Venetian Masquerade

by Suzanne Stokes

  “Are you tired, James?” he asked.

  “No, I’m all right. Thank you.” James wriggled onto his mother’s lap, overawed, and put his thumb in his mouth, a sure sign that he was out of his comfort zone.

  “Then, Amy, I suggest we go and look at the property I told you about before lunch so that we can discuss it later this evening.” He had finally wrung coffee out of the machine.

  “Very well.” She accepted a cup while James drank his milk and scattered biscuit crumbs all over the table. “Oh, James…” Somehow, this was not a house where crumbs would be welcome, and she went to wipe them away.

  “Amy, relax. It’s fine. Now, if you are both ready, shall we go?”

  The drive to the suburb of Rome took about half an hour, but finally, they pulled up outside a large, scruffy building with boarded-up doors and windows; graffiti was scrawled all over it, and half-torn posters for long-past events hung limply on the walls.

  “The building is worth nothing, of course, but the land is conservatively worth two million euros.”

  “What?” Amy was staggered.

  “I doubt Maria had any idea, to the day she died, that this old dump was her single most valuable asset. It will cost several million to turn it into a commercial venture, but I know we would get planning permission for three levels of offices, with shops and restaurants at ground level, which you can either sell or let. Either way, you will have a very handsome return on it, and so will James. You look rather pale, Amy. Come on, I’ll buy you lunch. Where would you like to go?”

  “McDonalds, please,” piped up James.

  “Good heavens. All right, it will be a first for me,” said Alessandro with a grimace, and Amy could barely keep a straight face a while later as she watched him gingerly working round a large hamburger and picking at his French fries. “Do you do this often?” he asked.

  “No, it’s definitely a treat.” Amy laughed.

  “A treat?” He grimaced.

  By the early evening, James was exhausted, and by seven thirty, after an early tea, he was fast asleep. Alessandro’s housekeeper, Lucia, had returned and was happy to babysit, so Alessandro asked Amy to go to a restaurant for dinner.

  “And if we are seen together…?”

  “Who is going to care?”

  Amy assumed he was inferring that it was nothing unusual for him to be seen around town with a woman who wasn’t his wife, so with a shrug, she accepted. It was better than being in the confines of the house with him all evening. She wore a simple green silk shift dress and black sandals and left her hair loose, cascading around her shoulders. Alessandro took her to a predictably expensive restaurant, where the headwaiter almost scraped his nose on the floor while ushering them to a private table in an alcove. After they had ordered, Alessandro leaned back in his chair and studied her.

  “Amy, this really can’t go on.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “This stupid situation between us. You know that sooner or later, you are going to end up in my bed, so I really don’t understand why you are fighting it. Every move, every glance tells me that you feel exactly the same as I do, and all you are doing is torturing us both.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself,” she replied, wishing she could deny every word he had said.

  “I have reason to be. Your face when we walked through the door at my house gave you away, even if nothing else had. You could see us, naked and entwined on the sofa—and all the other places—as clearly as I could. And you were just as aroused as I was. It was in your eyes. It’s still in your eyes.”

  She lowered them from the intensity of his gaze, which was now burning the top of her head.

  “Amy, look at me and tell me you don’t still love me.”

  At last, she raised her gaze to his, but kept her mouth mutinously closed, afraid of what words might spill out. Yes, she still loved him, but she was in mortal danger of turning the clock back six years—of becoming his mistress; her friends would despise her, and his friends would abhor her in their society. She would be in limbo, and she had worked too hard and gone through too much to tolerate that.

  “Amy, everything my father told you on that night was a lie. I had a few girlfriends, of course, but they were never serious and I never deceived them. Nobody got hurt. Sophia’s family and mine are distantly related, and as often happens in dynastic families like ours, there was a hope that we would marry. Dolores was particularly keen on the idea, and Sophia and I were old friends. We went out on dates together from our teens, but I never had any intention of marrying her.”

  “Then, why did you?”

  “After you left, I was devastated and had no idea why you had gone or where. Certainly I had no idea you were pregnant. I couldn’t imagine what I had done to make you run away, and I was humiliated and angrier than I have ever been in my life. If I had known then what my father had told you, I think I might have killed him. I looked for you for a year, but you did a good job of disappearing. I had to reason that if you had really loved me, you would have contacted me sooner or later with an explanation. But you didn’t—so in the end, I bowed to family pressure and married Sophia. There didn’t seem to be a reason not to, except I wasn’t in love with her—nor, as it turned out, was she with me.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In Florence, with her lover.”

  “You separated?”

  “We divorced, Amy. Two years ago. We are still extremely good friends, and there was no legal wrangle afterwards.”

  “You’re divorced!” She gasped incredulously. “You could have told me that weeks ago.”

  “If you remember, when I saw you at Danieli’s in Venice, you appeared to be madly in love with Gabriel. I needed to find out how serious that was before I bared my soul to you. In fact, I still don’t know.”

  “I love him dearly—but no, I’m not in love with him, and I’m not going to marry him. And who were you with that evening?”

  “My cousin, Louisa. She runs the Venice office for us.”

