Veretti’s Dark Vengeance

by Lucy Gordon

  Her mind was sharp with bitter irony. This was the moment that had haunted her thoughts and her fevered sensations, when she would see the truth about him, finally discovering if her fantasies had been correct. And they were. He was everything she’d hoped, his legs as long and muscular, his stomach as flat, his buttocks as taut.

  She saw the arousal he was fighting to control, fierce, threatening, promising. His chest was rising and falling as though the effort to stay in command of his desires was torturing him, but there would be no yielding, for this man never yielded either to himself or another.

  Here was the fulfilment of the dreams she’d barely admitted to herself, and it had happened now, at the worst possible moment. For above all she saw the terrifying look on Salvatore’s face; a look of sheer, murderous hatred.

  It was like finding herself in an alien world. What she was seeing in him now was no mere annoyance at last-minute frustration; rather it was as though he’d been taken over by another man, one driven by deep, violent feelings beyond her experience.

  Common sense warned her to end this quickly, calm him down, get rid of him as soon as possible, but she had the sensation of standing in the middle of a furnace. Far from being frightening, it was exhilarating, rousing her temper to match his, carrying her to unpredictable heights. Common sense couldn’t compete.

  ‘I planned nothing,’ she snapped. ‘But you’re so eager to think the worst of me that you twist everything.’

  ‘What do I need to twist? You’ve sent me one message throughout the evening and a different one now, and I guess I know why. This is how you operate, isn’t it? Teasing a man, hoping to drive him into a frenzy?’

  Temper drove her to say defiantly, ‘What do you mean, hoping? I’ve never had any difficulty.’

  She made the words deliberately incendiary. It was madness to provoke him, but she was too angry to think straight.

  ‘Is that how you get your fun?’ he sneered. ‘How many men have you driven to the edge before you give yourself to them?’

  There was a perverse pleasure in knowing that she’d confirmed his opinion of her. The madness that possessed her now drove her to needle him further.

  ‘I never give myself,’ she said deliberately, knowing he would understand the hidden meaning. ‘That part of me is my own exclusive property, and you won’t come close to it.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ he murmured. ‘You’ll offer it to me, I promise you.’

  ‘No, you mean you’ll take it,’ she accused him.

  ‘I never do that. Any fool can take. The pleasure is when you offer-even against your own will. You’ll end by giving me everything I want, and begging me to take more.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Is that a challenge? Because I’m going to accept it.’

  Moving fast, he slipped his arm around her waist and tightened it so that she was held prisoner, her skin against his, the feel of his arousal between her legs, reminding her that this could only end one way.

  She pressed her hands against his chest, trying to push him away, but the attempt was feeble. Her will was divided, and he must have known that, for he didn’t yield an inch.

  ‘Too late,’ he whispered. ‘You shouldn’t have dared me to try you if you didn’t mean it. Challenge given and accepted.’

  Only a few moments ago fear had undermined her desire, but anger had mysteriously brought it flooding back, and now it was stronger than herself. Her breathing came heavily, so that her breasts with their peaked nipples rose and fell against him, telling him everything she would have gladly denied.

  ‘Why are you angry with me, Helena?’ he murmured. ‘We’re playing your game, your way, your rules.’

  ‘My rules,’ she managed to say. ‘Then I can change them whenever I like. You’ll never keep up with me.’

  ‘Try me.’ He echoed her own words back to her.

  He was moving as he spoke, drawing closer to the bed. She braced herself, expecting him to toss her onto her back and hold her down. Instead he lay full length and pulled her on top of him in a way that took her by surprise, giving the illusion of freedom, but only the freedom to writhe against him.

  ‘What do the rules say now?’ he asked.

  She answered him, not in words but by fastening her mouth over his. Now all thoughts of the role she was playing fell away and she was driven by blind instinct. He was a man with a demonic power to seduce a woman, and that power was enticing her along unfamiliar paths to a new destination. It might not be wise to follow the lure but she was beyond rational thought, obeying the demands of her body.

