“So it would appear.” She tucked her pencil in her notebook, closed it and looked at him. “You made some excellent points yesterday, Mr. Montague. I am not used to business dealings and while I am confident my repayment of the loan and subsequent recovery of the painting will be uncomplicated, it does seem to me one can never be too careful.” Her tone hardened. “Even if a man presents himself as an honorable, decent sort that is no guarantee that he is not in truth a vile, despicable, lying beast.”
He winced.
“And, as you are well versed in the nature of vile, despicable, lying beasts, your assistance will no doubt be quite valuable.” She placed her notebook in the traveling valise on the seat beside her, then took out one of her many guidebooks and opened it, effectively dismissing him. Or trying to.
“It’s always wise to be prepared.”
She turned a page.
Willie could ignore him all the way to Venice if she wished but he had no intention of giving up. “Perhaps we should discuss our plan?”
“I shall send a note to the conte upon our arrival in Venice requesting a meeting for the day after tomorrow.” Her gaze stayed firmly on her book. “On the day after tomorrow we will meet with him. I will repay the loan and he will return the painting to me. That, Mr. Montague, is the plan. You may consider it discussed.”
“And a fine plan it is too,” he said weakly. So much for considering the details of recovering the Portinari. She was right. It should be a simple enough transaction. Certainly he hoped so and he didn’t want anything to go wrong. But it would be rather nice if circumstances were such that he had to come to her rescue. Be her hero as it were.
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Dove è il treno per Roma?”
He frowned. “Where is the train to Rome?”
“I can also ask where the train is for Milan, Florence and very nearly any other city in Italy.” She unfolded a map from her book and studied it.
“Is that all?”
Her jaw clenched. “Yes.”
“I speak Italian quite well.”
“Good for you.”
“It might come in handy in meeting with the count.”
“Our discussion will be entirely in English.” She lowered the map and glared at him. “If you think for a moment you are going to carry on a conversation in Italian and exclude—”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
She considered him closely, obviously debating whether to believe him. “Good,” she said at last and promptly returned to her map.
“You’ve never been to Venice either have you?”
“I thought we had established I am not an experienced traveler.”
“Nonetheless, we haven’t missed a train, lost any of our luggage—and eight women do have a great deal of luggage—and, aside from that problem with the hotel in Monte Carlo, which was not at all your fault,” he added quickly, “you are doing a brilliant job.”
She continued to stare at her map then sighed. “That’s very nice of you to say.”
“Well, I am extraordinarily nice.”
“Were, Mr. Montague,” she said and folded the map. “You were extraordinarily nice.”
“Are you saying I can’t be a vile, despicable beast and extraordinarily nice, as well?”
“A vile, despicable, lying beast.” She leveled a look at him that was as much scathing as skeptical. “One usually precludes the other.”
“But what if, just as an exercise in semantics mind you, a vile, despicable, lying beast wasn’t really vile and despicable, and not exactly lying, but more not revealing a minor fact or two—”
“As opposed to concealing a significant fact or two?”
“You’re quibbling over a word choice.” He waved off her comment. “Whether you call it concealing or not revealing, it’s very much the same thing.”
“On the contrary, they are entirely different. The very definition of concealing is hiding whereas not revealing could possibly be, I don’t know, inadvertent.”
“Aha! My point exactly.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “And what point would that be?”
“Well...” This was his chance to explain. He chose his words with care. “Even in the beginning I had planned to tell you about my family’s claim to the Portinari.”
“My Portinari.”
“But the closer we became, the more difficult it was to bring up the matter. I knew it might upset you.”
She snorted. “Might?”
“And obviously I was right.” He smiled in a modest manner.
“Indeed you were.”
“Frankly, by the time we reached Monaco, the painting was the furthest thing from my mind. You were far more important to me.”
“Oh?” She studied him suspiciously.
He nodded. She was softening, not a lot but enough to listen to him. “All I could think about was you. The way your hair sparkled in the sunlight and how your blue eyes reflected the sea. The way your laugh sounds like pure joy made audible and wraps around my very soul. The feel of your lips against mine—”
“That’s quite enough.” She drew a deep breath. “I can see how, possibly, your intentions might have changed from the time you joined the tour.”
“And I fully intended to tell you everything before we reached Venice but...” His gaze met hers directly. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
“I see.”
“I didn’t intend to deceive you, Willie, really I didn’t.” He moved to her side of the compartment and sat beside her. “I am willing to spend the rest of my life making amends. I would do anything in the world to make it up to you.” He took her hand in his.
A slight smile curved the corners of her lips and his hopes soared. “Anything?”
“Anything at all.” He was winning her back. It wasn’t nearly as hard as he thought it would be. Of course not, she loved him as much as he loved her. An enormous weight that had settled in his stomach yesterday lightened.
