by Julia Talbot
* * *
Torquere Press
www.torquerepress.com
Copyright ©2002 by Julia Talbot
* * *
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
* * *
Prologue
The painting was unexceptional. Really. The subject was typical of its period; a woman, seated, shown only from the waist up. Her hair was confined under a net, but the curls that escaped were a coffee-brown, dark and lustrous. Her face was all angles, pointy chin and high cheeks, with a nose that could have been printed in profile on an ancient coin. Her eyes, a deep, rich greenish-blue, told Jacob that they were probably an artist's convention, a flattery. They matched the brocaded robe the woman wore over a deep green gown. Her jewels were conventional sixteenth century gaudy; chains and charms dripped from her neck and ears.
She smiled at him in the enigmatic manner made famous by the Mona Lisa. Her right hand rested on her breast, modestly covering any exposed cleavage. Her fingers, over-long and freakish as all such hands were painted back then, toyed with the one standout addition to a dull arrangement. The central pendant on her very busy necklace was a winged lion, much like the symbol for Saint Mark, the famous patron saint of Venice. This lion, however had the hindquarters of a sea-creature, in the shape of a long scaled tail, split at the end. It was a gorgeous piece, obviously made of roughly polished emeralds and gold, and Jacob couldn't help but admire it.
The portrait itself was painted on wood with egg tempera, a method that dated the artist, if not the painting. The use of egg tempera was well into its decline by the time this painting was completed, thanks to the ease of use that the relatively new oil paints provided. The painter must have been old school to have such talent with the tricky and quick drying egg paints.
Yes, quite average, which was why Jacob was puzzled at his reaction to the piece. He was fascinated by it. He'd stared at it for over an hour, noting a crack here, a wormhole there, the unfortunate water damage on the bottom third of the work. Whoever this lady was, she wasn't really beautiful, but Jacob couldn't take his eyes off her. There was something in her expression, something subtle that Jacob really wouldn't have expected an artist of mediocre talent to capture. It was a glint in her eye, a tiny quirk to her lips that spoke of mischief. And intelligence.
The more he looked, the more he liked her. Her skin was golden, not creamy, which he thought was lovely. So many of the Renaissance ladies he'd seen immortalized on canvas were pasty, washed out. It was fashionable for a lady to have moon-pale skin, after all, and so this lady's warm olive tone was suggestive, as if there were a bit of lusty peasant under all the fine feathers. Her lips were not full, but they had a pleasing shape, and the upper lip was just a bit rounder than the lower. It gave her a very sensual allure.
The room seemed overly warm suddenly, and Jacob could feel sweat breaking out over his body, heat blooming in his hidden places: under his arms and between his legs. He shifted on his stool, uncomfortable in clothes that were too heavy and skin that was too tight. Extraordinary that a simple painting could do this to him, but it was. He was becoming aroused.
It would be a simple thing to leave the room. Cover the painting with its drape and go. There was a trattoria not far from his office at the University. He should go, have a glass of wine, and forget about the mystery lady for the rest of the night. He just couldn't do it, though. He sat there, and stared, like a horny high-school kid with a really hot substitute teacher. Why did she capture his imagination so? His imagination, and a few other things, Jacob thought ruefully as he adjusted himself. It had been so long since he's had a hard on that he barely remember the last one, but this one was making itself known in a painful way.
As if they were separate entities from the rest of his body Jacob's hands burrowed under his stifling clothes and found his erection. He gasped at the first touch on his throbbing cock, unable to remember in that moment anything that had ever felt better. He traced his fingers over the head of his penis and down the ridged underside, learning things about his body that he'd forgotten as pleasure snaked up his spine. His eyes stayed locked on the portrait as he stroked himself, greedily taking in curve of chin and throat, the way her hand rested just on the valley between her breasts. Jacob imagined putting his face there and taking in her scent, which would be a mix of musk, citrus, and night-blooming flowers. Beginning to pant now, not enough air in the room, and his cock was going to explode. Faster and faster he stroked until his hand was a blur and all he could hear was the slap of his skin and the thump of his heart. Those impossible green eyes laughed back at him, and he felt their impact throb in his balls. Jacob's toes curled and his head snapped back as his orgasm ripped out of him in shuddering spurts.
