Dark Venetian

by Anne Mather

  ‘I mean that many of the islands of the Lagoon are deserted now, uninhabited, you understand. Of course, there are Murano and Burano and Torcello, but I think we will save them for another day, yes?’

  Emma glanced at her watch. ‘It’s already after three o’clock, signore. Perhaps it would be as well to leave the Lagoon until another day also.’

  Cesare shrugged his broad shoulders, and Emma could not help but admire the rippling muscles beneath the grey silk jacket of his suit. She wondered why he had never married, because there must have been many women who would willingly have sacrificed their freedom for his sake.

  Suddenly they emerged from the maze of waterways into a bright, open expanse of water, as blue as the sky which melted into it on the horizon. It was so unexpected, and so beautiful, that Emma could only gasp and shake her head in astonishment.

  Cesare switched off the boat’s engine, and for a while they drifted with the current, soon leaving the spires and churches of the closely clustered islands of Venice far behind them. There were few craft out at this hour of the afternoon, and they seemed alone in a blue, blue world of secluded unreality.

  ‘You like it?’ he asked, looking down at her quizzically.

  She shook her head helplessly. ‘How could I not?’ She moved back to the stern of the small craft, and seated herself on the soft cushions which covered the bench seat. Count Cesare followed her, and seated himself beside her, offering her a cigarette. Emma shook her head. ‘I still don’t understand why you should have brought me!’

  ‘Why not?’ He lay back lazily, studying her with an intentness that embarrassed her. ‘I like you.’

  Emma couldn’t leave it alone. ‘Count Cesare …’

  ‘Cesare will do,’ he remarked softly.

  ‘Well … Cesare, then. You’re just not getting through to me. I know perfectly well that Celeste is a far more interesting proposition so far as you are concerned than I shall ever be, so why are you bothering with me?’ She sighed. ‘Please, don’t try to fool me.’

  He spread his hands indignantly. ‘But I am not, truly. I do like you, and I wanted to see your reaction to all this.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring Celeste? Why aren’t you having a siesta?’

  ‘You ask too many questions,’ he replied coolly, his voice less than cajoling now. ‘Accept the gifts as the gods offer them.’

  Emma turned her back on him. She simply could not believe that this man, this Count Vidal Cesare, should have taken such an immediate liking to an insignificant little thing like herself, that he would jeopardise his chances of success with her stepmother in order to take her out with him. It was ludicrous. There had to be another reason why he should be prepared to waste his time with her, but for the life of her she couldn’t imagine what it might be. He was far too attractive to women, to find her anything more than fleetingly pretty. His invitation to buy her a drink the previous evening had been the completely involuntary reaction of an Italian wishing to show his sincere apologies, and not to be taken seriously. Whether he had called again this morning as he had said was as improbable point, and in any case he had not expected to find her camping on his doorstep so to speak later in the day. At that time he had spoken quite sharply to her, as though her presence in his house could only be construed as annoying.

  She watched him throw the end of his cigarrette into the water and watched it slowly disintegrate and separate into tiny strands of tobacco, before disappearing into the depths. The afternoon had gone sour on her, and she was disappointed and miserable.

  She looked at Count Cesare and found him staring out unseeingly across the water, as though lost in thought. But he was immediately aware of her glance, and he looked at her wryly.

  ‘Do you want to go back?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘I think we’d better.’

  He flicked a speck of ash off his trousers, and then rose to his feet. He stood looking down at her upturned face, and with hard fingers he cupped her chin and turned her face critically from side to side.

  ‘Don’t belittle yourself so, Emma Maxwell,’ he murmured softly. ‘You’re a nice child, and with the right handling you could be quite beautiful, did you know that?’

  ‘I’m not a child!’ she retorted, albeit a trifle childishly, and he raised his dark eyebrows.

  ‘No? Perhaps not to the young men of your own age group, but to me you seem incredibly young and naïve. I can’t ever remember being so young myself. I feel as though I was born old.’

  ‘Women mature much earlier than men,’ she replied quickly.

