Midnight in Venice

by Meadow Taylor

  “I don’t know how to say this,” he said, taking her hands in his, and she realized it was too late. No matter how much she steeled herself, this was going to hurt, and she could already feel tears welling up.

  “If you’re not ready because of your wife . . .”

  “No. Yes. Finding her has been an obsession for me, and until a few days ago I couldn’t even admit she was dead. Thanks to you, I’m finally ready to move on. You’re what’s important to me now. From now on, my thoughts, hopes, and dreams are with you and you alone. But I know you might not believe it yet, and so I understand if you’d rather not be with me right now. If you’d rather wait until you’re absolutely sure I’ve put all this behind me . . .”

  She looked at him, not quite understanding.

  “Look, this isn’t easy for me,” he continued. “Believe me, there’s nothing more I want right now than to carry you upstairs. But I have to give you that choice. Will you wait for me?”

  “Will you wait for me?” she echoed, thinking he sounded like some nineteenth-century explorer going off to sea. She didn’t know what to do about the rest of what he’d said, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to wait for him. She wanted him now.

  She got up from the couch and, standing over him, leaned down and pushed him back. Her skirt spread over the table as she covered his body with her own and kissed him. If he was surprised, it didn’t faze him for long, and he was soon kissing her back just as intensely. The wineglass she’d been so worried about smashed to the marble floor, but she no longer cared if it was priceless eighteenth-century glass.

  “Does that answer your question for you?” she asked breathlessly against his mouth.

  “Do you know how much I want you right now?” he whispered as he pulled at the strings of her bodice. “Though I don’t know how to get this bloody costume off.”

  “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you’re a cop and not the hero of a bodice ripper,” she said.

  He laughed. “And I’m not sure I want our first time to be on a coffee table.” Yet it might have been, had his cellphone not rung.

  “Damn,” he said. “It must be my boss, Columbo. I have to talk to him. He’s probably wondering where the hell I am.”

  Still, by the time they managed to disentangle themselves, the call had gone to voicemail.

  “Why don’t you have your shower while I call Columbo?” he said.

  “Only if I can have it in the wisteria-garden bathroom.”

  “Of course. Only the best for you. Go up the stairs and make the right at the top before the ballroom. This brings you to the east wing. Walk all the way to the end of the hall, turn right again, and it’s the first door on the left.”

  “Do you have a map? In my apartment back in Toronto, I say the bathroom door is the one that doesn’t lead to the fire escape.”

  He laughed. “Feel free to check every door if you’d like. You’ll know when you’ve found it.”

  She looked down at the shards of glass mixed with wine on the marble. “I’m sorry about that—I told you I wasn’t to be trusted. I’m glad it was a reproduction . . . but I should clean it up.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, kissing her lightly one more time. “I’ll take care of it. But try to drink the next one.”

  “I will,” she promised, and as she started up the sweeping staircase in the entrance hall, she could hear him say, “Rossi here.”

  She took the hall to the right, but not before she looked into the ballroom. The lights from the landing were enough to make the great chandeliers glint, while an expanse of marble floor seemed to fade into infinity as much as into darkness.

  He was worried his wife’s death would come between them, but what about this? This was wealth she couldn’t fathom. Wasn’t he supposed to marry someone equally rich and have children with titles? Wouldn’t marrying Alessandro come with responsibilities like going to charity balls with international jet-setters? She honestly didn’t think she had that level of confidence, and wasn’t there a phoniness to the whole thing?

  But Alessandro wasn’t phony, and she couldn’t imagine him wanting to hang out with phonies. And he did seem to want to “hang out” with her.

  What would his father make of her, a slightly awkward art history graduate from Canada from an undistinguished family? Her own father had been born in Padua, true, but he was the son of a factory worker. She smiled at the thought of bringing her sister, Claudia, here. Oh, wouldn’t that be sweet revenge for all her condescension!

  She took the hall to the right as instructed, walking on Turkish carpets spread over marble floors. Paintings lined the walls, many, to her surprise, modern. She stopped in front of one. Magritte? She turned around. Matisse? And this just on the way to the bathroom!

  Yes, it would be fun to see her sister’s face. Olivia would date him for that alone.

  In the end, it wasn’t the first door on the left, it was the first on the right, and she laughed to think he didn’t know the way around his own house. The room on the left was amazing enough, a walk-in linen closet that was better stocked than most department stores, but the wisteria-garden bathroom took her breath away.

  Heated marble floor, marble pedestal sink, toilet, bidet, shower, and a bathtub more like a small pool. The fittings gleamed with gold and a high arched window was covered with floor-length gauze curtains, while the ceiling and walls were frescoed with trellises hung with garlands of brilliant purple wisteria.

  Thick white towels hung over heated racks, and on the gilt chair beside the tub were the promised “essentials”—all in white silk. Just her size. And while she was sure he wouldn’t tell her, she really wanted to know how he’d pulled that off.

  She undid the bodice and let it fall to the floor. The skirt and underskirt were next, and then the simple black dress she’d put on that morning for her flight to New York. Could it really have been only that morning? She looked at her watch. It was almost midnight—only twelve hours since Alessandro had found the drugs in her luggage.

