by Trish Morey
But not if she was going to spend it all sleeping. He pulled off the covers and slapped her bare rump, almost tempted to linger at the sight of her creamy flesh. ‘Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. I’ve got plans for you.’
* * *
She didn’t exactly jump at his suggestion of visiting Murano and his cousin’s glass factory. The glass that formed her mother’s addiction was not something that held her fascination—she’d seen enough of it at Lily’s palazzo to last a lifetime. And it wasn’t as if she needed a reminder of how her mother had been manoeuvred into debt—yes, because she was feeding a compulsion of her own making—but also by probably two of the best in the business.
After all, who else to feed a glass-infatuated woman’s habit but a financier who wanted to steal her house out from under her and his cousin, the man who owned the factory and who supplied her fix?
What worried her more, she reflected as she tied back her hair and swiped gloss over her lips, was spending time with Luca—time when they were not making love. It was one thing to share his bed and his nights—that had been the deal she’d made. She just wasn’t sure she wanted to share his days. Because she needed time alone. Time to think. Time to regroup.
Time to put into perspective their love-making, to bundle it up in a box marked meaningless and shove it under the bed until the next night.
It was harder to do than she’d thought. Harder to separate the passionate Luca from the hated. Harder to hold herself together, even when she was coming apart.
No, she didn’t need to be reminded in the daylight hours of the tender caress as he’d stroked her skin or the way he’d turned her molten with one flick of his clever tongue. She needed the lid put on that box and put on firmly and for it to be all tied up tight.
But he’d insisted. Why? To rub her nose deeper in her mother’s mess by taking her to the scene of the crime? Surely he knew better now than to think that she cared enough about Lily’s foolishness for that.
So he’d insisted and she’d relented. Besides, the weather was sunny, the skies clear blue, and she’d found a gorgeous floral print sundress that was just begging to be worn. Why shouldn’t she see something of Venice while she was here?
And if Luca could put up with her daylight company for a few hours, she could hardly confess that she was afraid to do the same. She would just have to work harder to keep a lid on that box.
And when all was said and done, what was she afraid of, anyway? Actually liking the man? There was no chance of that, not after all the things he’d done.
Luca was in his study making calls when she emerged, so she pulled out her laptop and curled into a chair to try to finish the email to her father. He would be wondering what was happening over here and when she was planning on coming home. She was wondering how best to tell him without having him launch himself halfway around the world brandishing a shotgun to save his daughter from the clutches of the evil Luca.
She smiled at the thought as she pounded on the space bar, trying to imagine him in Venice, surrounded by water, practically living on top of the water. He’d taken her to the beach for a holiday once, when she was ten. A wide, sandy beach framed by rocky cliffs and wild waves and an endless, endless sea. He hadn’t stopped staring at the sea for days, and when she asked what he was looking for, he’d just shaken his head and muttered, ‘All that water.’
A bubble of sadness rose up unbidden to sully the memory and she felt a familiar pang of loss. And then the space bar stuck again and she wrote a line of jibberish and she cursed, distracted. The damn key was getting worse. No question about it.
‘You look good enough to eat.’
Her mouth went dry. She swallowed, suddenly reminded of another time, another feast, the lid well and truly ripped from the box.
Was he thinking about last night too?
She took her time closing her laptop, wishing away the burning in her cheeks. She didn’t dare meet his eyes. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘I’m not surprised. Is that a computer or a brick you’re banging away on?’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, putting it down, happy to talk about anything other than the reason for her blushing. ‘It does the job. Most of the time. It’s just seen better days, that’s all.’
He came closer, picked it up and tested its weight with one hand before discovering he needed two. ‘It’s seen better centuries.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, even though it weighed a ton and was so slow it was good for little more than the occasional email.
He grunted and put it down. ‘The driver’s here, if you’re ready.’
Beyond the crowded canals of Venice, the driver opened up the engines. The sleek timber craft’s nose leapt clear of the water, the boat skipping over the surface of the lagoon in a rush of power.
Luca asked her if she wanted to go inside, but it was exhilarating standing at the back of the vessel, the wind tugging at her hair, and she shook her head. Besides, the view outside was just too good. There was something about seeing Venice from the water, buildings standing where by rights there should be none, rising vertically from the lagoon like a mirage.
But the city was real. Just as the man standing at her side was real. Heart-stoppingly, devastatingly real, when she thought about their love-making last night; ruthlessly, unscrupulously real when she remembered why she was here, and if there was a mirage anywhere, it was this game they were playing, pretending to be lovers.
He’d told her last night he wanted her so badly that he would use her mother’s debts to blackmail her into his bed. Then, with the wick of anticipation already lit and burning down towards their inevitable coupling, it had almost seemed reasonable. Today logic demanded a better explanation. Because she wasn’t that special. What was really going on?
He put a lazy arm around her shoulders and she looked up at him. ‘Why am I here?’ she asked, her words tugged away by the wind. ‘The real reason this time.’
His eyes were masked by dark glasses. ‘Don’t you want to see Murano?’
