Affair In Venice Part 10

She tried to visualize him with her father. How alien he would look with his impeccably cut clothes, his olive skin and jet black hair. But his breeding and manners would make him acceptable in any country; his sharpness of mind welcome at any dinner table.

Frightened at where her thoughts were taking her, she turned her face into the pillow and tried not to think of him lying in a magnificent bedroom in a palazzo less than half a mile away. Forget him, she told herself. He's probably already forgotten you.

Wednesday pa.s.sed as slowly as Tuesday, made even more depressing by the knowledge that Filippo was now in Rome. In a determined effort to put him from her mind Erica set about making some jewellery designs and, trying to recollect the stones she had seen in the Rosetti Collection, worked out more simple settings for some of them. Though the workmans.h.i.+p of the antique pieces was breathtaking, they tended to detract from the jewels themselves, swamping rather than enhancing them. There was a lot to be said for replacing the gems for semi-precious ones: garnets instead of rubies, aquamarines and peridots instead of sapphires and emeralds. Such stones would look well in the hand-beaten gold settings, while the more expensive jewels could be set into simple uncluttered lines.

The emerald brooch which Filippo had shown her was an ideal example upon which to work, and she closed her eyes for an instant, then drew it on paper. She studied it for a while and began to evolve a new, more simplified design. Several hours went by before she was satisfied with what she had done, and she coloured it delicately to give a better indication of how it would finally look.

Signora Botelli was delighted when she saw it. 'I'd like to show it to the Conte Rosetti. Or perhaps we can leave it lying around when Signora Medina comes in. She has eyes like a lynx and is bound to notice it. If she told the Conte it would be less obvious than if we were to do so.'

'You'll get nothing from the Conte Rosetti that he isn't prepared to give,' Erica cautioned. 'He is a man who makes up his own mind.'

'I'm sure the right sort of woman can get around him. Men of strong pa.s.sions have their weaknesses, and Claudia Medina is his--'

Erica jumped up from her stool so quickly that she sent it flying; her precipitate movement was unusual enough to draw a searching glance from her employer.

'You haven't fallen in love with him yourself, have you?' the Signora demanded.

'Of course not,' Erica lied, glad she was bending down to pick up some jewel filings she had knocked to the floor. At least when she straightened she would have an excuse for her red face. 'He isn't my type. And anyway, if someone like Signora Medina appeals to him, I certainly wouldn't.'

'You have your own charm,' Signora Botelli replied. 'Many men would find your coolness and your shyness a challenge; particularly hot-blooded Latins.' The woman looked down at her plump hands, each finger beringed. 'Our men are in a cla.s.s of their own. It is easy to fall in love with one. Remember that, Erica, and be careful.'

Erica sighed. How dismayed her kindly employer would be if she knew her warning had come too late. The fierce antic.i.p.ation that each telephone ring brought her had left her in no doubt that she had already succ.u.mbed to Filippo's charms. She would never be able to chastise Sophie for falling in love heedlessly when she herself had done exactly the same. Yet she could not love Filippo deeply; she hardly knew him. What she felt was the excitement of the unattainable. One could only love truly when there was a meeting of minds and a similarity of background and outlook. It was impossible to love a man who had been born into a different world; whose social position and wealth put him as far out of her reach as a star. But though she said the words she could not make herself believe them. Her foolish heart had already made nonsense of her logical mind.

Friday was the hottest day of what Erica found to be the longest seeming week she had ever spent in her life. The air was heavy with the sultriness that spoke of a coming storm, and by the time lunch time came round she had a throbbing headache. At Signora Botelli's instigation she took an extra hour off and wandered past the stalls that bordered the Grand Ca.n.a.l. Even tourist trivia - in the form of Junk jewellery, dolls dressed as gondoliers and miniature gondolas in imitation silver and gold - looked better in Venice than anywhere else, and drew the attention of the crowds.

Because it was lunchtime there were not many craft moving on the water, though the cafes bordering the Grand Ca.n.a.l were doing their usual hectic trade. If every fried scampi eaten in this city were laid end to end they would probably reach to the moon and back!

The thought made her realize she was hungry, and she slipped down a side turning and made her way to one of the smaller trattorias which catered for the true Venetian. Here the accent was on food, with counters and stools taking the place of tables and chairs. She joined a queue of girls and young men and was soon standing by a counter near the open window with a heaped plate of fried seafood in front of her. She ate quickly, gratified that she was able to follow the conversation around her. Until she had come to live here she had spoken no Italian, but could now make herself understood without having to stop and search for a word.