  ‘All right, I’ll accept that. But as you told me earlier on, Celeste is much more my age group.’

  ‘I didn’t mention age,’ said Emma stiffly, her cheeks burning, and he released her.

  ‘No. But you were perceptive,’ he said enigmatically, and moved forward to start the motor.

  Emma sighed. So what had she proved, really? That Cesare did not find her by any means a challenge to his masculinity, and that he had no sexual attraction towards her.

  She got up and joined him. ‘Tell me, honestly, why did you bring me out today?’

  Cesare sighed. ‘Because you’re a nice child, and I like you.’

  ‘And that’s the only reason?’

  ‘What would you have me say?’ He smiled. ‘I don’t become emotionally involved with teenagers, no matter what you may have heard from your so-charming stepmother.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more explicit!’ exclaimed Emma, almost in tears now. ‘Oh, I wish I’d never come!’

  Cesare laughed, and for a second she thought he had the look of the devil himself, taunting her, and teasing her, until she could have slapped his face, so angry did she feel.

  ‘Did you expect a light-hearted flirtation?’ he asked, with complete candour, and Emma was too astonished to answer him. ‘Are you perhaps, at heart, just another tourist coming to Venice for the holiday romance of your life, and then going back home to England to sink back into the ordinary everyday happenings?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Emma turned away. ‘I’ve revised my first opinion of you, Signor Count, I had thought you were a gentleman!’

  They were back in the maze of waterways now and with his expert knowledge of the canals it was not long before they were along-side the moorings of the Palazzo Cesare.

  Emma did not wait for his assistance to jump out, but instead climbed hastily out as he was tying the rope, and walked swiftly across the courtyard and into the Palazzo through the heavy door.

  He caught up with her as she reached the foot of the staircase.

  ‘I gather you’re angry with me,’ he murmured mockingly.

  ‘My feelings towards you are non-existent,’ she retorted coldly, mounting the first stair with as much dignity as she could muster. But her feet were damp from the bottom of the boat, and the stone stairs were worn smooth with time and much use, and her foot slipped back again, and she stumbled awkwardly, and would have fallen had he not been behind her, ready to prevent an accident.

  She was caught up against him, her back against the warm hardness of his body. His arms held her there for a minute, pressed hard against him, and her legs turned to jelly beneath her. Never in her life before had she experienced such an onslaught of sexual awareness, and she could tell from the increased tenor of his breathing that the contact was disturbing him also. If she were to turn round in his arms, she felt certain his mouth would seek hers, and it was terribly difficult to resist that temptation.

  Then she was free, and he had stepped back abruptly. Without glancing round, Emma fled up the stairs, and the pounding of her heart was like thunder in her ears.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CESARE left Marco Cortina’s office in the heart of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. He thrust his way through the bustling crowds that never seemed to completely disperse at any hour of the day, and made his way towards the Rialto Bridge. Mingling with the tourists, he was able to pass almost unnoticed in the crowds and that suited him admir
ably. He had no desire to draw attention to his presence in this particular quarter of the city.

  Bypassing the bridge, he made his way through the myriad sidestreets and alleyways towards the Piazza San Marco. He glanced at his wrist-watch; it was almost eleven o’clock, and he had promised to meet Celeste at one of the outdoor cafés that abound on the square, at eleven o’clock.

  She had, he was grateful to accept, some shopping to do beforehand, thus ridding him of the necessity of making excuses as to why he could not accompany her earlier. It had been imperative that he contact Marco and give him the information he had discovered, but it would not have been easy to find excuses for visiting the Fondaco.

  He wondered again at the possible stupidity of his allowing his grandmother’s guests to remain at the Palazzo when so much might be at stake, but short of behaving boorishly, which was not his nature, he had had to accept their presence as best he could, without advertising the fact of Celeste’s considerable monetary assets. He doubted whether anyone would believe his indifference to his grandmother’s plans, and his own attempt at appearing interested in the stepdaughter had failed disastrously.