  For so long she had fought those demands, pretended they no longer existed, fooled herself that they were conquered for ever. Now that delusion was crumbling in flames. She wanted this man and no other, wanted what he could do to her and for her, and she wouldn’t settle for less.

  She moved a hand over him, reaching down until she could feel him, fierce and rock-hard between her fingers. There was might and power there, and the need to have him inside her was intolerable.

  He touched her breast, pushing her slightly away so that he could see her face as though there was something he needed to know, then increasing the pressure until she was on her back.

  As his knee came between hers, separating her legs, she had a last look at his face, and what she saw there surprised her. The hard look was gone, replaced by something that might almost have been confusion: no triumph, just a searching gaze as though he too was in an unknown land.

  Then he was completely over her, urging her legs further apart until she could feel him seeking entry, finding her, driving into her with a ruthless power that sent her spinning into space. She groaned with the strangeness of it, but that was followed at once by the certainty that this was right. This had been inevitable since the dawn of time.

  He was moving inside her, slowly, prolonging pleasure with infinite control, taking her deeply, then more deeply until there seemed no corner of her that he couldn’t claim. She was burning up, going out of her mind with pleasure so intense that it was unbearable.

  She clasped her legs behind him, then her arms, taking him prisoner and crying out to him to make this last for ever. She had a terrible feeling that it would soon be over and she couldn’t bear that. She thrust herself back at him with all her strength, seeking more and then more, until the moment came and it was like annihilation.

  She returned to the world to find that her heart was thundering wildly, and nothing was as it had been before. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  She was lying on her back, one arm flung over her eyes, which she kept closed. She could sense Salvatore near her but for a while she needed to be alone with herself, free from his gaze that saw too much. What had happened inside her was as alarming as it had been glorious, and he was the last person in the world who could be allowed to suspect.

  She took a few slow breaths to calm herself and slip into the character she wanted to present. Then she opened her eyes to find him sitting on the bed, watching her.

  ‘Well?’ he asked wryly. ‘Are you going to deny that I won?’

  ‘You won nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘In here-’ she tapped her breast ‘-nothing. Because there’s nothing there to win.’

  He placed his hand over her breast where her heart was still pounding.

  ‘A machine,’ she told him defiantly. ‘Nothing else. Ever.’

  ‘That isn’t true,’ he said slowly. ‘Why are you pretending?’

  ‘I’m not pretending, Salvatore. A machine.’ She managed a little scornful laugh. ‘Don’t scowl. Think how useful a machine will be to you. No inconvenient emotions, no tears when it’s over, a woman who knows the rules and doesn’t ask for more. No different from a man, really.’

  ‘You’re already planning for the end?’ he queried lightly.

  She shrugged. ‘Everything ends, although not too soon, I hope.’

  He inclined his head. ‘You’re too kind.’

  She yawned and stretc
hed, the very picture of a woman luxuriating in sensual delight. ‘We have nothing to do but please ourselves.’

  ‘I take it you have no complaints?’

  Her lips twitched. ‘None that I can think of. If I do, I’ll let you know.’

  He laughed outright at that.

  ‘Perhaps I should be going now,’ he said. ‘I’d be reluctant to cause a scandal.’

  He waited for her to ask him to stay, but she said nothing. Her eyes were blank and he realised, with a sense of shock, that she was simply waiting for him to leave.

  He switched on a bedside light so that he could hunt for his discarded clothes, then dressed quickly, meaning to head out of the door, but at the last minute something held him back to ask in sudden concern, ‘Are you all right?’

  The life returned to her eyes. ‘Never better,’ she assured him brightly. ‘But now I really must get some sleep. Close the door quietly.’

  ‘I will.’ But still he didn’t move. ‘Helena-’

  She yawned. ‘Oh, dear, excuse me, I’m so sleepy.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, and departed.