It was only as she made her way back to the shop that it dawned on her that for the last few hours she had not even thought in English. It was a disconcerting realization and brought home to her the fact that she could not stay in Venice for even Reaching the arcade, she quickened her steps, though she was still some yards from the shop when she saw Signora Botelli standing outside the door waving in her direction. Afraid something was wrong, she began to run.

'What is it?' she panted as she came within earshot.

'The Conte Rosetti is calling you from Rome,' the Signora said agitatedly. 'Be quick!'

'Be quick?'

'Si, si. He has been hanging on the line for ten minutes. I said I expected you back at any time.'

As though on wings Erica sped into the shop and picked up the receiver, hoping against hope that she could keep the happiness out of her voice.

She must have succeeded, for their first exchange of conversation was ba.n.a.l in the extreme: pleasantries on the weather and a polite enquiry as to mutual health before Filippo impatiently broke through the fiction of restraint by suddenly exclaiming: 'I cannot wait to hold you in my arms! When am I going to see you?'

'I d-don't know,' she stammered. 'That depends on you.'

'It depends on you, cara.' His voice was like a caress and made her tingle from head to toe. 'Ask the Signora to give you the rest of the day off, and tomorrow too.'

'Are you coming back to Venice?' she asked quickly.

'No, but I am hoping you will come to Rome. Don't say you can't,' he said, cutting across the exact words she had been about to utter, 'because everything is arranged. Vincente - one of my servants - will come to your apartment to collect you in an hour and take you to the airport I will be at the other end to meet you.'

'But I don't know if I can get the time off.'

'Don't be nonsensical!' His tone was crisp. 'Signora Botelli will not dare to refuse when she knows you are coming to me!'

'If she does - and I ignore her - I'll be out of a job.'

'I can occupy your time much better. Please, cara, don't make any more excuses.' His voice went low. 'Or is it that you don't want to see me again?'

She was speechless that he could even ask such a question, for her awareness of him was so strong that she was sure he must know it.

'Erica!' he said sharply. 'Are you still there?'

'Yes,' she said huskily. 'And... and I will come. Oh, Filippo, I've never been in Rome!'

'I hope you are coming to see me - not the city.'

'You are the second reason,' she retorted, and heard him laugh before he said good-bye.

Not caring what Signora Botelli would make of her departure for Rome, Erica asked for permission to leave at once, and rus.h.i.+ng back to her apartment packed a suitcase. Thank goodness she had brought herself some new clothes. She would take them all with her to save the trauma of having to decide what she might need. Only as she folded a filmy nightdress did she realize she did not know where she would be staying, and was struck by the invidious position in which she had put herself. Had Filippo invited her to Rome to try and seduce her? Equally important, would she have the strength of mind to resist him if he did? Hurriedly she snapped shut the lock of her case, then went to shower and change.

She was standing in the hallway, outwardly serene in blue linen with a cheeky scarlet straw hat and matching shoes when a wiry little Italian presented himself at the door. Explaining that the Conte Rosetti had detailed him to take her to the airport, he picked up her suitcase and darted down into the street and through several back alleys until they reached a white launch bobbing on the murky waters of a ca.n.a.l. Clambering aboard, she recognized the flag on the prow and felt her heart lurch at the thought of all the trouble Filippo had taken.

No sooner had she settled down than the launch zoomed out into the Grand Ca.n.a.l, keeping to the centre of the wide stretch of water. They went fast until the Ca.n.a.l veered right. Here there was far more traffic and their speed caused such a swell that several gondoliers shouted abuse at them as their boats smacked up and down in the water. Frightened that they might crash into one of them, Erica closed her eyes and did not open them until she felt all motion cease and knew they had reached the quayside.

Here a car and chauffeur waited to take her to the airport and the private jet that was ready to wing her to Rome. She had only flown infrequently and never before where she was the only pa.s.senger. Her mind boggled at the cost to Filippo of hiring this aircraft, though as she sat down and fastened her safety belt she saw that the ashtray placed on the table beside her bore the Rosetti crest. His own jet too! Somehow this brought home to her - more than anything else had done - the great wealth at his command.

