by Lucy Gordon
‘We’re not all cynics like you,’ Guido told him. ‘Sometimes a man must trust his instincts, and my instincts tell me that she’s everything that is good. Her heart is true, she’s incapable of deception. When she loves me, it will be for myself alone.’
Leo raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean she doesn’t love you already? You’re losing your touch.’
‘She’s thinking about it,’ Guido insisted. ‘She’s going to love me-almost as much as I love her.’
‘And you’ve known her how long?’ Leo asked.
‘A few hours and all my life.’
‘Listen to yourself,’ Marco snorted. ‘You’ve taken leave of your senses.’
Guido held up a hand. ‘Peace, you ignorant men!’ he said sternly. ‘You know nothing.’
He wandered away under the trees, leaving the other two regarding each other uneasily.
When he was out of their sight Guido stopped and looked up at the moon.
‘At last,’ he said ecstatically. ‘She came to me. And she’s perfect.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I SHOULD be getting home soon,’ Leo said next morning. ‘I only came to see Uncle, and he’s fine now.’
‘Don’t leave just yet,’ Guido hastened to say. ‘He sees you so seldom, and who knows how long he’ll be around?’
They were having breakfast on the open-air terrace overlooking the water, relishing in the warm breeze and Liza’s excellent coffee in equal measure.
‘Uncle will outlive us all,’ Leo insisted. ‘I’m a farmer, and it’s the busy time of year.’
‘It’s always the busy time of year, according to you.’
‘Well, I don’t like cities,’ Leo growled. ‘Hellish places!’
‘Don’t talk about Venice like that,’ Guido said quickly.
‘For pity’s sake!’ Leo said, exasperated. ‘You’re no more Venetian than I am.’
‘I was born here.’
‘We were both born here because Uncle made Poppa bring his wives to Venice for the births of their children. Same with Marco’s mother. Calvani offspring must be born in the Palazzo Calvani.’ Leo’s tone showed what he thought of this idea. ‘But we were both taken home to Tuscany when we were a few weeks old, and it’s where we belong.’
‘Not me,’ Guido said. ‘I’ve always loved Venice.’
As a child he’d been brought to stay with his uncle during school vacations, and when he was twelve Francesco had made a complete takeover bid, demanding that he reside permanently in Venice so that he could grow up with the inheritance that would be his. Guido had only the vaguest idea about the inheritance but the city on the water entranced him, and he was glad of the move.
He had loved his father but was never entirely at ease with him. Bertrando was a countryman at heart, and he and Leo had formed a charmed duo from which Guido felt excluded. Bertrando had wept and wailed at the ‘kidnap’ of his son, but a large donation from Francesco to ease the effects of a bad harvest had reconciled him.
In due course Guido had come to feel his destiny as a poisoned chalice, but nothing could abate his love for the exquisite city. The fact that he’d made an independent fortune from catering to its tourists was, he would have said, an irrelevance.
Marco joined them a moment later, just finishing a call on his mobile phone. As he sat down he said, ‘It’s time I was going home.’
Guido went into overdrive. ‘Not you as well. Uncle loves you being here. He’s an old man and he doesn’t see enough of you.’
‘I’m neglecting business.’
‘Banks run themselves,’ Guido declared loftily.
This was flagrant provocation since he knew, and the others knew he knew, that Marco was far more than a simple banker. He was a deity of the higher finance, whose instinct for buying and selling had made many men rich and saved many others from disaster. Guido himself had profited by his advice to expand his business, but couldn’t resist the chance to rib him now and then.
Marco bore up well under the treatment, ignoring Guido’s teasing, or perhaps he managed not to hear it. Although his father had been a Calvani his mother was Roman, and he lived in that city from choice. Austerely handsome, proud, coolly aristocratic, unemotional and loftily indifferent to all he considered beneath him, he was Roman to his fingertips. Anyone meeting him for a few minutes would have known that he came from the city that had ruled an empire.
