Chris smiled ruefully. “I believe I would have come to you if you hadn’t come to me.”
He hesitated a moment. She couldn’t see his features clearly, because they had suddenly passed from light to shadow.
“What do you know of the past, Christi?”
“Only what my mother told me,” Chris answered honestly.
“And that is—no, no, never mind. We will wait until we sit over dinner, si?” He cast a quick glance toward their gondolier.
Chris smiled at him. “Si.”
Soon they turned off the Grand Canal and followed one of the smaller waterways that led to her pensione. Contini pointed out a number of the grander buildings, and told her the names and histories of a number of the crests on the red-striped poles that guarded many gondolas in their berths.
When they reached her pensione Chris quickly washed her face, then glanced at Contini’s very expensive suit. She excused herself and hurriedly changed into a white silk blouse and black velvet pants.
Then they were out on the water again, soon following the Grand Canal to an elegant waterside ristorante near St. Mark’s Church and the Doge’s Palace. It was a very lovely spot, with each table secluded by shrubbery. Theirs was right by the water, with a wrought-iron fence separating them from the brilliance of the canal, sparkling in a multitude of colors beneath subdued lighting.
Contini asked if he might do the ordering for them. Chris lifted her hands, laughed and agreed. The old man was absolutely charming—a perfect escort.
He told her that they would begin with antipasto, enjoy a bowl of scracciatelli, have cappelletti for their pasta, and then veal for their main course.
Chris laughed and told him that in the States, the pasta would be the main course. He grimaced, then suggested a deep red Valpolicella. The antipasto and soup were accompanied by light conversation, and then, when their waiter had left them in their secluded corner, Alfred smiled again and looked at her as he toyed with his soupspoon.
“The show was very good. I enjoyed it. You are a talented young woman. What made you choose to become a mime?”
Chris finished an olive, took a sip of her wine and shrugged. “First, thank you for the compliment. As to being a mime…well, I started out at about eight wanting to be a gymnast. But I was behind the kids who had started out at four, five and six, and some of the vaults scared me a little. A few years later my mother was determined that I should have dance lessons—”
“Ah,” Contini interrupted with affectionate laughter, “yes, Joanne would have wanted her daughter in dance! She always wanted her little girl to be such a lady, such an angel!”
Chris couldn’t help but respond to his warm reference to her mother with a feeling of warmth herself. And though her mother had warned her to stay away from Venice—“it just wasn’t a good place for a Tarleton”—she had always seemed sad to have left, sad to be forced into hating people who had once meant so much to her.
“Mother can be a bit much, can’t she?” Chris asked ruefully. “And I take it I wasn’t exactly an angel?”
“Ah, certainly an angel!” Contini said, his dark eyes sparkling. “But an angel with the devil in her soul! You were… spirited.”
Chris raised one eyebrow. “Not at all sweet and mannerly?”
“Only when you thought you would get your way. And how is your mother? Well, I hope?”
“Very well. She remarried when I was in college. A very nice man. He’s a ranger at a national park out west, in Montana. He and Mom are very happy.”
“That is good. That is very good,” Alfred Contini murmured, looking down at his soup. “Please, tell me more about your work.”
Chris shrugged, paused for a minute, then continued. “I started taking dance. Then we went to Chicago one weekend when I was a senior in high school, and Marcel Marceau happened to be making an appearance. At the time,” Chris said with a laugh, “I didn’t even want to go. But once I had seen him, I was hooked. I knew I wanted to be a mime. Mother—” Chris paused to exchange a wry glance with Alfred “—had in her heart and mind decided that I needed a complete liberal education, but I was able to combine the two by finding a college in California with a wonderful, wonderful department for the performing arts. Anyway,” she said, grinning, “I managed to make a great deal of money with some friends doing street theater, and I came straight over to Paris to audition for the school there. I was very lucky—I was accepted. And so here I am now.”
“And what will you do now? The tour is over, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’ve been offered a teaching position for the fall. I have about a month to think it over.”
Contini nodded, but said nothing. Their waiter had returned to clear away their plates and replace them with the pasta dishes. Contini refilled Christina’s wineglass.
“So,” he said then, “what do you know of The di Medici Galleries?”
“Very little,” Chris admitted. “Only that you and my father and Mario di Medici went into business together. And that the galleries are now world famous. And—” she hesitated briefly “—that Mario di Medici died, and my father chose to leave the company and return to the United States.”
Contini shrugged. “Yes, simply put, but all true.” His dark eyes took on a distant look, as if he were suddenly lost in a mist of memory. “I met your father at the end of the war. And Mario…well, I’d known Mario most of my life. Your father and I were working on certain…” He paused, waving a hand as he searched for the English word.
He’d been talking about the war. “Reconstructive projects?” she asked.
“Si, si. He was a wonderful man. He had the power and the enthusiasm to bring men together. And he could sell canal water to a Venetian!”
“He provided the sales and business know-how,” Chris murmured.
“Yes. And I—I had the money. I had never liked Mussolini, or his association with Hitler. I’d taken my money out and put it into Swiss francs in a Swiss account long before the downfall of our country. And Mario…well, the di Medicis are one of the oldest and most respected families in Venice. Mario’s was a bastard branch of an old family, perhaps, but centuries have a way of forgiving such a thing, you understand.”