  Remembering the afternoon he had spent with Emma two days ago he cursed himself afresh. It had been a stupid and completely idiotic gesture and he had merely succeeded in destroying any casual friendship he might have had with the child.

  Child? He wondered. There had been nothing childlike about the yielding softness of her body as he had held her momentarily on the stairs, and his own reactions had been violently adult. He admitted it, honestly, that in any other circumstances he might have found an affair with Emma quite diverting. It was true young women were in the main all of a piece so far as he was concerned, but Emma’s lack of sophistication and pathetic denial of any interest he might have in her had moved him strangely, and he would have liked to have furthered the experiment.

  Celeste was another matter. She was very beautiful, and she was very rich, and her age was not so far short of his own. He knew she was quite willing for him to speedily hasten their acquaintance into something deeper, but for once in his life the desire for possession was dulled. He had known many beautiful women; in fact he had considered beauty a necessity to physical desire, but now he was discovering this was not always so. The child, Emma, was not beautiful, and yet her tall, slimly rounded body was desirable, although she was unaware of it herself, and her hair was soft, like silk, and smelt faintly of the lemon shampoo she used. Her hands had been soft, too, and Cesare felt a fierce, self-condemning anger inside him as he contemplated so emotionally the pleasure he would derive from feeling those small, delicately proportioned hands on his body, and the sensual delights she would experience in his arms.

  ‘Cesare! Cesare!’ he told himself angrily, ‘what manner of man are you that you should allow yourself to become so carelessly involved with a child of only nineteen years to your forty?’ It mattered little to his own self-condemnation that his involvement should be purely mental rather than physical, for his religion which he took as seriously as anything in his life preached that the thought was as damning as the deed.

  He reached the Piazza and lit a cigarette before going to meet Celeste, to enable himself to control his insurgent thoughts. His only insurance against his senses ruling his sensibilities was that he should become so involved with Celeste that she would drive all thoughts of Emma Maxwell out of his mind. But that way lay danger, too, of a very different kind.

  Celeste was awaiting him, sipping a Campari soda, and holding a long American cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers. She was wearing a pale blue linen dress, with three-quarter-length sleeves, and a low round neckline. Her hair, which was not very long, she wore in a curly mass about her shapely head, and a light chiffon scarf was slotted about her neck. She looked young and beautiful and elegant, and completely in control of herself.

  She looked up with pleasure when he halted at her table, and smiled. ‘Well, Vidal,’ she murmured. ‘You’re late. It’s already five minutes past eleven.’ Her tone was gently chiding.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was delayed.’ Cesare seated himself beside her, snapping his fingers for the waiter. ‘Will you forgive me?’

  Celeste allowed him to take one of her hands in both of his and moved her shoulders prettily. ‘As it is you, I will,’ she said flirtatiously. ‘Where have you been?’

  Cesare shrugged casually. ‘Attending to my affairs. Now, what will you drink, Celeste?’

  Afterwards, Celeste suggested they might enter the Basilica.

  ‘Are you sure you want to?’ Cesare seemed reluctant.

  ‘Of course, my dear. I couldn’t spend very long in Venice without seeing the Basilica, now could I?’

  So they followed a stream of tourists and entered into a world of Venetian-Byzantine architecture, encrusted with marble and glittering with golden mosaics. The floor was a miracle of mosaic and there was such a splendid confusion of statuary and paintings it was difficult for anyone to take it all in.

  ‘Parts of the church date from the ninth century,’ remarked Cesare, watching Celeste’s face. Here there was none of the uninhibited delight he had glimpsed in Emma’s face, but instead a kind of bored acceptance, as though the beauty of her surroundings did nothing to move her emotionally.

  ‘Old buildings are not really my cup of tea,’ remarked Celeste candidly, and with some relief, when Cesare suggested she had seen enough to be going on with. ‘I simply can’t go into raptures over paintings,’ she went on. ‘I mean, I have some paintings, myself, that were Clifford’s, but I’m afraid I look on them more as an investment.’ She gave a girlish giggle. ‘Do you know much about painters, Vidal?’