  When he’d gone she didn’t move but lay staring at the ceiling trying to come to terms with what had happened. Her flesh was still thrumming with pleasure and satiation. Part of her ached to have him back, to pull him down into bed with her and let him bring her body the ecstasy that had come as a revelation.

  The other part of her wanted to flee Venice, flee Salvatore, flee the joyous prospect that had opened up before her, because she was no longer sure she had the courage to confront its dangers. She was lonely, but to be lonely was to be free. To get closer to Salvatore was to risk loving him, and that would be the greatest disaster of all.

  High above on the ceiling nymphs chased each other, laughing as they darted here and there, exchanging looks that were meant to tease and allure, until the moment would come when the chase ended in delight.

  They make it look so simple, she sighed to herself. But it isn’t simple at all.

  She wondered where Salvatore was now, and what he was thinking. She tried to picture him walking home through the dark calles, rejoicing in his easy victory, saying he’d always known she was just like the others.

  But the picture didn’t fit. It faded before the memory of the concern in his voice as he’d asked if she was all right.

  She reached out, to switch off the beside light, rolled over and buried her head under the clothes.

  Down below, Salvatore stood by the landing stage, watching her window, trying to sort out his thoughts, but they were too much for him. Nothing in the world made any sense.

  She had been like a woman experiencing passion for the first time. Helen of Troy, whose lustrous body was a byword for sexual allure and delightful sin, had made love with an air of astonishment and discovery that had stunned him. Prepared for skill and experience, he’d found instead something shockingly like innocence.

  He’d always avoided innocence. It caused too many complications. Helena’s attraction had been that she seemed like himself, cynical, wary, well able to take care of herself. Her own words, ‘A woman who knows the rules and doesn’t ask for more,’ had seemed to bear that out.

  But it was false. Her caresses had been eager but simple and artless, with none of the calculation he’d expected. He’d known women with those very skills, who’d taken him to the extremes of physical pleasure, but then shrugged when the time had come to part. Not one of them had inspired the concern he’d felt for Helena.

  ‘What mystery are you hiding?’ he murmured. ‘Who are you lying to-me or yourself? And why?’

  He stood watching for a while longer, listening to the soft lapping of the little waves, until her light went out. Only then did he walk slowly, thoughtfully, away.

  Business in Milan kept Salvatore away for the next few days. When it was complete he remembered further business in Rome, and it was a week before he returned to Venice to find a large parcel waiting for him.

  ‘It came by special messenger the day you left,’ his grandmother told him.

  She was a thin, hard-faced woman, expensively dressed. The daughter of impoverished nobility, she had married for money and borne one child, Lisetta, the daughter who had been Salvatore’s mother. Guido, her son-in-law, had been the object of her hatred, often with good reason. Now that both he and Lisetta were dead she haunted the palazzo, urging Salvatore to remember ‘his position’, and disappointed when he didn’t live up to her pompous expectations.

  He opened the parcel in front of her and then wished he hadn’t. It was the devil head Helena had created.

  Inside was a brief note:

  ‘I promised you this. Thank you for mine. It’s beautiful. Helena.’

  He concealed the note quickly, but his grandmother had seen the head and exclaimed sharply, ‘So it’s true! There was a rumour that she’d insulted you but I couldn’t believe she would dare.’

  ‘She hasn’t insulted me,’ Salvatore said, examining the object with interest. ‘It’s a very fine piece. If I’m not much mistaken it was designed by Leo Balzini, a young designer I’ve been pursuing for months.’ He gave a grunt of laughter. ‘He’s even managed to make it look like me.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. Who could think that a devil looks like you?’

  ‘Anyone who could see into me as far as she…’ His voice faded and he took a deep, unnerved breath.

  ‘What’s that you’re mumbling?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said hastily. ‘Just take my word that it’s not an insult.’

