. It has been a wonderful evening, showing you my Venice. We will not spoil it. Buona notte, Emma.’

  ‘Goodnight, Marco.’

  Tomorrow he would tell her where the raincoat was found.

  five

  Emma wondered why she had said anything so stupid. It was not her so-called time of the month, but there was no way she was going to tell this stranger the truth.

  Did Marco think an expensive dinner at Harry’s Bar entitled him to taking the dessert course in bed? And it had been expensive. Emma had roughly totalled up the bill in her head. She could do mental arithmetic.

  Suddenly she heard Marco’s voice booming up the stairs. ‘Would you like a hot water bottle?’ Then he paused. ‘I know sometimes it helps.’

  Emma could not believe what she was hearing. He was offering her a hot water bottle, like a kindly aunt, fussing over her. How did he know, anyway? Had it been the wife or the mistress, demanding this attention on occasion?

  Perhaps the girls who worked in his vineyard were allowed the odd hour off or did they soldier on? Maybe there was even a first-aid/nurse-type person on his staff. Emma realized how little she knew about him.

  She leaned over the balustrade of the grand staircase and peered into the brightly lit hall. Marco was standing at the foot of the stairs, as he had before, not so many hours ago, jacket slung over his shoulder. He did not look dismayed at her refusal. He looked interested, almost as if pleased to discover that she was a fertile female.

  The colour flooded into her face. Why would Marco want to know if she was fertile? This was her overactive imagination again. She had never had that much of an imagination before. It must be the Italian air.

  ‘No, thank you,’ she said primly.

  ‘I could rub your back,’ he offered.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Goodnight, then, my young accountant, worn out with saying no, thank you.’ She knew he was grinning. She could hear it in his voice.

  Emma shut the door of her bedroom thankfully. She’d had enough of his charm and masculinity for one evening. She wanted what was left of the night to herself. To calm down and get her thoughts straight. She took off the black fringed dress and hung it in her almost empty wardrobe. She wondered if she would ever wear it again.

  She took a quick shower to shake off the day’s cobwebs and put on some warmer pyjamas. At least they were maroon silk, her one luxury these days. She loved the feel against her skin. She never wanted to feel a man against her skin, against her body. This soft material was her solace.

  Although she was tired from the day’s crowded activities, there was still time for one last look at the figures. There was a light tap on her door. For a moment, she thought it was Maria and got into bed.

  But it was Marco, carrying a tray.

  ‘Scusi,’ he said. ‘I bring you some warm milk and in a glass some good 12-year-old brandy. To mix them might be ver’ medicinal.’

  Her pyjama jacket had fallen open and she was suddenly aware that the rise and fall of her breasts was not conducive to work. Marco’s glance went to the soft curve of her swelling bosom and the deep cleavage, shadowed and sweet smelling. He felt his senses quicken and his skin tighten. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and smother that enticing valley with kisses.

  He put down the tray quickly in case he dropped it. If he was not careful he would spill the whole lot. He sensed that
Emma was a shy, damaged creature.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Emma, pulling up the quilt, inch by inch. ‘That was very thoughtful.’

  ‘Do not cover yourself,’ he said. ‘You are beautiful. Such skin, such gorgeous curves are made for a man to admire. Will you not let me admire them?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Emma, wondering how she was going to get him out of her room. She had had too much to drink. All that champagne and a Bellini. Now he was offering a good old brandy which might be 100% proof. It would knock her out completely. ‘It’s very late.’

  ‘It’s never too late, cara,’ he said. ‘And I will prove it to you.’

  He sat on the side of the bed and leaned towards her. He felt waves of desire as he took the sheets of figures from her hands and tossed them on the floor. They fell like confetti. Then his hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing her nipples. It was the lightest of touches but it sent an electric shock through her body.

  She threw back her head and Marco bent to kiss her throat. His mouth was soft and warm. Again, only the lightest of kisses but it felt as if her whole body was set on fire.

  ‘Please …’ she gasped.

