The Echoes of Love (8 page)

Venetia danced mainly with Fabrizio. She liked him; he was good-looking in an unassuming sort of way, and he was gentle with a great sense of humour. She knew he carried a torch for her – everyone at the office was aware of it and he was often teased about it – but he had never dared to express his feelings openly to her with any seriousness. The only symptom that truly gave him away was when his lazy, cool eyes quickened and warmed when he smiled at her, saying without the need for words that she was lovely and endearing. Venetia was always careful not to lead him on but deep down she enjoyed his harmless attention, knowing that it was no threat to her.

Nearly everyone had been drinking more than was necessary, most of the women were exhilarated and while none of the men could be called drunk, not one of them was thoroughly sober. It was the usual thing among this cheerful crowd – just harmless indulgence. Venetia was used to it and even though she was naturally inclined towards a little more self-restraint, she had occasionally let her hair down too and entered into the spirit of this sort of frivolous party. Tonight, however, she felt out of her element. She danced with various partners, heard herself responding to them, talking and laughing, but all the time her mind was elsewhere.

And then – then Paolo was before her. The crowd seemed to melt away and all she saw were those burning sapphire eyes that never left her face as he moved intently towards her. Venetia caught her breath as a curious lifting sensation blossomed inside her at the sight of him. He gave a formal bow as if she were a great lady and this a ceremonial occasion.

‘You're going to dance,' he almost whispered in his low baritone as he took her hand and drew her firmly towards him.

Whatever might be happening inside her, in her rational mind Venetia knew she must never allow him, or any other person, to establish this sort of ascendancy over her. He had done this once before, on his boat, when he had told her he was taking her to dinner, as if it was an undisputable fact. And yet, though part of her rebelled, the other part yearned to be held by this enigmatic man. So although she allowed his pull on her hand to draw her slightly forwards, she looked him straight in the eye and smiled.

‘Yes, I probably am going to dance – if someone asks me.'

‘But that,
divina
, is exactly what I'm doing.'

Her head went up as a rebellious flame lit the amber irises. ‘It's exactly what you are
not
doing. You're telling me – which I thought we'd established I'm allergic to.'

Paolo's eyes still held hers; devilish, amused eyes, showing he was entertained rather than offended by Venetia's remonstrations.

‘One does have to be precise with you, I see.'

She was pleased that she had been able to assert her feelings, despite his unnerving effect on her; but also found herself relieved that he hadn't taken umbrage.

‘It's advisable, as a rule, to be precise, don't you think?'

He laughed and almost swung her off her feet into his arms, and she surrendered to him, letting him draw her away. He held her close, with his head bent so that his lean, brown cheek was lightly touching hers. Like a knowing reprise, the familiar sound of Mina's ‘
Il Cielo in una Stanza
' floated around them once more, as it had done the first night they met in the San Marco
caffetteria
. Their steps in perfect accord, moving together as one, they gave themselves up to the nostalgic love song. They danced in silence, their eyes never meeting, lulled by Mina's warm voice, the gently pulsating rhythm and its soaring violins, like two people in a dream. Only Paolo's arms spoke, clasping Venetia closer and closer, and her body responded, yielding to him. His hand scarcely brushed against her bare shoulders, but his feathery touch scorched her to the core and her whole being came alive.

Pressing against the tautly muscled length of him, Venetia felt his need for her and the heat of desire flooded her. An involuntary sigh floated from her lips and so, slowly, he drew her even further into his embrace. She felt as if she was spinning and falling, and he with her, as if they were both being pulled by a current they could not resist, even if they had tried.

When the music ended, Paolo's head moved so that his lips found the delicate skin of her temple, and though he did not kiss her, she felt his mouth move slightly against her hairline. They stood for a brief moment, still in that entranced silence; and then, without a word, he let Venetia go and took her back to the table. She searched his eyes, wanting to see what they held, wanting to discover if his confusion matched her own, and met with sparkling dark turbulence in his blue gaze.

To her disappointment he made his excuses and left immediately afterwards, and the lights once again went out of Venetia's evening. What had happened between them? What was this strange and heady feeling she was experiencing more and more whenever he was near?

Francesca moved closer to her friend. ‘Wasn't that the man we saw crossing the square the other day?'