Chris nodded, hiding a smile. She did know that the di Medicis had been counts of Venice since the Renaissance—certainly long enough to be forgiven an indiscretion!
“Mario gave us his…class. Ah, Mario! He was both a gentleman and a gentle man. He knew art; he had an eye for the truly beautiful and antique. It was a wonderful partnership.”
Chris set her fork down and swallowed her wine, feeling a slight tingling sensation that warned her that she was about to ask a question to which she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer.
“What happened?”
“The statuette,” Contini murmured.
“What?” Chris pressed him softly.
“There was a statuette in the galleries, and it disappeared. Suddenly we were at one another’s throats, old friends such as we. Then we determined to talk it out aboard the Trieste, di Medici’s yacht. We were all there that day. Mario and his wife, your father and mother. Sophia and I. Genovese, Joe, Antonio, Marcus…”
He was wandering, Chris realized. She leaned forward slightly. “Alfred? Please, what happened then?”
He looked at her suddenly, as if startled by her presence. But then he smiled sadly.
“Mario was lost. He…disappeared. They found his body days later. They pulled it out of the sea.”
“And my father left.”
“Yes, soon after your father left.”
He drank his glass of wine quickly, seemed to shudder a bit, and then smiled again.
“Christi, you say that you have some time now. Please, would you think about coming to the palazzo to spend some time? To…to vacation with us? The galleries, they are your heritage, too, you know.”
Chris didn’t answer him right away; the waiter had returned to whisk away the pasta plates and serve the veal. She felt
absurdly as if she were at a crossroads again—that her life might be deeply changed if she agreed.
But something might be lost if she did not. She was so curious to discover what had happened. She felt the pull of Venice, the irresistible draw that had affected her when she had stood in St. Mark’s Square.
And she felt her heart beating furiously. There was a mystery here. It had to do with her life, her past, and she longed to solve it.
“Christi?”
She had taken a bite of her veal; startled by the pleading in the old man’s voice, she looked up into his eyes, into a dark pool of misery.
“Per piacere, Christi! Per piacere. I am an old, old man, Christi. I need you.”
“Need me?” she murmured.
“To be my friend.”
“I—I am your friend, Alfred.”
“Then you must come. You must come to the Palazzo di Medici!”
Chris frowned, setting down her fork. “Forgive me, Alfred, I don’t mean to be rude. But I assume that the palazzo actually belongs to Mario’s widow and his sons—”
“And they will greet you for me, I promise, Christi.” She looked uncertain, and he waved a hand in the air. “The palazzo is very big…and it has been my home for decades. And Mario’s sons, they are decent men. The palazzo belongs to Marcus…he is the eldest and the most responsible. Antonio, he is a little bit too much for the fun of things. You remember nothing about them? As a child you followed them both about and taunted them mercilessly!”
Chris shook her head. “I’m sorry. I was only four. I really don’t remember much of anything.”
She wondered why she was hesitating and putting this poor man through such anxiety when she knew she wanted to go to the palazzo. Perhaps being there would be like being in St. Mark’s Square and her memories would come back to her.
She was determined to find out just what had happened to make any mention of Italy a painful thing in her family for so many years.
“I could come to the palazzo,” she said slowly, and Alfred clapped his hands like a boy, then reached out to grasp her hand with a surprising strength.
“Grazie, grazie, Christi! I am grateful, I need you…to know your heritage.”
His eyes seemed fevered; Chris felt a shiver of fear grip her for a moment. Why was he so fervent?
She closed her fingers around his, trying to reassure him. “It will be fun, Alfred.”
She smiled, tugged lightly at her hand until he released it, and picked up her fork once again. She returned her attention to her food, then paused as the strangest sensation crept along her spine—an uncanny feeling of being watched.
She looked up and was stunned to encounter the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Crystal eyes, ice eyes. And they were locked on her intently.
She didn’t realize that she gasped, but the man looking at her was so arresting that he could make a woman’s heart falter, then race madly, her breath catch, then sweep through her lungs too quickly.
He was tall. And except for those eyes he was dark. Jet-black hair and brows, handsome features made up of rugged angles and planes turned almost copper from the sun. His suit was dark and extremely well tailored, enhancing a form that appeared lean, yet was well muscled. His shoulders were broad despite the trimness of his waist and hips. He was responding to a question from the maître d’, and he almost appeared indolent. But Chris knew, from that very first glance of him, that he would never be truly indolent. If he were to walk slowly, it would never be because he didn’t know exactly where he wanted to go. His gaze, she was certain, was a shrewd one, taking in all that could be seen by the naked eye—and some of what could not. He was dressed impeccably and seemed comfortable in his formal attire. She had the strangest feeling that he would be equally comfortable walking through a jungle in worn denims. There was something intangible about him….
