Veretti’s Dark Vengeance

by Lucy Gordon

  Helena had half expected to find herself alone when she awoke, thinking that Salvatore would retreat from intimacy as soon as he had what he wanted. Yet he surprised her by being there, sitting on the bed, his eyes fixed on her, a thoughtful look on his face.

  True, he looked away quickly, as though caught off guard, but she’d seen his expression before he could hide it, and she reached up her hand to touch his arm, making him look back.

  ‘You’re awake early,’ he said. ‘It’s barely dawn.’

  ‘Well, I can always go back to sleep,’ she murmured in a sated, luxurious voice.

  Smiling, he drew back the sheet, surveying her nakedness.

  ‘If I let you,’ he said.

  The words might sound commanding but instinct told her otherwise. His desire for her was undiminished, just as she’d meant it to be. That meant the honours were even.

  She saw him looking down on her with a half-smile and waited with beating heart for what he would say next.

  But his cell-phone shrilled, smashing the atmosphere.

  ‘Why didn’t I think to turn it off?’ he groaned, but added at once, ‘Because you gave me something else to think of.’

  They smiled at each other, but his smile faded as soon as he answered.

  ‘What? But how can they-? I made it perfectly clear-To hell with them, I can’t come now-’ Then he groaned. ‘All right, I suppose I’ll have to-’

  Helena slid off the bed and searched for her clothes. The magic time was over, but she had known it, against all the odds, and it would come again. That was enough for now.

  When the call ended Salvatore was scowling.

  ‘Damnation! I should have turned the phone off and left it off for days.’

  ‘Days? Were we going to be here for days?’ she enquired.

  His scowl gave way to a wry smile. ‘Who knows what might have happened?’

  ‘Who knows indeed? But not now.’

  ‘Now I have to get back to Venice and go to Switzerland for a meeting tonight. Some clown has made a mess of an important set of figures and if I don’t sort it out it’ll get worse.’

  ‘Switzerland?’ she echoed, halting her dressing in her dismay. ‘For long?’

  ‘Certainly a few days. Maybe a week. But think what evildoings you can get up to when I’m gone. I’ll probably return to find you’ve put me out of business.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said at once. ‘I fight fair. I’ll wait until you return, then I’ll put you out of business.’

  He grinned and leaned over to drop a light kiss on her mouth. ‘I’m really going to hate being away from you. Especially now.’

  She nodded. There was no need for words. They understood each other.

  In a few minutes they were in the motor boat, heading back across the lagoon. Gradually the Piazza San Marco came into view, the bells ringing from its distinctive tower, and as they neared Salvatore slowed down the boat.

  ‘I’m in no hurry to get there,’ he explained. ‘Once we’ve landed we go back to being who we were.’

  ‘But when you come back…’ she ventured.

  ‘Yes, when I come back there’s a lot to be said. Until then-I’ll just tell you this; you’re the first person I’ve ever taken to the island.’ His voice became deeper, quieter. ‘And that makes me very glad. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Then we understand each other,’ he said, slipping an arm about her shoulders and drawing her close.

  It wasn’t a fierce or predatory kiss, but neither was it as gentle as the ones they’d exchanged on the island. He was telling her to remember how he could make her feel, how she could make him feel. He was telling her not to forget that he was coming back to claim her.

  ‘Someone will see us,’ she said, laughing through her delight.

  ‘How? We’re still out in the lagoon.’

  But as if to prove him wrong a boat sped past so close that their own boat rocked with the waves, making them cling together.

  ‘We’d better get home,’ Salvatore said unsteadily.

  He delivered her to the hotel, said a sedate goodbye and drove away without kissing her. Helena had expected nothing else. What was growing between them wasn’t for the eyes of strangers.

  It was the time of year when glass makers set out their new collections. Helena surveyed the new pieces that Larezzo had produced, and knew she could be proud. But what she could not do was rest on her laurels.

  ‘We need a new oven,’ she said, ‘like the one Salvatore has.’

  ‘It’ll cost,’ Emilio warned her.

  ‘I know. I’ve posed for a few pictures but to raise that much I’m going to have to accept some serious assignments. But that will mean going back to England, at least for a while.’

  ‘And you don’t want to leave Venice,’ Emilio said knowingly.

  ‘I guess I don’t,’ she sighed. ‘But neither do I want to give in. I’m still fighting him-in one way.’

  ‘Even if not in another?’ Emilio said, grinning.

  ‘Well-just keep that to yourself. I’m not going to confuse the personal and professional.’

  It was easy to say that now. What was between herself and Salvatore was something she couldn’t name, but it brought her happiness, and it was easy to believe that things would work out somehow.

  That was before she picked up the newspaper, and everything changed.

  She stared a long time at the huge colour picture, trying to understand its meaning, but resisting it too because the real meaning was terrible.

  The paper had gone to town featuring the new lines of the glass factories. Today it was Perroni’s turn, and the spotlight was on a glass figure. It was beautiful, the most glorious piece Perroni had ever made, everyone said.

