Rising Fire

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Her eyes widened again at that thought. What if she was . . . That wasn’t possible, was it? A girl didn’t get like that on the very first time, did she? That wouldn’t be fair at all!

  A practical streak a mile wide ran through Denny, always had. What was done was done. Her jaw firmed and her chin lifted. Whatever results the future held, she would face them head-on, without flinching.

  Right now, she had to think about getting back to the Hotel Metropole. She could tell by a glance out the window at the darkness that the hour was late. Louis was bound to be worried about her, and probably he would be upset when she got back. But at least she could ease his mind about her safety.

  The sound of an angry voice made her frown and look around. She was convinced that she was alone in the apartment and had no idea where Giovanni had gone. After a moment, she realized that the voice came through the open window in the bedroom. Curious, she moved over to it and looked out.

  The apartment was on the second floor of the old palazzo, on the side overlooking a narrow street instead of the canal. Streetlamps were few and far between, but enough glow filtered along the cobblestones from one about fifty yards away for Denny to make out the shapes of three men standing and talking in front of the house.

  Denny frowned. One of the men was the right size and shape to be Giovanni, but she couldn’t be sure it was him. The other two were in the shadows and were even more obscure. She made out a blob of white where one man’s head ought to be. A mask of some sort?

  She caught only a few of the heated words being spoken. They were in Italian and rattled along too fast for her to comprehend them. Then the man she thought might be Giovanni turned on his heel and stalked toward the palazzo’s entrance. Watching the way he moved, Denny was convinced that he was indeed Giovanni.

  And no doubt he was on his way back up here. Hurriedly, she tossed the sheet onto the bed and started looking around for her clothes.

  She was fully dressed by the time Giovanni opened the door and strode into the apartment. At the sight of her standing there, he exclaimed, “Cara mia, you are awake!”

  “Did you plan to let me sleep all night?” she asked coolly. She wasn’t angry with him, but for some reason, at this moment she felt the need to keep a little distance between them. Under the circumstances, it would be too easy to open herself completely to him unless she stayed on her guard.

  “Of course not,” he answered as he shook his head. “That would worry and upset your brother. Actually, the hour is not all that late. You can tell Louis that we were strolling along the canal and lost track of the time.”

  “Lie to him, in other words.”

  Giovanni spread his hands. “It’s not a lie, not exactly. We did stroll along the canal, and after that, I was not thinking about the time, and I fervently hope that you were not, either.”

  “You don’t have to worry. I have no intention of telling Louis what happened tonight. The attack by the thieves . . . or anything else.”

  He came to her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Denise, you have nothing of which to be ashamed.”

  “I didn’t say I was ashamed. I just don’t think it’s any of his business.”

  Giovanni nodded and said, “I will get you back to your hotel. Unless . . . you would rather stay . . .”

  “I can’t,” Denny said. She started to look away, but then forced herself to meet his eyes. If she claimed she wasn’t ashamed, she didn’t need to act like she was. “I have to think about what’s happened, Giovanni. I’m not upset, but I still have to think about it.”

  “I understand,” he said, but she had a feeling he was just trying to be agreeable.

  “I’m curious about one thing, though. Who were those men you were talking to just now, out on the street?”

  His hands still rested on her shoulders. They tightened slightly as he frowned, shook his head, and said, “I was not talking to anyone.”

  “Yes, you were,” Denny insisted. “I saw you from the window in the bedroom. You were talking to two men.”

  Grinning, he lifted both hands from her shoulders and waved them expressively. “Oh, those two! Minor annoyances, I assure you. They sent word that they wanted to see me, and since I have known them practically forever, I should have known what they were after. They wanted to borrow some money, only I know that were I to give them any, I would never see those lire again! Still, they are old friends, so I could not refuse to speak with them.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Denny said. Giovanni’s words had the ring of truth to them. She went on, “I need to get back to the hotel now.”

  “Yes, of course. There are still some gondolas available, even at this hour. But before we go . . .” He gripped her hands. “Cara mia, I want you to know just how happy you have made me and how deeply I care for you.”

  He leaned in and kissed her again, not urgent and passionate this time, more of a gentle caress with his lips. Denny responded without thinking, putting her arms around his neck and returning the kiss.

  Yes, everything had changed, she thought, but she believed . . . and hoped . . . that this might be the start of something even better.

  * * *

  Louis was upset when she came into their suite at the Hotel Metropole, even a little angry, just as Denny expected. She thought he also suspected that something had happened between her and Giovanni, but he was too much of a gentleman—or too embarrassed—to press his sister for details about such a thing.

  However, over breakfast in their sitting room the next morning, he did say, “I think we should leave Venice. We’ve already been here a lot longer than we intended.”

  “I’m not ready to go yet,” Denny said.

  “If we stay much longer, we won’t be able to stop at all the other places on our itinerary. We’ll have to start back to England.”

  “I don’t care. We’ve already been everywhere anyway. What does it matter whether we make the entire grand tour this time?”

  Louis didn’t prolong the argument, but Denny knew he wasn’t happy with her. She didn’t want to annoy him—but she wasn’t ready to leave Giovanni, either.

