The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  She did not feel so hesitant about borrowing the clothes now. Marco had left the key for her, even though he had not said goodbye. It was a thoughtful gesture. He had been thinking of her, even if only briefly.

  Borrowing from his sister was different and more acceptable. She went up to the second floor and let herself into the bedroom.

  ‘Hello, Francesca,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t mind me looking at your lovely clothes. Marco said I could.’

  Emma would have been scared out of her wits if there had been an answer. But it seemed friendly to acknowledge who had owned the clothes. She peered at the photographs again. Yes, Francesca was a stunning beauty and she could understand why a younger Marco was gazing at her with such adoration in his eyes. He obviously loved his sister.

  Emma opened a different wardrobe, not wanting fancy evening clothes, but something more sensible to wear to work. Something that would make her look a cosmopolitan woman and less so drab English. There was a whole rail of day dresses, suits and trouser suits. Francesca must have spent a fortune on clothes, Marco’s fortune.

  She fingered the beautiful material. No cheap polyester here or mixed fabrics. They were all one size larger than Emma normally wore but it was getting colder and an extra layer would be sensible.

  A navy trouser suit caught her eye. She loved navy. The lapels were edged with red and it had a narrow red leather belt with a silver buckle. It would look wonderful with her tawny hair. She did not look at the price ticket or the label. She also found a long-sleeved red silk blouse to keep her warm.

  ‘Thank you, Francesca,’ she said as she left the room, locking it behind her.

  Marco sat back in his first-class seat on the plane to Japan. No booking the whole cabin this time. He was not sure if there was enough money to pay for it. Strange to be short of money. It had never happened before. Wages came first. He had his own personal fortune but it was tied up in the plant and land.

  He hated leaving Emma so abruptly but it had to be done. She was getting under his skin and he felt deeply distraught from wanting her so entirely. Just thinking of her now made him long for her nearness. He wanted to touch her, stroke her, own every inch of her skin. She did not want him in the same way. That was clear from her cool and distant behaviour.

  She had barely spoken to him in the office that afternoon, as if their time together at the vineyard had never happened.

  He could not risk getting hurt again. Once he had loved a special woman to the point of an obsession. Time had built a protective wall round him and no woman would breach it. He would make sure of that.

  Commissario Claudio Morelli closed down his computer. He did not like what he was seeing on his screen. Marco dell’Orto was almost bankrupt. Somehow his fortune had been siphoned off and deposited elsewhere. He knew there was a special department in Rome that dealt with internet fraud.

  But also there was the young English woman to protect. He did not want to find her floating in a canal. She did not seem to realize that she was in danger. He dialled the number for the dell’Orto palazzo.

  ‘Hello,’ said Emma, forgetting to speak Italian.

  ‘Signorina Emma Chandler? This is Commissario Morelli.’

  Emma put down her book. ‘Marco isn’t here. He has gone to Japan.’

  ‘I know,’ said Claudio. ‘That’s why I am calling. You must be aware that you are in some danger. I understand that Marco has arranged for you to have an escort everywhere.’

  ‘Enrico, his driver. But it isn’t necessary. I shall be all right.’

  ‘A young woman hit on the head and then drowned is not all right. You were also pushed into the water. These are all serious crimes. Perhaps you would prefer that you have an escort from the polizia?’

  Emma caught the touch of irritation in his normally quiet and calm voice. ‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t wish to take up any more of your time, Commissario. I will be careful.’

  ‘Then tomorrow I will meet you. We shall meet at a small café. It is called Pesaro. I will email directions. We must talk. It is urgent.’

  ‘Grazie,’ Emma said. ‘I will be there.’

  ten

  Maria approved. She smiled as she served breakfast on the balcony, taking note of the bright scarlet blouse and navy pants. Emma wore her own shoes. No tottering about on four-inch stilettos, getting on and off launches.

  ‘Do you know if the launch and the car will be there to take me to the office today?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, signorina. I don’t know of the arrangements.’

  ‘Never mind, I can go on the vaporetto. I’m learning my way around Venice. I’ll find the right stop.’

