by Nora Roberts
Then, to her surprise, they were back in the Grand Canal, not all that far from where they’d started. “We could have walked,” she said, laughing.
“Not on your first night in Venice.” Val smiled. “You’ve seen her now as she deserves to be seen.”
She thought their arrival at the Ca’ Ludovici would be an anticlimax. She was wrong. “I thought Ca’ was short for casa. House.”
“It is. I don’t know how it came to be. An inside joke.” Val laughed. “Like the Vanderbilts and their seaside ‘cottages.’”
Count Ludovici’s home was a huge palazzo of the pale pink brick that made up so much of Venice, fronted with elegant Gothic traceries and arched windows on every level.
Their host was waiting for them on the water landing, smoking a cigarette. He extinguished it as the gondola moored and went to greet them. “A fine night,” he said in a richly cultured voice. “Welcome, Signorina Johnston, Signor Blackford.”
They went up a flight of marble stairs from the water level to the piano nobile, the main floor that held the public rooms of the palazzo. Claire felt as if she’d walked into a museum by mistake.
The first parlor was covered in heavily gilded wood in the Venetian style, with frescoed ceiling and mirrors everywhere. The main reception room was enormous and filled with paintings by the great masters of the Renaissance. It was overwhelming to be in a room with them and realize they were the personal possession of one man. They had been in his family for centuries. After all, some of the count’s ancestors had commissioned them from the artists themselves.
The mellow light shone on the count’s thick white hair as he guided them through to the balcony. “A cocktail? Or wine?”
What Claire really wanted to do was examine the pictures. That, of course, would be impolite. Ludovici poured them glasses of pale wine, so clear and golden it was like captured sunbeams. “From the Ludovici vineyards,” he said when Val inquired.
He and the count talked as easily as if they were old acquaintances. While Claire mentally squirmed, the two men drew her into their conversation. She was aware of Val smoothing the way for her, giving her openings to drop a comment from time to time. How does he do it? she thought. It was as foreign to her nature as trying to fly.
“There is a little time before dinner,” Ludovici said, almost regretfully. “Perhaps you would like to see my private collection?”
Claire was agog. The moment was here at last. He led them to a library that looked out across the San Marco basin, with a view of the old Custom House and the Salute. The domes of the church caught the starlight and held it.
In the end she preferred the view to the paintings. She liked Chagall, but not Picasso. Frankenthaler left her cold. The count gave a little laugh. “I am teasing you, a little. I know it is the Old Masters whom you love.”
He opened a door and led them through to another chamber. It was wonderfully proportioned, all rose marble floors and white silk walls. The paintings glowed on them like jewels. Her breath caught in her throat. There were paintings she’d never heard of in all her research. A volume of beauty that the world had never read.
As they went around the room, the count would indicate by a nod or an airy gesture which of the paintings he wished to put up for auction. Val leaned down.
“When Tish sees these uncrated in her office, she’ll be so excited she’ll have to replace the rug.”
Claire dug an elbow in his ribs to shush him. As they were coming around toward the door, she noticed a small alcove. A black curtain hung at the back of it. There was a small table before it where a lamp of brass and red glass burned, like the lights she’d seen in churches and cathedrals. A shiver danced up her arms. It looked like a memorial.
“The painting that hung here,” she asked, “is it out for repair?”
“You do not know the story?” Count Ludovici seemed surprised.
Reaching up, he pulled a hidden gold cord. The black curtains parted to reveal a stunning portrait of a young woman.
Claire’s cry of shock drowned out Val’s startled gasp. Count Ludovici gazed up at the portrait. “So, you both see the resemblance!”
“We’d have to be blind not to,” Val said softly. “It’s incredible.”
The painting showed a young girl in the first blush of maidenhood. She was lovely, with a short, straight nose, small chin, full, rosy lips, and eyes as green as glass. Her cascade of curling blond hair was held back by a delicate headpiece of gold wire and pearls set with topaz. Her velvet gown was a wonderful shade of gold, so lustrously painted it seemed as real as the ivory sheen of her skin.