  They continued spending most of their time together, but no matter where they went, they nearly always wound up back in Giovanni’s apartment in the old palazzo, making love in the big four-poster bed while soft evening breezes blew in through the window, carrying the faint strains of romantic songs being sung by the gondoliers poling their boats through the canals. Denny didn’t understand most of the words, but the language of love was unmistakable.

  She was so distracted by the unexpected affair with Giovanni that perhaps she wasn’t as alert as usual, but even so, eventually she came to realize that someone was following them.

  More than once, she caught a glimpse of a man lurking in the shadows as they strolled along the narrow streets. It wasn’t always the same man, either. Sometimes the watcher was tall and thin, other times short and stocky.

  Denny’s mind went back to the night they had been attacked on the Bridge of Roses, a fateful night in more ways than one. Maybe the men who had jumped them hadn’t been random thieves after all. Maybe they had had a more sinister purpose to their assault, although she had no idea what that might have been. She might have gotten around to asking Giovanni about it . . .

  But then some of the answers presented themselves, in an unexpected and unpleasant way.

  CHAPTER 8

  Denny and Giovanni were having dinner in one of the city’s finest restaurants when a man came over to their table. Denny saw the way Giovanni stiffened when he spotted the man approaching and knew something was wrong.

  She took a closer look and realized that despite the stranger’s expensive suit, he looked out of place in these elegant surroundings. The cruel, hard-planed look of his face reminded her of some of the men she had seen in Big Rock during the visits she and Louis had made to the Sugarloaf.

  Hard cases had definite similarities, whether they were in Colorado or Venice.
>
  “Count Malatesta,” the man said with an insincere smile as he stopped beside the table. “I bid you good evening on behalf of Signor Tomasi.”

  Giovanni jerked his head in a curt nod and said, “Tell Signor Tomasi good evening in return, if you will.”

  “Of course. The signore would be pleased if you and the signorina would join him in his private salon.”

  Giovanni shook his head. “My apologies to the signore, but that will be impossible. Signorina Jensen and I were just about to take our leave.”

  They hadn’t finished their meal, so that took Denny by surprise. But she supposed Giovanni had a good reason for not wanting to accept the invitation from this Signor Tomasi, whoever he was.

  “Are you certain, Count?” the rough-looking stranger asked. “The signore will be very disappointed.”

  “This is the way it must be,” Giovanni answered.

  The man’s broad shoulders rose and fell. “I will convey your regrets to the signore.”

  “Grazie.”

  The man looked at Denny for a second, and she saw the coldness in his gaze. He definitely made her feel uneasy, and that feeling remained even after he had walked off.

  “My apologies for that unpleasantness, cara mia,” Giovanni said as he reached across the table and clasped one of her hands in both of his. “I did not expect such an intrusion to take place tonight.”

  “Who was that man?” she asked. “Who’s Signor Tomasi?”

  As usual, Giovanni waved away a question he didn’t want to answer. “No one important. A business associate.”

  That was puzzling. Giovanni had never mentioned business, and he hadn’t shown any signs of working. Since he was a member of the nobility, Denny had assumed he was wealthy and didn’t need a job. From the way he talked, his family owned a great deal of property and was important in Sicily.

  “If you need to talk to him, I don’t mind . . .”

  A sharp shake of his head caused her voice to trail off. “Please, put the matter out of your mind. I already have.”

  “Of course,” Denny said. She smiled.

  But she was still puzzled, and she suddenly wondered if this Tomasi might have something to do with the men who had attacked them on the Bridge of Roses. It could be his men who had been following them . . .

  Keeping those suspicions to herself for the time being, she took her napkin from her lap and placed it on the table. “You told that man we were about to leave,” she reminded Giovanni. “That’s fine with me.”

  “I just said that to get rid of him. We don’t have to cut our meal short—”

  “No, really, I don’t mind.”

  Giovanni squeezed her hand. “I, too, am anxious to return to my apartment,” he said. “But we should at least finish the wine in our glasses.”

  There wasn’t much wine left in the glasses. A couple of swallows took care of it. Then Giovanni held her chair for her and draped her shawl around her shoulders as he helped her up. They left the restaurant and turned toward the nearest canal where they could find a cruising gondola, walking arm in arm with Denny on Giovanni’s left.

  They reached some steps leading down to a landing where a couple of torches burned in holders. They walked down the steps, then Giovanni raised his right arm to signal to a passing gondola with a lantern hanging from its high-arching stern. The gondolier moved his pole to the other side of the boat and angled it in their direction.

  The gondola hadn’t reached the landing when the gondolier abruptly reversed course. As the boat’s prow swung away, Giovanni called to the man in Italian and sounded angry. The gondolier shook his head and poled the boat farther away.

  Denny had gotten a good enough look at the man’s face to know that he had been scared off by something he had seen. That was enough of a warning to make her turn her head and look back over her shoulder.

  “Giovanni,” she said quietly as she saw four men standing at the top of the steps.

  He cursed under his breath and seemed a little frantic as he glanced around. With the men blocking the steps, there was nowhere for them to go unless they wanted to jump into the canal and swim for it.