When it was over, Jacob was more than a little embarrassed to find himself on the floor, having slid from his precarious seat on the tiny studio stool. He cleaned himself thoroughly, the looked at the painting, sighing with relief as he saw he hadn't come all over it. Carefully keeping his eyes on the lower half of the painting only, Jacob tossed the dust drape back over it and tidied his office so he could leave for the day. Very deliberately not thinking about what had just happened, Jacob walked away from the painting, and his work, locking the door behind him.
Chapter 1
The house was palatial. Father Jacob Ellory wished heartily that someone had told him that. It took up several city blocks, a monstrosity of marble and stucco walls. It had fountains and courtyard gardens, and the very idea of staying there made him feel like he'd swallowed a bowling ball.
The hired car let him off outside the beautifully arched entryway, and the art student in him could appreciate the symmetry of it, the glorious carved busts of Bacchus, even as he gibbered. He really shouldn't be surprised at how lush the place was. He was there to study an art collection, after all. What sort of people had art collections? Rich people. Bracing, as if for something truly unpleasant, Jacob pulled the tasseled bell-rope just to the left of the massive doors.
A liveried footman (liveried!) opened the door and examined his note of invitation carefully before stepping back to let him in. “Welcome to the Palazzo Miggliozzi, Father.” he said. He gestured to Jacob's single, scuffed bag. “You may leave your bag here, and it will be taken to your room. Do you need to freshen yourself before you meet Signore Miggliozzi?”
Setting down his bag, Jacob shook his head. He was trying not to stare at the foyer, which was just as grand inside as the entry was outside. Marble columns reached for the sky, and a frieze of nymphs and satyrs cavorted around the tops of the walls. The paintings on the vaulted ceilings were extraordinary, blue skies with clouds and birds of all sorts, with a magnificently plumed peacock taking center stage. When he looked back at the footman his cheeks went hot, because the man was looking at him with the sort of amused patience that a city boy shows a country bumpkin.
“No, I'm fine,” Jacob muttered.
Nodding, the footman gestured for Jacob to follow him. Down the hall they went, and Jacob gaped. Silly, he knew, to be so amazed at the opulence, but he was. Maybe it was his Puritan American upbringing, but the sheer ostentation of Italian palaces amazed him. As did their echoing emptiness. Take the salon they had just entered. It was cavernous, and richly decorated with green silk walls and gold trim, but it held only a few small groupings of furniture and a scattering of well-chosen accents. A statue here and a painting there, a few ornaments on tables, all p
erfectly matched to the room without being contrived.
He was startled out of his thoughts when the footman offered him a drink, which he declined. “Your English is very good,” he blurted without thinking.
That got him a faint smile. “The signore and signora make sure we are all educated, Father. If there is anything else you require, please just ring.” He waved towards a bell rope on the back wall. “Have a seat, if you like, and the signore will be with you soon.” And with that he was gone, leaving Jacob alone in the huge room.
The paintings drew him, so instead of planting his butt on one of the dainty settees Jacob wandered about looking at them. Mostly landscapes, they were obviously picked for their varying shades of green, to match the salon. The only notable exception was a view of the city of Venice, beautifully rendered. Without looking at the signature, Jacob knew he was looking at a Canaletto, an original, and he practically drooled. How many opportunities would he have to study art such as this? Suddenly the house was less intimidating, more interesting.
“Father Ellory?” The words, spoken in a deep voice, flavored with the heavy accent of Rome, made him turn back towards the door.