Venetia stiffened. ‘
What
man?'

‘Come on, Venetia, don't give me that,' the redhead scoffed. ‘The man you've just danced with. We saw him the other day crossing Piazza San Marco at sunset. At the time, I even commented on your strange behaviour, if you remember.
Al tuo confessore, medico, avvocato, e amica Francesca, non tener il ver celato
, “To your confessor, doctor, lawyer – and your friend Francesca – do not hide the truth,” we say in Italy.'

‘I don't recall that,' she answered in a somewhat stilted voice. She did not wish to be pushed into discussing Paolo, afraid of what she might be forced to admit – either to Francesca or to herself.

‘Look here, Venetia, if you don't want to tell me about it, that's fine with me, but don't take me for an idiot. I've known you too long, and anyhow, I'm not blind. He was there at the exhibition today, devouring you with those fabulous blue eyes, and he left when he saw you were otherwise engaged with
il Conte
.'

Venetia sighed. Clearly, Francesca was not going to let go of this. ‘Fine, I'll tell you some other time. This is neither the time nor the place. Anyhow, I'm tired now and I'm going home.' She got hold of her clutch bag and was about to get up but her friend placed a hand on her arm.

‘Won't you wait for the others? We've got the office launch and we'll drop you off. It won't be long now.'

Venetia paused and looked towards the dance floor where most of her party was now rocking to the psychedelic rhythm of Madonna's ‘Beautiful Stranger'.

‘No, look, they're all still dancing. You'll be here until dawn, I'll bet. I need to get a good night's sleep because I'd like to go to Torcello
tomorrow. I want to examine those mosaics again.'

Francesca eyed her friend with concern. ‘You should rest. You've had a heavy week, and after tonight we'll have work pouring into the office.'

Venetia pulled a face. ‘Not if Count Umberto has anything to do with it.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I told him off,' she chuckled.

Francesca's green eyes widened incredulously. ‘You didn't!'

‘Yes, I did. But that's another story which will have to wait.'

‘Won't you just give me a taster?'

‘He was harassing me about his proposal and I told him where to get off.'

Francesca nudged her and raised her eyebrows. ‘You're mad not to accept his proposal, you know. Half the women of Venice would sell their soul to
il Conte
Umberto Palermi di Orellana.'

‘Well, I'm not Venetian, I'm English,' she retorted.

Francesca laughed. ‘But you're living in Italy, and if I remember rightly, you said not so long ago that you would never go back to living in England.'

‘True. I love Italy and its people, but I find the machismo of the men here unbearable, and the Count is certainly no exception. And now I really must go or I'll be unable to get up in the morning.'

‘Then spend the day in bed!' Francesca rolled her eyes. ‘What's the hurry? Torcello will still be there in a couple of weeks, after you've had some rest. You need to relax, Venetia. You've been living on your nerves ever since Giovanna decided to have this exhibition.'

‘Look, it'll
be
a relaxation getting away to Torcello, I promise you. The island at this time of year is almost deserted and the weather forecast for tomorrow is good too. I might not get another chance before the end of March, and after that it'll be Easter and the tourist season will have begun.'

Francesca shook her head. ‘What shall I say?
Si pu solo portare un cavallo all'acqua ma non puoi costringerlo a bere
, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.'

Venetia flicked her friend a teasing little smile. ‘Ha, ha! Very funny! And now I really must go,' she said as she kissed Francesca affectionately, got up, waved at Fabrizio who was sitting at the bar, and left.

She picked up a water-taxi from outside Hotel Cipriani a few buildings down. As the boat descended into Byzantine shadows, winding through canal after canal in silence, Venetia's mind turned to Paolo with ambivalent thoughts. He was even trying to break into her daydreams. She still loved her own world, the world where she must be alone, where no one could touch her and where she was touched by nothing. And yet she could not deny it, that man with his quiet, searching eyes, his rather sweet and yet pushy manner – that man had struck a chord in her heart, which had been closed for almost a decade.

She stared into the darkness outside and gave a quivering smile as she recalled the way Paolo's strong arms had slid around her languid body… arms she had not resisted but had welcomed. It had come so naturally, as though their bodies had found each other and were dissolving in the opiate sexual tension that sighed and throbbed between them.