The thought of it was still subduing her when she crossed the tarmac at Rome airport and saw Filippo emerge from behind a barrier to greet her. He wore a dark suit, the material lightweight because of the heat, though its colour made him look more of a sober businessman and less of the idle aristocrat. He was paler than usual too, his heavy lids shadowed as though he had not slept well.

His greeting was punctilious, his words polite though his eyes said something different as he put his hand beneath her elbow and guided her to a waiting car. But even in its interior he did not unbend, and Erica glanced at the chauffeur's impa.s.sive back through the gla.s.s part.i.tion and wondered if this was the only reason for Filippo's aloofness. His coolness, coming on top of her own rea.s.sessment of his wealth, started to make her doubt her wisdom in coming here. All Filippo had needed to do was to beckon and she had come running like a puppy. She stirred miserably and put up her hand to smooth her hair, forgetting she was wearing a hat. The wisp of straw fell to the seat and Filippo looked at it and then at her.

'Don't wear a hat again, Erica. I like to see you with your hair free.'

She bit her lip, seeing the comment as criticism of her appearance. How positive he was in his likes and dislikes, and how regardless of the fact that by giving vent to them he might be hurting others.

'I like to wear a hat,' she said firmly, and slapped it on her head again.

Without a word he put out his hand and took it off.

'Give it back to me!' she cried, and reached for it.

Still holding it and still in silence, he pressed a b.u.t.ton by the window. It glided down and he leaned forward, tossed out the hat and closed the window again.

Erica stared at him in consternation. He stared back at her: no longer tired, his face gleaming with triumph.

'How dare you!' she choked. 'That was my hat'

'Not any more,' he said calmly.

His calmness was her undoing, and not even knowing she was so distressed, she burst into tears.

'Erica!' With a gasp he pulled her across the seat and into his arms. 'Darling, don't cry. Darling, I love you. Oh G.o.d, I love you so much.' He was kissing her now with a fervour she had expected from him when they had met at the airport, and holding her so tightly that she was powerless to move. 'I didn't want to hurt you,' he said against her lips, 'but I have been trying so hard to keep calm that I turned myself into ice. It was the only way to stop myself from melting all over you!'

'I thought you were disappointed in me when you saw me again,' she whispered.

With a groan he buried his face in her hair. 'I have been counting the hours until I could see you again, and once I knew you were on your way...'

He was unable to continue, but his hold and his touch spoke for him, and it was Erica herself who became aware of the chauffeur sitting only a yard away.

'Filippo, don't!' she protested, and pulled away from him.

'I will buy you another hat,' he announced in triumph. 'Something to make you look less of a schoolgirl.'

She stared at him helplessly. Any other man would have s.h.i.+ed away from such a touchy subject, but Filippo had no such inhibitions.

'Do you always have to control everything around you?' she asked.

'Only if it interests me.' His eyes gleamed. 'And you interest me very much.'

It was an answer she could not quarrel with, and seeing the funny side of it too, she laughed. How hard it was to fight against a man like this; he could disarm a one-armed bandit!

He was speaking in Italian to the chauffeur, too rapidly for her to understand, though she realized what he had said when, some fifteen minutes later, they stopped outside a plate gla.s.s window in Rome's most elegant shopping thoroughfare.

'You weren't really serious about buying me another hat?' she expostulated.

'Having given yours to the motorway, the least I can do is to replace it!'

'You just want me to wear the things you like!' she retorted, and heard him laugh as he led her into the salon.

With surprising speed they re-emerged and the chauffeur deposited three hat boxes in the boot. Erica did not know when she would have a chance to wear such frivolous concoctions. Each one had cost a quite staggering amount of money, but her first instinctive protest had elicited such a cold stare from him that she had lapsed into silence, reminding herself that cost was relative and that the money he was expending on her meant nothing to him.

However when he ordered the car to stop outside a boutique her protest was too vigorous for him to gainsay it, and he signalled the chauffeur to drive on.

'It is cruel of you to deny me the pleasure of buying you a few trifles,' he murmured, catching hold of her hand.

'Don't rush me, Filippo. We hardly know each other.'

'But you came to Rome because I asked you.'

She blushed. 'I already feel guilty about that I've never behaved like this before.'

'And you never will again - with anyone else.'

'Are you asking me or telling me?'

'Both.' He looked at her questioningly, but she turned and concentrated on the shops flas.h.i.+ng by. Ahead she saw a commissionaire outside the gleaming gla.s.s and chrome entrance to a hotel, and she only realized this was where she was going to stay when the car drew alongside it and Filippo helped her out.

