by Lucy Gordon
‘But I’m here,’ he murmured, dropping his lips to her neck. ‘Does it matter what I’m thinking?’
‘As long as you’re thinking the right thing,’ she whispered.
‘I want to take you to bed and make love to you until we’re both crazy. I want you to make love to me so that I know I’m the man you need. Is that the right thing?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she growled. ‘That’s very much the right thing.’
Her knee was still raised, so that it was easy for her to hook her ankle behind him in a gesture whose significance he couldn’t miss.
‘Strega,’ he said fervently. Witch.
‘Of course I am,’ she murmured. ‘I stir my cauldron night after night, thinking up spells to lure you in.’
His hands were finding their way through the slits at the side of her long skirt, seeking the top of her legs where she wore a lacy thong, so frail that it almost didn’t exist. He grasped her hips, feeling around to the back, the swell of her behind, almost naked as the thong vanished in the centre. Moving carefully, he hooked his thumbs through the delicate material and, with a swift wrench, demolished it, dropping the shredded remains onto the floor.
Now there was nothing between her and his fingers, seeking and finding what he’d expected, the hot moisture that said she was ready for him. Helena gasped, almost overcome there and then by his skilled exploration.
‘Now,’ she urged breathlessly. ‘I don’t want to wait-now!’
She sensed vaguely that he was tearing at his own clothes until he too was half-naked, and then entering her with a swift, decisive vigour that sent pleasure screaming through her so violently that she grasped him to her, curling both her legs up and around him as if she would enclose him within her forever.
Forever. No end to the sheer physical joy that made the rest of life seem irrelevant. There was this and only this, and it must be made to last because she was yielding herself to it with a lack of caution that would normally have alarmed her.
But not now. She was strong enough for anything, even to look him in the eye when they had both climaxed, and say, ‘Don’t you dare stop.’
There was a couch in the office next door. He carried her in and they finished stripping each other before dropping down onto the narrow space that was barely big enough.
Her flesh seemed to have acquired a memory of its own, that had nothing to do with her head. Their first loving had left her with an intimate knowledge of him, so that her hands directed themselves to the places where a touch could drive him wild, and, once there, a kind of devil magic inspired them to caress and caress until he was beyond his own control.
He entered her with one fierce movement, seizing, claiming, conquering without subtlety. But then his hold on her changed, grew easier, less intense. Now he could draw back and look into her face as he moved inside her, still demanding but gentle.
‘Look at me,’ he murmured and saw her eyes open wide as though in amazement. He didn’t understand.
‘Tell me,’ he whispered, ‘tell me.’
But she couldn’t speak. She could only look up at him, suddenly defenceless in a way that tore his heart.
‘Tell me,’ he pleaded again.
But their excitement was mounting again, driving him to move faster, harder until she cried out, clasping him to her as though she would hold him there forever. And he found himself wishing that she would do that.
As the world grew peaceful again he lay with his head against her, wondering at the web in which he was caught. She’d spoken of luring him in with spells, but her strongest spell was one she exercised unknowingly.
She could make him want to protect her. She could make him laugh. She was the most dangerous woman he’d ever known.
‘Strega,’ he murmured again.
She thumped him lightly on the shoulder. ‘You’re repeating yourself.’
‘I know. But it’s the right word. There’s nothing else to say.’
She chuckled, and the feel of her body shaking against him filled him with delight. She followed it with a long, contented sigh that almost destroyed his control, enough to make him take her again at that very moment, no nonsense, no preliminaries, no manners.
Her fingertips were feather-light against his face.
‘I wonder who won this time,’ she said drowsily.
You did, he thought. You snapped your fingers and I came running like a desperate schoolboy, because I’ve spent the last week haunted by you, sleepless because of you, angry with you because you wouldn’t go away even though you weren’t there.
Something happened the other night that I don’t understand. All I know is that I’ve been waiting for you to decide. Now it seems that you have, but I still don’t know what’s going on in your head, and that worries me more than I can risk letting you know. But suddenly you don’t seem to have any worries in the world. Oh, yes, you’ve won.
Aloud he said, ‘Let’s call it even.’
A few days later they discussed the coming festival over dinner in a small trattoria overlooking the Grand Canal. It was tiny and basic, but its pizzas were among the best in Venice.
‘The fleet of boats leaves from St Mark’s,’ Salvatore explained, ‘so it will be a five-minute walk from the hotel. My secretary will collect you. Then we go out into the lagoon to the Lido Island, to the church of St Nicolo on the far side. After the ring has been flung into the sea we disembark and there’s a church service.’
‘Has this really been going on for a thousand years?’
‘More than a thousand. The original idea was to demonstrate Venice’s supremacy, and remind the world that the Venetian Republic would always be dominant.’
‘And you haven’t changed, have you? As far as you’re concerned you still rule the world.’
‘There’s not a doubt of it.’ He met her eyes. ‘And if the world forgets, the world must be reminded.’
‘You enjoy that bit, don’t you?’
He took an unsteady breath. ‘Can we not talk about that right now?’
