The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  She hoped she would never have to tell him why no man could come into her bed. There were two bedrooms upstairs and probably a shared bathroom. It was after all, an old farmhouse, built before the days of en suite. She closed her eyes, trying to blank out his face. This was going to be difficult.

  When Marco returned, he had changed into casual jeans and an open-necked, long-sleeved shirt. The room was warm and Emma was regretting her fleecy jersey. She wanted to pull it off, free her neck from the restriction, wear something loosely cool and floppy. Perhaps his wife had left behind some clothes in her bedroom upstairs.

  ‘Did your wife like living here?’ Emma asked. ‘Or did she prefer the sophistication of Venice, all the shopping and cafés?’

  ‘My who?’ Marco looked startled. He put down his coffee cup. ‘I do not understand. Please explain.’

  ‘Your wife,’ Emma faltered. ‘I was asking if she liked it here, in the country, away from everywhere except miles and miles of vines. Or did she prefer living in Venice?’

  ‘Did I say I had a wife?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’ Now Emma groped for words. ‘You didn’t say you had a wife, but you said you had a son, Marco II, and usually that means that he has a mother and she is your wife. Though, here, of course, in Italy …’ She began floundering. ‘It might be quite different.’

  Marco went down on his knees beside the sofa and took her hands, loving the feel of her skin. ‘You are a ninny. Is that the word? A ninny-poop? I have no wife, though many women would like to be my wife. And I have no Marco II. Mi dispiace. But one day I shall have a son and he will inherit. It is written in the stars. So I know it must be so.’

  Emma felt a rush of happiness. No wife. But no son, yet. One day there would be Marco II and the boy would be as strong and handsome as his father.

  ‘Nincompoop,’ said Emma. ‘That’s the word you want.’

  ‘I want more than words,’ he said.

  There was a knock on the door and Paola arrived with a tray of her little eats. Over her arm hung some folds of gaudy cotton material, a riot of red poppies and blue cornflowers. Marco got up, took the material from Paola and shook it out. It was a simple blouse top, straight sides, scooped neckline, long sleeves.

  ‘Paola has made this for you on her sewing machine. She is so quick at the sewing, up and down and round and it is done. I have seen her make dozens of these tops for the children when they go swimming in the pond and have brought nothing else to wear.’

  Emma took the top, delighted and surprised, not quite sure what to say. It was not exactly haute couture. ‘Thank you, thank you, Paola. I am getting so hot in front of this fire. Grazie, grazie.’

  ‘I think Paola must have bought a roll of this material at a market stall. A bargain, perhaps. All the girls wear these poppies.’

  It was not something Emma would ever dream of buying or owning, but it would be far cooler than this fleecy jersey which was now making her itch. She could not wait to get into it but wondered where she was going to change.

  ‘I shall not look,’ said Marco, amused by her embarrassment. He turned away.

  Emma pulled the fleece over her head and straightened her white lacy bra before slipping into the bright top. She did not know that Marco could see her reflection in a mirror and that the sight of her rounded breasts set him aflame. He longed to plunge himself into that shadowed valley, longed to catch her taut nipples between his teeth, to tease that soft flesh into submission.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Emma, her tousled head emerging from the field of red poppies.

  ‘Beautiful,’ said Marco but he was not referring to the poppies.

  Commissario Morelli closed his computer for the day. The drowned girl in the raincoat had been identified. She was a street girl called Pia who worked the airport. She had obviously seen her opportunity and lifted Emma’s raincoat.

  But the rest of the story was hazy. Maybe she had been brought to Venice by car. There was no record of her boarding a bus. There was a bad fracture on the back of her head caused by a heavy blow. She had been unconscious before she was tipped into the water.

  She had no relatives. No one wanted to bury her. It would have to be a pauper’s funeral. He had viewed the body and felt sad that someone so young had lived a short life that ended in death. She was about the same height and build as the female accountant from London. Someone did not want this Emma to continue her work on the missing Prosecco fortune.

