The Prosecco Fortune

by Stella Whitelaw

  Emma did not ask about his parents. They did not seem to be around. Perhaps they were long gone or were divorced and he did not mention it.

  They stopped at a small café and strains of music were coming from inside.

  ‘Would you like to dance, small orderly accountant?’ he asked, taking her arm. ‘It would be the perfect end to a perfect evening.’

  Emma was tired. Her feet hurt from all the walking. But a dance in Marco’s arms was too much of a temptation. The music was soft and melodic, some old tune from the fifties. He took her inside, paid for drinks to be delivered to a table, took her straight to the minuscule dance floor.

  His arms went round her immediately. She could feel the hardness of his body. She cleaved to his shape. His hand was firm in the small of her back. Their feet moved to the old romantic melody. It was a time warp.

  Emma closed her eyes, wondering how she could survive this onslaught on her emotions. She wanted to be with Marco. She wanted to be part of his life. But her independent spirit said no. Cut loose. Be yourself, girl. This was not the time to fall in love with a man, however handsome, however wealthy and powerful.

  But his tall, rangy body so near her own was hard to dismiss. It was as if he had planned some gigantic plot to seduce her. She entered into another world, where she did not want to move, did not want to change a moment.

  The music, the lyrics, were so soothing, it was if the streaming stars were spiralling. How could music betray the way she felt? It was not fair. She had to stay here and work, not let his seeking hands absorb her into his bed.

  He bent his head so that his cheek was close to her hair. She could feel the soft, late-evening stubble growing on his firm chin. His fingers threaded themselves in her hair and he tipped her head back. His eyes were glinting in the darkness, but with a warmth that was disconcerting.

  ‘I shall have to kiss you,’ he said. It was a stolen kiss. He tasted her mouth hungrily. Emma moaned in soft surrender, but her response shocked him. It was a fire stoked by years of restraint and unfulfilled yearnings. She responded with a passion that set his blood alight.

  When they parted, they were both shaking, unable to dance another step. They left the little café and walked through the silent darkness, their pulses hammering, like flickering flames, till the night air cooled their ardour.

  But Marco did not take her to bed. When they reached his palazzo, he left her at the bottom of the stairs, said goodnight briefly, and went to his study for a brandy. He knew he would not be able to sleep when his physical longing for Emma was so compelling. The confusion was hopeless.

  ‘Buono notte, Emma,’ he said.

  ‘Buono notte, Marco,’ she said. ‘And thank you for a lovely evening.’

  Sometimes she seemed to be seeking his touch, but then she withdraw, back into her pearly shell, was cool, efficient and distant again. The remote English miss. He wondered when he would discover the real Emma.

  Emma went back outside onto the coolness of the front steps. Black water was lapping over the lower steps. Lights from the other side of the Lagoon hung in the darkness. She needed air and a few moments of solitude before she went to bed.

  Her emotions were in turmoil. She was here in Venice to work, to solve Marco’s problems, not to fall in love with him. It would be a disaster. She would go home in shreds.

  There was a sudden, hard thump in the middle of her back. She flung open her arms, hoping to find one of the pillars to steady her balance. But there was another hard thrust and Emma found herself staggering down the steps towards the black water.

  ‘Marco,’ she screamed. ‘Marco.’

  She fell into the cold lapping water, struggling to find the steps, to get back onto the landing stage. But everywhere was so slippery. She found herself sinking away into the wash of a passing vaporetto. Emma could swim. She made herself strike out despite the heavy weight of the woollen coat. She tore off the clammy wool and struck out for the nearest solid-looking place.

  Hands were pulling her ashore. The voices were all Italian. She did not understand what they were saying. She was being wrapped in a blanket. She was surrounded by spectators, late-night revellers, interested onlookers.

  ‘Chiamante un medico.’

  ‘Un ambulanza.’

  ‘Signorina? Are you all right?’ The man was speaking in English. He was leaning over her with a kindly face. He was waving away the onlookers with an air of authority. ‘Do not try to speak. Nod for me, si. A drink is coming from a café.’

