Dark Venetian Page 11

  As Emma washed and changed in the bathroom, she wondered whether were she an impoverished aristocrat she could bear to marry a man for his money alone. Was anything worth the sacrifice? Were possessions more important than people? Was the past so all-perfect that any means were justified by the end?

  It was a question she had asked herself many times these past days, and always her answer was the same: no! It was sad, incredibly so, that collections of objets d’art should be split up and sold separately, possibly never to come together again, but happiness did not depend on these things. So long as you had a home, and a family, and food to eat, and a little left over for luxuries, that, to Emma, constituted a happy life. She was a romantic; her friends had often teased her so, but she preferred to call herself idealistic.

  Marco Cortina’s rooms, he called them offices, were in the heart of the bustling Fondaco dei Tedeschi, yet despite this, once inside the sound-proofed walls two storeys above the street below, he might have been isolated on some uninhabited island. The location was deliberate, of course. No one would expect to find the network of communication systems, the intelligence files stored in burglar-proof vaults, or the dedicated score of men and women whose lives were disrupted by their connection with the organization, in such an obvious place. Whenever Cesare visited the ‘offices’ he felt a sense of satisfaction that he, at least, was helping them in some small way towards their goal.

  It was two days since the attack on Emma, but he had not dared contact Cortina before now. There were too many eyes watching him; too many ears in unexpected places. As it was he was using Celeste as a kind of decoy. He had driven her and Giulio into the heart of the city in the launch, then jumped the boat near the Rialto, allowing Giulio to take Celeste on to the Ca d’Oro, or House of Gold, which she had expressly asked to see. Her angry protestations when he unexpectedly produced reasons for visiting the Rialto without delay were still ringing in his ears as the soundless lift glided him silently upwards into the realms of locked doors and blank faces.

  Marco Cortina received him gladly in the wide room with which Cesare was now familiar. There were maps on the walls, charts indicating the whereabouts of other company offices, and unlocked filing cabinets, inviting the visitor to take a closer look; everything in fact to confirm that this was a respectable insurance company office, and nothing to reveal its true identity.

  ‘Sit down,’ invited the huge man, indicating a low armchair, and then pouring two drinks and handing one to Cesare. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Cesare, savouring the cognac his companion had provided for him. ‘This is good!’

  He accepted a cigar from Marco Cortina, and then when the other man was seated in his armchair, his feet stretched out on to the corner of his desk, he said:

  ‘This girl I have staying at the Palazzo: Emma Maxwell; she was attacked two days ago, in a lane near the Rialto. Two men, their descriptions are hazy, but I can guess at Ravelli and Moreno. They didn’t seriously injure her, though her shoulder was pretty badly carved up.’

  Cortina clenched his teeth on his cigar. ‘Pigs!’ he muttered softly. ‘Degenerate pigs!’

  ‘The most important thing is still to come,’ remarked Cesare lightly. ‘They carved a number on her shoulder. One, five, seven.’

  ‘One, five, seven!’ Cortina’s feet thudded to the floor. ‘But that is the number …’ His voice trailed away. ‘How could they know?’

  ‘Come, Marco, we have known for some time they were on to me. There has been nothing said, but I can sense it. Since the last consignment disappeared along with Paolo Ferenze, my days have been numbered. They are not fools, my friend. They look to the nearest and most likely suspect. I was the obvious one.’

  ‘But we still have not found the whereabouts of Hassan Ben Mouhli,’ exclaimed Cortina angrily. ‘If I could get my hands on him … your mission would be accomplished.’

  ‘And where are we now?’ asked Cesare, smacking one fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘My grandmother has tied my hands; made me vulnerable. It is an impossible situation, and one, my friend, I would wish to be changed. I cannot seriously think of marriage with this affair still unsettled, and daily growing more dangerous!’

  ‘Calm down, Cesare,’ said Cortina, shaking his head. ‘We must think, and think carefully. As you say, things are boiling up, and it is conceivable that our friend Ben Mouhli will show his face before long.’