Just once he’d shown signs of living on the same plane as other men. He’d fallen in love, become engaged and set the date for the wedding. His cousins had been fascinated by the change in him, the warmth that would flare from his eyes at the sight of his beloved.
And then it was all over. There was no explanation. One day they were an acknowledged happy couple. The next day the engagement was broken ‘by mutual consent’. The wedding was cancelled, the presents sent back.
That had been four years ago, and to this day Marco’s sole comment had been, ‘These things happen. We were unsuited.’
‘Unsuited?’ Guido had echoed when Marco was safely out of earshot. ‘I saw his face soon after. Like a dead man’s. His heart was broken.’
‘You’ll never get him to admit it,’ Leo had prophesied wisely. And he’d been right.
Marco had never discussed the cancellation of his wedding, and the others would have known nothing if Guido hadn’t happened to bump into the lady two years later.
‘He was too possessive,’ she explained. ‘He wanted all of me.’
‘Marco? Possessive?’ Leo echoed when Guido related the conversation to him. ‘But he’s an iceberg.’
‘Evidently not always,’ Guido had observed.
It was doubtful if Marco would have confessed to the possession of a heart, broken or not. But these days he was never seen without a beautiful, elegant woman on his arm, although no relationship lasted for very long. In this respect his life might be said to resemble Guido’s, but Guido’s affairs sprang from the impetuous warmth of his nature, and Marco’s from the calculating coolness of his.
He seated himself at the breakfast table now, ignoring Guido’s attempts to rile him, and reached for the coffee. Instantly Lizabetta appeared with a fresh pot which she contrived to set down, remove the old one and clear away used dishes without speaking a word or appearing to notice their presence.
‘She terrifies me,’ Guido said when she’d gone. ‘She reminds me of the women who knitted at the foot of the guillotine in the French revolution. When we’re loaded into tumbrels and hauled off for execution Liza will be there, knitting the Calvani crest into a shroud.’
Leo grinned. ‘They won’t bother with me. I’m a hard-working son of the soil, and that’s what I ought to be doing this minute.’
‘Just a few more days,’ Guido begged. ‘It’ll mean so much to Uncle.’
‘To you, you mean,’ Leo said. ‘You just want us to occupy his attention while you get up to no good.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Guido said, grinning. ‘What I’m getting up to is very, very good.’
He was ahead of Dulcie getting to the landing stage, and for a horrid moment he was sure she wasn’t coming. He knew he’d somehow put a foot wrong the previous night, but he could recover himself if he saw her again.
But she wasn’t coming. She’d left the hotel, left Venice. He might never see her again…
There she was!
‘Quickly,’ he said, seizing her hand, ‘the vaporetto is just coming.’
As the boat drew up he hurried her on board as though fearful that she might change her mind. He found her a seat at the side, near the prow, and sat silently, content to watch her as she beheld marvels unfold.
Dulcie could hardly believe that she was here. As she’d packed the black satin bikini she’d told herself that this was pointless because she wasn’t really going to spend today with him. She’d stressed this again as she’d donned the scarlet sun dress, but then her feet had walked themselves out of the Empress Suite and into the lift.
And now h
ere she was, sitting beside him as the vaporetto left the Grand Canal behind and settled in for the half-hour journey to the Lido, the strip of land that marked the boundary of the lagoon. The warm wind whistled past her, making her hair stream out, catching all her troubles and whirling them away across the blue water.
From the landing stage to the beach was just a short walk across the narrow island, and then she was gazing at an expanse of blue sea and golden sand that did her heart good.
He hired cubicles for them, and a huge umbrella which he ground into the sand. When she emerged from the cubicle wearing the bikini and a floating gauze top he’d already spread the towels on the sand and was waiting for her. His eyes never left her as she approached and slipped off the top, revealing a body that was slender, elegant and beautiful. She held her breath for his reaction.
‘Where is your sun cream?’ he demanded.
‘My what?’
‘With that fair skin you need it.’