  Emma nodded. She had seen him before, somewhere. But her shocked mind could not place him.

  ‘I am Commissario Claudio Morelli. Do not be afraid of me. I am an old friend of Marco dell’Orto. But this is bad. Someone has tried to drown you. The Lagoon in Venice is beautiful but not for the drowning of young ladies.’

  ‘Marco?’ she spluttered.

  ‘Marco is coming. I have telephoned him. He is coming. You are safe now.’

  seven

  Emma awoke to the sound of bells ringing. Every church bell in Venice seemed to be ringing, including the big brass affair beside the front door of the palazzo. She stumbled over to the window and peered down into the Lagoon.

  She was able to look at the canal now. She had recovered from the nightmare of the dark when someone pushed her into the water. Marco had come for her and carried her back to the palazzo. Maria had taken off her sodden clothes and washed her, wrapped her in warmth and fed her sips of a warm drink.

  Emma tried to forget why someone would want to drown her. Marco pretended it was some drunken reveller but she did not believe him. Nor did Commissario Morelli.

  ‘She is too clever,’ he told Marco. ‘They do not want someone too clever around your accounts. She will find out who is responsible and someone will not like that.’

  A vaporetto was disgorging a dozen or more children onto the stone steps and the tallest child was ringing the bell. Its clang was discordant. No one ever rang the bell so vigorously.

  She heard Maria opening the door and the children clamouring and laughing as they came into the hall. Was this Marco’s family? So many children? Was she going to learn something at last about this enigmatic man?

  She threw on some blue jeans and a fleece jersey and hurried downstairs. Maria had produced trays of fruit drinks and sweet cakes, even at this time of the morning. The children clustered around Emma, chattering away in Italian, which she didn’t have a chance of understanding. But she smiled and nodded and pretended to be part of whatever occasion it was. It was obviously a special occasion.

  Marco came through from his study, his arms full of small parcels wrapped in coloured paper and tied with ribbons. He was grinning, a natural welcome on his lips. He also was speaking rapidly in Italian. Emma was quite lost in the noise.

  ‘Buongiorno, buongiorno,’ he said, then reverted to English. ‘This is the feast day of St Nicolo, the patron saint of sailors and children. He is ver’ generous to children. We all have a holiday. No work today. That is good, si?’

  ‘But I have to work,’ said Emma. ‘I’ve a lot to do.’

  ‘The office will be closed. There is no one there.’

  ‘You could let me in.’

  ‘But I am not going there,’ said Marco, handing out the gifts to the children. They clamoured round for the biggest and brightest of the parcels. ‘I have to take gifts to the children of my workers at the vineyard. They expect it. You will come with me.’

  There was no arguing with him. He was always obeyed. What he said was the law. Maria was happily clearing up the mess as the children left to call on some other hospitable household. The hall was strewn with torn paper and ribbons. Emma went on her knees to help gather up the rubbish.

  The quality of the paper and the ribbon betrayed that the gifts had been professionally wrapped. She could not imagine Marco wrapping all the gifts in his study late at night.

  ‘A bit like Christmas?’ she said.

  ‘It’s an early Christmas. The chi
ldren never let anyone forget that St Nicolo is their patron saint. Half of his bones are in a church on the Lido.’

  ‘Only half?’

  ‘The other half are somewhere else. No one knows where.’

  Maria was tut-tutting and trying to stop Emma from helping, but Maria wasn’t successful. Maria and Emma continued collecting bits off the marble floor.

  ‘Quite the little domestic,’ said Marco, amused. ‘Can you also cook if the good Maria is taken ill?’

  ‘I can do soup,’ said Emma.

  ‘Then we shall have to live on soup. I could manage to live on soup for about a month so no problem there.’

  He was making fun of her again. He enjoyed teasing her.

  ‘We should take turns if Maria is taken ill,’ said Emma. ‘That’s democratic. What can you cook?’

  ‘Everything,’ said Marco expansively. ‘All Italian men are good cooks. It is born in us. The gourmet genes.’