And that pale, oval face! Claire had seen it before thousands of times. The resemblance to her own reflection in the mirror was uncanny.
“How…how did you know?” she stammered. “We’ve never met.”
The nobleman bowed. “I am a gentleman of the Old World, signorina, but I live in the new one as well. The computer is a part of my daily business. I was on the Internet when I saw your photograph and biography on the Sterling Galleries’ Web site. We Venetians are a superstitious lot. I took it, of course, to be an omen.”
Claire swallowed around the lump in her throat. It was a curious thing to come upon what looked like a portrait of yourself that was hundreds of years old. She tried to discount the emotional punch of it. To let her professional instincts take over. The portrait was in excellent shape, not affected by damp or clouded by age.
“She will be the highlight of the auction, Count Ludovici. Although why you wish to part with her—” She broke off. “Forgive me. That was rude. It is your business as to why you wish to do so and mine to evaluate the painting.” The Ludovicis had been worthy custodians.
The light from the red electric lamp cast an interesting glow on the girl in the portrait. She looked so young, so infinitely tender. So…in love! Claire thought with surprise. Although she shouldn’t be: this young woman was surely the same as the girl in the drawing that had not sold at the private auction.
And the same one who fled her house to meet her lover in Claire’s disturbing dreams. She even wore the necklace of gold-flecked Murano glass around her slender throat. All it lacked was the pendant with the glinting heart-shaped ruby.
She must have added that later, Claire thought. The gift of her secret lover.
“You must not apologize,” Ludovici said. “Come, sit here, and we will talk. I shall tell you the tragic tale of Bianca and her father. It is the shame of my house. She was beautiful, as you can see, shy and pampered. Too timid in the beginning to run off with her lover when her father arranged a marriage with another man. Too defiant in the end to bow to her father’s will.”
Claire felt sick to her stomach. She was afraid to hear what was coming. Val’s hand was there, taking her own in his.
“It was shortly after this portrait was taken,” the count continued. “Bianca learned that she was pregnant by Domenico Coleone, the son of a rising merchant house. She sent him a note when he returned from Florence, but he claimed never to have received it. She threw herself into the canal, some say. Her body was found floating beneath a bridge.”
“A terrible story,” Claire said, shivering.
“The penalties for loss of the wedding contract were heavy, but the other consequences of the tragedy were worse. The Count Ludovici of that time was a powerful man. He was rumored to be a member of the secret Council of Ten. If things had gone differently, he might have been elected Doge. Certainly he had dreams of it, as his diaries reveal. Instead he was ruined, exiled from Venice to terra firma. He died in Padua, a broken man. It took one hundred years before the Ludovicis became a power again.”
“I don’t understand.” Val leaned forward. “Why was the father ruined for the daughter’s mistake?”
“Ah.” Count Ludovici sighed and sat back. “There was another story, you see: that her father murdered her in a rage and had her body thrown into the canal.”
“And that’s why the portrait has been hidden away so lon
g.” Claire gazed up at the lovely young face of Bianca.
The count nodded. “But now the time has come to show her to a wider audience. Perhaps then her ghost will cease to walk.”
Val looked over his shoulder. “Do you mean that literally?”
“Oh, yes. She is seen from time to time, by lonely lovers. She gazes from the balcony or through the window of her bedchamber. The servants report her footsteps from time to time, as well as the scent of roses. Myself, I have never seen her.” He paused. “Except once. In a dream.”
6
THEY TOOK ANOTHER gondola back. On the way, when Val’s arm went around her shoulder as they passed beneath a bridge, Claire didn’t protest. Bianca’s story had moved her profoundly.
Val was thinking of it, too. He quoted the lines from Thomas Hood’s poem, “The Bridge of Sighs,” about another girl who’d leapt from a bridge in Venice:
“Take her up tenderly, hand her with care,
Fashioned so slenderly, young and so fair.”