“Yes,” he replied, and studied the man who was obviously his host. Not a tall man, just a few inches taller than Jacob's own five foot nine, but he had the sort of presence that made him look towering. Black hair, with just a bit of gray at the temples and eyes so dark they seemed to absorb the light. Not a handsome man, this one, too harshly featured for that, like he was cut from a particularly hard piece of stone. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh on him anywhere, which was disconcerting, as Jacob was expecting a pampered aristocrat. He felt doughy in comparison, for all that he kept himself in shape playing softball and basketball for the diocese. The suit was Italian silk, expensive yet understated. The haircut probably cost more than Jacob's entire wardrobe. It would be a mistake to think this man was soft in any way.
“Signore Miggliozzi?”
“Si.” The man smiled and held out his hand. “Marco Miggliozzi, Father. A pleasure to meet you.”
They were still several yards apart, but the signore didn't move, forcing Jacob to be the one to advance. Macho man tactics, as effective as they were amusing. Jacob crossed the space and shook hands firmly. “Thank you for inviting me to your home, sir.”
“Thank you for coming. I hope you'll enjoy your time here.”
“It would be impossible not to.” And that was true enough. Jacob couldn't believe his good fortune. As a scholarship exchange student in art restoration he had been assigned a painting rescued from a rotting old villa in Venice. Nothing special, he had been told, and indeed he didn't think so either. Until he had found the name signed on it under layers of grime and mildew.
Matteo Venetti. Student of the Venice academy masters. His paintings were beyond brilliant. They were masterpieces. Pictures of sin in every dark permutation, tortured souls writhing on the canvas, the man had a vision of Hell that was unrivaled by anyone except maybe Heironymus Bosch. Once Jacob had established that Venetti was the painter of his ordinary little portrait, all sorts of doors opened for him. Including this one, and invitation to the Palazzo Miggliozzi in Rome, home of the single largest private collection of Venetti art in the world.
The Miggliozzis were an old family, and quite a presence in Italy. They'd amassed a huge fortune by controlling trade routes in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, and had used it to patron the arts. Their collections were immense, and jealously guarded. For a scholar to be invited to view them was practically unheard of. For a young American priest doing graduate work in art history, it was a miraculous thing. He was still reeling from the pleasure of being allowed to use them for his thesis
“I only hope I can make some sense of my research,” Jacob said with a self-conscious smile. “I would hate to waste your time, sir.”
“Anything that furthers our knowledge of the arts is hardly a waste of time,” the signore answered smoothly. “And you must call me Marco. I know you must be anxious to get started, but the collection's overseer will not be here until tomorrow. So, I hope today you will simply unpack your things and rest, and join us for dinner tonight. My wife will be there, as will my brother and two of my wife's brothers. It will be good for you to meet some of the family, become familiar with the house. Dinner will be informal tonight, and we meet in the gold salon a half-hour before for drinks. Will that suit you?”
Barely giving Jacob time to nod, Marco strode to the bell cord and pulled. A few short moments later a uniformed maid appeared, and Marco instructed her to show Jacob to his suite. His initial interview was obviously over. He followed the maid on a seemingly endless hike through hall and rooms and finally found himself in a sumptuous suite on the third floor. He was sure it had some name, something like the blue suite, or the Neptune suite, as it was done in shades of blue and the artwork was all naiads and sea creatures. The University had sent on his satchels full of books and supplies, and they were neatly stacked against one wall of the sitting room. The bathroom had a tub as big as a swimming pool, and a shower besides, and here the nymphs were naked and, frankly, more suggestive.
Jacob loosened his collar and took off his black jacket. He would unpack, then see if that sumptuous tester bed was as comfy as it looked. Then he'd get up and shower and shave to be presentable for dinner. And then he'd take some time to pray, because any place this comfortable had to be rife with sin, and it would be far too easy to let himself fall into it.