'There is plenty of room for you at my home, cara, but I knew you would be happier staying here.'

Only now did she admit to herself how afraid she had been of staying in his house, and the smile she gave him disclosed ill her relief, making him shake his head and look at her with mischief.

'You see seduction behind every one of my actions!' he chided.

'I'm glad there isn't.'

'What makes you so sure?'

She coloured and purposefully went into the foyer.

'Everything is booked for you,' he murmured. 'I a.s.sume you would like to go to your room and unpack. I will send the car for you at seven. Wear something for dancing.'

'Would you like to come up with me and inspect my wardrobe?'

'I would like to come up with you.' As always he had the last word and she left him and went to the elevator.

The room he had booked for her turned out to be a palatial suite with bedroom, bathroom and sitting-room. Flowers were everywhere: long-stemmed cream roses, huge bowls of sweet peas and a basket of orchids on her bedside table. She did not need to look for any card. Only Filippo could have sent them. Burying her nose in the fragrant sweet peas, she stood for a moment unable to believe that all this was happening to her. But it was, and she must continually be on guard lest she lose her head completely. Yet how difficult it was whenever one of Filippo's gestures set it spinning.

Promptly at seven she was downstairs waiting for the car, feeling like Cinderella going to the ball. She hoped she was not too dressed up for the occasion, but Filippo's critical eye had put her on the defensive, and she was wearing the most expensive dress she had bought with her: a fluid tube of black crepe with no back to speak of and a minimal front held up by two narrow diamante straps. Even Filippo couldn't expect them to be real diamonds, she thought with wry amus.e.m.e.nt as she adjusted the straps. Black made her look even more slender than she was and turned her hair to silver-gilt. The confidence she felt in her appearance put a spring into her step, as did the boldly admiring glances that followed her as she went towards the car that had drawn up at the entrance.

Only as she neared Filippo's home did it lessen, dropping almost to zero as the Roman palazzo of the Rosetti family came in sight. It was larger and gaunter than the one in Venice, but once inside, she found the atmosphere palatial, and she crossed the inevitable marble entrance hall to the private elevator that would whisk her to the penthouse.

The lift moved upwards swiftly and she stepped out into another marble hall, this one in white and gold with an immense gla.s.s chandelier twinkling down on her from a blue and gold painted ceiling. A butler, not in livery as the Venetian servant but in a white jacket, led her through an arch to the living room.

It was a symphony in white and cream: white leather settees and armchairs, thick cream rugs on a black polished floor and steel tubular tables with black-topped gla.s.s to reflect the flowers ma.s.sed on them. It was from the flowers and the paintings on the walls that the colour came. And what a riot of colour it was! Entranced she gazed at the Bonnard above the mantelshelf, the Dufy and Derain on either side of it, and the two Vlaminks on the opposite wall.

She had no time to see more, for Filippo was coming towards her, unbelievably handsome in a black dinner jacket. He held her at arm's length and studied her. It was a slow, deliberate appraisal, his eyes moving down the long slender length of her, pausing on the curve of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s before coming up to look into her eyes.

'You are more beautiful than ever tonight, Erica.'

'There must be something you can fault,' she teased.

He hesitated. 'The only thing wrong,' he said slowly, 'is that you do not look sufficiently loved.'

She gave a faint shrug, not understanding him.

'I don't mean "in love",' he explained, 'but loved. When a woman has given herself to the man she wants - when he has taken her - she has a certain luminous quality about her.'

'I don't believe it.' Erica was determined not to show her embarra.s.sment.

'It is true,' he insisted. 'Soon you will find out for yourself.'

Her heart thumped and she took a quick step on to the terrace. It was some ten feet wide and forty feet long, running the entire length of the living room. Wicker settees and tables and a ma.s.s of greenery and flowers gave it the air of a garden, while the outdoor ambiance was further increased by a small fountain which played its sylvan tune beneath an arbour of roses. Below her lay the city of Rome, lights glinting in the blue dusk, its ancient ruins majestic in the gloom.

Filippo came to stand beside her. 'You will not always be able to run away from me when I embarra.s.s you.'

Resolutely she stared ahead. 'I hope you won't always embarra.s.s me.'

'I hope so too,' he murmured. 'Once you have been initiated into the art of love you-'