  ‘A little,’ he replied, a trifle stiffly, and she stared at him.

  ‘Have I offended you, Vidal? I didn’t mean to, honestly, darling, but I guess I’m a modern at heart. Give me lots of plate-glass and concrete and good old Swedish wood, and I’m happy.’

  Cesare shook his head. ‘Non importa,’ he replied, for once lapsing into his native Italian, and Celeste felt irritably, aware that somehow she had disappointed him. She slid an arm through his, and said:

  ‘Vidal,’ reproachfully. ‘Where are we going now? You said something about lunch, I believe.’

  ‘Lunch?’ Vidal shrugged. ‘We will go back to the Palazzo for lunch, si?’

  Celeste knew better than to argue. ‘All right. But in a gondola, yes?’

  Cesare shrugged. ‘If you so desire.’

  The gondola moved slowly and rhythmically over the calm waters, and Celeste relaxed in the stern, satisfied to have Vidal beside her. The padded seats were very comfortable, and were narrow enough to necessitate a closeness of bodies that was in itself romantic, particularly at night. This was midday, however, but Celeste was utterly aware of the man beside her, and she felt sure he could not fail to be aware of her.

  ‘Vidal,’ she murmured appealingly, ‘I’m sorry. I know I’ve annoyed you, but don’t be like this. Say you forgive me.’

  Vidal Cesare looked at her. This close he could see the tiny lines which were beginning to form about her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, revealing she was not so young as she would have you think. But she was still quite staggeringly attractive and he would not have been human if he had not thought so. But in some obscure way she repelled him, and it was difficult for him to lean gallantly forward permitting her to press her lips to his cheek.

  ‘Vidal,’ she breathed, ‘you do know why your grandmother sent for me, don’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Let’s not rush things, Celeste,’ he murmured gently. ‘Let’s take it easy, carissima. We have all the time in the world.’

  Celeste’s eyes narrowed. It was a new experience for her to be rebuffed; she was always the one to call the tune. She stiffened, and drew herself up away from him into a more upright position, and there were two flags of hectic colour in her cheeks which Emma could
have told him heralded a bout of temper. But she would not lose her temper with him; that would never do. Not at least until they were married, and then, when she was the Contessa, Cesare he would not be able to treat her in this manner.

  Cesare watched her, half amused by her behaviour. She was acting like an outraged child, simply because things were not going exactly her way.

  Biting lips in an effort to control her temper, she said:

  ‘Aren’t there some islands around the coast hereabouts where one can go and bathe? And what about Murano? Isn’t that where they make gorgeous Venetian glass?’

  Cesare lit a cigarette lazily. ‘Yes. There are islands; or there is the Lido.’

  ‘No. Somewhere more secluded. Bathing with a crowd doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather find some deserted atoll, and take a picnic lunch. Could we do that, Vidal? Maybe tomorrow.’

  Cesare frowned through the haze of smoke. ‘You mean … just the two of us?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I thought perhaps your stepdaughter might enjoy the opportunity. After all, she has not bathed since she came here, has she? And young people like the beach, do they not?’

  Celeste ran a tongue over her dry lips. ‘Emma must amuse herself,’ she replied coldly. ‘I am not her keeper.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I think it would be less than hospitable to leave her at home again all day with my grandmother. I know they get along very well together; my grandmother was telling me yesterday evening how apt a pupil Emma was. My grandmother is teaching her a little about art, how to recognize certain artists and so on; your stepdaughter seems to enjoy their sessions.’

  ‘Stop calling her my stepdaughter,’ said Celeste, through clenched teeth.

  ‘Why? She is, isn’t she?’

  ‘Of course. I wouldn’t bring a fraud into your home.’

  ‘Very well then. Look, Celeste my dear, you have been at the Palazzo now for several days and during that time Emma has had little opportunity for getting out, apart from that first afternoon, of course,’ he murmured reminiscently. ‘We went out into the lagoon.’