  She stuck everything in the hamper behind the door. Really, she’d prefer if Helga burned it all rather than wash it. But then she supposed she’d need her black dress again—she couldn’t very well go home in a white silk negligee. But the costume she never wanted to see again—even if Alessandro did find it sexy.

  Someday, she thought, looking into the depths of the tub, I’d like to soak all night in that. But for now, she was happy to have a shower. After all, as wonderful as the bathroom was, the thing she wanted most was to get back to Alessandro.

  She showered quickly and, after slipping on the white negligee and robe, retraced her steps down the hall. Hearing piano music, she followed the direction of the sound down the stairs, through the library to where Alessandro sat at a concert grand piano, the name fazioli stamped in gold on the side. She recognized what he was playing. “Un sospiro” by Franz Liszt. “A Sigh.” It had been her father’s favorite piece of music.

  He turned to her without a break in the music, one hand passing effortlessly over the other, a simple heartbreaking melody over a murmur of broken chords. “You look lovely. Are you warm enough?”

  She nodded. “Your playing is so beautiful.”

  “Come and sit with me,” he said. “I told you I’d play for you again.”

  He moved over on the bench, and she sat beside him.

  He played for a few more moments before speaking. “Columbo is fine with you staying here. Benito admitted the drugs were planted on you, and Dino has agreed to talk, but only after he’s guaranteed immunity. That should give us at least tomorrow together before I have to deal with this again. Columbo insists on sending a couple of guards. They’ll stay in their cars out front. Silvio and Marco both know you’re safe, and Marco said he’ll get in touch with your family and tell them not to worry.”

  “Thank you. I should text Marco myself a
nd let him know I’m okay.”

  He nodded. The piece ended with a series of slow, solemn chords, and as the last one faded away, he said, “So now that’s out of the way. I could offer you another glass of wine, but I’m not sure I can wait for you to drink it.”

  “I can’t wait either,” she said, and he lifted her effortlessly into his arms and carried her through the room and up the stairs. She didn’t notice whether they took the left hall or the right, nor the magnificence of the bedroom, nor that the clock had struck midnight.

  As he kissed her everywhere, her “essentials” dropping to the floor, all she cared about was getting his shirt off. And that done, his jeans . . .

  Chapter 26

  When she opened her eyes, the first light of dawn was turning the white silk curtains rose. But that wasn’t what woke her. It was the trail of kisses along her spine. She sighed and turned toward the producer of those kisses, moving in close and finding his mouth with hers beneath the covers.

  “Good morning,” she whispered.

  “It’s far too early to be morning,” he said. “Close your eyes, and let me kiss you. I’ll try not to keep you awake.”

  She closed her eyes, surrendering herself to his kisses and his touch, drifting in and out of a dream-like state where there was nothing but waves of enticing sensation that went on and on and on.

  Chapter 27

  When she woke again, the sun was full on the bed, the covers spilling onto the floor. She turned, but this time he was gone. If it weren’t for the strange bedroom and the note she found on the pillow, she might have thought the whole night was a dream.

  Take your time. I’m in the conservatory. Breakfast is ready when you are. Hope you like the clothes—I’ve kissed enough of you to know they’ll fit.

  Underneath was a little map of the house complete with a “You are here” showing a stick man—or rather, woman—on a bed. In the room marked “conservatory” was a stick man reading a newspaper. She laughed. Drawing was maybe the one area in which he fell short.

  Beside the bed was a white bag embossed with the logo of an impossibly expensive store. She pulled out a pair of jeans and a soft creamy sweater. There were more “essentials” wrapped in white tissue too, and he even had her bra size right.

  She took her cell from her purse and turned it on for the first time since she’d fled the airport: 9 a.m. There were two texts, one from her mother, another from Marco. Her mother expressed concern for her safety, and Olivia quickly texted her back to let her know she was fine and that she would call her with the details as soon as she could.

  Marco wrote: OMG—what happened??? Glad to hear you’re safe, but where are you?

  She texted back: Sorry to worry you. It was pretty crazy and scary but everything seems to have turned out well. Don’t tell anyone, but remember that cop from the airport, Alessandro Rossi? I spent the night. This could be love for me too!

  There was an en-suite off his room. It wasn’t the wisteria-garden bathroom, but she decided with a laugh that it would suffice. Ignoring the stack of clean towels, she used his, still slightly damp and suffused with his scent. Wrapped in the towel, she went back into the bedroom, pulled aside the silk curtain, and looked out at white swans swimming on the pond. The surface sparkled in the winter sun, reflecting back the brilliant blue sky. Alessandro’s car was parked where he’d left it, and beside it was a more practical car she assumed belonged to one of Columbo’s guards. On this beautiful morning, it was hard to imagine any danger.

  She put on the new clothes, if “put on” was how one described donning such wonderful things, and then, picking up the map, went into the hall. She didn’t know what came over her, a sudden, gloriously happy, childlike glee, and she ran down the hall to the ballroom, which glittered in the morning sun. Arms outstretched, she spun round and round, setting all the clouds, angels, and cherubs on the ceiling spinning too. Eat your heart out, Cinderella! she thought before running down the stairs, hanging a left as per the drawing—and running square into a strange man.