  ‘I should think that is highly unlikely,’ Cesare averred. ‘After all, if he knows we are on to him—’

  ‘But he does not know, my friend.’ Cortina leaned forward. ‘Cesare, with your reputation the police are the last friends they would look to you to have. No, I am still of the opinion that they imagine you have tried to dispose of the stuff yourself. Don’t you see, everything points to this? The stuff has never been recovered, and yet they have not been arrested or spied upon. They know you could have them all arrested, if you wished. No, Cesare, no, my friend, they are waiting for you to make the move to dispose of this consignment. I am convinced that Ben Mouhli does not suspect we know of his involvement in all this. And if, as I hope, he thinks you are attempting to go it alone, he will find you, never fear.’

  Cesare rose abruptly to his feet. ‘But don’t you see, Marco, that is the last thing I want now? I have Emma and Celeste to think of. If they could touch Emma once, they could do it again, and there is definite reason to think she would not suffer so lightly a second time. They were warning me, Marco. They want that consignment, or else!’

  Marco rose also, and began pacing restlessly about the room.

  ‘Can’t you get these women from under your feet? Good God man, all our plans can’t be destroyed because of two females you don’t give a damn about! Get rid of them! Promise to marry this Celeste, if necessary, but get them out of the Palazzo!’

  ‘It’s not as easy as all that,’ exclaimed Cesare angrily. ‘My grandmother invited them. Only she can ask them to leave. And what possible reason could I give her for asking them to do so? Only the truth bears any contemplation.’

  ‘And that, of course, is completely out of the question,’ muttered Marco broodingly. ‘Couldn’t you have stopped them from coming? Why on earth did you let them come in the first place?’

  ‘You know perfectly well, it was not put to me before the deed was done,’ returned Cesare irritably.

  Marco returned to his desk, and leaned on it, facing Cesare, the palms of his hands flat on the polished surface.

  ‘Cesare,’ he said stolidly, ‘if they cannot go, then they must take their chance! What’s it to you? One woman, more or less! This deal is too hot to put down now. If they are killed, you will not be heartbroken!’

  Cesare’s face was pale now. ‘No, Marco. I can’t agree to that.’

  ‘Why, for God’s sake? In heaven’s name why? Cesare, I have known you treat some women so badly they wished they were dead when you were finished with them! Women who would have willingly done anything to keep you! But you tired of them, and cast them aside like dolls out of favour! Do you deny this?’

  Cesare shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘So! I am a swine. I do not deny it.’

  ‘Then why jeopardize all our plans for two women who mean less than nothing to you?’

  Cesare turned away, walking across to the window and looking through the sun-blind down on to the busy square below. He felt sick to his stomach. Everything Marco had said was true; he had played around too much. But in all fairness to himself he had to concede that most of the women he had made love to had asked for nothing more, and expected nothing more. In his position, his title combined with wealth and certain physical attractions, had given him every opportunity to live that kind of life, and he was only human. But he had never had any attraction to young girls; older women had always been more appealing, more experienced, and now, suddenly, at this time of his life, he was finding it incredibly difficult to rid himself of the memory of a soft young yielding body, that had aroused h
im in a way he had thought he could never be aroused again.

  He remembered everything about Emma; the greenness of her eyes, the thick silky softness of her hair that was naturally corn-coloured, the slim, curving young body, and her wide, generous mouth. He despised himself for feeling this way, but that did no good. The memories remained, disturbing his sleep with the awareness of her only several yards away. He could not allow Marco to put her life in danger, no matter how important their concerns might be. He had determined never to touch her again, continually reminding himself that no matter how womanly she seemed she was still a child, but he wanted to see her again, be able to talk with her, find something to bring the enchanting warmth to her cheeks.

  He turned back, leaning against the window frame. ‘It’s no good, Marco,’ he said heavily. ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘But why? Do you actually love this widow, after all?’

  ‘No.’ Cesare’s reply was curt.

  ‘Then who? Good lord, you’re surely not interested in the girl? I should have thought she was a little young for you!’