‘No,’ she said, not knowing if he had deliberately chosen to misunderstand her question, ‘I don’t mean that.’ But, before she could clarify, he squeezed her shoulders and pointed ahead. ‘Look, we’re almost there.’
They slowed and landed at a small dock where a man stood waiting for them. He waved as they pulled alongside and she had no doubt who he was. Cousins could be brothers, both lean and long-limbed and good-looking enough for a dozen men. ‘Matteo,’ called Luca as he bounded onto the dock. The pair embraced before he turned to offer Tina his hand.
‘And this,’ he said as she joined him on the deck, ‘is Valentina Henderson, Lily’s daughter.’
Matteo smiled and greeted her like a traditional Italian, a kiss to each cheek before standing back, a wide smile on his handsome face. ‘Lily’s daughter, yes, I see it, but much more beautiful too. Do you share your mother’s passion for our local glass, Valentina?’
‘No,’ she said, ignoring the compliment and hoping to knock on the head any hope he might hold that he had gained himself a new client. ‘It holds no interest for me at all.’
‘Valentina has—’ Luca looked at her and smiled
‘—other passions, don’t you, Valentina?’
One day she would grow out of blushing, she swore, as she tried to look anywhere but at the two men standing opposite. Maybe just not today.
‘Come,’ said Matteo, clearly enjoying the joke as he clapped his cousin on the shoulder, ‘let’s see if we can change that.’
She wasn’t about to have her mind changed. Not when she was led into the large warehouse room, warm from the heat of at least four fiery kilns. Men worked there, doing whatever it was they did, but it was the chandeliers she noticed hanging from the warehouse ceiling, magnificently ornate and totally incongruous examples of the glassmaker
s’ craft in the yawning airspace above her, that made up her mind.
So this was where her mother had found her inspiration for her disparate collection.
‘If you would excuse me,’ Luca said, ‘I have to talk with my cousin. Would you mind waiting here for a few minutes? The glassmakers are about to put on a show. You might enjoy it.’
She raised her eyebrows. They did a show? Bring it on, she thought cynically, but still she welcomed this brief respite from Luca’s presence. She welcomed the chance to breathe in air not tainted by the scent of him in space he didn’t own. So she let herself be led to a small stand of tiered seating where a couple of other family groups were already seated, ready and waiting. There was space in the front row still, and she sat down and almost immediately wished she hadn’t.
A toddler was sitting on the floor to her side, his mother nursing an infant behind him, his father on the other side. The child looked up at Tina as she sat down, all huge eyed, mouth gaping, clearly wondering who she was to be invading their space.
He would be about the right age, she reasoned with a sizzle of recognition, feeling her stomach churn. Their son would have been about the same age as this child.
She looked away, thought about leaving, her palms suddenly damp with sweat before his big dark eyes drew her back like a magnet.
Dark eyes. Long lashes.
She had seen her baby’s eyes open, and they had been dark too, like this child’s. Like his father’s.
The boy looked up at his mother, who was still busy tending the baby, before he looked back at her, blinking.
She smiled thinly, trying to will away the churning feeling in her gut, trying not to hurt herself more by thinking about their son growing up. But it was impossible.
She’d read the books, even before he was born. He would be two now. Full of life. Inquisitive. Driven to explore his new world. Sometimes challenging.
This child was no doubt all of those things and more. He was beautiful as he looked at her, his expression filled with question marks, and so distracted that the toy bear in his hands slipped from his grasp to the floor.
Without thinking, she reached down and scooped it up and for a moment, when he realised, he was all at war, mouth open with brimming outrage, little arms pumping fisted hands.
Until she handed back the toy and he looked almost shocked, before his face lit up with a smile as he clutched the teddy to his chest and squeezed it for all it was worth.
And that smile almost broke her heart.
Somehow she managed a tentative smile back, before she had to wrench her eyes away from the child who reminded her of too much, from the child who was not hers.
From the ache in her womb that would never let her forget.
Tears pricked her eyes as she looked plaintively up at the high ceiling, to where the gaudily coloured chandeliers hung bold and totally shameless, mocking her, and she wished to hell she’d never come.
A collective gasp from the crowd and she turned to see one of the workmen wielding a rod tipped with molten glass dancing at its end. White-hot and fringed with red it glowed, fresh from the fire, stretching down long in its melted state before the artisan used a blunt implement and smacked it short.
The blob seemingly complied, buckling under the commands of a stronger force, melting back into itself.
From then on it was a dance of heat and fire and air, the sand turned molten glass, the rod spun and spun again over rails of steel, cooling the liquid magma until it was cool enough to be tweaked, a tweezer here and there to tug upon the glass and pull a piece outwards, a prod there to push it in, seemingly random.
She watched, but only half-heartedly, determined not to be impressed, finding a welcome distraction when she noticed the craftsman was wearing nothing on his feet. Molten glass and bare feet, she thought with horror, but happy to think of anything that would provide a distraction from the child alongside her, watching now from his father’s knees in open-mouthed fascination.
She clasped her hands together tightly on her empty knees.