Venetia closed her eyes as her old fears raised their ominous heads.
Danger!
her subconscious shrieked at her. The thought of more disillusionment was terrifying. She resolved that even though her body tonight might have developed a mind of its own, there would be no encores. She must be ruthless and stamp on these feelings, the potency of which she had long forgotten. Relationships brought with them risk, pain and humiliation. Besides, Paolo wasn't a free man. Venetia's heart twisted as she recalled the young woman at the restaurant: whether she was his wife or his mistress, or even a mere girlfriend, clearly there was no place for Venetia in his life; so it was a situation which, one way or another, was a recipe for disaster.

Judd's features floated before her. She hadn't seen him in almost ten years and hadn't thought of him since she had come to Italy; yet suddenly now he was on her mind. In the last weeks she had caught herself reminiscing, wondering if he ever thought of her, wherever he was. The pain had also come back with his memory – the ache, the bitterness and the anger. Venetia opened her eyes and watched the dark labyrinth of the canals slip by, engulfing her in its tenebrous vortex.

* * *

Paolo sat on the veranda of his bedroom at the Schiaparelli Hotel, a glass of Rémy Martin VSOP
resting on the small enamelled table next to him. He stubbed out the sixth cigarette he'd had since he had come back in after his visit to La Scala. Before lighting his seventh, he took a gulp of the potent cognac.

Venetia's tall, slender, long-limbed silhouette swam in front of him, a mass of golden-brown hair falling in lush ringlets down her shoulders, as it had been when he had initially set eyes on her in the street that first night. He could see her face so clearly: delicately sculpted, with high cheekbones, a mouth that was made to be kissed, and curved eyes a shade lighter than her hair, which betrayed a fiery temperament despite having something disciplined about them.

Paolo was used to women swooning over him, and though he was aware that he did not leave Venetia completely indifferent, she was unlike any other woman he had met. She did not seem to have great experience of men. Though obviously efficient at her job, there was nonetheless something… unworldly… almost pure about her; and yet, paradoxically, he was almost certain she had been hurt by a man. Until he had sat opposite her in the noisy, crowded
caffetteria
on that gloomy wintry night, the only emotion women had been able to awaken in him was animal lust. But Venetia was different: the gold-flecked eyes fringed with thick lashes that met his scrutiny from time to time strangely mirrored a sadness he recognised all too well.

He recalled the warm pressure of her willowy frame blending so easily into his embrace on the dance floor earlier that night. And those small, delicate hands touching his body… it was intoxicating, and also threatened to breach the dam of his self-control. He had tried so hard to stop his attraction to her from overwhelming him.

What was it about this woman that consumed his imagination? Now, tortured by the memory of her body against his, dragging with it an aura of fantasy, he felt his need for her swell, grow and spiral into an emotion deeply buried in himself: the echo of a dream long forgotten. But the alarming feeling came and went, a transient illusion slipping away from him now, in the same way that the memory of her features was fading as he felt the bright star consumed by the darkness around it.

He would dream of her tonight, as he had dreamt of her every night since they had met. Those dreams were always tormented, painful – almost nightmares – from which he invariably woke panting and in a sweat, with at best only a vague recollection of the details. But one thing remained clear: Venetia was always at the heart of them. Was she a danger to him somehow, is that what his subconscious was trying to tell him?

Finishing the cognac in his glass, he stood up abruptly. Paolo's cool blue eyes clouded as they looked into the night. Over the gardens of the hotel in the distance, the ghostly glimmer of the immutable, crumbling Gothic
palazzi
stood guard on the banks of the canal, all a perfect evocation of a city that would one day sink beneath the sea. There was something repellent about it, much like an exotic, heavily scented flower may repel despite its loveliness. Beyond the wall, the lagoon sang its ageless, silent, interminable song. Paolo stood motionless in the moonlight, an impression of fatality resting upon him. He felt claustrophobic, as if
La Serenissima
's old stones were closing around him. Maybe tomorrow he should get out of Venice for the day. He sighed, glancing up at the stars in the inky canopy above him, as though to find answers to his tormented questions; then slowly he turned and went back into his room.