  She did not believe him but at least the arrival of the children had removed any awkwardness from their first meeting this morning. She could hardly forget her wanton response to his kiss when they danced those nights ago. It was enough to make her cheeks burn at the thought. Even her limbs felt weak at the memory.

  ‘Ah yes, the gourmet genius,’ said Emma meekly, keeping her eyes down. But she saw that Maria was smiling broadly. Perhaps Marco’s talent for cooking was limited to toast. But she had not seen toast at all in Venice.

  ‘Grazie,’ said Maria, taking the rubbish from Emma and piling it on the trays.

  She carried the first tray out to the back kitchen. Emma went to carry the second, but Marco stopped her.

  ‘Come into my study,’ he said. ‘Bring your laptop.’

  So it was not going to be all holiday, thought Emma. While Maria was preparing breakfast, Emma was shut in Marco’s study, going through all the figures that she had unearthed. Column by column, while Marco followed closely.

  Since the water incident, Marco had provided an escort for Emma to and from his office. He was not going to risk any more accidents. Claudio was right. Emma was getting too close to answers.

  ‘So you are saying that the money paid to the company for consignments of wine has been disappearing for two years? My customers have paid their bills to my accounts but now there is no trace of it? We do not know where it has gone?’

  ‘I think a cyber-hacker has got in. Somehow your whole system has been infiltrated and the money diverted elsewhere, to another account. Their account. Maybe it is abroad somewhere. And heaven knows what other funds have been diverted. Every one of your bank accounts has to be investigated and backed up with paper evidence. We need a paper trail.’

  ‘This is very serious,’ he said.

  ‘It is serious,’ she agreed.

  Emma realized now why this conversation was taking place in his study and not in the office. Although he trusted all his staff, there was always the suspicion that someone close might be cheating him. Perhaps a relative of his staff. Someone who had problems or a grievance. Maybe someone who had been sacked.

  ‘Could one of my staff have done this hacking?’ He didn’t want to know but he had to ask. He knew them all so well. Many of them had worked for him all their working lives.

  Emma shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so. It is far too complicated for any ordinary computer user to do. Hackers are computer boy wonders. They can get into anything. They understand the most complex of programs, know how to break in. They create new programs for themselves that are solid and untraceable. And they can break complex passwords and system codes.’

  ‘So do I need to ask Commissario Morelli to take it as a criminal case? Do I report it to the Questara?’

  ‘Not yet, that would alert the hackers and they’ll cover their tracks in minutes and disappear with all your money. We should pretend to be puzzled, completely at a loss, making no headway. Perhaps deposit some money in an account and watch what happens.’

  ‘I have some money in a small bank on Lake Garda. I can draw on that. It is there if I need holiday money.’

  ‘Good. We’ll set a trap. There are security operation managers in London, used to unravelling the most complicated hacking. It would be best to consult one of these experts.’

  ‘So we have to go back to London?’

  ‘Sometime. But not yet. I must get all the evidence. Then I’ll contact Irving Stone.’

  Marco nodded, switched off his computer. ‘Enough of work, Emma. The rest of the day is for St Nicolo. Breakfast first and then we will leave. It is a long drive. Wear something warm. I sometimes put the hood down.’

  He was telling her what to wear again. Emma wanted to answer back but Marco looked drawn. The news had come as a shock to him. It was something one read about in the newspapers but never thought could happen here.

  But now he had a whole day in Emma’s company and even though she had been the instrument of the bad news, he could not help remembering, with a tingle in his limbs, her ardent response to his last kiss. Perhaps the clean air of his vineyards would help soften her hard shell.

  After a balcony breakfast, his launch took them out of the Lagoon and along the coast to a quayside where a car was waiting. No chauffeur today. Marco was driving a different car. It was a well-polished pale-green convertible with a grey hood but Emma had no idea of the make. She could just about recognize a Mini. Inside were deep leather seats and the dashboard was a mass of knobs and dials. It looked like the cockpit of an aircraft.