Claire leaned her head on his shoulder. Lanterns lit the sides of a wide square, and muted laughter floated from open windows. Fairy lights glimmered from the water. The gondolier discreetly kept his eyes averted as Val’s hand crept near her breast. They were taking the long way back again.
“It seems wrong,” she said, “that something bad could ever happen in a place as beautiful as this.”
He didn’t answer, merely took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up for his kiss. His mouth was incredibly tender and arousing. His hands were, too. They caressed her body as if it were an act of worship, stroking slowly as he pulled her close. Wine and Venice had gone to their heads.
By the time they reached the hotel, in his haste, it was all Val could do to pay the gondolier.
Claire’s body burned for him, ached for his touch. If she had only this one perfect night to remember him by, it would surely last her the rest of her life.
When they got to their hotel floor, neither spoke. They went to his door by one accord, and he opened it. The next minute she was swept up in his arms.
He carried her to the bed through the milky dimness and put her down, then stripped off his clothes in a few efficient moves.
He took more time with hers.
One by one, he undid the buttons of her evening suit, pressing his hot mouth against her flesh at every step. He slid the straps of her lacy bra down her arms, then unhooked the front clasp.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, baring her breasts to his gaze. The ripples of light that suffused Venice danced across her skin like willow-wisps. He groaned. He’d meant to take it slow and easy, but she was eager for him. She trembled when his mouth touched her and took the velvet tip inside.
One tug and she was wild for him. Her fingers raked over his shoulders and down his chest. “Don’t be gentle, Val.”
He was, though. The first time. He peeled away her skirt, her shimmery hose, bit by bit. He tasted her skin until she was in an agony of pleasure. And only then, when he felt her body arch against his naked chest, did he obey her. They were as impassioned as the first time they’d made love, pagan and unrestrained. A dance of give and take, building to a crescendo like a Flamenco and ending in mutual triumph and exhaustion. When she was calm and quiet, he began again, bringing her trembling to the brink beneath his skillful hand.
She shook and shuddered, crying out his name. Then he slipped inside her, sheathing himself in her warmth. He took it slow this time. Deliberately.
The long and sensuous way home.
Their joining was too intense for either to hold back. They peaked together, crying out in unison. When it was done, and they’d settled gently back to earth, they slept, exhausted, in each other’s arms.
The next week went by too quickly for Claire. By day she was at the Ca’ Ludovici, doing a preliminary inventory and description of the paintings the count wished to auction. But the evenings, and oh! the nights—they belonged to Claire and Val alone.
She’d been in Venice eight days now, working dawn to dusk among the masterpieces at the Ca’ Ludovici, while Val shot dozens of rolls of film. Separate in their work, and yet together. In the evenings they dined with the count or strolled arm in arm, exploring Venice. Gondola rides, quiet candlelight dinners in some charming trattoria they chanced upon, kisses in the dusky shadows, with the sound of water lapping against the canal sides.
And every night was spent, content and satiated, in each other’s arms.
He never spoke of the future, nor did she. Until now.
She lay on the soft embroidered sheets in his room, with morning light playing over her naked body. He’d done wonderful things to her, and she to him, until they were both exhausted and happy. They lay curled up together while ripples of light danced on the ceiling like webs of enchantment, with her breast cupped in his hand. He grazed the silken nipple with his thumb and kissed it erect.
“I could get used to this again, Claire. I could spend the rest of my life making love to you.”
She was afraid to let him continue. “Don’t. Don’t say anything you don’t mean or make promises you can’t keep.”
He rolled over atop her and pinned her down with his weight. His hands tangled in her hair as he covered her face with kisses. “I love you, Claire. I’ve never stopped. Not for a minute. Let’s wipe out the past and try again.” He lifted his head and gazed down into her eyes. “We can start over. Will you marry me again, Claire?”