A sense of danger, Chris mused, irritated that she shivered at the thought. And yet it was true. His looks—the jet hair, the startling blue eyes, the rugged tan on hard-cut masculine features—were not his greatest attraction. It was something about the way he stood, the way he moved. He could probably be a very ruthless man, Chris thought, and a relentless one. He would go where he wished to go, do what he wished to do with an implacable will and drive. And it was disturbingly exciting even as it was frightening, to feel his eyes on her. Chris thought that he would probably be as charming and as civil as his handsome attire; she was equally certain that, should he be crossed, he could strip away that charm as easily as the suit. And beneath it he would be a man of raw power, as impassioned and determined as a tiger freed from a cage.
“Christi, what is it?” Alfred asked.
“Pardon? Oh! I believe we’re being watched. Rather, I know that we are.”
Contini smiled. Christi was very beautiful, graceful and sophisticated. If she had not noticed that all eyes constantly turned to her, he certainly had. But he turned around with a frown, then murmured, “Ah, but it is Marcus!” He turned back to Chris. “The women, you know, they worry about me. And Marcus, well, he knows that a man of my age cannot cause much trouble, but he is the responsible one, so they send him!”
Marcus di Medici…
Chris felt her heart race once again as he began to move toward them. He was not a stranger who would wander off into the crowd and leave her merely to ponder the strength of the impression he had left upon her. He was Marcus di Medici, and if she was going to the palazzo, she was going to his home. The closer he came to their table, the more aware she became that he exuded something seductive, something dangerous.
Something on a very primal level, despite his sleek allure, which warned her to be on her guard….
Chris shivered. The man was almost upon them; she felt hot one minute, chilly the next.
Stop! she commanded herself furiously. The chills subsided. She intended to be in control of the situation. She had long ago decided that if she wasn’t beautiful, she had health and youth, and by the grace of those two, she was passably attractive. And she was certainly no teenager; she had toured half of Europe, was well educated and well traveled and—she thought with a quirk of humor—she even knew which fork to use.
She could be charming herself when she so chose, and if she planned on getting any answers about the past, Marcus was the man she would have to question, possibly haunt.
He had reached the table. He nodded curtly in her direction, but addressed Contini. “Alfred, I’m sorry for interrupting you. The household has been worried. It’s quite late.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose it is. You haven’t interrupted me, Marcus, I’m very glad you’re here. Miss Tarleton has just agreed to stay at the palazzo.”
“Has she?”
Chris felt his eyes on her again. She forced a smile to her lips, wondering what to say. She had another strange premonition—though of what, she didn’t know—as Marcus pulled a chair up to the table and took a seat, then signaled for a glass so he might pour himself some wine.
“Christi! Do you remember Marcus?”
“Not at all,” she murmured sweetly, watching the man.
“Christi, Marcus di Medici.”
She extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. di Medici,” she said quietly, almost screaming when his hand touched hers. The pressure was firm, the touch as vibrant as a blazing fire.
He released her hand, sipped his wine and smiled. The smile seemed very, very dangerous. “Since I do remember you, Miss Tarleton, let me say that it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Thank you,” she said simply.
“So?” He arched one dark brow. “You are coming to the palazzo? When?”
“I—”
“Tonight, Christi!” Contini said. “You must come tonight! Marcus, please, you must tell her that she is welcome, that she must come tonight.”
Marcus turned to her and smiled, once again with little humor. “You are welcome,” he told her cordially, and she knew that he was lying. “And I see no rea
son why you should not come tonight. But Alfred…” His eyes turned to Contini, and Chris was certain there was warmth in them then. “You must go home. I can see to Miss Tarleton. Genovese has the boat at the piazza outside the main entrance; please, allow him to take you home.”
Contini listened, then sighed. He grimaced ruefully to Chris. “Marcus is right, cara Christi. My apologies. You will not mind if I go home to my bed? An old man needs his sleep. You will not mind if Marcus escorts you?”
I mind like hell, Chris thought dryly, but she kept smiling. “Of course not.”
Marcus rose along with Alfred Contini, helping the older man. Alfred smiled at Chris one last time. “We will see one another in the morning.”
“Yes,” she murmured.
Marcus watched him until he was greeted at the entrance by a short wiry Italian man of an indeterminate age. Genovese, Chris assumed. But then Marcus was sitting again, his eyes touching her, openly assessing her with no thought of apology, and she felt tension—and anger. His gaze was very nearly insolent, and yet he gave no indication of reacting to what he saw.
“Would you like coffee, Miss Tarleton? Espresso, tea or cappuccino?”
“Coffee, please,” she replied.
He signaled to the waiter and switched easily to Italian to order. A second later they were served.
“Why are you coming to the palazzo, Miss Tarleton?” he asked at last, lighting a cigarette to go with his coffee and leaning back slightly in his chair, his eyes raking blue fire over her once again.
“Curiosity, Mr. di Medici. Is that so unusual?”
“No. And neither is it really unusual to see a very young woman on the arm of a very old man. It’s hard to tell what is what these days.”
Chris felt her fury growing, but she allowed herself to do no more than flick her lashes briefly.
“Meaning, Mr. di Medici?”
He shrugged, rather eloquently, Chris thought. “Merely that Contini is an old man—and a rich one. Are you out hunting a fortune, Miss Tarleton?”
The Di Medici Bride Page 3