  ‘It is about six euros for the ticket, no lira. Return. One price only on the waterbuses.’

  Her first purchase that day would be a new mobile phone. Emma wanted to buy a mobile without being seen or watched. There were lots of different shops selling phones. She had plenty of euros on her.

  It was a clear, cold morning. No low-lying mist on the Grand Canal. Tourists already out and snapping the sights. They were taking advantage of the lower pension rates in the winter. Emma wrapped the cashmere scarf round her head.

  The vaporetto took her to the quayside below the main station. No problem there. No Enrico to meet her, her so-called escort. She could remember the route to the office. There were far fewer canals here and fewer bridges. It was the beginning of dry land.

  She bought an ordinary new mobile, nothing fancy, barely understanding the assistant’s garbled instructions. She would read the manual, printed in English, back in the office. But out in the street, surrounded by air, and people walking by, minding their own business, she dialled Irving Stone’s private line in the London office.

  ‘Hello, Irving Stone here.’

  ‘Hello, Irving, this is Emma Chandler.’

  ‘Hello, Emma, nice to hear from you. How are you getting on? Enjoying yourself in Venice?’

  ‘Not exactly. I’ll be brief. I have discovered that their computers are being hacked and the payments being channelled elsewhere. We need an expert out here, or perhaps it can be done in London? What do you think?’

  ‘Hacked? That’s serious. So that’s where the money has gone.’

  ‘It’s very serious. Marco had no idea what has been going on. His main interest is in growing and selling. He takes little interest in the money side.’

  ‘Have you substantial evidence?’

  ‘Enough, I think.’ She heard him speak aside to his son but could not catch what was said. Their voices were low.

  ‘I’ll arrange to send someone out. We’ll find a computer expert, one that is mature enough to know what he’s doing, and put him on a plane. Well done, Emma. There’s a bonus on your way if this is true. Can’t stop. Keep in touch.’

  ‘But I’m in danger,’ Emma added.

  ‘Keep in touch.’

  ‘Someone has tried to kill me.’

  ‘Take care. Bye now.’

  Not exactly reassuring but she had done all she could. She switched off the phone and put it in her bag. Now she had to find the office, if she could remember the way, tracing the route backwards. Last night she had pointed and asked for the station.

  But the staff and Enrico, the chauffeur, were out looking for her. Marco had sent his car and they were worried when she did not turn up.

  ‘The car was late,’ said Enrico. He was a good-looking young man, short and well built. ‘The traffic was bad.’

  ‘I came on the vaporetto,’ she said as if it was nothing. ‘I didn’t need the launch today. But many thanks. I am here now.’

  Emma felt sure that none of the office staff could be involved. They were friendly and helpful, all devoted to Marco. Emma asked about the firm of computer experts who had been called in when the system seemed to be going slow. No one could find the contact. Even those details seemed to have been deleted.

  ‘We had several people in. Some seemed to know what they were doing but did not rectify the f
ault. Others were mere amateurs. It was beyond them. Cosi complicato.’

  ‘Let’s check their credentials. Many people set themselves up as computer experts these days without any real expertise.’

  It was an exasperating morning. Now that Emma knew the system was being hacked, she was very careful what she fed in. She allowed a few minor amounts to be transferred so that the hackers were not alerted. She could do nothing more with the earlier accounts. They were out of her hands. She could go back to London tomorrow but she knew that she would not. She did not want to leave Marco.

  Something strong was holding her here in Venice and she knew it was Marco. She could not leave without seeing him again, hearing that voice, smelling the freshness of his skin. He was so tall, so handsome, so compelling. She didn’t care if he told her what to wear or what to eat.

  Lunch was another bowl of spaghetti in the local café, topped with a fresh tomato sauce and cheese. Emma didn’t worry if she drank too much of the rough red wine at eighty cents a glass. There was no one to tell her off, to demand her attention, to tell her what to do. Marco was already on the other side of the world.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Signor Bragora, as she left the office that evening. ‘The Countess is out for your blood.’

