On my left a row of weathered old brick buildings were dark and silent. Probably dwellings, their occupants would be at the carnival celebration at Piazza San Marco. During daylight, I’d find these buildings and the canal charming. Tonight their silence added to my feeling of being cold at the bone. I wished I were at a warm, noisy café with good wine, good food, and good company.
The only light along the passage came from old-fashioned glass bulbs that cast hazy, wet penumbras, their glow barely taking the dark edge off of the gloomy night.
The sounds of the night were the rub of small boats moored along the canal wall and the aching stretch of dock lines.
In the distance I heard the foghorn of a vaporetto, a water bus out on the Grand Canal. Just my luck to be on foot in a city where only boats and ducks can use the roadways.
I was scared—frightened not just of things I couldn’t see, but ones that I knew about. That someone wanted me dead was a given. The trouble started in Manhattan and followed me through cities steeped in ancient history and The Arabian Nights, all the way to this waterlogged, medieval relic on the Adriatic Sea.
As I hurried along, it occurred to me that if someone put a gun to my head and forced me to choose a place to die, Venice would be my first choice. An insane thought from a mind deranged by fear, but not unexpected considering my background: My passion was old things, the relics and artifacts and objets d’art of the ancient world and medieval times. If I was murdered in Venice, I could hope that my restless soul would wander the quaint streets and charming canals in search of my killer—
Oh, God, get a grip. I started to laugh and it caught in my throat and I choked out a little gasp at the incredibly stupid thought. I wasn’t ready to give up the ghost, in Venice or anywhere else.
This wasn’t the first time I’d gotten myself in a bad situation. Or gotten in so deep that I couldn’t turn to anyone for help, not even the police.
Finding myself in harm’s way went back to my love affair with antiquities—like a parent protecting a child, I too often put aside my good sense and stuck my neck out to protect an object that had survived a thousand years of war and storm and the abuses of mankind.
After my fall from grace as a museum curator—actually, it was more of a suicidal plunge caused by sticking my neck out way too far for a three-thousand-year-old antiquity—I started advertising my services for what I called “Art Inquiries” on my business cards.
That vague phrase in my case meant that because I was behind in my rent, I was forced to take on assignments ranging from the mundane to some that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
My instincts had warned me back in New York not to get involved in the mystery of a two-thousand-year-old artifact that nations had fought wars to possess, but my empty stomach had led me into the fray and to a dark passageway in Venice.
What was that expression? Fools rush in where angels dare to tread? Well, I wasn’t an angel …
I came out of the passageway and out to the edge of the Grand Canal. The glow of San Marco Piazza, the main square of Venice, lit up the night across the water, burning a hole in the fog. It looked like heaven right now.
I gave another furtive glance behind me, but nothing came out of the gloom to grab me.
A water taxi came by and I jumped up and down and shouted like a banshee until it veered and came alongside to pick me up.
Only one passenger was on board, a man wearing the carnival costume of a swordsman. It was a relief to see someone totally frivolous. He reminded me of the mysterious, romantic swordsman, Scaramouche, of whom Sabatini wrote, “He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad.”
“Buona sera,” I said.
The swordsman smiled.
Nice lips.
He wore a mask that left his blue eyes, slender sensuous lips, and strong chin exposed. It was a popular type of carnival mask because it left the wearer free to eat, drink—and kiss.
If I weren’t on the run from killers, I would love to get to know him better. I was alone, scared, and in need of some TLC.
As the boat taxied across the canal, a cold breeze gave me the shivers. I mentally scolded myself for leaving my coat back in a café before I’d fled down the passageway.
My mystery companion gestured that he’d remove his cape and give it to me, but I smiled and shook my head. Sure I wanted the cape—not to mention to be held in his arms—but it wasn’t the time or place.
He was obviously the strong, silent type. He hadn’t spoken to me, but from my accent when I said good evening and my appearance, he probably had picked up on the fact that I was an American.
We docked at the piazzetta next to Piazza San Marco and the masked swordsman gave me a hand up. I thanked him, got a sensuous smile and a small bow in return, and I regretfully moved on alone. I wanted to quickly melt into the enormous crowd in the square.
I passed between the tall columns holding the Lion of Saint Mark and the statue of Saint Teodoro of Amasea standing on a sacred Egyptian crocodile and merged into the crowd. That old expression about being packed in like sardines nicely described my situation. It was one of the grand nights of the two-week long carnival, and thousands had gathered in the square to watch men dressed as Venetian sailors of old carry gorgeously dressed festival princesses sitting on planks across the piazza.
About a third of the people crowded into the square were in costumes, making me wish I was hiding under a mask, too.
I loved the Venetian Carnival. Not tastelessly vulgar like the New Orleans Mardi Gras, nor wildly pulsating with music and street dancing like the Rio celebration, the Venice Carnival was more like a grand costume ball at a duke’s palace than a street parade, extravagantly risqué and slightly profane, but with elegance and class.
The celebration mimicked the underlying culture of the country: Italy has some of the most conservative religious people on the planet—and some of the most daringly provocative and licentious.