And then, as she watched, the bare-footed artisan’s purpose became clear. A leg, she realised. Two legs, fine and slender. A roundness and then two more legs, with a twist to make a neck before the tweaking continued, the artist’s movements now almost frenetic, working the glass before it cooled too much and set before he was finished.
She gasped when she realised. A prancing horse had emerged from the glass, with flowing mane and tail, and mouth open to the air, alive.
With a snap it was free, set down on a table where it stood balanced on its back legs and tail, front hooves proudly held high in the air.
She applauded louder than anyone and, when the glass had cooled, the artisan presented it to her.
‘For the beautiful signorina,’ he said with a bow, and she held the creation still warm in her hands, blinking away tears she hadn’t realised she’d shed.
‘It’s magical,’ she said, turning it in her hands, marvelling at the detail—the tiny eyes, the shaped hooves—the glass glinting in the light. ‘You are a true artist.’
He bowed and moved away, back to the kiln for his next work of art.
She turned to the family alongside, who were all watching with admiration and held it out to the mother. ‘You take it, please,’ she said to the startled woman, pressing it into her hand. ‘For your son, as a memento of this day.’ For the tiny child who could never receive her gift.
The woman smiled and thanked her, the husband beamed and the little boy just blinked up at her with those beautiful dark eyes.
She couldn’t stay. She fled. She strode away, feigning interest in a cabinet filled with numbered jars of coloured sand, with curled samples of glass hanging from a board, her back to the family, arms wound tight around her belly, trying to quell the pain. Trying not to cry.
‘Did you enjoy the demonstration?’ she heard Matteo ask. ‘Did you like your souvenir?’
She had to take a deep breath before she could turn and face anyone, let alone them. She plastered a smile on her face that she hoped looked halfway to convincing.
‘She gave it to the boy,’ called the artist before she could say anything, gesturing with a grin towards the family, who were all still gathered around admiring it.
Luca laughed and slapped his cousin on the back. ‘I told you she doesn’t like glass.’
His cousin shrugged as a woman came running from another room, a large bunch of flowers in her arms that Matteo took from her, thanking her for remembering.
‘Thank you for delivering these,’ he said, handing Luca the flowers. ‘Tell her I will come and see her soon.’
They left then, Matteo kissing her cheeks again as he bade them farewell, before the boat set off, the flowers lying inside on one of the long loungers.
‘Who are they for?’ she asked, curious, when Luca hadn’t spoken for a while.
He looked straight ahead, his jaw grimly set. ‘Matteo’s mother. It’s her birthday today but he has to take his daughter to the hospital for an appointment. He won’t have time to visit her.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘There,’ he said, pointing to a walled island she belatedly realised they were heading towards.
She shuddered. ‘But surely that’s...’
‘Yes,’ he said grimly. ‘Isola di San Michele. The Isle of the Dead.’
CHAPTER TEN
THE brick walls loomed larger the closer they got, dark walls with white detail in which was set a Gothic gateway framing three iron gates.
Behind the walls the heavy green stands of cypress and pine did nothing to dispel the sense of gloom and foreboding.
She shivered.
‘You must have been here before,’ he said as the boat pulled alongside the landing.
She shook her head. ‘No. Never.’
He frowned. ‘I remember now. You didn’t come to Eduardo’s funeral.’
She sensed the note of accusation in his voice. ‘I didn’t make it in time. My flight had engine trouble and was turned back to Sydney. By the time I arrived, the funeral had already been held and Lily was barely holding herself together. There was no chance to pay my respects.’
He studied her, as if trying to assess if she was speaking the truth. Then he nodded. ‘So you can pay your respects now, if you wish. Or you can stay with the boat if you prefer. Some people are not fond of cemeteries.’
‘No,’ she said, thinking nothing could be more forbidding than those imposing gates. Nothing could be worse than waiting to the accompaniment of the endless slap of water against the boat. ‘I want to come, if you don’t mind. I liked Eduardo. I’d like to pay my respects.’
Once again he paused, as if testing her words against what he knew of her. Then he gave a careless shrug. ‘Your choice.’
Inside the imposing walls she was surprised to find the gloom fall away, replaced by a serenity that came with being in a well-tended garden. The sounds of motors and the chug of passing vaporettos seemed not to permeate the thick walls. Only birdsong and the crunch of gravel underfoot punctuated the silence. Here and there people tended graves, or just sat under the shade of the cypress trees in quiet reflection.
Luca led the way, past rows of neat graves adorned with marble cherubs and angels and freshly cut flowers. Everywhere she looked seemed to be bursting with the colour of fresh flowers.
He carried the bunch in his arms almost reverently. Flowers might soften a man, she thought, but not Luca. They only served to accentuate his overwhelming masculinity. Big hands, she thought, and yet so tender, the way they cradled the flowers.
Like he might cradle a child.
What would have happened had their child lived? If he had not been born too prematurely to be saved? Luca would not have welcomed the news that their one night of passion had ended with more than a face slap and that he was a father, but would he have wanted to meet his child? Would he have cradled him in those big hands as gently as he cradled those flowers and smiled down at him? Could he have loved him?