“Then give up your claim to my painting.” A determined glint shone in her eyes.
“No.” He straightened in the seat and released her hand. “That painting is mine.”
“I thought you said it was your family’s?”
“It is but it might as well be mine. I’m the only one who gives a damn about that blasted collection. But it was important to my grandfather, so it’s important to me.”
“How very touching.” Her eyes widened in feigned sympathy. “I’m sure your grandfather would be terribly disappointed by your failure to get it back. Now—” her tone hardened “—get off my seat.” She shoved him. The train hit a small bump and he flew across the compartment to sprawl across the seats.
She sighed. “Are you all right?”
“Do you care?” He gingerly untangled himself and struggled to his feet. Obviously it was going to take a great deal of effort to appease Willie and earn her forgiveness. Perhaps one step at a time would be best.
“Not at all.” She shrugged. “I just think it would be most awkward if I were witness to yet another absurd death.”
“You mean your husband’s?” He brushed off his jacket.
“I prefer not to talk about it.”
“Very well. But the rest of this conversation is far from over.”
“I suspected as much. However, right now it’s over for me.” She took her hat off, set it on the seat beside her guidebook then folded her hands in her lap. “I intend to rest. Please have me awakened when we are approaching Venice.” She rested her head against the seat cushions and closed her eyes.
“Dare I ask if you’ve been having difficulties sleeping? I know I have.”
“Good. And I assure you, my slumber has been quite restful.”
The slightly drawn look of her face in recent days said otherwise. Dante let a full minute go by. “Perhaps we could talk about something else?”
“I don’t wish to talk.”
“Of course you do.” He paused. “You do talk quite a lot you know.”
She bit back a smile.
“You think I’m amusing.”
“I think you’re an ass.” She paused. “I find them funny too.”
“Well, if you don’t wish to talk, what would you suggest I do to pass the time?”
“I can think of any number of things but I don’t think they’re anatomically possible.”
He tried not to laugh. Good God—he liked her as much when she was angry as when she wasn’t. Annoying her was oddly exhilarating. And somewhat exciting. “Other than those?”
“Here.” Without opening her eyes, she reached for her guidebook—“Read about Venice”—and tossed it in his direction.
He caught the book and flipped it open. “I’ve been to Venice.”
“Then you should know all the words.”
He paged through the book. “As you have never been to Venice, I shall endeavor to assist you by reading aloud.”
“Delightful.”
“‘A glance at the manifold attractions of Venice may be obtained in three to four days with the aid of steamers and gondolas. An occasional walk will also convey an idea of the manner—’ This is rather dry.”
She sighed. “Is it?”
“Isn’t it?” He shook his head. “Do you really want to see ‘manifold attractions’?”
“Yes.”
“I could do better.”
“I don’t care.”
He thought for a moment. He’d visited Venice twice. The first time he was young and on a grand tour with a group of rowdy comrades and a great deal of alcohol so those memories might not have been accurate. But the next time he set foot in the fabled city, he’d been enchanted. It had been years ago—six or so—and Venice had been magical. He couldn’t imagine anything being as extraordinary as sharing it with Willie.
“Before stepping foot in Venice one should know something of the city, in the way in which one anticipates an excellent cuisine. Her buildings rise from the water as Venus rose from the sea. She is La Serenissima, the serene republic.”
Willie opened her eyes.
“She is, as well, mysterious and exotic and unexpected. She disdains the ordinary. Her streets are paved with water, canals both grand and barely wide enough for the slimmest of crafts. By day, the light, unexceptional everywhere else, is here so unique, so remarkable, artists have tried again and again through the ages to capture its elusive enchantment. Her houses and palaces adorned with carving and columns and archways sparkle in the sunlight, like treasure boxes concocted to rival the beauty of any gem within them. But by night, beneath the stars, in the moonlight, she becomes a place of secrets and magic and passion.”
“I had no idea you were so poetic.”
“I can be extremely poetic.” He paused. “And charming.”
“You needn’t waste your time,” she said and closed her eyes. “I refuse to allow myself to be charmed by you again.”
“Regardless, my intentions are not to give up.”
“The road to hell, Mr. Montague. And please remember to have someone awaken me when we arrive.”
He stifled a laugh. She was stubborn and determined not to give in to him in the slightest. In that, they were evenly matched.
“When we reach Venice...” He leaned forward and took her hands in his. Her eyes snapped open and she tried to pull her hands away. He held tight and stared into her eyes. “I want a truce. I want to enjoy Venice and I want you to see it as I do. I want to introduce you to La Serenissima.” He lifted one hand and brushed his lips across it. “I want to share the city with you.” He raised her other hand and kissed it. “If not as lovers then as friends or fellow travelers.”
