She told herself that Paolo’s Italian imagination had been at work fabricating a great romance between them to which she had been curiously sensitive; but how could she deny the way she had felt in his arms or the knowledge that all she really wanted was to be back in his embrace? It only reinforced the fact that she was emotionally vulnerable, dangerously so.
Was it just her sex-starved body that had reacted so passionately to his touch, or had Paolo moved something deeper within her, which could blossom into a new love? What gave him the power to sway her so utterly? At times he seemed stamped with an air of mastery, which couldn’t fail to stir Venetia’s blood; but every now and then he gave the impression of someone half dreaming of other things, making him equally fascinating. His mercurial nature surrounded him with an atmosphere of doom that appealed to her in the same way a moth is compelled towards fire. Always, wherever they met, there came a sense of crisis, as though everything was intensified and had suddenly become dramatic. Somehow the inessential faded out when they were together, and another reality, sharper, perhaps harder, yet more visceral and more poetic, rose up instead. What was behind Paolo’s ambiguous half smile? What vague suggestion lay in his voice? Why did his words always seem to beckon away beyond themselves, alluding to hidden emotions in him she didn’t understand? Trying to rationalise her feelings towards him was an impossible task. One thing Venetia recognised was that even though she was a different person from that innocent young girl who had hurled headlong into a passionate romance, behind the confident façade she had built up against the world she was still inexperienced and vulnerable. If she were to drop her guard and let someone in, any unscrupulous man could still make mincemeat of her; and after what she had already been through, she wouldn’t survive another trauma.
Not for the first time, despite herself, Venetia found that she was comparing Judd and Paolo – the two men who had made her heart beat so wildly. They were uncannily alike in so many ways and perhaps that was partly why, subconsciously, she had been attracted to Paolo in the first place. Both were dark and charismatic, and from the back they had much the same build, with a similar shape of head. Even the way Paolo’s thick, black hair curled around the back of his neck reminded Venetia of her ex-fiancé. Paolo seemed to have a caring disposition, a trait that had also drawn her to Judd, but being Italian, he was domineering and rather more chauvinistic than Judd in his approach to women. Thinking about it, she didn’t always understand his reactions, but then she could hardly expect to on such short acquaintance, she supposed. Still, he intrigued her, but a warning bell rang in Venetia’s head – she had the distinct impression that somewhere inside that man, something had gone wrong.
And now, as she lay in the big bed, a small, desolate figure, Venetia had a dreadful sensation of loss. Suddenly she felt horribly alone in the world. It was not that she felt lonely – she had always liked her own company, and as an only child she had often spent time in happy isolation – it was more a sentiment that, out of cowardice, she was letting go of something important in her life. She gripped the carved talisman Ping Lü had given her that lay around her neck, feeling her lack of certainty keenly. How do I know what I feel for Paolo? Why am I reacting so strongly to him when he’s almost a stranger? The same questions kept coming back to her; it had all been so swift and sudden, like a fever.
She switched off the light, but she couldn’t sleep, so she turned on the radio. U2’s ‘With or Without You’ was playing and she gave an uncontrollable start, as this eighties favourite of hers was bound up in her mind with Judd – she had listened to it again and again for years after he left her. Still, tonight, strangely enough, it was not Judd’s handsome face that swam in front of her in the dark, but Paolo’s eyes. They were indeterminate in colour: sometimes a luminous cobalt, the rim of his irises darkening dramatically almost to midnight-blue every now and then, imparting a look of pathos to his tanned face; and at other times, like water with the sun shining on it. Paolo, who, with his hands, his mouth, and his tender words, had brought Venetia’s body back to life again.
Her senses cried out for him to possess her, ached with the memory of that brief time in her office, and then in the gondola, when his strong arms had enfolded her and she had been thrust into an urgently pulsing hardness. She had surrendered herself with wanton abandon to the whispering touch of his palms, his lips, the demands of his muscular body. Recalling those passionate moments, Venetia’s breath caught and fragmented, Paolo’s name a shuddery sigh that lingered in her throat.