Chapter 2
Freshly bathed and dressed, Jacob felt a hundred percent better. By the time it was time for dinner, he had convinced himself that he didn't need to worry about getting used to his new, luxurious surroundings. He'd be locked up in a tiny room with bright lights studying paint patterns most of the time he was here anyway. Feeling much more in control, he rang the servant's bell to get someone to take him downstairs. It made him uncomfortable to ring a bell and have someone wait on him, but until he found his way around this mausoleum of a house, he'd just get lost if he went alone.
The maid that showed up to get him was different from the earlier one, and Jacob wondered idly how many servants it took to keep a place like this running. She paced along a half step ahead of him, and soon he realized she was shooting speculative glances at him out of the corner of her eye. He smiled at her, and was encouraged when she smiled back. She was pretty enough, with sloe eyes, as his mother had always called them, and masses of dark hair pulled back into a neat knot.
“Do you speak English?” he asked.
She nodded. “Si. My English is not so bad.” She tilted her head to get a better look at him, and her smile widened. “So, you are the priest, yes?”
“Yes. What's your name?”
“Cristina,” she replied as they stopped outside a set of grand double doors. “The gold salon, Father.” Cristina looked him over from the top of his head with its floppy brown curls to his sensible shoes, lingering for a long moment on his collar. Then she grinned, and she was pure imp. “Pity that,” she said, then flounced off with a swish of her ass, leaving him standing there with his mouth hanging open.
The doors opened with a gentle nudge from him, and he was dazzled immediately by the room he entered. Gold salon indeed. Gilt everywhere, writhing about the ceiling and walls. The only other accent color was a pale, soothing ivory, and the effect was overwhelming. The people in the room were just as intimidating. He was surprised there was any more oxygen in there, the way their presence sucked it up. Four men and one woman, all cut from the same mold. Marco was there, as was a man that was obviously his brother. Giovanni was his name, Jacob found out, and he was some five years younger than Marco. He shared his brother's razor sharp looks, and probably his keen mind.
The two other men were brothers as well, twins in fact. These were the wife's brothers, Damien and Gianni Rossi. Next to them, Jacob felt small and pale, and he was glad he wasn't a vain man. They shared the same dark hair and greenish-blue eyes, and Jac
ob knew he'd seen that eye color somewhere before, just recently. It was a mark of how awed he was by these people that it didn't hit him immediately. It did come to him, though, when he turned to the final inhabitant of the room. Cecilia Miggliozzi was not a beautiful woman. She was hard and angular with an oversized nose. And she had green-blue eyes. Put her in a gown to match them and drape her with jewels, and he had his Renaissance lady in Venetti's painting, right there before him. He couldn't breathe.
A quizzical smile showed that her two front teeth had just the slightest gap, and he could easily understand why vanity would cause her to smile with her lips closed for a portrait. Except she wasn't the same person as the one in his painting. One had died over four hundred years ago, and this one was very much alive, holding out one slim golden hand and expecting him to talk to her with some sort of coherency. He wasn't sure he could, and he found himself reaching out and grabbing her hand like a lifeline.
Holding his hand for a moment, she smiled at him again, this time reassuringly, as if she thought he was rather frightened by it all. She led him to a settee and pushed him down gently, disengaging her hand and going to get him a drink. Campari and soda, he thought, as he gulped down the palate cleansing drink, and it did help him to regain some sense of normalcy. Which immediately caused his cheeks to heat with a fierce blush as he remembered what he had done to himself the last time he had seen this woman, or at least her painted double. Over Cecilia's shoulder he saw Damien and Gianni exchange an amused glance, and he knew he had to pull himself together before he embarrassed himself any further.
“I'm sorry, Signora,” he said. “But, clichéd as it sounds you bear a striking resemblance to the lady in the portrait I'm restoring.”
With a delighted laugh she dropped down next to him on the sofa. “Really? The Venetti?” Her voice was lovely, deep and husky, feminine in a way her face could never be. Jacob wanted to hear more of it, and thinking about the whys of that rather unnerved him. He simply nodded.