  He picked up his phone. He must warn Marco. He must warn Emma.

  nine

  Emma hung the poppy top on a hanger in an empty wardrobe in the second bedroom on the top floor of the farmhouse. It was not a big room, but was dominated by a double bed with a white cotton quilt, as large and puffy as a feather pillow.

  She had the bathroom to herself as Marco stayed downstairs, on his phone, unable to leave work behind for a whole day. The bathroom had a huge bath on clawed feet that would bathe several small children, all at once. And Marco could lie flat in it, without having to bend his knees. How she would love to wash the corded muscles of his lean back and his shoulders. Or those long legs.

  A shiver of feeling made her tremble. How she wanted to feel him sink inside her but it was not possible. It would never be possible.

  She wondered if he would come upstairs to her. It would be so painful to have to disappoint him yet again. But he did not come.

  Emma crawled into bed in her bra and pants, to find that Paola had put a hot water bottle at the foot of the sheets. Her toes curled into the warmth and she fell asleep almost immediately, trying to remember the right words in Italian, so that she could thank Paola in the morning.

  Marco was up long before Emma. He was already helping himself to breakfast and coffee downstairs in the dining room. It was the usual simple breakfast.

  ‘I have to return to Venice straight away,’ he said. ‘No more holiday.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Emma. ‘We all have work to do.’

  ‘I am flying to Japan, sooner than I thought.’

  ‘And I have to talk to Irving Stone. I have to tell him every-

  thing.’

  ‘Buy a new phone. Do not use the ones in the office, nor your own mobile. Claudio says they may be tapped.’

  ‘Yes, I’d thought of that,’ said Emma. ‘We can’t be too careful.’

  ‘The girl in your raincoat has been identified. She is a street girl called Pia, who worked the airports. They think she was abducted and driven to Venice. Claudio believes that the abductors thought she was you.’

  ‘You have spoken to Commissario Morelli?’

  ‘He thinks you are in danger.’

  ‘Nonsense. I am an accountant, not a detective.’

  ‘That does not mean that you don’t already know too much. I will make sure that Enrico, my driver, is with you all the time. He is a reliable young man.’

  ‘I don’t want someone tagging me everywhere.’

  ‘You will do as you are told,’ said Marco sternly.

  Paola was sorry to see them go. She packed some of her sweet apple cakes for them to eat on the journey. There was much exuberant talking in Italian and extravagant farewells. Emma could tell that Paola had really enjoyed their visit.

  ‘I have told Paola that we will come again soon,’ said Marco as he held open the door of his car. Again, he was arranging her life. No asking her or suggesting another visit. ‘Very soon.’

  ‘Grazie, Paola,’ said Emma, miming the poppy top and hoping her smile conveyed her gratitude. ‘It was so kind of you. Bene grande.’ Paola seemed to understand and her face beamed with pleasure.

  ‘You have made a friend,’ said Marco, as he switched on the engine of the powerful car. ‘Paola will now make you a dozen more cotton tops in different colours. It is her hobby.’

  Emma laughed. ‘And I shall have to wear them.’

  ‘Of course, you will wear them, at least once,’ said Marco smoothly. ‘I should not like you to offend such a kind lady.�
��

  Emma swallowed her annoyance. She was the one who should be offended. He seemed to think that he had to tell her everything, as if she had no manners.

  ‘I have better manners than some people I know,’ she said.

  They were driving along the lane with the shady cypress trees. She wondered if she would ever see them again. She was only passing through Marco’s life. And now he was off to Japan. No more galleries or dinners out. But she could get by, shadowed by Enrico. There was nothing to stop her.

  ‘You will not go out at night by yourself while I am gone,’ he said, reading her thoughts, giving her more orders. ‘Although Venice is not as dangerous as your London streets, it is easy to get lost in the dark and you are at risk.’

  Emma didn’t answer. She was not going to spoil the drive back. She wanted to enjoy seeing the countryside, the little towns, the snowy mountains. She remembered the stone bridges they had driven over, where the river water was clean and blue, not the murky colour of the canals.

