The Padova Perals

by Wilkinson, Lee

She gave him a significant glance. ‘I think you should come now.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll be there directly.’

  Rosa gave a little nod and hurried away.

  Stephen sighed and, taking Sophia’s face between his palms, dropped a kiss on her lips. ‘I don’t know what’s bothering you, my love, but we’ll sort it out when I get back.’

  A searching look and another quick kiss, and he was gone, striding after the housekeeper.

  Filled with panic and a kind of futile anger, Sophia stood like a statue, staring at the closed door. How could she go to bed with him, knowing that he belonged to another woman?

  How could he ask her to?

  But, in all fairness, she had been willing enough the previous night, and clearly it was just fun as far as he was concerned.

  All he was doing was ‘amusing himself’, using her to satisfy a need that at the moment it wouldn’t be prudent for the Marquise to satisfy.

  A more worldly, sophisticated woman might well regard it simply as an exchange of pleasure, a kind of quid pro quo, and think herself lucky that he was such a skilled and generous lover.

  But she couldn’t.

  He had called her ‘my love’ but he didn’t love her—he would never love her—to him it was just a game, and, because her deepest emotions were involved, she couldn’t join in that game. Perhaps, if it had been just a strong sexual attraction she felt for him, she might have done. But then, had it been merely attraction, if she hadn’t loved him, she would never have gone to bed with him in the first place.

  But he didn’t know that.

  So what was she to do?

  Somewhere near at hand a door opened and closed.

  She felt a rush of pure panic. He might be back at any minute.

  What could she say to him?

  How could she face him?

  And if she weakened and slept with him after all, knowing he didn’t care a jot about her, how could she ever live with herself?

  The pleasant room seemed suddenly stifling, suffocating. Blood drumming in her ears, her head feeling as if it were about to burst, her breath coming in shallow gasps, she glanced around her in increasing desperation.

  She needed air…Needed to get out of the house…Needed a chance to be alone and think…

  Seeing the garden as a sanctuary, she headed blindly for the French windows. Her hand was on the latch when, in the gathering blue dusk, she noticed a movement, a figure.

  Someone was out there.

  Turning back, she crossed the room and, opening the door into the hall, peered out. To her utmost relief, there was no one in sight.

  Her heels clicking on the marble floor, terrified she might meet someone, she fled to the Palazzo’s south entrance and after a brief struggle with the latch, pulled open the heavy studded door and let herself out on to the deserted fondamenta.

  Her only clear idea to escape, to get away, she crossed the bridge and began to walk quickly in roughly the same direction they had taken previously.

  A quiet part of the city, with small campos and a maze of narrow streets and alleyways, there were very few people about and dusk was closing in rapidly.

  But, heedless of her surroundings, her mind a seething mass of incoherent thoughts and feelings, she hurried on until sheer fatigue forced her to lessen her speed.

  Then, at a more moderate pace, she walked until her agitation began to die down and the air, appreciably cooler than it had been earlier, cleared her head enough to enable her to think more lucidly.

  So far as she could see, as she didn’t intend to sleep with him there were only three options.

  She could move back into the guest suite.

  Insist on finding some hotel accommodation.

  Or return to London as soon as she was able to get a flight.

  But either of the first two would mean continuing to work for him and she knew now she couldn’t do that. She needed to make a clean break and save herself the pain and anguish of having to see him every day.

  So she would take the third option, and go.

  Once she had made the decision, she felt a weight lift. All she had to do now was nerve herself to go back and tell him.

  But, having left the Palazzo, she didn’t want to go back and she dreaded the thought of having to see him again.

  If she could find a hotel for the night, in the morning she could contact Rosa and ask for her things to be sent over. Then she could get to the airport, either by bus or taxi, and wait for a flight.

  If she could find a hotel… Common sense pointed out that it was already getting quite late and, with the city full of tourists, finding anywhere to stay the night might be easier said than done…

  But she couldn’t believe that with so many hotels in Venice, there wasn’t one with a vacancy. It was just a case of finding it.

  Leaving without doing the job she had come here to do would be letting Stephen down, but there were enough paintings in reasonable condition for him to be able to hold the first viewing.

  And, if he moved quickly enough he could get someone else to do the valuations and get the remaining pictures ready for the subsequent viewings…

  Sophia was still deep in thought when a cat slunk out of the shadows, the moving shape making her jump and focusing her attention.

  She became aware that it was quite dark now and everywhere was completely silent and deserted. Surrounded by high walls and closed shutters, she could have been the only person still left alive in the city.

  What few lights there were were widely spaced and placed high up on wall brackets, so that between the pools of illumination were long shadowy stretches.

  At the end of one alleyway, only a faint gleam of light reflected in the black water prevented her from walking straight into a canal.

  Unnerved by the near accident, she decided to head for the tourist areas where there would still be people and lights and perhaps a café where she could sit and have a coffee while she decided how best to go about finding a hotel.

  But what use would a café be? She went cold all over as she realized that in her abject panic she had come out without her bag. With no money, credit card or identification she couldn’t book into a hotel, even if she could find one.