  There was no detail, but the outlines were sculpted so skilfully that little was left to the imagination. The naked woman, created from glass that was almost clear but for a faint pearly tinge, stretched languorously back, her arms above her head so that the swell of her breasts was emphasised. Her face was featureless, but her hair flowed gloriously over her shoulders, and almost down to her waist.

  Somehow the artist had caught her true nature, enticing, fiercely sexual, outrageously tempting, knowing her own allure, enjoying it.

  The photographer had taken her from several angles, and every picture was there in the newspaper. Underneath the headline read, Helen of Troy.

  The paper had made the most of the story, strongly hinting that it was no coincidence that Salvatore’s factory had produced this piece so closely following his association with the woman known as Helen of Troy.

  The first Helen of Troy came down to us from history as the face that launched a thousand ships,

  the writer burbled.

  And the people of Venice have recently seen this very thing for themselves at the Festa della Sensa.

  Advance orders for this daring work of art are said to top anything in Perroni’s previous collections, meaning that the factory’s fortunes are riding high again this year.

  Helena read the piece through several times in dead silence. Then she took a long breath.

  ‘Fool!’ she breathed at last. ‘Is there a bigger fool in the world than me? So easy, so obvious, and I fell for it. All the time he’s been laughing-jeering at me-’

  Now she too was laughing, shaken with bitter mirth that grew more violent until her whole body ached.

  At last she calmed down and made her way slowly to a chair by the window, overlooking the water. She almost collapsed into it as though the strength had drained from her, and leaned back, her face stony.

  Certain things came back to her, things that had been puzzling at the time but whose meaning was now brilliantly, horribly clear. Only the day before she’d bumped into Carla, apparently by chance, except that there’d been a mysterious significance in Carla’s manner. While babbling innocently she’d studied Helena’s face, as if searching for something. And her questions
had been double-edged-did Helena know when Salvatore was returning to Venice? Had she heard about his line in glassware?

  ‘She was trying to find out if I knew,’ Helena mused. ‘She must have known-everyone must have known-and they’ve been watching me to see the moment when I realised.’

  This was what Salvatore had done to her; not only used her for profit, but also made her the laughing stock of Venice.

  When she was sure she had herself under perfect control she returned to the newspaper and read the story through from the start. It was cleverly written, suggesting only that Salvatore had been romantically inspired by her. There was no hint of the cold-blooded calculation that actually lay behind it.

  ‘They wouldn’t dare,’ she thought. ‘They might think it, but only I will say it, because I know it’s true.’

  Cold-blooded. The words created a strange sensation in her, calling back the times when he’d been anything but cold, when the heat of his touch had inspired an even more fervent heat inside her, so that she had found a passion she’d never before known existed.

  After years of being a figure of ice she’d discovered herself to be a deeply sexual woman, and all because a deceitful man had played her for a sucker. He’d warned her, but she’d refused to believe him, because at the same time something had been flowering in her that had nothing to do with the body, and everything to do with the heart.

  Love. She hadn’t dared give it a name but now it seemed to dance mockingly before her. The warmth and tenderness that had been growing in her, the moment when she had instinctively defended him to Carla, she’d thought this was love.

  And all the time he’d been standing back, studying her to discover the best way to make use of her. Something caught in her throat when she remembered waking up to find him watching her, tenderly, as she’d thought; but actually calculating how much money he could make from putting her on the market.

  How fiercely he’d seemed to worship her body! And all the time he’d been taking notes, for profit.

  Antonio’s photograph was looking at her from the bedside table, his face kind and cynical.

  ‘You warned me what he was like,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t listen. But those days are over.’

  She rose to her feet, her expression grim.

  ‘Now I know what to do.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  T HERE was another day to wait until Salvatore returned. He called her at once.

  ‘I’d like us to meet immediately,’ he said. ‘There’s something we need to talk about.’

  ‘I agree. I’m on my way-’

  ‘I’d rather-’

  But the line was dead. Helena had hung up.

  A brief, hurried walk brought her to the palazzo.

  ‘Signor Veretti is in his study,’ the maid said.

  Salvatore opened his door as she approached and closed it behind them. The newspaper lay open on his desk.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking-’ he began.

  ‘If you really knew what I thought of you, you’d shrivel and die,’ she informed him.

  ‘I don’t blame you for being angry. Since I saw that thing in the paper I’ve been trying to think how to explain to you-’

  ‘But why bother? We both know how things stand. I’m really glad to have been useful to you.’

  ‘Helena, I swear that piece was designed weeks ago, before I knew you.’

  ‘Just an unfortunate coincidence! Please, Salvatore, don’t insult my intelligence.’

  Anger flashed in his eyes.

  ‘I’m telling you the truth. You own a glass works yourself, you know how long these things take to produce.’

  ‘I know I produced the devil’s head in two days, and you also produced a head in two days.’

  ‘Of course, it can be done in exceptional circumstances, but that was a one off. This-’he indicated the pictures in the paper ‘-was part of the line, created weeks before I met you. There’s no connection.’

  ‘And the name-Helen of Troy?’