  They stopped for coffee at a small village café, where they sat outside in the cold sunlight. The welcome was effusive as if the owner did not see many expensive convertibles in the winter. Or perhaps it was the generous tip that Marco gave her.

  ‘Are you always so generous?’ Emma asked as she got back into the car.

  ‘Si, always. I have so much and they have so little.’

  ‘But you work for it.’

  ‘And so do they. Long hours. We get paid at different rates. Life is not always fair.’

  They went straight to the accounts office. The staff looked surprised to see them, as if they expected the feast day to last longer. Marco went into Signor Bragora’s office to arrange his flight to Japan. He was flying to Tokyo. He had already withdrawn all warmth from her. Suddenly Emma was homesick for England, the London office and her cold little flat. But she would soon be home. A few more weeks was not forever. She would make the most of this time in Venice before it sank into the sea.

  Marco did not join the staff for afternoon coffee and cakes. It was as if he had completely forgotten her existence. Perhaps it was just as well. If he could forget her so easily, then she could forget him.

  When it was time to leave the office, she found the car had gone, taking Marco to the airport. She had to find her own way but was not dismayed. It was not a long walk to the station where the vaporetto stopped. There was a machine for buying tickets. She stood in a queue with the rest of the homeward workers, hoping she would get on the right waterbus.

  ‘Palazzo dell’Orto?’ Passengers nodded and smiled. Once they were moving down the Grand Canal, Emma felt more confident. She could get off anywhere and walk the rest of the way.

  But she would have found herself a long way down the Lido if the other passengers had not urged her to get off. They pointed and gesticulated in a direction, although she could not see the palazzo. The vaporetto did not stop at the front steps as Marco’s launch had taken her, but somewhere close by. She could not remember what the back of the building looked like. There was a back door for deliveries. But it had been dark when Marco had walked her there.

  She stood on the waterfront, among the tourists, wondering which way to go. She was completely lost.

  It was lucky that she caught sight of Maria, walking through the crowds with a basket of fresh produce. She called out to her.

  ‘Maria! Maria! Wait for me, per favore.’

  The woman turned and searched through the people for the voice. Emma hurried, not wanting to lose sight of the one person who could help her. Then Maria saw Emma’s vibrant hair, stopped and waved. Emma caught her up.

  ‘I am so glad to find you. I had no idea where I was going.’

  ‘The palazzos are so ornate in the front but ordinary at the back. You will get used to it. I will tell you the number of the vaporetto stop to get off at. You have come too far down the canal.’

  Emma took the basket from the older woman. Maria was not used to this but did not argue. Perhaps she had walked a long way from the market. They went over several bridges and then along a pathway to a yard where a line of washing hung, drying in the breeze.

  ‘You must remember this. It is the door with the brass knocker of a lion’s head,’ said Maria, producing a key. ‘Signor Marco has already gone. The chauffeur has taken him to the airport. He has left instructions. You are not to be left alone. This is your supper. He said that you like salad.’

  It was not the first time that Emma had been in the kitchen, but it looked different. It was another high-ceilinged room with rows of polished brass saucepans hanging on the walls, a large chopping table in the middle. But all the equipment was modern and gleaming white. Marco had not stinted when it came to modernizing Maria’s workplace.

  ‘This is a lovely kitchen,’ said Emma, looking around. ‘So much space.’

  ‘Twenty years ago it was dreadful, signorina. An old range, smoking and spilling out ash like a volcano. And two brown earthenware sinks, side by side. A refrigerator that leaked onto the floor. I came here as a maid to the former cook. I had to scrub the floor every day.’

  The floor was now black and white tiles. Easy to mop over. Emma smiled at Maria. ‘Please don’t go to any trouble for my supper. A sandwich will do.’

  Maria looked horrified. ‘Guests of Signor Marco do not have a sandwich. Supper will be ready in half an hour. Would you like it on the balcony as you are eating alone?’

  Emma nodded. ‘Yes, that would be perfect. Then I can look at the view and watch the lights come on.’