  Emma had brought along the long woollen cardigan, remembering its warmth, and a cashmere scarf. Maybe one day she would find out who had bought it, owned it, but never worn it. Seeing him with those children this morning had made her wonder if he had a family. He had been so easy with the children, answering their chatter, making them laugh. They didn’t care about his power and authority, even less about his disturbingly masculine good looks.

  Marco was wearing a leather jacket against the cold. He drove through the industrial area outside Venice. Stacks of chimneys belched grey smoke. It was much colder than Venice and the further out into the Veneto countryside they drove, the colder it got. In the distance Emma could see a range of mountains, topped with snow. The snow was glistening. Marco switched on the heater, adjusting the angle of heat so that Emma’s feet felt the benefit.

  ‘Grazie,’ she said, wishing she had put on her boots.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said.

  It was beautiful countryside, rolling hills and fields, crops and trees, isolated villages where people gazed with interest at Marco’s car passing through. Or perhaps they knew it and recognized him. Some of them waved. There could not be so many vineyard owners. They drew closer to the mountains and Emma was reluctant to let him know that she had no idea of their name. Were they the Alps? She realized how ignorant she was, about almost everything except keeping books and figures.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said again, his face losing the tension. He always felt like this when he was nearing the home where he grew up as a child. ‘This is the Trevisco province of Veneto.’

  Marco was slowing down, giving her time to look out of the window. On either side were miles and miles of luxuriant vines, in tidy rows, stretching into the distance, up and over the hills.

  ‘These are my vineyards,’ he said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. ‘The dell’Orto vines.’

  They seemed to drive forever and they were still his vines. Marco relaxed at the wheel, at peace now at the home where he belonged, no unpleasant fraudulent hacking to investigate. He was going to show Emma his family inheritance, what he was fighting for.

  They came at last to an unsigned wrought-iron gate and it swung open at the touch of a button in the car. They drove along a straight lane, lined with cypress trees, vines now almost within touching distance. Far away, tucked into the curve of a hill, Emma could see a stone building, almost growing out of the hill itself. The front was two-storied built of red brick and stone, with a slate roof, an
d creeper growing over its walls, almost swallowing the house.

  But as they turned into a courtyard, Emma saw there was a further house, three stories high, behind the smaller front building. An outside staircase led up to the first floor and then to the floor above. Everywhere were flowering bushes and on every step pots of geraniums and herbs.

  ‘My home, my farmhouse,’ said Marco. ‘Very rural. Outside privy.’

  But Emma knew now from the tone of his dark voice that he was teasing her.

  She turned to him quickly, in time to catch the smile on his face.

  ‘Oh good, an outdoor privy, my favourite kind,’ she said.

  Marco swung the car around in the gravel courtyard and from nowhere the children appeared. They had been waiting for him. They clamoured round Marco, shaking his hand, stroking the car, beaming at Emma.

  She got out, stretching, back and legs stiff from the long drive, and they immediately turned their attention to her. It was not for the presents, she realized, but simply because they were pleased to see a new person, especially someone who had come with Marco.

  His authority here was different. Not the man of immense money and power and luxury possessions. Here he was, the owner of the earth, the vines, the giver of everyday necessities, the man who made work for their families, who settled disputes, who made sure they went to school. It was almost feudal.

  Marco opened the boot of his big car and there was a shout of excitement from the children. It was full of more brightly wrapped gifts. He must have bought the entire toyshop.

  Emma stood back as Marco gave out the presents. The children swarmed over him. He was made to be a father. He had forgotten all about the hacking. Emma felt a stirring far within her body. She was falling in love with him and it was the last thing she wanted to do.

  A woman came out of a door, smiling and beaming, drying her hands on her apron. ‘Welcome, Signor Marco,’ she said in Italian. ‘We knew you would come. We knew you would not forget the children.’

  Emma took a quick second look. Surely it was Maria? Same build, same height, same round face and greying hair pinned back in a bun. Perhaps a little plumper and wearing her own clothes, with an ample apron.