  ‘The Countess? I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘The Countess Raquel Benedetti or whatever she calls herself these days. She has been making inquiries and now is spreading rumours about you, signorina. She is not a good person.’

  ‘Oh, Raquel?’ Emma remembered the woman in a green silk trouser suit at the art gallery. ‘The woman with the claws? She can do nothing to me.’

  ‘Beware, her claws are very sharp.’

  ‘Thank you, Signor Bragora. But I’ll never see her. And I never go out.’

  ‘Still, she will find a way.’

  ‘Well, thank you for the warning.’

  Emma wondered if the Countess had paid someone to push her into the water. It was a possibility. But surely not the street girl, Pia, as well? Perhaps she should mention this to the Commissario.

  Emma remembered those words as she sat alone in the sitting room, reading and sipping coffee, that evening. Maria had produced another delightful salad supper of goat’s cheese and roasted tomatoes.

  She heard a visitor arrive and momentarily her heart jumped, hoping Marco had returned early. But of course he would not ring his own bell and it was far too soon to have travelled back from Japan.

  Maria came to the tall doorway of the sitting room, looking apprehensive.

  ‘It is the Countess Benedetti, signorina,’ she said. ‘I have told her that you are working and are not to be disturbed. But she insists.’

  Emma stifled a sigh. She had no wish to see the Countess but it would be better to get it over with. ‘All right, I’ll see her, but please interrupt me in about ten minutes and say I am wanted on the telephone.’

  ‘Si, signorina.’

  Emma heard the stabbing sound of stiletto heels coming up the stairs, each one sounding like the thrust of a knife.

  ‘So this is what the English call working,’ said Raquel, her eyes sweeping over the coffee and the book. ‘We have another word for it.’

  She walked round the room, looking at the modern paintings on the wall, glancing at the flower arrangements.

  Emma stood up but did not shake hands. Raquel was dressed to the nines in a white trouser suit with a gold belt, masses of gold necklaces, rings and bracelets. She threw off a cream mohair wrap.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Emma. ‘Marco is not here.’

  ‘I know he is not here,’ said Raquel archly. She paused for effect. ‘That is why I am here. He asked me to look after you personally. To keep an eye on you, he said. Now I know why.’

  Emma didn’t believe a word. This was totally out of character. Marco would not ask the Countess to keep an eye on her. If he had chosen someone, it would be Maria, who was already taking good care of her. And Enrico, her escort to and from the office.

  ‘We have been on the phone constantly,’ Raquel went on. ‘Marco is concerned that you will get into trouble.’

  ‘I am perfectly all right,’ said Emma coolly. ‘It was so very kind of you to call. I’m sure you have far more pressing personal engagements for this evening. Maria will show you out.’

  Raquel flounced onto a sofa, arranging her legs so that Emma had full view of her celebrity gold and white sandals. It was obvious she never walked on the waterfront. They reeked money. The heels were studded with brilliant stones and the straps were woven strands of gold.

  ‘Nice shoes,’ said Emma, giving them their due.

  ‘They cost more than you earn in a month.’

  ‘Money well spent,’ said Emma drily.

  ‘I think you should know something that Marco has obviously not told you. But why should he tell you his private business? You are only his little London accountant. He will never see you again. Accountants are nobodies, two a lira.’

  Raquel looked at the silver coffee pot on the side table. ‘Are you not going to offer me a cup of coffee? It would be polite.’

  ‘It’s gone cold.’

  ‘Then order some more.’

  ‘I do not give Maria orders.’

  Raquel laughed, showing her perfect white teeth, the product of expensive dentistry. It was not a pleasant sound. ‘I’m glad you know your place. Even if you are too inefficient to deal with Marco’s fortune. I have my own sources and it is not good what I hear.’

  ‘So what do you hear? I was unaware that rats could speak.’

  Raquel lit a cigarette and put it in a long ivory holder.