  ‘Would you like some wine first?’

  ‘No, thank you. I have drunk a lot of wine in the last few days. More than I usually do. Just water will do.’

  This seemed to please Maria and she bustled away with her shopping. Judging from the whiff of the sea as she unpacked her purchases, it would be a fish salad.

  So Marco had gone. Emma had the whole palace to herself, would be able to pretend that she owned it. She observed now how and where the rooms had been winterized with thick carpets and heavier curtains. But the long corridors were still chilly.

  It had been a busy day, up early, then the long drive, and catching up at the office. Marco had not even said goodbye to her. Perhaps he did not say goodbye to people. Tomorrow she would buy a new mobile phone. But first a wash and a change into something warm and comfortable.

  She wondered if she dared use Marco’s computer in his study. There were so many things she wanted to look up on the internet, which was not appropriate to do in Signor Bragora’s office. Maybe he kept his study locked. More secrets. Like the bedroom with unworn clothes.

  Emma wanted to find out what she could about hacking before she spoke to Irving Stone. She knew it was a severe internet crime and carried a ten-year prison sentence. Someone must have monitored the accounts for weeks even to expose the vulnerability of the security system.

  Luka and Rocco said the computer system had been playing up, became very slow. But no one had noticed the drive light blinking when no one was using the machines, a sure sign that they were being hacked. Somehow the hackers had discovered the system’s digital fingerprint, the digital ports and the software being used.

  ‘Marco’s connection on the planet,’ Emma said to herself, as if she really knew what it meant.

  It was a fish salad. Freshly caught and grilled anchovies and some other little fish which Emma did not recognize. There were rolls and butter on the side and a bowl of fruit for dessert. Emma took a book with her and sat on the balcony, eating, reading and watching the canal traffic. The stress of the day eased out of her as the lights came on and the golden reflections shimmered in the water, broken only by launches and gondolas ferrying people to the nightspots.

  She wanted to go out and savour the atmosphere, walk with the evening life of Venice. But would she ever find the lion’s head knocker in the dark? Probably not. It would be a risky venture. Better to do her exploring in the daylight.

  ‘Goodnight, signorin
a. I will clear up in the morning. Please leave everything on the side. There is coffee in the sitting room in a thermos jug, if you want any.’

  ‘Many thanks, Maria. It was a lovely supper.’

  Maria hesitated in the doorway. ‘The signor said I was to give you the key to the room,’ she said. ‘In case you are tired of your clothes. He said to choose something new every day.’

  Emma could not help laughing. ‘The signor seems to think my clothes are boring. But, thank you, I may find something a little … more suitable.’ Emma sensed her opportunity. Now was the time to find out about the locked bedroom.

  ‘I am curious, Maria,’ she added slowly. ‘All these lovely clothes. Who did they belong to? No one has told me.’

  ‘It is not for me to say, signorina. It is for the signor to tell you.’

  ‘Did they belong to his wife?’ Emma persisted, unable to stop. ‘Such a wealthy and handsome man must have been married some time. It would have been natural for him to marry. Perhaps they are divorced or live apart? Or perhaps they belong to a mistress, now cast off?’

  Maria seemed to stiffen and Emma was sorry if she had upset the good housekeeper. She had been tactless, probing for information.

  ‘Forget it, Maria. Forgive me. I’m sorry I asked. I was only curious.’

  Maria nodded, understanding a little. She put the key on the table. ‘The signor has no wife. The clothes belonged to Francesca, his younger sister. I can tell you no more. Goodnight, signorina.’

  ‘Goodnight, Maria.’

  Emma sat still, absorbing this new information. His younger sister, Francesca, was the dark-haired beauty in the photographs. Where was she now? Why had she left all her clothes? It was still a mystery. But Marco had no wife even when so many women in Venice were tempting him with their wealth and seductive ways. How had he managed to escape their clutches?

  A surge of jubilance swept through her. Not for herself, but for Marco. He was still a free man.