Those were the words she’d wanted him to say, yet feared to hear. “I wish we could. I love you, Val, I do! But what if we can’t make it? What’s to stop us from making the same mistakes all over again?” She touched her fingertips to his mouth. “I think it would break my heart forever.”
Whatever he was about to say was forestalled when the bedside phone rang. He snatched it up out of habit and rolled over on one elbow, frowning. The sound from the earpiece carried clearly to her: It was like a cartoon character on speed. She recognized the voice of Parker Farley, the editor in chief of One World Magazine.
“Hell, no,” Val said into the mouthpiece. “I’m in Venice, in bed, with a beautiful woman beside me. Why in God’s name would I want to leave for the Arctic Circle tonight? Besides, it’s cold there, and I didn’t pack my long wooly underwear.”
Claire rolled onto her side, with her back to Val. Despite his joking, she could feel the excitement he radiated. She could hear Farley’s voice, tinny and far away: “I’ll buy you all the goddamn red flannel long johns you need for the trip. You know you can find a willing woman anywhere, Kincaid. But it’s damned hard to find a good story. Listen, this isn’t a warm and fuzzy feature on polar bears. The State Department and the Department of Defense are involved. This might be really big!”
While they discussed the breaking story, Claire slid out from under the sheet, grabbed her clothes, and marched through the connecting door. It was true that Val could find a willing woman anywhere. He’d certainly found her.
She wanted to smack herself.
That glib charm and winning smile had suckered her again. She’d bought it all. But when it came down to the wire, when the choice was between herself and the almighty story, she knew who would win, hands down.
When he hung up, she was wrapped in his bathrobe, perched on the end of the bed. “You’re going,” she said dully.
He came to sit beside her, naked and handsome as a classical god. “Will you marry me, Claire? Remember, I asked my question first.”
She rose and walked away. “It’s getting late. The count will be waiting for us.”
“We’ll finish this later,” Val said between his teeth.
As she was dressing, Claire heard him making phone calls.
They walked to the count’s palazzo this time, and the moment they were alone in the gallery, their quarrel started anew. His voice was light, but his eyes were intense, even in the dimness. She couldn’t meet them. “I won’t give you my heart again so you can put it away on a shelf som
ewhere until you need it, as if it was a stack of contact sheets or an old camera.”
Her shoulders were trembling with the effort to keep from weeping, but he was too angry to see it. “Goddamn it! I tried, Claire. Left One World Magazine. Took the newspaper job so I could be with you. And you still weren’t happy with the long hours, the late calls on a breaking story.” His eyes were dark and hard as diamonds. “In the end it wasn’t enough. Not for you. Not for me.”
She was shaking. “And so you went back to your old life.”
He shrugged. “You went back to yours.”
“While you were off saving the world, I was stuck back in the corner of the museum, writing fluff about artists who have been dead for centuries!”
Val’s face darkened with anger. “You were never stupid, Claire,” he said. “Don’t try and act the part. Your work is as valuable as mine. It’s just different. You can investigate the past at your leisure. I don’t have that option. The present is happening now.”
He was right. That only made her angrier. “Ah,” she said hotly, “but your work is so much more important!”
“That was unworthy of you.” His eyes flashed blue as lightning. “I never said that. Never thought that!” His voice was rich with passion. “There are stories that only cameras can tell. Stories that have to be told so the world will know and intervene. I can’t turn my back on them. But the horror I report with my lens needs an antidote, and it’s there in the beauty that you write about. Don’t you see? There’s a desperate need for both!”
There was anguish in his voice.
And truth.
It slammed into her as if she’d been hurled against a wall. A wall of stubbornness and false pride. Shame filled her. It clogged her mouth.
“I was pregnant when you went to the Amazon,” she blurted. “I didn’t tell you because when you left I wasn’t sure. I lost the baby at six weeks. Afterward, there was no sense in telling you.”
“No, of course not,” he said bitterly. “I was only the father. Damn it, Claire, you didn’t even trust me enough to tell me.” His face darkened. “Or were you punishing me by holding it back?”