  ‘I hear that money has disappeared from Marco’s bank and the little accountant is the only person who knows where it has gone. Signor Bragora was very helpful. Such a nice old man. Pity about his eyesight. Perhaps he does not see you as everyone else can see you.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Much more, I know. It is not pleasant. All Venice is talking about you. Perhaps it is time that you went back to England, to your damp and dusty office in some nasty London skyscraper. You are not wanted here in Venice.’

  ‘I have work to do here.’

  ‘Maria will help you to pack tonight. There are plenty of flights back to London. Don’t take anything that doesn’t belong to you.’

  ‘I’ve heard quite enough of this nonsense,’ said Emma firmly. ‘You are being deliberately rude and insulting. I suggest you go now and take your insinuating lies with you.’

  ‘I have one more thing to tell you,’ said Raquel, drawing on her cigarette and letting the ash drop anywhere on the floor. She was talking through the smoke.

  ‘I have no wish to hear anything more,’ said Emma. ‘I’m not interested.’

  ‘You see, Marco and I are secretly engaged. We have been so for months. We do not show affection if we meet accidentally in public, as we did at the art gallery. We pretend we do not know each other. It is so amusing, really. There is much gossip in Venice. We both enjoy fooling everyone.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Emma, expressionless. There was nothing else she could say.

  ‘I thought you should know so that you don’t get big ideas above your station. Marco is spoken for, betrothed. We shall be married in the spring in Santa Maria della Salute, which is the magnificent church on the other side of the Grand Canal. It will be a beautiful wedding, all the gondolas decked out in white and gold. A Venetian wedding is so beautiful. And my wedding dress …’

  ‘Your dress will cost more than I earn in a year,’ said Emma.

  ‘More than you earn in five years.’ Raquel laughed again, clearly enjoying herself. ‘So sad that you will not be here to see it.’

  ‘I’m very glad I shall not be here to see it. But be careful as you leave. You might fall into the canal in those unsuitable shoes.’

  There was a discreet knock on the door but Emma was up in an instant. It was Maria in the doorway, uncertain in her role of rescuer.
‘There is a phone call for you, signorina.’

  ‘Thank you, Maria. I will take it now. Please show the Countess out. I’m sure her launch is waiting to take her elsewhere.’

  Raquel rose, shedding ash, picking up her wrap. ‘Remember what I have told you, signorina. I am your friend. People are watching you.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring,’ said Emma. ‘I feel I need protection from friends like you.’

  ‘I see you are helping yourself to new clothes.’ It was a final thrust but Emma did not answer. ‘Always the something for nothing is your way.’

  Raquel swept out, following Maria down the stairs. Emma waited, drawing deep breaths to steady herself. She did not know what to believe. It could be true. She hardly knew Marco. A secret engagement might suit him.

  Maria returned. ‘There really is a phone call for you in the study, signorina. It is Signor Marco.’

  Emma tried not to rush, but a phone call from halfway across the world would be expensive. She slowed her feet but her heart was racing.

  The door to the study was open and the landline receiver off the hook. She picked it up, longing to hear his voice again.

  ‘Marco? It’s Emma.’

  ‘You took your time.’

  Not exactly, hello, darling, how are you? But he did not sound angry, more impatient that he had to wait.

  ‘I had a visitor. I ran down the stairs.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  Emma wondered if she should say your fiancée, but decided this was not the time. ‘Someone from the art gallery,’ she parried.

  ‘Are you all right? Are you safe and warm? Is Maria looking after you? And Enrico? I worry all the time.’

  ‘Everything is fine,’ she said with relief. ‘We are all working hard. Irving Stone is going to send the best computer expert over from London from a security company. I bought a new mobile, an ordinary one, and phoned from the street.’

  ‘You cannot be too careful, now that we know our system is unsafe.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry I did not get to say goodbye to you before I left for Japan. There is the possibility of setting up a plant here and the negotiations are complicato.’

  He did not tell her the whole truth. That he could not bear to be in her company for a minute more, without taking her to his bed and making love to her. The urge was too strong and he couldn’t fight it. But he knew if he forced her, then it would be the end. She would turn her back on him forever and he didn’t want that.