‘But I never catch the sun,’ she protested.
‘Nobody catches the sun in England because you don’t have any. Not what I call sun. Here you need sun cream. Come, we’ll go to the shop.’
Great, she thought, exasperated, as he steered her along the sand to the beach shop. That was all the reaction she was going to get.
In the shop he bought cream and a large straw hat. She protested until he settled the matter by ramming the hat onto her head, so that it covered her eyes and he had to lead her out, threatening dire retribution if she touched it. Only when they were back under the umbrella did he let her remove the hat and the top so that she could apply the cream.
‘All over,’ he instructed.
‘Aren’t you going to help me?’
‘Sure. Turn around and I’ll do your back and shoulders.’
He did exactly what he’d said without taking advantage. Her back and shoulders. Then he sat waiting while she covered every other inch of her. He didn’t even offer to do her legs. Obviously, she thought, Jenny was very lucky and he was faithful to her.
So what were they doing here?
Perhaps he just wanted English female company, to remind him of the woman he really missed. It was a depressing thought. Except for Jenny, of course.
‘Now we can have a swim,’ he said, ‘just a short one at first while you get used to the sun gradually.’
‘It’s like being taken out by my father,’ she said indignantly.
‘Was it really like this when he took you out?’
‘No,’ she admitted wryly. ‘He never took me to the beach, it was always the races, and then he-well, he had other things to think about.’
‘But didn’t he ever just want to give you a treat?’
‘No,’ she said after a moment. There had been ‘treats’ for her brother, who’d been a chip off the old block, but, ‘He said it was no fun taking me out because I didn’t know how to enjoy myself.’
‘Your father said that?’ He sounded scandalised, and she had the same feeling as the night before, of having found her first sympathetic listener.
‘He’s just a big kid himself, really. He likes to have fun.’
‘Well, today, you are going to have fun,’ he declared. ‘I am going to be the Poppa, and treat you to everything you want. We go swimming, we throw a beach ball, we eat ice lollies, we do everything.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she breathed. ‘Yes, please.’
Grabbing her hand he began to race down the beach until they were in the shallows, where he danced about, splashing water onto her. She splashed back, thinking that nothing could have looked less like a ‘Poppa’. He was lean and hard, with a smooth chest, a neat behind and long, muscular thighs.
Afterwards they strolled hand in hand along the edge of the water, for which he made her wear the sun hat again, although she felt no more than pleasantly warm in the brisk wind that swept along the shore. They stopped to rest by a little rock pool, and Dulcie let her toes dangle in the water, breathing in the salty air, and wondering how she’d lived without doing this.
‘Watch out for crabs,’ he said casually.
‘Aaargh!’ Her yell split the air as she snatched her toes away, while he laughed and laughed until she thought he would never stop. ‘You rotten so and so-’ She was thumping him while he tried to fend her off, but not very effectively because he was weak from laughter. Somewhere in the tussle her hat vanished, whisked away by the wind and deposited out to sea.
‘Are there really any crabs?’ she asked, peering down into the water.
‘Of course not, or I wouldn’t have let you put your foot in there.’
‘Well, you wait. I’ll make you sorry, see if I don’t,’ she said, taking his hand for the return journey.
He led her to the beach restaurant and settled her at an outside table, under an awning, while he went inside, glancing hurriedly around. To his relief he saw only one person who knew his real identity. Nico was the son of one of the count’s gardeners, earning extra in his college vacation. Guido grinned at him and murmured a few words in Venetian. Some notes changed hands.
After this, no more dodges, he promised himself as he walked out. From now on I shall be as open and virtuous as she is herself. She has reformed me.
The thought made him stop and consider. A reformed character.
A better man.
It’ll be pipe and slippers next. You’ve always run a mile from them.
But who cares, as long as she’s there?
He was grinning as he joined her at the table.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asked.
‘It’s not funny exactly, it’s just-have you ever suddenly looked around and found that life was a completely different shape to what you’d thought?’