  ‘Please more or please stop?’ he said.

  She had to laugh. Emma did not know what she wanted. No one had ever made her feel like this before. No man had ever got this close. She had never allowed it. She had built a wall around herself and topped it with barbed wire.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she faltered.

  ‘Well, sadly I do,’ he said, getting up with a sigh. ‘This is not the time. You should drink some of this brandy and get some sleep. But cara, now you know that it could be so good. It could be ver’ good. Some other time, perhaps.’

  She did not know if it was a threat or a promise.

  He left the room and closed the door swiftly. Emma was left staring into space. If only she could take those ecstatic moments into a dream with her. It would be a perfect dream. Not like the nightmare dream when she was locked into a letter-box.

  Maria woke her with a tray of tea, as before, and pulled open the curtains. A stream of wintry sunshine reflected on the fallen papers. Maria bent to pick them up.

  ‘Signor dell’Orto has already gone to work. He sent his excuses. You will be escorted to the office as yesterday. Breakfast is on the balcony when you are ready.’

  ‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ said Emma, glad that she would not be seeing Marco at breakfast. Had he felt the same rising desire last night? Or had he already forgotten her?

  The routine was well organized. Breakfast in the spacious, glassed-in balcony. She took her coffee to the window to watch the busy water traffic below. Then the launch came for her and a car was waiting at the end of the Grand Canal. She liked the freedom of travelling by herself. She must ask Marco for a few hours off so that she could explore Venice on her own, with a guidebook and sunglasses perched on the top of her head looking very touristy.

  She smiled to herself. She was beginning to feel like a tourist. Perhaps she would come back one day, by herself, and really explore Venice. Its magic was endless. Yet everyone said it was a decaying city, that its days were numbered, that it was sinking, millimetre by millimetre each year, into the sea.

  The staff greeted her like an old friend. Coffee and snacks were brought immediately even though she had just had breakfast. They seemed to know that she was on their side and did not blame them for the financial crisis.

  ‘There is a reason,’ she told Signor Bragora, ‘and I am determined to find it. Nothing is impossible if you dig deep enough.’

  ‘Do not fall in the hole you dig,’ he warned her, his dimmed eyes full of emotion.

  She wondered what he meant. She coloured faintly, thinking of the night before, but the signor could not possibly know about that. The morning passed quickly with work and more work, till her eyes ached and her fingers were cramped.

  Luka and Rocco made her stop for midday lunch. They insisted that she go with them to a small local café, not far away.

  ‘It is not good to work so hard,’ they said. ‘Eat when pasta fresh.’

  ‘I am here for a purpose. I’ve only a few weeks.’

  ‘Signor dell’Orto cannot sack you,’ they added. ‘You are a special signorina from London.’

  She needed to get out of the office. They were cramped rooms, too many desks and chairs and filing cabinets. Some fresh air would be welcome.

  It was a typical local café: glass-topped tables and wooden chairs, paper napkins stacked in a wooden rack. Amazing smells came from behind the counter where great bowls of different pastas were served with the topping of your choice. The cheerful hot-faced cook beamed at Emma as if she was an old friend.

  They wanted Emma to try some of the local fish sauces but she stayed with cheese and tomato. ‘Small, small, please,’ she pleaded, when she saw the size of the bowls. ‘Piccolo?’

  ‘Ah, piccolo,’ said the cook, giving her a half-portion.

  It was a happy lunch with tumblers of rough red wine that only cost eighty cents and much talk, most of which she did not understand. Emma wondered if she would be able to do an afternoon’s work. She felt more like going to sleep. And she ought to learn some more Italian.

  ‘What did you say about this computer expert who came in to fix the new computer system?’ she asked.

  ‘He was ver’ expensive. Charge much money. Smart blue suit and Rolex wristwatch.’ They shook their heads. ‘Classy.’

  ‘And did he fix the system?’

  ‘No. It was still all wrong and so slow. We lost many things. It was bad time. Signor dell’Orto had many hot words with him. The man said we had to get in new terminals.’