  ‘She is,’ replied Cesare abruptly. ‘It is nothing like that, Marco, but she is little more than a child. I cannot be responsible for her life being endangered.’

  ‘All right, all right. Then get them out of the Palazzo, or I won’t be held responsible. Cesare, there is nothing I can do now to stop what will be. Surely you can see that!’

  Cesare nodded. ‘I must think of a way,’ he agreed, sighing. ‘But what I can’t imagine. My grandmother is not one to be fobbed off with any old story. There must be a good reason.’

  That evening he took Celeste to the casino again. Antonio had arrived to escort Emma to a music festival, and the Contessa had stated her desire to have an early night.

  It was a wonderful evening and a gondola brought Celeste and Cesare home, its lantern gleaming like a beacon in the night.

  ‘Isn’t it romantic?’ murmured Celeste, snuggling close against him as they lay on the cushions. Cesare winced a little in the dark, as the movement pained his wounded arm, but Celeste could not see him and was concerned only with furthering her own ends.

  ‘Darling,’ she continued, ‘don’t you think we ought to be seriously considering our relationship? Emma and I have been here three weeks now, and I think we know one another well enough to be sure that our marriage would not be a complete fiasco.’

  Cesare bent his head thoughtfully, and taking this as assent, she went on: ‘After all, I always wanted to be a June bride, and there is absolutely nothing to stop us, is there?’

  Cesare shook his head. He had no answer, and Celeste was content.

  ‘Now,’ she murmured. ‘Kiss me, Vidal.’

  Cesare bent lower and put his mouth to hers with a curious sense of distaste. Her lips parted eagerly, and her arms twined themselves about his neck, forcing him to a closer awareness of the thinness of her dress, and the warm flesh of her body.

  With deliberate movements he freed himself after a moment, but Celeste was excited and triumphant.

  ‘Oh, Vidal,’ she said passionately, ‘don’t let this evening end. I’ve been so lonely since Clifford died.’

  Cesare straightened, pretending to be concerned about appearances, while his whole being revolted at the idea. He did not want Celeste, despite her passionate nature and obvious glowing beauty. And yet here was an ideal opportunity. If he could persuade Celeste tonight that their marriage would soon be a reality, maybe he could suggest that she went down to his villa in Ravenna for a few weeks to give him time to arrange all the details. She would naturally take Emma with her, and thus relieve him of the anxieties so rampant in his mind.

  ‘Later,’ he murmured now, and Celeste was content.

  Tonight there was no unwelcome visitor in the hall, and after a last drink in the lounge Celeste bade him a casual goodnight. Her eyes were eloquent with meaning, and Cesare tried to appear as eager as she was.

  After she had gone into her room he poured himself a stiff whisky, swallowing the raw spirit carelessly, welcoming the warmth it brought to his cold emotions. He thought he had never despised himself so much, and he lit a cheroot angrily, pacing about the lounge like a caged animal.

  The door clicked behind him and he turned to find Emma entering the room. He glanced pointedly at his watch. It was almost two.

  ‘I know I’m late,’ she said breathlessly, ‘but Antonio met some of his friends, and we’ve been drinking dozens of cups of coffee in a café in St. Mark’s Square.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘It was fun, and there was so much going on, and the lighting is like fairyland.’

  ‘I see.’ Cesare shrugged. ‘Your shoulder; does it still pain you?’

  ‘A little,’ she admitted, bending her head. ‘I … I thought it was inflamed … but I think it’s all right now.’

  ‘Inflamed!’ Cesare uttered a profanity. ‘Surely you can tell! You were the one who told me to be careful!’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Emma flushed. I’ve said; it’s all right.’ She turned away. ‘I’m tired, signore, good night.’

  Before Cesare could detain her she had slipped away to her room, and with an oath he went to his own bedroom. He stubbed out the cheroot and took off his jacket, then he unbuttoned his shirt. He still had to be careful not to jolt his arm and it took him a while before the shirt was thrown carelessly on to a chair.