  ‘Hmm! I find that hard to believe. A woman like that-’

  ‘Please don’t call her that,’ Salvatore said quickly.

  ‘I’ve heard you say it yourself.’

  ‘But she is technically part of the family and bears the Veretti name,’ he reminded her in a voice that would have warned a more sensitive person.

  ‘But we don’t have to accept her, surely. Have you any idea of the spectacle she’s been making of herself this last week?’

  ‘She’s a model. Naturally she draws admiring eyes.’

  ‘She’s been seen out in the company of a different man every night, including Silvio Tirani.’

  Since Tirani was a buffoon who pursued one woman after another, vainly fancying that his wealth could compensate for his vulgarity, this did not elicit the reaction she’d wanted.

  ‘I’ll bet she sent him about his business,’ Salvatore said with a grin.

  ‘I know there was a scene in a restaurant, the last thing this family needs. We must ignore her, however hard that becomes.’

  ‘I seem to recall that you were fond of Antonio,’ Salvatore observed.

  He heard her give a sharp intake of breath and recalled, too late, that these were unlucky words. Despite being fifteen years older than Antonio, the signora had become infatuated with his boyish charm, and been unable to hide it. Rumour said that was why he’d fled Venice, and it had become part of the family legend. But Salvatore had spoken innocently, and now he hastened to add, ‘How would he feel about you ignoring his widow? I think it’s time she met the whole family. It should have been done before.’

  ‘You mean invite her here?’ the signora almost shrieked. ‘Never. I won’t consider it.’

  ‘There’ll be no need for you to do so,’ Salvatore said coldly. ‘In my own house I extend the invitations.’

  When he spoke like that she knew better than to argue. She walked away in a furious temper, turning at the door to hurl back the words, ‘I think you must have taken leave of your senses.’

  He waited until she’d stormed out before murmuring, ‘I’m beginning to think I have.’

  It was easy to be indifferent if you worked at it. Helena had discovered this in her past life, and surely, she reasoned, it was simply a matter of being strong-minded again.

  The problem of what to do after her night with Salvatore had been solved by discovering that she still had the glass head she promised him. She packed it up and sent it
over with a note that was friendly but not effusive, then waited for him to contact her.

  As the days passed without a word from him she faced the bleak facts: Salvatore had taken what he wanted, proved his worst prejudices right to his own satisfaction, and snubbed her by way of making his point.

  Day after day she went to the factory and concentrated all her might on learning the business, managing for hours on end not to think of him. It was only at night that there was no protection from memories of his body against hers, inside hers, and the humiliation of wondering what he’d been thinking all the time.

  The brief moments afterwards, when he’d seemed concerned for her, had been an illusion. Since then he’d shown his true contempt by his silence.

  At last she learned through the Venice grapevine that Salvatore had left the city early next morning. The trip seemed to take everyone by surprise.

  ‘It came out of the blue,’ Emilio said as they shared a snack at the factory. ‘Apparently his secretary had to cancel several meetings.’

  ‘Does anyone know when he’s coming back?’ Helena asked indifferently.

  ‘It seems not. He could be gone for ages. Let’s hope so, because then we’ll be safe from any action he could take against us. Always look on the bright side.’

  ‘Yes,’ Helena said tonelessly. ‘Let’s look on the bright side.’

  She would stay late at work, stretching the day as long as possible, but eventually she had to face the evening. Her fame had grown throughout the city, and there was always someone to dine with, if she wished. But then it would be time for her to go to bed, hoping to sleep, but often lying awake, trying to blot out the picture show in her head.

  It didn’t work. The tormenting images were always there, and the memory of even more tormenting sensations. She would shut her eyes and curl up into a ball, shivering.

  But she never wept. Never.

  The heavy, embossed invitation was glittering and formal.

  Signora Helena Veretti was invited to be Signor Salvatore Veretti’s guest on the vessel Herana for the Festa della Sensa, in two weeks’ time.