The Venetian celebration was all that and more. It had an atmosphere of elegant decadence, remnants of late Renaissance and Baroque ambiance, just as Venice itself did.
I had read that the Catholic Church used to approve of the carnival because in the old days the masked celebration gave priests the opportunity to hide behind costumes and do a few things that were otherwise forbidden …
A kaleidoscope of costumed characters—elegant, comical, some even sinister-looking—weaved through the crowd, some posing for tourists taking pictures.
The medieval sailors were a reminder that this small, slowly sinking city perched on small islands in a marshy lagoon, was the greatest sea power in the world during the Middle Ages and Renaissance.
With my passion for antiquities, I loved Venice—it was literally a floating museum, filled with the relics of a magnificent history.
Unfortunately, at the moment I wasn’t in a mood to be appreciative of either the city’s glorious past or its splendid presence because I had no sooner melted into the crowd than I realized I was more exposed now to danger than I had been in the deserted alley. At least in the alley I could see someone approaching.
My theory is that the safest places in any big city are where you see lots of people on the streets. But as I was shoved and elbowed by people pressed into the large square to enjoy the spectacle, it occurred to me how easily someone could slip a knife into my back.
Pushing back at the crowd to keep my balance felt like trying to hold back big waves. Besides the fear of a knife being slipped through my ribs, I was getting claustrophobic and worried that I would go down and be trampled flatter than egg noodles.
I stumbled back against someone who immediately held me upright. I turned my head and looked into the blue eyes of my water taxi companion.
“Grazie,” I said.
He smiled with those sensuous lips.
Was this man ever going to say something?
The cold and my nerves had gotten to me and I shivered. This time he sli
pped off his cape and pulled it around in front of me as best he could with people pressing us. With the cape covering my front, he gently pulled my exposed back close to him. I felt instant relief from the cold.
I was pushed back harder against him as the crowd got thicker.
That was when I felt something against my tush, hard and firm. I stiffened, but instantly realized it wasn’t his fault. He was a man and his body was simply doing what came naturally when a woman pressed her body against his.
And what came naturally felt really good at the moment—I was cold, lonely, frightened, and emotionally battered. I felt safe for the first time in days.
I didn’t pull away.
His arms came around me under the cape and explored my body. His hands were not intruders—he was careful to explore softly, slowly, to make sure that I was not offended by his touch.
I felt naughty, but euphoric, as I watched the princesses being carried across the large square and listened to the roar of the cheering crowd while he unzipped my pants and lowered them enough to slip his erect manhood between my naked thighs.
I let out a gasp when he entered me.
At moments like this in my life, I wondered why I did these things. Even though my parents were wonderful people, my excuse was that I must have been raised badly.
What other reason could there be?
FORGE BOOKS BY HAROLD ROBBINS
The Betrayers (with Junius Podrug)
Blood Royal (with Junius Podrug)
The Deceivers (with Junius Podrug)
The Devil to Pay (with Junius Podrug)
Heat of Passion
The Looters (with Junius Podrug)
Never Enough
Never Leave Me
The Predators
The Secret
The Shroud (with Junius Podrug)*
Sin City
*Forthcoming
Praise for Harold Robbins
“Robbins’ dialogue is moving.… His people have the warmth of life.”
—The New York Times
“Robbins’ books are packed with action, sustained by a strong narrative drive, and are given vitality by his own colorful life.”
—The Wall Street Journal
“Robbins’ sixth posthumous novel finds new cowriter Podrug outwriting the hormonal old ghost.… Podrug’s strong, crisp style excels.”
—Kirkus Reviews on The Betrayers
“Robbins’ fans will not be disappointed in this latest book.”
—Booklist on The Betrayers
“International settings … steamy sex scenes … a genuine feel for the turmoil of the times.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Betrayers
“Robbins’ literary legacy remains very much alive, and his thousands of fans should experience a pleasant sense of déjà vu as they race through this latest installment.”
—Publishers Weekly on Heat of Passion
“[An] aromatic brew of sex, danger, money, drugs, and shade-grown Arabica coffee … Addictive.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Devil to Pay
“Here comes a mile-a-minute page-turner that will play like a movie in your head. The Devil to Pay delivers: characters you’ll love or hate or love to hate … suspense, action, and sex … and exotic locations brought to life so skillfully that you’ll think you’re in every scene. Pick it up and you won’t want to put it down.”
—William Martin, New York Times bestselling author of The Lost Constitution
“The Devil to Pay sweeps you from Seattle to cocaine and coffee wars in Colombia to Shanghai and back again. Robbins and Podrug grab you with the first line and don’t let go. A wild, rollicking roller coaster of a read, it’ll leave you with your heart in your mouth and a ringing in your ears.”
—Douglas Preston, New York Times bestselling author Tyrannosaur Canyon
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE DECEIVERS
Copyright © 2008 by Jann Robbins
All rights reserved.
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
ISBN 978-0-7653-5789-2
First Edition: September 2008
First Mass Market Edition: August 2009
eISBN 9781466833739
First eBook edition: December 2012
The Deceivers Page 30