Thoughts whirled round and round in her tired brain. Maybe there could never be any firm security in love. The mere process of loving made one hopelessly vulnerable. Maybe it was best to be content with the ‘here and now’, and refrain from peering back at the past or into the future. There comes a time in most people’s lives when they have to stop running. Was it her time now? If it were, she wondered, would she have the courage to stand still and face the fear and the memories that haunted her? But exhausted, the conclusion eluded her as the Sandman took over and she drifted off into a deep sleep.
* * *
The next day, before Venetia even had time to sit down at the office, she was out again into the early spring morning. It was an exquisite, heart-lifting day, when Venice lay like a city bewitched, with skies a tender blue, the air clear and soft, the sea serene as a table of oil, and the trees a vivid green.
‘Don’t even bother to take off your jacket,’ Francesca told her with a grin as Venetia came into the workshop ten minutes late. ‘You’ve been summoned.’
Venetia’s heart leapt and she became aware of its heavy thumping against her ribcage. Paolo was probably at the office and had complained to her godmother.
She lifted her eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’
Francesca chuckled. ‘Honestly, I don’t know what you do to these men, Venetia! Yesterday it was Signor Barone – by the way, I’m sorry I barged in on you… you must tell me all about that later,’ she said with a wry glance. ‘Anyhow, today il Conte has been leaving messages all morning that he needs to see you urgently.’
Venetia’s amber eyes were momentarily shadowed by a frown. ‘To my knowledge, there’s nothing outstanding in that job. We’ve even received payment, I’m sure.’
‘Well, I don’t know what it’s about. He sent an email yesterday at eleven-thirty at night, and this morning he’s already left three messages with different departments.’
Venetia sighed. ‘I suppose a phone call wouldn’t do?’
‘Not really! Here are the messages.’ Francesca handed Venetia the three notes. ‘Besides, Signora Lombardi asked about you first thing. She wasn’t very happy, I’m afraid, and would like to see you when you come back from your meeting with the Count.’
Venetia stared at the messages in her hand as a fearful sense of inevitability rose inside her. She gave a little groan. ‘I’m almost sure I know what this is about. He’s going to harass me again about his marriage proposal and, frankly, I’m really not in the mood for his tantrums this morning.’
Francesca looked at her friend sharply. ‘What’s up? You look as though you haven’t slept for a year.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Francesca, I’ll tell you later.’ She picked up her briefcase and was on her way again.
When Venetia arrived twenty minutes later at Palermi di Orellana Torre, she was not kept waiting. She shivered, an odd little chill of something between anger and dread sliding down her spine as she was ushered into the vast room at the top of the building, which was Count Umberto’s office.
Il Conte stood at the wide picture window overlooking Venice, his back to Venetia. He waited a few moments, motionless, before turning towards her.
‘Buongiorno Venetia, did you have a nice evening last night?’ he asked point blank, his slate-grey eyes narrowing almost to slits, watching her through his lashes like a cat observing its prey. His cutting tone belied an outward calm
, but Venetia had worked for months with him and didn’t need an explosion to guess there was a storm brewing inside.
Oh God, she thought sickly, realising what he was alluding to. Was he also having dinner at La Lanterna? But that was almost impossible: Francesca had said he had sent an email at eleven-thirty at night, and anyhow, the restaurant wasn’t so big that he would have gone unnoticed.
Umberto signalled for her to take a seat, and sliding behind his desk he sat back in his chair, still looking at her, a sarcastic expression dancing on his lips.
‘Yes, La Lanterna is an amazing restaurant,’ Venetia answered calmly, ignoring the barbed question and forcing herself to hold his gaze.
Umberto scoffed. ‘It’s the hunting ground of our mutual friend. He likes to take his women friends there.’
Venetia smiled stiffly, refusing to rise to the jibe. ‘Were you there? I didn’t see you.’
Umberto’s eyes travelled over her insolently. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t have, cara, you were so wrapped up in your… what shall we call it, passionate embrace? I was in one of the gondolas that passed yours and I saw you. I must say, that for someone who doesn’t feel ready to get involved romantically and regards men as friends only, you have an extraordinary way of showing your appreciation of friendship, no?’