  “I am sorry, cara mia,” he told her. “I had no wish for you to become involved in my troubles.”

  “If they’re your troubles, they’re mine as well,” Denny told him without hesitation. She was a little afraid—under the circumstances, it would have been foolish not to be—but she was more than a little angry as well. She was certain these men intended to harm Giovanni and maybe her as well, but they would learn that Jensens always fought back, no matter what the odds. Some of them might be well aware of that already, if they had been part of the bunch that had jumped them on the Bridge of Roses.

  “Count Malatesta,” one of them called as he swaggered down a couple of steps. “Signor Tomasi would like to know if you have reconsidered. It’s not too late to do so.”

  Denny recognized the voice of the man who had come to their table in the restaurant. As he came slowly down the steps toward the landing, she saw his face in the torchlight. He had lost his mask of politeness and looked more like an outlaw than ever. The other three men trailed him down the steps. They were more roughly dressed and had the same brutal look about them.

  In a tight, angry voice, Giovanni said, “Tell Tomasi that I will deal with him later. Tonight, if he wishes. But first I must escort the young lady back to her hotel.”

  “No, the signorina stays. Signor Tomasi has run out of patience. You must settle your accounts with him now.” The man put his hands in his trouser pockets and smirked as he came to a stop on the bottom step, just above the landing. “Perhaps the signore would consider the signorina as part of your arrangement with him.”

  Fear welled up even stronger inside Denny at the vile implication of those words, but more anger rapidly replaced it. How dare the man even suggest such a thing? If her father had been here, Smoke Jensen wouldn’t take kindly to his daughter being threatened.

  Smoke might not be here, but another Jensen was. Denny’s right hand slipped into the small, stylish bag she had brought with her tonight.

  “What will it be, Count?” the man said. “The decision is up to you.”

  “Denny, get behind me,” Giovanni said from the corner of his mouth. “I will not allow them to harm you.”

  The leader of the Italian hard cases slowly shook his head. “You have no say in this any longer, Malatesta. The signore’s orders are clear. But we will be merciful. We will take the signorina with us, to hold as . . . security, shall we say . . . until you pay what you owe.” The man shrugged. “Of course, you will be in no shape to worry about that for a while. But not to worry. We will keep the signorina occupied.”

  He jerked his head, and the other three men stepped around him, obviously ready to rush Giovanni and give him a beating before they carried Denny off to whatever sordid fate they had in mind for her.

  Denny pulled the short-barreled, .32 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from her bag and leveled it at the leader.

  “If those men take one more step,” she said, “I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

  She had never shot a man before, had never even pointed a gun at anything except a target or some predator she had helped her father hunt down on the ranch. But no one would ever guess that from the calm, cool, flint-edged voice in which she spoke. This fellow had a lot in common with a wolf or a mountain lion, Denny told herself, and she believed she could pull the trigger if she had to. She was downright certain of it, in fact.

  The man gestured sharply to his companions to stop their rush before it started.

  “Denise, what are you doing?” Giovanni exclaimed.

  “This is a mistake, Malatesta,” the leader rasped angrily. He sneered. “And I’m surprised to see you hiding behind a woman this way. I thought you were a nobleman.”

  Giovanni’s face flushed darkly in the torchlight at that insult. He said, “Denise, put that gun away. Or better yet, give it to me.”r />
  “The signorina is not the only one who is armed.” The leader made another sharp motion to the other three. Knives came out from somewhere. The red glare from the torches glittered on the blades.

  “None of that will do you any good,” Denny said. “You’ll be dead before they can reach us.” She paused. “Anyway, if you kill Giovanni, who’s going to pay the man you work for? That’s what this is about, right? A debt that needs to be collected? Maybe something can be done about that.”

  The leader cocked his head slightly to the side. “What do you propose, signorina?”

  “No!” Giovanni cried. “This is not right! This is none of your affair, cara mia—”

  “If I’m really your beloved, then I think it is my affair, too,” Denny said. To the leader of the toughs, she went on, “Go back to your boss and tell him that things will be worked out if he’ll just be a little more patient. I give him my word, and Jensens don’t lie. You think he’ll go along with that?”

  “I would not presume to speak for the signore without talking to him first.”

  “Then go talk to him,” Denny snapped. “Or keep crowding us and we’ll see what happens.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Giovanni glaring furiously at her, but she kept most of her attention focused on the man she was looking at over the revolver’s sights. He seemed pretty observant. He must have noticed that even while holding a gun on him, her hand was rock steady.

  After a long moment, the man shrugged. “I will speak to Signor Tomasi, but I make no promises. The day of reckoning may be postponed, but the debt must still be settled. You know this, Malatesta. And the next time . . . there will be no woman for you to hide behind.”

  Giovanni growled and started to move forward, but he stopped himself and with a visible effort controlled his rage. “Go,” he told the men. “Run away like the craven dogs you are.”

  For a second, Denny thought the insult was going to be more than the men could stand. She was ready to pull the trigger if she needed to. She didn’t figure she could gun down all four of the men before any of them reached her, especially with the small-caliber weapon. If her father had been here with a Colt .45 . . . with Smoke Jensen’s deadly speed and accuracy . . .