  ‘That didn’t come from me. Some stupid journalist tacked it on, thinking he was being clever. After that everyone took it up. It was inevitable after we’d been seen together, but it wasn’t my doing. It was just a malign trick of fate.’

  ‘Malign? I don’t think so. Since when were profits malign? It is true, isn’t it, that this is outselling everything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s true. But I didn’t arrange it that way. I ask you to believe me, Helena. Please.’

  She gazed at him, wondering if she’d really heard him say please.

  ‘I’m begging you,’ he said quietly.

  Suddenly she knew she was at a crossroads, seeing two directions. She could take the road of believing him, loving him, taking him on trust with the terrible risk of a betrayal that would destroy her. Or she could take the other direction, call him a liar to his face, walk away, safe forever from his machinations.

  Safe and dead.

  What had happened to her in his arms was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, offering joy as nothing else could ever do. If she left now she would never be hurt again, but there would be no joy, only a frozen desert. All she needed was the courage to take the risk.

  ‘How can I believe you?’ she asked in agony. ‘You’ve always boasted that you’ll stop at nothing to get the better of me, and you seem to have done so very thoroughly. If I believe in your innocence after this-well, you’ll have got the better of me again, won’t you?’

  She faced him. He was very pale.

  ‘You could think that,’ he said slowly, ‘or you could remember some of the things that-recently-well-we each remember what we want to.’

  ‘I don’t want to,’ she cried. ‘But I don’t have any choice. You did this, it happened-’

  ‘But other things happened too,’ he said harshly. ‘We both know that. Did they matter less?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I can’t believe something just because I want to. Perhaps it’s better to stick to what I can bear to remember. You said it wasn’t safe to cross you, and I’d find that out. Well, I did, didn’t I? And once a lesson is learned, it’s learned. I can’t unlearn it. I wish I could, but I can’t.’

  ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’m saying that I understand what you’ve been trying to make me understand from the start. And I accept it. I don’t want to, but I must.’

  His eyes kindled.

  ‘And when I tell you this was an unlucky accident-you won’t even try to trust me?’

  ‘No,’ she said in a voice of defeat. ‘I don’t trust you. You’ve given me too many reasons not to.’ She gave a sudden harsh laugh. ‘Better to have it out in the open. Now we can stop deceiving each other. War to the death. So much simpler.’

  ‘War to the death,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps it was always inevitable. Gloves off, no holds barred.’

  Something had changed in him. The gentleness that had briefly been there when he begged her now gave way to a look that his enemies would have recognised and feared.

  Salvatore couldn’t see how his face reflected the change. He only knew that he had done for this woman what he’d done for no other. He’d said please. He’d even begged. It chilled him to remember that he’d begged, that she’d seen him do it and scorned him. If he could have wiped her from the face of the earth at that moment he would have done so.

  ‘No holds barred,’ she repeated. ‘You talk of me trusting you, and there, in that picture, is the proof that you’re lying.’

  ‘Don’t say that, I’m warning you-’

  ‘Yes, you’re warning me. How typical. You play the innocent but all the time you’re making money out of me.’

  ‘Only out of your body, which you’ve been doing yourself for years,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Because it’s mine!’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course,’ he said in a tone of sneering discovery. ‘I’ve infringed your copyright, haven’t I? Your body is your property. It can b
e loaned or rented out for the evening, but the only one allowed to make money from it is you.’

  ‘Exactly. And you can be sure that I’m going to do so. I’m going to take every offer, and believe me, there are plenty. Some of them go further than I’ve ever been before-’

  ‘But they’re the ones with the most cash attached,’ he said with a derisive grin. ‘Every garment removed has its price. You should certainly take every chance. I apologise for being so remiss about the fee. Here.’

  He handed her a cheque he’d been scribbling.

  ‘What’s that?’ she demanded, aghast.

  ‘Royalties. After all, I’ve made use of your body without paying for it as your other clients do, so now we’re even. I hope it’s the correct amount.’

  For a moment everything in the world was the colour of her agony. When the mist cleared she realised that she must have struck him. There was a livid weal across his face, just touching his mouth.

  Then the murderous rage died as swiftly as it had flared, and there was only the numbness of despair.

  ‘I’ll put this in the bank at once,’ she said calmly. ‘And, of course, I’ll send you a proper invoice so that it can go through the books.’ She gave him a brilliant smile. ‘Just be careful which column you enter it in.’

  ‘Helena-’

  But she’d gone.

  There was no time to think of Salvatore, even if she’d wanted to. The phone was never silent.

  A fashion magazine sent an editor and several minions to Venice with instructions to search out a variety of locations to show off the large collection of clothes that arrived with them. Wearing a variety of bikinis she posed in gondolas and, as this was outside, a few passing tourists managed to take their own pictures, passing them on to the local newspaper, which printed them at once in glorious colour.

  ‘She is quite shameless,’ the signora observed, thrusting a newspaper out to Salvatore. ‘Just look at her.’

  ‘I would prefer not to,’ he replied, pushing the paper aside. ‘Her antics don’t interest me.’

  ‘Perhaps they should, since her name has been linked with yours. How could you have been so incautious as to let that happen?’