  It was like hitting a wall, and she bounced back, landing ungracefully on a Louis XIV or something-or-other chair. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. He was wearing a uniform, and she recognized the crest of the Guardia di Finanza. “Are you one of the guards?”

  “Yup, I’m Orlando. You must be Olivia,” he said, not unkindly.

  She nodded, cheeks reddening.

  “Alessandro is that way,” he said, pointing over his shoulder.

  She thanked him and followed his directions, walking sedately, more befitting a guest in a sixteenth-century Palladian mansion.

  Filled with orchids, tropical plants, and lemon trees, the conservatory was at the farthest end of the west wing. Alessandro looked at her over his paper. “I heard you ran into one of the guards this morning,” he said with a smile.

  “How do you know?”

  He picked up his phone, showing her the text message screen.

  “Oh,” she said, reddening again.

  He laughed. “Have a seat. Clothes okay?”

  “They’re beautiful, and I’m not going to ask how you did it. I’m quite happy to believe in magic.”

  Helga appeared with a frothy cappuccino and a chocolate brioche still warm from the oven. “How did you know these are my favorites?” she said to him after thanking Helga and taking a bite.

  “Isn’t warm chocolate brioche everyone’s favorite?” he asked.

  “Oh my God, these are so good. But don’t indulge my every whim. I won’t be able to get into these clothes if I eat like this every morning.” Every morning? It had been a slip of the tongue, but Alessandro didn’t contradict her, and instead turned the page of the paper.

  Taking another bite, she leaned across the table and kissed him with sugary lips. “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what? I assure you I treat all suspects and witnesses just as well. I give witness protection a whole new meaning.”

  “Okay then, I take it back. As soon as I finish this brioche, you can take me to the dungeons.”

  He laughed. “Have you been reading Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  Now it was her turn to laugh.

  “I’m out of fuzzy handcuffs,” he said, “but have you ever driven a race car?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then you’re in for a treat.”

  “Is this where I tell you I drive like a little old lady?”

  “You expect me to believe that after last night?” he said slyly.

  “I was driven to it,” she said with a laugh. “Besides, don’t you have to change gears and everything? I’ve only ever driven automatics.”

  “Not a problem. A computer takes care of all those details.”

  Driving a race car wasn’t on her bucket list, but it’d be quite the story to tell her brother-in-law—it wasn’t like they had much to talk about otherwise.

  Then she had a wonderfully evil idea. “Okay, but you have to take a picture of me in the car wearing a helmet. I want to send it to my brother-in-law, Phil. He loves car racing. And it’ll drive my sister, Claudia, crazy! She already thinks I’m irresponsible.”

  “Okay, it’s a deal,” he said, and a few minutes later, after he presented her with a soft leather jacket, they were sitting in a bright red Rossi car in a garage much too beautiful to be called a garage. He helped her with her seat belt, giving the end a sharp pull to tighten it. “There, is that Fifty Shades of Grey enough for you?” he whispered playfully.

  “It’s a start. Don’t you have a car with a backseat so we can make out later?”

  “Backseat? I have you right where I want you, and I bet I can make you beg,” he said, pulling the belt a little tighter and kissing her.

  “Okay, you win,” she said, and he laughed as he strapped on their helmets.

  He pressed a button, and the engine roared to life. Th
e dashboard was a dizzying array of dials, which he assured her she needn’t worry about. He showed her how to put the car in reverse, and, placing her foot on the pedal as lightly as she could, she edged out of the garage. She drove very slowly down a narrow road edged with cypress trees, the engine making low growling sounds as if impatient to start racing. At the end of the cypress-edged road, a long oval track came into view, and hovering over it were the Dolomite Mountains, with their jagged, snow-topped peaks. “It’s breathtaking!” she exclaimed.

  He smiled. “I’m guessing you aren’t talking about the racetrack.”

  “It’s a lovely racetrack,” she said, returning his smile. “I just wasn’t expecting to see the mountains from here. I was told you can see them from Venice on a clear day, but it’s been so rainy. Imagine being up there with your head literally in the clouds!”

  “It can be arranged,” he said. “Just say the word. Your wish is my command.”

  “Are you going to tell me you have a hot air balloon like Richard Branson, and every Sunday morning you two get together and take them for a spin?”

  “Wrong,” he said. “Balloons are for sissies, and I’m much too cool to hang out with Branson. Now, let me send a quick text before you break any speed records.”

  “Better make that text to the undertaker.”

  “Nope,” he said, putting down the phone a moment later. “Okay, done. Helmets are on. Seat belts are fastened. We’re going to take the first lap easy. And no worries, I’m right here.”

  She pulled onto the track, and while she started cautiously, it didn’t take her long to realize that everything about this car was designed for speed.

  “You’re a natural,” he shouted over the engine’s roar. “Take it up to where you feel comfortable. Just keep focused.”