The gall of the man; he probably thought she was easy prey and was likely to double his propositions now, and would possibly be even more brash about it.
‘First of all, Paolo Barone is not my lover. Secondly, I don’t see that my private affairs have anything to do with you,’ she flared. She was about to get up, but Count Umberto stopped her with a peremptory gesture of his hand.
‘Please don’t go. Hear me out, you might be surprised by what I have to tell you, and you must trust that I have your best interests at heart, yes?’
Venetia’s lips parted and then she quickly closed them again. She was eager to learn all there was to know about Paolo, even from someone like the Count. After all, they were supposedly good friends. Maybe through Umberto she would find out a little more about him.
‘Very well,’ she murmured.
A humourless smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. ‘Shall we talk about this calmly over a cup of coffee?’ Without waiting for her answer Umberto pressed a button on his intercom. ‘Angelina, la prego di portare un vassoio di caffè e biscotti.’ He turned back to her, took out a gold case and withdrew a cigarette. He reached forward and passed the case to Venetia. ‘I know you don’t smoke, but with what I am going to tell you, you may need one.’ His tone was sardonic. When she refused, he returned it to his pocket, leaned back into his chair and puffed quietly on his cigarette for a few seconds, looking across at her through the smoke. Venetia sat there, to all outward appearance cool, proud and distant.
‘What do you know about Paolo?’ Umberto asked at last, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke.
Venetia caught her breath; there was no reason for it, but she felt something ominous was in the air. ‘Not a lot.’
There was a silence and then the Count smiled again, but she knew that something other than humour lay behind that smile. ‘So has it always been with him and the various women he has been involved with over the years. He has not told you about his condition?’
Venetia’s nerves contracted. ‘What condition?’ She clasped her hands in her lap so he should not see they were trembling; she was sure he was going to announce that Paolo was married.
He gave a soft, cynical laugh. ‘Ugh, why am I not surprised? The man is utterly dishonest when it comes to relationships.’
Angelina brought in a tray of coffee and cakes. Umberto waited until his secretary had served them and left the room, closing the door behind her, before resuming the conversation.
‘I really don’t know how to put this to you, so as to dull the shock. After all, you must be emotionally involved with Paolo … if not, how does one explain your behaviour yesterday night, no?’ he asked, his voice light as he stubbed out the cigarette and took a languid sip of coffee, his hard gaze intently fixed on Venetia’s face.
She was sourly aware that Umberto was perversely dragging on the suspense, trying to rattle her. Her mouth twisted in a grimace of irony. ‘Don’t worry about my sensitivities, Umberto. Just tell me what you have to say.’
‘Well, cara, to put it bluntly then, Paolo is amnesic. He lost his memory in a car accident ten years ago, while on honeymoon. He and his wife were returning from a nightclub; his wife was driving, and she died on the spot. He was badly hurt and was in a coma for several months. When he woke up, he had forgotten his past – a total loss of memory.’ Count Umberto paused, as if to ascertain whether or not his words had provoked some reaction on Venetia’s part but she merely continued to look at him, her face empty of expression, waiting, and so he pressed on. ‘He’s originally from Verbania, but he moved to Tuscany to reinvent his life and lives there with his regular mistress, Allegra, who is his caretaker’s niece. A most alluring young creature, I must say.’
Venetia listened to Umberto in appalled disbelief. His words were like a douche of cold water that left her chilled to the core. She wet her dry lips. ‘How devastating for Paolo,’ she whispered, forcing herself to sound as calm as she was trying to appear.
‘He comes to Venice to have fun.’ There was a silent and menacing hostility as Umberto spoke, his tone cold and accusatory, the rancour in his eyes formidable. ‘It would have been interesting to have met him before the amnesia, but now… He’s known here as l’Amante delle Quattro Stagioni, “the lover of four seasons”, because he changes his girlfriends every three months, with the change of season.’