‘Do I strain your self-control?’ she teased.
‘Will you stop gloating?’
‘Of course. I’ll wait until we’re alone, and gloat then. It’ll be more fun.’
‘As I was saying…’ He ground his teeth. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Telling me about the festivities.’
‘Yes, then there are firework displays, concerts, dinners. You’ll come to the Palazzo Veretti for that part of the day. A room will be prepared for you, and I hope you’ll stay the night. By the time the evening finishes it’ll be too late for you to go back to the hotel.’
‘Of course,’ she said wisely. ‘And it’s such a long walk, isn’t it?’
He grinned.
His decision that Helena should meet his family had been an impulse, soon regretted. His grandmother’s blatantly expressed contempt had angered him, making him forget that he’d once judged Helena in the same way.
Now he would have given anything to get out of the occasion, guessing how many of his family would share the signora’s opinion of her as a vulgar, money-grubbing tart. Most of all he feared that one of them would insult her openly, driving him to her defence and revealing something in himself that he wasn’t yet ready to face.
But since he was caught he was determined to show her honour in a way his family couldn’t misunderstand.
‘They’re all eager to meet you,’ he told her.
‘I’ll bet they are,’ she said, wry but amused. ‘Are the missiles ready for chucking? Will you supply them or will they provide their own?’
‘I don’t know why you should talk like that,’ he growled.
‘Liar,’ she said mildly. ‘You know exactly why I should talk like that.’
She regarded him with an impish smile, causing a confusion inside him that was becoming all too familiar: bang his head in frustration or succumb to delight?
‘I misunderstood you once,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘but that�
��s in the past.’
‘You mean you’ve told your family how things are between us?’ she asked innocently. ‘I mean-exactly how.’
He didn’t answer in words, but gave her a look that made her choke with laughter.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, touching his face. ‘It’s wicked of me to tease you, but I can’t help it. You never see it coming until it’s too late.’
‘That’s because nobody’s ever done it before.’
‘Nobody? Surely there must be someone in the family who sent you up rotten when you were a kid?’
He shook his head. ‘Sending up rotten has never been a feature of my family life.’
‘You poor soul. You’ve been really deprived.’
‘I’ve never felt it as a deprivation,’ he said firmly. But then he amended, ‘Not then. Now I think some practice might help me to deal with you.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you plenty of practice. Now, go on telling me about what’ll happen when I go into the lions’ den.’
He tried to describe his relatives, many of whom would be coming in from distant parts of Italy for the occasion. After a while Helena’s eyes glazed over.
‘How many cousins do you have?’ she demanded, aghast. ‘I think you must populate all Italy.’
‘We do. The numbers are frightening. But let’s forget them for now. You’ll meet them soon enough. They’re fascinated by you. My young cousin Matilda is obsessed with fashion and says she’s longing to meet “a real celebrity”.’
Helena’s lips twitched. ‘But I thought you had lots of notable people in the family. A cardinal or two, a doge, a few aristocrats who married into the Verettis.’
‘Yes, indeed. But to Matilda a real celebrity means you. And she’s not the only one. Since we’ve been seen together my stock had soared.’
He said it half-humorously, half-wryly, as though his lighter and darker side hadn’t yet decided what he really felt. Helena enclosed his hand between both hers and spoke lightly, yet also with a kind of pity.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I cause you a lot of trouble, don’t I? Shall I go away?’
His fingers tensed suddenly, as though to imprison her, then loosened again, but still holding her.
Daringly she ventured, ‘Shall I sell you the factory, and go right away for ever so that you never have to hear of me again?’
Slowly he raised his head, and his eyes were full of conflict.
‘Do you mean that?’ he asked quietly.
‘No.’
‘That’s what I hoped.’
He didn’t say any more, but neither did he release her hand. His attention seemed fixed on the Grand Canal, where boats were drifting along in the intense evening light. Sunset spread over the water, casting a fierce scarlet glow everywhere in its path.
‘It’s like the furnace,’ Helena said. ‘When you open the Glory Hole you see that brilliant heat and for a moment it’s truly glorious.’
But then the light began to fade. The sun’s moment was past, and gradually the dazzling riches disappeared.
‘And then it’s over,’ she mused. ‘So quickly.’
‘Yes,’ he said, and she wondered if she heard him sigh.
The scene had changed to one of calm pleasure. Now the softly lit lamps were strung along the canal banks; vaporettifilled with laughing passengers chugged along the water, gondolas drifted on their way, each lit by a single lamp. It was charming, but it lacked the delirious joy of a few moments ago.
That could only ever be there fleetingly, she thought.
‘Are you cold?’ Salvatore asked softly.
‘Yes, I’m not sure why, but suddenly-’
‘Let’s go.’
He walked back to the hotel with her, and as they reached the entrance they saw Clara, who hailed them with delight.
‘Dear Helena, I was hoping to see you-’
‘I’ll say goodbye, then,’ Salvatore said hastily. ‘I’ll be in touch again about the arrangements. Nice to see you, Contessa.’
He vanished, leaving Clara regarding his retreating figure with a wry smile that made Helena wonder what their previous relationship might have been.