  He unfastened the bandage that bound the dressing in place, and removed it. The wound was healing but still presented an ugly sight, the flesh puckered a little where it was drawn together. But he could only be grateful that the knife had not shifted a little further left.

  There was a tap at his door, and he turned irritably. Celeste, he thought clenching his fists, and calling: ‘Come.’

  To his astonishment, Emma entered his room, closing the door behind her, and leaning back against it. Her face was pale, and she looked a little frightened.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, standing at an angle so that she was unable to see his wound.

  Emma ran a tongue over her dry lips. She had not expected him to have started undressing yet, and the sight of his bare, tanned chest with its liberal covering of dark hairs made her legs feel a little weak.

  ‘I … I wondered if you would look at my shoulder,’ she began. ‘You’re the only person I can ask, and I’d like to be sure. I’m … I’m sorry if I was rude just now, but I am rather tired.’

  Cesare’s eyes narrowed. ‘Very well, take off your blouse.’

  She was looking particularly attractive in a dark blue printed over-blouse and a slim-fitting skirt of cream linen, but Cesare turned his mind away from such thoughts, as she unbuttoned her blouse and pushed it off one shoulder.

  Cesare came forward to unfasten the bandage, and Emma saw his arm and the ugly scars.

  ‘Oh, Cesare!’ she exclaimed. ‘How awful!’

  ‘I’m sorry if it disgusts you,’ he said tautly, unwinding the bandage in such a way that he did not touch her skin at all. ‘I was about to put a clean dressing on.’

  ‘It doesn’t disgust me,’ she protested. ‘But it must have been terribly painful!’ Not thinking what she was doing, she ran her fingers along his arm near the scar, feeling the tightness of the flesh, and the dryness of the skin.

  ‘For God’s sake, Emma!’ he muttered harshly. ‘Don’t touch me!’

  Emma’s hand dropped away as though she had been burned, but her breath was coming swiftly now as the blood pounded through her veins. His reactions had been so violent that she became aware that he was not indifferent to her at all, and this situation was tantalizingly dangerous.

  He unwound the last of the bandage, and with hands that were not quite steady he turned her into the light so that he could see her shoulder more clearly.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, a little hoarsely. ‘Now, get out of here.’

  Emma looked up at him with tormented eyes. She knew she ought to go, but she couldn’t move. Minutes passed, and then with a stifled groan he
pulled her to him, pressing her close against his hard body. The savage burning heat of his mouth found hers, and Emma slid her hands up the smooth skin of his chest and round his neck.

  He kissed her many times; long, impassioned kisses that told her of his need of her, and weakened her resistance completely. When he bent, uncaring of the pain in his arm, and lifted her on to the bed where the Counts of Cesare had slept since time immemorial Emma was barely conscious of it. She was lost in a world of warmth and love that denied any retraction.

  Once he looked down at her with darkened eyes, and said violently: ‘Emma, you’re crazy. You should stop me!’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, her eyes wide with bewilderment, and he did not protest again, but buried his face in the silkiness of her hair.

  Emma realized in those moments that she had been deceiving herself if she imagined she did not love him. She knew she adored him, and had done so since their first encounter. It was mad, and impetuous, and probably very unsophisticated, but she couldn’t help it.

  And then, without warning, the door opened, revealing Celeste standing there, staring disbelievingly at them, one hand pressed to her throat.

  ‘Why, you little bitch!’ she said furiously, glaring at Emma, her eyes full of pure hatred.

  Emma seemed to come suddenly to her senses, for she released herself from Cesare, and slid off the huge bed, buttoning her blouse. Cesare himself rolled on to his back and then sat up.

  ‘Well, Celeste,’ he said coolly. ‘As ever on cue.’

  ‘Can you explain this, Vidal?’ she asked, in acid tones, controlling her temper with difficulty.

  He shook his head, and slid off the bed himself, reaching for a navy blue silk dressing-gown which was draped over the end of the bed, and putting it on.