Feeling almost sick, Venetia cleared her throat. ‘Is that all?’ she enquired coolly, once he had finished. She lifted herself slowly out of the chair, her fingers curved rigidly. ‘May I go now?’
In two strides Umberto was next to her. ‘You’re cross with me, cara, I can see that.’
‘I’m not cross with you, Count Umberto. I’m just amazed that you could pour out so much bile about your best friend. Presumably, Signor Barone had entrusted you with his secret. All I can say is, with friends like you, the poor man doesn’t need enemies.’
Il Conte’s hand came down on Venetia’s arm lightly, but firmly. ‘You have misunderstood my motive here, cara. I could not bear to see you being taken advantage of.’
‘There are other means you could have used to protect me if that’s your only intention,’ she retorted.
‘I have told you again and again about my feelings towards you – besides, is it not an English proverb that says all is fair in love and war?’
She ground her teeth. ‘And I have repeatedly told you that I do not love you.’
Umberto paled and drew in his breath. ‘But that’s not true,’ he said obstinately. ‘I know the ways of you English girls, you’re just playing games.’
‘Certainly not! That isn’t my style, so please once and for all…’
A muscle twitched along Umberto’s sternly clenched jaw. Catching her suddenly and pulling her against him, he held her close. Before she had time to react, he was forcing her head back angrily, crushing her mouth with savage, bruising kisses; careless of hurting her. Venetia struggled wildly, but Umberto was much stronger, towering over her, his eyes blazing.
He gave a soft, cynical laugh. ‘You fight like a she-cat, my beautiful Venetia – we could have such fun together! I like my women with a bit of fire in them. It makes the conquest so much more satisfying, don’t you think?’ He pinned her arms even more tightly. ‘You’re merely whetting my appetite with your airs of a grand lady and your apparent disdain of my caresses.’
She saw the glint of possessiveness in his eyes as his fingers ran greedily across the smooth skin of her throat and paused where her pulse was beating in time with the rapid thrumming of her terrified heart. ‘How madly runs your pulse, cara… Is my touch arou
sing you so, belying your cruel words, mmm?’ His breathing was ragged as he devoured her with his piercing gaze. ‘You are ripe like a delicious fruit, yes, trembling at the edge of its branch, ready to be picked.’ He pressed her against his aroused body, subjecting her with a primitive demand to the hardness of his desire.
Venetia’s face was scarlet. ‘Let me go, you bastard!’ she uttered through clenched teeth. With a violent effort, she pushed him off and lifted her hand to wipe away the imprint of his mouth on her lips. But Umberto caught it before she could accomplish the task.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ he warned, a nasty glint in his eyes as they moved hungrily over her face. ‘No woman has ever wiped away my signature from her mouth, cara. I would only feel obliged to brand you again.’
Indignation flashed in Venetia’s eyes. ‘You’re despicable!’ she hissed, and lifted her hand again, but this time to strike at him.
Swift as the wind, Umberto’s agile fingers clamped down around her wrist, tightening his grip until she thought her bones would snap. Venetia’s heart leapt in fear at the gathering mask of black fury that blanketed his features. Umberto’s mouth curved into a cruel smile.
‘You’re inflaming my senses to your own detriment, cara, with your unreasonable belligerence. The more you fight me, the more I want you – you are enormously appealing in this state of anger.’ A distinct sneer of contempt passed over his face. ‘I could have you here and now if the pleasure took me. See what you do to me…’
Venetia cried out as, taking her by surprise, Umberto unzipped himself, the animal looking out through his eyes as he tried to pull her numb fingers down inside his trousers to fondle him. She wriggled and twisted, attempting to wrench herself from him, fighting like a wild animal in the hope of disentangling her arm from his steel-like grip. Horrified, she watched as he drew her hand closer and closer. Umberto had almost covered the fully aroused bulge in his trousers with her palm, when she was aware that his pupils had glazed over. She lunged away from him unexpectedly, jerking herself back and stumbling shakily, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears of shame and disgust.
The Echoes of Love Page 14