  She would have to go back to the Palazzo.

  Her heart like lead, she turned to retrace her steps, but she had walked blindly, unheedingly, and after a while she was forced to admit that she was totally lost.

  Chapter 9

  Whenever Sophia caught sight of a street sign she stopped and tried to decipher what it said, but they were set well above head height and, in the badly lit back alleyways, it was impossible to read them.

  There, at the end of the calle, was another.

  As she craned her neck upwards, on the periphery of her vision she saw a furtive movement.

  A shiver ran down her spine and the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose as, standing frozen to the spot, she peered into the darkness.

  Everywhere was still and silent.

  She had just decided that she must have imagined it, when she suddenly recalled what the Marquise had said about Venice being dangerous.

  Gritting her teeth to hold back the fear, and telling herself firmly that she mustn’t allow the other woman’s veiled threats to worry her, she forced herself to walk on.

  But now she was jumpy, on edge, and, though she could hear no footsteps other than her own and frequent glances over her shoulder revealed nothing, some sixth sense insisted that she was being stealthily followed.

  Avoiding the narrower alleyways and taking the better lit calles, on legs that felt curiously stiff and alien, she headed in what she fervently hoped was the right general direction for the Grand Canal.

  After what seemed an age, but in reality could only have been minutes, she emerged on to a wider street that looked familiar. Surely this was the way to the bridge that crossed the Rio Castagnio?

  If it was, she couldn’t be very far from the Palazzo. She breathed a
sigh of relief. The place she had been so desperate to get away from suddenly spelt security, refuge.

  Yes, there was the bridge and, away to the right, was the Grand Canal, the lights of the far bank gleaming on its dark water.

  But those lights failed to penetrate the gloom of the Rio Castagnio and the only source of illumination on this stretch of the canal—apart from one or two dim lamps in the little campo opposite—was the light from the Palazzo’s boathouse and a lantern above the south entrance.

  Safety in sight, Sophia hurried towards the bridge and was about to cross when there was a sudden flurry behind her and a violent push sent her hurtling sideways and into the canal.

  She screamed once, just before the water—which was surprisingly cold—closed over her head.

  As she fought her way to the surface, panicky thoughts raced through her mind.

  In the darkness, would she be able to find the steps to enable her to climb out? And, if she was able to find them, would her assailant have crossed the bridge and be waiting for her?

  Her only other option was to try to swim to the Palazzo’s boathouse. But she was a very poor swimmer at the best of times and now, hampered by clothes, she was having a struggle just to keep afloat.

  But she must try to stay calm…

  The wash from some boat on the Grand Canal came surging down the Rio Castagnio and smacked into her face, making her cough and splutter. Her head went under and salty water filled her mouth and nostrils.

  As she floundered helplessly, gasping and choking, there was a sudden blur of movement and a splash as someone dived in. After a second or two strong arms closed around her.

  Filled with blind panic, convinced that whoever it was was trying to drown her, she struggled wildly to free herself.

  ‘Sophia…Sophia…’ Stephen’s voice urgently repeating her name brought her to her senses.

  As she went limp in his arms, he turned on his back and kicked out strongly for the bank.

  A few seconds later, while Stephen supported her, another man whom, in the light from a powerful torch, she recognized as Roberto, stretched out willing hands and helped her on to the steps.

  She had just found her footing, unsteady on the high heels, when Stephen hauled himself out and stood dripping by her side, fully dressed apart from his jacket and shoes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked urgently.

  Through chattering teeth, she managed, ‘Yes, quite all right.’

  Reaching for his jacket, which he’d tossed on top of his shoes, he put it around her shoulders. Then, turning to Roberto, he said crisply, ‘The south entrance has been locked and bolted and I don’t want to have to disturb the women, so will you call the boat and ask Carlo to pick us up here? It’ll be much quicker than walking through the garden.’

  Using a small walkie-talkie which, along with the torch, was attached to his belt, Roberto did as he was asked.

  A voice responded, ‘I’m very pleased the signorina is safe. I’ll be with you in less than a minute. I was just on my way back, so luckily I’m quite close.’ As he finished speaking they heard the motorboat’s engine and saw the beams of its twin lights coming down the Rio Castagnio towards them.

  In no time at all it was by the steps and Sophia was being helped into it.

  As Stephen jumped lightly in beside her, Roberto picked up the shoes and said, ‘I’ll take these with me and let the rest of the men know they can call off the search.’

  ‘Many thanks for all your help, Roberto. I’ll see you in the morning. Buona notte.’

  ‘Buona notte, Signor Stefano.’

  When they had covered the few hundred yards to the boathouse, Stephen got out and helped Sophia on to the stone landing stage.

  Turning to the dark-haired man who was tying up the boat, he said, ‘Thanks for your help, Marco. If you’ll bolt the door behind you?’

  ‘Of course, Signor Haviland,’ the young man said respectfully. ‘Buona notte.’

  ‘Buona notte, Marco.’

  Both of them still dripping water, Stephen hurried Sophia across the servants’ hall—her high heels clicking, his feet silent—through the family living-room and into his bathroom, where he turned on the shower.