  Emma did not like the sound of hot words. It didn’t help to antagonize people in business. But she was not here as a counsellor, she was here to sort out the accounts. She had to keep reminding herself, not having grounded herself from the previous night’s emotion and tenderness.

  ‘Back to work,’ she said, rising, wondering if she could stand steadily after the rough wine. But she was fine. Her digestion was getting used to it.

  Marco was waiting in the office, arms akimbo, face like thunder. ‘This is your London working?’ he stormed. ‘An expensive long lunch hour? Drinking? Don’t deny it. I can smell it on your breath.’

  So these were his hot words? Emma flushed. It was not a fair accusation. She put her bag down with deliberate slowness, slipped off her grey jacket. Her grey suit was warmer than her black one.

  ‘It was a normal lunch hour,’ she said calmly. ‘Cheap pasta and a glass of red at a local café. Nothing excessive. Perhaps you’d like to join us tomorrow? It’s how the workers take a break.’

  He was breathing heavily. Her heart was hammering like mad. It was a confrontation in front of his staff, something he did not like. Emma felt sorry for him. She had never been so drawn to a man and her expression hid her longing. She felt bold, wanton and beautiful, yet she knew she was none of these things.

  ‘Signor dell’Orto, let me show you what I have unearthed this morning,’ she said, switching on her laptop and connecting it to their system. ‘You will be interested, I’m sure.’

  He stood behind her. It didn’t help. She had to pretend that she felt nothing but she could not deny that slow, soft yearning for him. His dark looks were devastating and that deep voice. It was a sickness of love.

  ‘This group of customer files, each with the name of a customer,’ she began.

  ‘I know these names. You don’t need to show me.’

  ‘But when I bring up a file, there is nothing in it. Look.’

  ‘That is ridiculous. Of course there are many transactions. They are regular customers for my wine. A shipment every month. My wine goes all over Europe.’

  ‘Your wine may travel over Europe, but the money isn’t travelling back to Venice.’

  Emma’s mobile phone rang and she picked it up. ‘Hello, Mr Stone? Yes, it’s Emma. I sound different? I’m no diffe
rent. I’m the same, working hard as usual.’

  But she was different. She felt more alive than she had been in years. She seemed more acutely aware of everything. The smells, sights, colours, feelings, atmosphere of Venice. The world was sharply in focus, not blurred at the edges.

  ‘Yes, there is some progress. I’m getting somewhere.’ But Emma was not sure where. It was too early to say. Marco was listening to every word she said. ‘I’ll send you a progress report at the end of the week.’

  ‘If you have time from lunch,’ Marco growled.

  ‘’Scusi, if I have time,’ she repeated. She saw a flash of amusement in his dark eyes. It was if they connected, momentarily. It was like wine. A glass of his sparkling Prosecco with the bubbles bursting in the roof of her mouth.

  Marco had restored communion between them. Emma turned back to her work, knowing that she needed to contact each of the customers with empty files. But her minimal Italian made this impossible.

  ‘Print out a list of these customers,’ he said. ‘I will telephone them from Signor Bragora’s office. Pronto.’

  ‘Pronto, per favore,’ Emma murmured.

  He shot her a quick look but made no sign he had heard. Tea arrived soon, brought from a local café with a dish of sweetmeats. There was no such thing as an office kettle in sight.

  Emma accepted the tea but shook her head at the cakes. She could not eat another thing.

  ‘But you are wasting away, signorina.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Emma. ‘I am bursting with food.’

  Soon the afternoon light was fading and the staff beginning to shut down their computers for the night. Marco was still in Signor Bragora’s office. She could not leave before Marco. She needed that lift. She felt helpless, not able to get about on her own. London was different. She knew every street and short cut and often directed a lost visitor to the right bus stop or Underground station. A wave of homesickness hit her. She wanted to go home.

  ‘Signorina, this so melancholy?’ It was Marco. ‘You are sad. Why?’