  Alessandro raised his eyebrows quizzically at her. “But we were talking about Gabriel… You’re not in love with him, but he sometimes stays overnight?”

  “If we’re working late on plans for the hotel, he sometimes stays at the villa—in a separate room. We’re not lovers. There hasn’t been anyone else. Not that that is any of your business…” she added defensively.

  “I think it is.” His eyes softened and he reached for her hand over the table but she snatched it away.

  “No, Alessandro. It isn’t as easy as that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Scared of what, my darling? Of making love with me, scared of the way your body responds in my arms, scared of the joy, the pleasure, the ecstasy we had together?”

  “I’m scared to come into your world, Alessandro. I have a wonderful life in Venice—friends, security, a home, and now a new business. It’s all real, and it matters to me and to James. He’s a happy little boy, and it would be cruel to uproot him again. I would hate to live in Rome, hate the artificial lifestyle, the people…”

  “My family?”

  “I only brushed up against them once, and look what happened!”

  He was silent, and the waiter came to take away the cold food, which had been sitting in front of them for half an hour.

  “You never have to see them again. In fact, I positively forbid it.”

  “But…James is their grandchild. Won’t you want them to meet him?”

  “No.” He looked grim and intractable. “And I don’t want to talk about them tonight.”

  “All right… It has nothing to do with me anyway. Would you take me back to the house now, please? I should check on James. He had a bit of a headache earlier from all the traveling.”

  “Of course.” Tight-lipped, he signed a slip for the waiter, and neither spoke on the way back to the house, where all was quiet; clearly, James and Lucia were soundly asleep.

&n
bsp; “Would you like a brandy?” he asked, ushering her into the salon, where a log fire had been lit.

  “Yes, thank you.” She slipped off her sandals and curled up in an armchair, watching him fix the drinks. He wasn’t married, she thought, still astonished by the knowledge—and he wanted her…but in what role? Wife, or mistress? But even more amazingly, he didn’t want her to allow his parents to meet their grandchild. But then, she supposed James was a grandchild they would probably look on with disdain, just as they had dismissed her as not good enough for their son.

  Alessandro came to sit beside her in an adjoining armchair.

  “I know you don’t really want to discuss it, Alessandro, but just one question… Have you spoken to Giovanni about the way he effectively destroyed our relationship that night?” she asked curiously. “I would have expected you to give him a piece of your mind, if he caused you as much grief as you are implying.”

  “It was Dolores’s hand behind it. She is a bitter and spiteful woman. My father had a severe stroke three years ago. He is partially paralyzed and needs twenty-four-hour care.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “I don’t think I can ever forgive them. I might never have found you again. The most important thing to me is that you and James are back in my life. If I have to settle for what we have now, I will, I promise you. I can’t force you to love me, and I will wait, just as I did when we first met, for you to give me a sign to show me that you want me. But Amy, I warn you, once you give me that signal, there will be no going back.”

  He rose and wandered round the room, clearly very tense. Her own body was in torment, and she knew that one more touch from him would dissolve any token resistance. She downed the rest of her brandy in a gulp and then wished she hadn’t. She’d had wine at the restaurant without eating more than a few mouthfuls. Now she was feeling decidedly less able to make rational decisions. What she wanted desperately to do now was not rational or sensible, but her heart was aching and her body demanding to be in his arms. There seemed little point in fooling herself anymore. Whether her future would be as his wife or his mistress seemed irrelevant. She wanted him, more than life itself.

  She watched Alessandro, standing with his back to her and looking out of the window, feeling her insides melting with need and longing.

  As if sensing her eyes upon him, he turned suddenly to look at her. For a few seconds, they simply stared at each other, and then he moved to stand over her and ran his fingers down her cheek.

  “Amy?”

  Wordlessly, she rose and stood facing him, knowing it was out of her control. And then, just as she had six years before, she rose onto her tiptoes and brushed his lips with her own. He moved slowly, tantalizingly, to take her face in his hands and ran his thumbs across her lips, causing a gasp to escape them. The warm pressure of his sensual hands had always aroused her almost to screaming point, and she soon discovered, nothing had changed. He raked his fingers through her hair, pulling her face close to his and looked so deeply into her eyes, she was sure he must see her very soul. And then he began to kiss her—gently at first, with soft, butterfly touches, which whispered across her skin but which quickly deepened to intense, penetrative kisses, leaving her as limp as a rag doll in his arms.

  “Oh God, Amy, you have no idea, my darling, how much I have longed to do this. Tell me you have wanted me too,” he begged her.

  “Every minute of every day since I left,” she whispered.

  He led her to the thick rug in front of the fire and pulled her down into his arms. Their clothes discarded, at last Amy lay naked and ecstatic as Alessandro kissed and touched her in a way she had long remembered and ached for, trawling his fingers across her skin—allowing them to stray from her taut breasts down to the softness of her inner thighs and then to touch her deeply, before following their path with his lips and tongue. He smilingly forbade her to touch him in return.

  “No, sweetheart, this time, it’s my turn to drive you crazy; I want to remind you of a few things.”

  For an almost unbearably long time, he held her at a fever pitch of pleasure, gasping and shuddering in his arms until she begged him, “Please, please, darling.”