Then Clara turned the smile on her and it became dazzling. Helena invited her up to her room but Clara insisted on staying downstairs in the hotel bar, thus suggesting that her aim was to be seen with the local celebrity. Helena shrugged and went along with this, amused and curious. She had the feeling that Clara had something particular she wanted to say.
The talk drifted to charity fund-raising.
‘I still can’t get over what Salvatore did at the auction,’ Helena said. ‘Tricking all those people into giving more than they meant to, then giving so much himself.’
‘I’ll say this for Salvatore,’ Carla agreed, ‘you can always count on him to give plenty of money, even if nothing else.’
A slight ironic edge on her voice made Helena regard her curiously.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked. ‘If he gives generously, isn’t that what really counts?’
‘Oh, certainly. And he gives plenty, not just to my charity, but also to many others. But he’s never visited the hospital, not even on an open day. Handing over cash is the easy way for him. He gets a reputation for generosity without having to give anything from inside himself.’
Since she had once entertained these very thoughts, Helena might have been expected to agree wholeheartedly. Instead she knew a surge of anger.
‘But surely money’s what you really need, and generosity is giving people what does them the most good,’ she pointed out. ‘If he funds a machine that saves a child’s life, ask the mother if she’d swap that for a personal visit.’
‘Well, you’re certainly very hot in his defence,’ Carla observed. ‘I hope he appreciates it.’
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t tell him,’ Helena said quickly. ‘He’d hate it.’
‘Yes, he would,’ Carla said, laughing. ‘And you’re very wise to keep it to yourself. We’ve all been a little in love with Salvatore, but one gets over it.’
‘I have nothing to get over,’ Helena said firmly. ‘The mere thought of falling in love with him is amusing.’
‘That’s what they all say, but very few end up laughing. Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘There is no secret,’ Helena said. ‘And stop trying to make me say things that’ll give you something to gossip about.’
Clara chuckled good-naturedly. ‘Well, don’t blame a girl for trying. I just can’t believe I’ve met the one woman who’s immune to his charms.’
‘Well, believe it.’
‘All right, I will.’
Clara drained her glass and stood up.
‘Now I must be going. It’s been lovely talking to you.’
She kissed Helena on the cheek and departed.
Upstairs in her room Helena threw herself on the bed and stared up at the brightly painted ceiling with its feverish depictions of passion.
What Clara had said was nonsense, of course. She was far too well-armed against Salvatore to succumb to emotion. The blazing passion he evoked in her so easily was another matter. It had nothing to do with love and she was content to keep them separate.
Then she recalled how annoyed she’d been at hearing him traduced, enough to make her speak without thinking. The feeling that had swept her had been-she could hardly believe it-protective.
Protective? About Salvatore, the man who was trying to ruin her, when he wasn’t trying to subdue her to passion?
Was she mad?
Perhaps.
Once out of the hotel Clara walked a safe distance before taking out her cell-phone and dialling the friend who was waiting for her call. The friend, in turn, would dial other friends, and in ten minutes her news would be all over Venice.
‘I’ve just been talking to her,’ Clara said, ‘and it’s very obvious that she knows nothing about it-no, really, she still thinks he’s a man of honour-poor innocent. No, I d
idn’t spill the beans-we’ll just wait until she finds out what he’s done-oh, goodness, what a day that will be! Watch out for fireworks!’
CHAPTER NINE
N OW the demand for Helen of Troy’s services was building up. She made a flying visit to England for a photo shoot that offered too much money to be turned down. On her return she gave every worker a generous bonus, with an especially generous one for Emilio, whose loyalty had brought the factory through to its present strength.
The only flaw in her pleasure was that Salvatore had been called away on business, and couldn’t celebrate with her. She’d planned that celebration all the way home, relishing every imagined detail. To be deprived of it had a souring effect on her mood.
She wondered if Salvatore too had become grumpy, and hoped that he had. But in their one phone call since his return it was hard to be sure of anything except that he was feeling tense.
‘I look forward to seeing you at the festa tomorrow,’ he told her. ‘My secretary, Alicia, will call for you in the morning.’
Helena was waiting in the lobby next day.
‘I’ve been looking out of my window watching the boats congregate,’ she told Alicia. ‘That big, elaborate one is glorious.’
It was a huge wooden craft, painted gold, the bow built high to accommodate honoured guests. Further back and lower were the rowers in medieval costume, and behind them the stern was also built high for visitors.
‘It’s called the Bucintoro,’ Alicia told her, ‘and it’s where the mayor and the patriarch will travel.
‘What are all the others?’ Helena asked, for the waters next to St Mark’s Piazza were alive with more colourful boats.
‘Some are historical, some belong to Venetian sporting associations, plus a few military craft. Everybody wants to be seen at the festa.’
Salvatore was waiting for her by his boat, which was almost as fine as the Bucintoro, also gold-painted with rowers in historical dress. It was already loaded with people that she took to be his family, and who regarded Helena with interest, especially the younger ones. One of the young men whistled softly.