  Delayed shock had set in and she was icy-cold and shaking, her brain thrown out of gear, incapable of coherent thought.

  When he removed her sandals and started to strip off her saturated clothes, she tried weakly to push him away. ‘Leave me alone…I can manage…’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said curtly. ‘You’re in no fit state to manage alone and, if it’s your modesty you’re worrying about, I’ve seen you naked before.’

  When her last garment had been tossed on to a wet pile, he pulled off his own clothes and, before she could make any further attempt at protest, he half lifted her into the shower and got in beside her.

  Her legs threatening to give way beneath her, she clutched at him and he held her as the hot water cascaded over them.

  The heat was comforting, therapeutic, and when, after a while, the worst of the shaking stopped, he let go of her and began to remove the pins that held the remains of her chignon.

  As the long wet strands fell around her shoulders, he reached for the bottle and shampooed her hair, before doing his own.

  Suds ran down their slick bodies and steam rose around them in scented clouds. It was curiously soothing, almost mesmerizing.

  By the time he turned off the water and wrapped a bathsheet around her, she was nearly in a trance and stood like a child to be ministered to.

  As soon as they were both dry, he produced two towelling robes and belted one around her slender waist before pulling on his own.

  Then, having finished drying and brushing her hair, he led her into the living-room and, steering her to a chair, said briskly, ‘As it’s late and you must be shattered, I suggest we talk in the morning. But, before we go to bed, we could both use a brandy.’ Still feeling odd and quivery inside, slightly nauseous, she objected, ‘I really don’t think I could drink a brandy.’

  Ignoring her protest, he went to the sideboard and returned with two glasses of amber liquid.

  Noting the determined gleam in his eye, she accepted one without further argument.

  Sitting down opposite, he watched approvingly as she lifted it to her lips.

  As, shuddering from time to time, she slowly sipped, the strong spirit settled her stomach and completed the job the hot shower and the cosseting had begun.

  Remembering that shower, his hands holding her, his naked body brushing against her own, she shivered.

  Hoping he hadn’t noticed that betraying movement, she glanced at him surreptitiously.

  Head bent, he appeared to be miles away.

  Such complete abstraction gave her a chance to drink in the sight of him, which she did with all the eagerness of someone dying of thirst—of someone who, only a short time before, had been planning never to see him again.

  While she had been in shock he’d been merely her saviour, a source of strength, a comforting presence, kind hands…But now she saw him as a man again, an almost irresistible man who drew her like a magnet.

  His absolute stillness lent his posture an air of tenseness and, with a queer pang, she noticed how his long blond-tipped lashes appeared to brush against his hard cheeks.

  She longed to touch those cheeks with her fingertips, to trace his mouth and the grooves beside it, to explore that fascinating cleft in his chin—longed to bury her face against the tanned column of his throat and touch the tender hollow at the base of it with her tongue.

  She became achingly aware of his long bare legs and the outline of his muscular thighs beneath the terry towelling…She remembered with toe-curling clarity the slight roughness of those thighs against hers—a roughness that had caused a tingle like an electric shock—and the driving force of his body that had brought such delight…

  Reining in her erotic thoughts, she tor
e her gaze away and reminded herself sharply that he’d only been playing with her, that he belonged to another woman. Though every fibre of her being insisted that he should be hers, fate had decreed otherwise.

  When her glass was empty, in control once more and anxious to leave temptation behind her, she rose a shade unsteadily to her feet.

  His manner mild, his voice pleasant, he queried, ‘Were you thinking of going somewhere?’

  ‘You said a brandy and then bed,’ she reminded him.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’m going to my own room.’

  She had almost reached the door when his fingers closed around her wrist, stopping her. ‘No, Sophia. I’d like you to stay.’

  Knowing it was useless to struggle, she said coldly, ‘I want to leave.’

  ‘Not tonight. Tonight you should be right here and sleeping with me.’

  Though he spoke quietly, there was a hint of persuasion in his voice that was so tempting. She was almost convinced he really wanted her.

  But she couldn’t allow herself to believe such fantasy, so she stuck to her guns. ‘I don’t want to sleep with you.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said patiently, ‘I’ll rephrase that…sleeping in the same bed.’

  Sophia lowered her eyes. ‘I don’t want to sleep in your bed.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘You did last night.’

  She flushed. ‘That was a mistake, and I don’t want to repeat it. I want to go back to my own suite.’

  ‘After all I’ve gone through this evening, there’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight.’

  Then, as though the thin thread of his patience had snapped, he demanded, ‘What in heaven’s name made you run off and go wandering about on your own? Haven’t you any sense?’

  ‘You told me Venice was a safe city,’ she said defensively.

  ‘And so it is, except in very exceptional circumstances.’

  Urging her back to her chair, he pressed her into it and said harshly, ‘Dear God, have you no idea what you’ve put me through? When I came back and found you’d vanished into thin air…Then when we were out searching for you and I heard you scream—’

  He bit off the words and, a white line appearing round his mouth, dropped into the chair opposite.