  At last, he moved across her, and a few moments later, they both cried out with joy and then lay exhausted, holding each other in tender amazement in the firelight.

  “Stay with me tonight, Amy. I want to make love to you all night and to be able to look at you as dawn breaks.”

  Already longing for him again, she kissed him, nodding, and quickly gathering up their clothes, they ran upstairs, giggling like school children in case Lucia should emerge from her room and catch them.

  “I must go and check on James,” she told him as he pulled her towards his bed. “He will expect to find me in my room if he has a nightmare and comes looking for me.”

  Reluctantly, he let her go and lay naked, aroused, and smiling on the silk sheets. “Be quick. I need you.”

  She slipped on his robe and walked quickly down the corridor to James’s room.

  The second she opened the door, she knew something was terribly wrong.

  James had been sick on the floor and was lying on his side, moaning softly. When she touched him, he was burning with fever, and he seemed unable to focus on her. All over his body was a pink rash.

  “James!” she gasped. “What’s wrong?”

  “Mama,” he whispered. “Headache.” And promptly threw up again.

  Amy knew instinctively that James was seriously ill and rushed back to Alessandro’s room. “It’s James,” she cried. “He’s desperately ill, and we need to get him to hospital.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Alessandro, leaping off the bed and reaching for his clothes.

  “I don’t know, but he’s sick, burning up, and covered in a rash.”

  “We’ll take him in the car; it will be quicker.”

  Within five minutes, Alessandro was speeding through the dark streets of Rome to the hospital, as Amy cradled James, wrapped in a blanket, in the back of the car. He was barely conscious, and she was sure he would die before they even reached the hospital.

  “Keep breathing, sweetheart. Don’t leave me. The doctor will soon make you well, darling; just hang on in there for a few minutes,” she pleaded with him. But his breathing was getting more and more difficult, and as they dashed into the emergency department, it stopped altogether.

  “Please, help my little boy!” she screamed as they ran into the emergency department. “He isn’t breathing. He’s dying.”

  A doctor came to them at a run and, after a quick glance, yelled, “He’s arrested,” and grabbed his limp little body.

  Suddenly, there was bedlam as the crash team came at speed from all directions and surrounded James as he lay, looking so tiny and vulnerable, on the bed.

  “Atropine and adrenaline,” called the doctor as he began chest compressions.

  Amy stared in disbelief at the scene, and Alessandro held her tightly, his face white and ravaged with anxiety.

  Time was suspended as the drama in front of them played out. And then the nurse uttered the most wonderful words Amy had ever heard “He has a pulse. He’s back.”

  Once James was breathing for himself again, the doctor took Alessandro and Amy aside and told them that James would now be given pure oxygen while they tried to find out what was wrong with him. Tests and more tests and intensive observation would be imperative. They stood clutching each other, unable to speak, until a doctor came back to them half an hour later.

  “I’m so sorry to tell you that James has meningitis,” he said gently. “He is extremely ill, and we don’t know yet what his chances are. We are giving him massive doses of antibiotic. He’s on fluids, and we have done blood tests to make sure he is getting the correct drug. He is having a lumbar puncture to relieve pressure on the brain and x-rays to check there are no other sites of infection. He will then be transferred to Intensive Care, and you can stay with him.”

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nbsp; “He was well when he went to bed,” whispered Amy. “How could he be taken so ill so quickly?”

  “I’m afraid this illness can flare up incredibly fast. It isn’t your fault, so please, just be grateful you went in to check on him when you did. If you hadn’t, he would have been beyond hope by the morning. As it is, he’s a strong little boy, so we will pray for a good result.” He patted her hand kindly and moved away to his next patient.

  “Come with me. You can sit with him.” A young nurse brought them some chairs and paper cups of hot coffee.

  James lay, eyes closed, with drips and tubes attached to his little body, the bleep-bleep of the heart monitor the only sound in the room. Every few moments, a nurse came to check on him and take his blood pressure.

  “How long before we will know anything more?” asked Alessandro.

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “The next forty-eight hours will be critical. Try to get some rest; there’s a bed for you to lie on in the next room. You could take turns to be with him.”

  But Amy pulled a chair to James’s bedside and sat holding his little hand.

  “I’m staying. He will know I am here.”

  All through the night, they watched over him, and grim-faced doctors occasionally came in to see how he was doing. There was no change as dawn broke, and finally, Amy and Alessandro were persuaded to go home for a rest and some breakfast.

  “Amy, we’ll be back in a couple of hours,” Alessandro said, gently leading her to the door. “You are going to make yourself ill. You had no dinner, and now, you must have breakfast.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “You must. You have to stay strong for James.”

  With a deep sigh and a last backward glance at the small, helpless body of her son, she allowed him to lead her to the car and drive her back to his house. Lucia had been forewarned, and breakfast was ready as they walked through the door. She too looked strained and upset.

  “I am desolate,” she wept. “He was sleeping peacefully when I looked at him before I went to bed. A little flushed, but he didn’t seem to be ill.”

  “Lucia, no one is blaming you,” Alessandro reassured her. “The doctors have said that this illness can strike out of nowhere.”