She might not realize it yet but he was seducing her. Minute by minute, hour by hour. Seduction had always been a rather straightforward thing for him. It had never taken any particular effort. But this—with Willie—was a battle, a game of conquest in which it really didn’t matter who won. As long as they were unified in the end.
“Lovers, Mr. Montague—” she yanked her hands from his “—is completely out of the question. And friends are not so forward as to kiss another friend’s hands while they are asleep.”
“First, you were not asleep.” He settled back in his seat. “And second, your friend, your good friend, Lord Brookings did not hesitate to kiss your hand on any number of occasions.”
“Never when I was asleep.”
“Again, you were not asleep.” He shrugged. “If you had been asleep, I would never have kissed your hand. I would have awakened you with a gentle, teasing—”
“That is quite enough.”
He grinned. “Now do you wish to talk?”
“Not particularly but I see no other choice. And you needn’t be so smug about it.”
He gasped. “I’m not the least bit smug.”
Skepticism shone in her eyes.
“Well, perhaps a little.” His grin widened.
“Then let’s talk about this truce of yours. Exactly what did you have in mind?”
He stared. All sorts of things she did not intend flitted through his head.
“I meant in terms of your truce,” she said with a frustrated sigh.
“Yes, that’s what I thought.” He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. Good God, what the woman could do to him with no more than an innocent question. “Very well.” He drew a deep breath. “I don’t want to discuss ownership of the painting until we have it back. I don’t even want to think about it. And I want you to stop glaring at me as if I truly were a vile, despicable, lying beast.”
“Because you aren’t?”
“No, I’m not,” he said staunchly. “I am neither vile nor despicable. And I did not actually lie, although I did fail to tell you my original purpose. That was a mistake on my part.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes, a mistake, an error in judgment. Admittedly, a dreadful one but—”
“Oh, please.” She crossed her arms.
“But I didn’t know you in the beginning beyond what was in the dossier. And surely you recall that I did tell you I’d had you investigated.”
“You might have mentioned it. In passing.”
It was an admission, albeit a reluctant one, but better than nothing. “And even you have to admit, it did not paint you in an especially good light.”
She shrugged.
He wasn’t at all sure how she would take this but if he was going to be honest—and it did seem the time for anything less than total candor had passed—he was going to have to confess everything.
“Even so, I found you intriguing. Most intriguing. More free in spirit and outrageous than irredeemably improper and scandalous. And then when I met you...”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes?”
“And you were...” He shook his head helplessly. “More.”
She frowned. “More?”
“More than I expected. You were intelligent and amusing and far more interesting than I had imagined. You were, as well, determined to succeed at something you had never attempted before. I found that admirable. And you are perhaps the loveliest woman I have ever met.”
“My nose is too narrow. I have an annoying tendency to freckle. My hips are entirely too wide, my bosom too full, my toes are fat and stubby and one of my ears is just a touch higher than the other.”
“I didn’t say perfect.”
She bit her lip and he would have wagered she was trying not to laugh or at least smile.
“I want your forgiveness but I realize tha
t might take a considerable amount of time as well as a great deal of effort on my part.”
“Very perceptive of you.”
“For now, I would like for us to be, well, friends if you’re willing.”
“I trust my friends.”
He winced.
“However...”
He held his breath.
“In the spirit of comrades on the road together, I shall accept your truce and endeavor to treat you with the cordiality due a fellow traveler and a member of my party.”
“It’s not what I had hoped for—”
She raised a brow.
“—but better than I deserve,” he added quickly.
“Far better.”
He had no idea how to earn her trust back but he would do whatever it took. For one thing—he was familiar with the nature of Venice and Venetians. He was confident his knowledge of the city from his previous visits would prove useful. It was entirely possible that Venice would work its magic... And why shouldn’t he help it?
“As we are going to be partners—” it was a brilliant idea. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before “—and as you have already acknowledged my familiarity with Venice is impressive—”
“I don’t believe I did. Poetic is the word I used.”
“Regardless—” he shrugged off the comment “—allow me to show my heartfelt intention to make amends by alleviating you of the burden of leading us around Venice. Thereby freeing you to enjoy the city.”
Suspicion hung in the air around her.
“Tomorrow,” he said with a sweep of his arm, “I shall show you—all of you—Venice.” He would make himself indispensable. “You could not have a better tour guide than I.”
“Unless, of course, we were to hire some handsome Italian gentleman. My books all say the guides in St. Mark’s Square can be quite disreputable. One could scarcely ask for more adventure than a handsome, disreputable Italian.”
“Let me show you Venice as I know her.” He too had guidebooks.
“I’m certain a handsome, disreputable Italian would know Venice quite well.”
He rested his forearms on his knees, clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “The ladies will love it.”
The Lady Travelers Guide to Larceny With a Dashing Stranger Page 27