‘Well-’
But he didn’t really want an answer. He was driven by the need to express the thoughts that overwhelmed him. ‘Suddenly all the things you thought you’d never want became the objects of your desire-’
‘How much did you drink while you were in there?’
‘Why does everyone think I’m drunk? But I am!’ he cried up to the sky. ‘After all, there’s drunk and drunk.’
‘What are you talking about?’ she chuckled.
‘I don’t know. I only know that-that-’
‘Buon giorno, signore!’
It was Nico, being the perfect waiter. Guido ground his teeth. Surely there were other waiters? He gave the order and Nico departed, returning a moment later with pasta. He would have hovered further, enjoying the joke, but a look from Guido sent him scuttling off.
The food was delicious and Dulcie tucked in.
I shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, she thought. I’m here to work. But-just a few more hours, and then I’ll be good.
He was the perfect companion, telling her funny stories, refilling her glass with sparkling mineral water with as much of a flourish as if it were the finest wine. Afterwards he made her lie down in the shade for an hour before he would allow her to go into the sea.
But once in the water she was overcome with the longing to strike out. She was a strong swimmer and in a moment she was heading out to sea, ignoring his cry of protest, making him chase after her. By the time he caught up they were in deep water, and she was feeling good.
Laughing, she turned to face him, treading water, and found him wild-eyed.
‘You crazy woman,’ he said. ‘To do such a thing in strange waters! You don’t know what the currents are like.’
‘You could always swim to my rescue,’ she teased.
‘And suppose I couldn’t swim?’
‘Oh, sure! A Venetian who can’t swim! Even I know better than that!’
‘I’m a lot feebler than I look,’ he protested.
‘Oh, yeah!’
‘I’ve got a bad back,’ he clowned. ‘And a bad everything.’
‘You look fine to me,’ she said, surveying his smooth brown chest and muscular arms with pleasure.
‘It’s an illusion. Beneath this young
exterior is the frame of a creaking old man, I swear it. In fact I-Aaargh!’
With a theatrical yell and a waving of arms he vanished beneath the water. Dulcie watched, amused, calculating when he would have to come up.
‘Right,’ she murmured. ‘I said I’d get my own back. Watch this.’
She saw his shape reappearing below the surface from whatever depths he’d sunk to, and in the split second before his head broke the surface she slipped underwater, staying just close enough to hear his cry of, ‘Dulcie! Dulcie! Dio mio! Dulcie!’
‘Fooled you,’ she said, coming up just behind him.
‘You-you-!’
‘Come on, it’s only what you did to me.’
‘You knew I was playing. I thought you’d drowned, you just vanished and-and-the whole ocean to search- Come here!’
‘No way,’ she said, seeing in his face that she’d pushed him just a little too far. Turning tail she began to swim back as fast as she could, managing to stay ahead, but only just. As soon as she reached the sand she began to run and covered several hundred yards before he caught up, seizing her arm.
‘Ouch!’ she said, for suddenly her skin stung where he touched it.
He released her at once. ‘Basta!’ he said. Enough. ‘You’ve been too long in the sun.’
He curved his arm near her shoulders, not touching, but insisting that she turn back to their umbrella. She found it was a relief. An ache was starting in the back of her head and she felt she’d had enough fun for one day.
‘Sorry if I worried you,’ she said.
‘Worried me? Do you know-? No matter. I’ll postpone my revenge.’
She lay down under the umbrella while he brought her a cold drink. It refreshed her a little, but the pleasure had gone out of the day, and when he suggested that they drift home she agreed. She was beginning to feel sleepy, and that made her annoyed with herself, because there was so much of the day left that she might have enjoyed.
On the journey back across the lagoon she stared out over the water, and must have dozed because suddenly it was time to disembark. Her nap hadn’t made her feel any better, although she tried to seem brighter than she felt. The headache had now taken over completely. Her whole body felt hot and uncomfortable and the spell of the day was rapidly dissolving in a very prosaic feeling of being poorly.
