Italian Passion (5 page)

Vanessa’s stomach cramped. She had
been right. He was furious with her, as Richard so often was.

“What a piece of shit,” Marco
growled. “He doesn’t deserve to spend a minute with a woman like you.”

With that he stepped up close to
Vanessa and gently placed his fingers under her chin, raising her face so that
their gazes met. At that moment, the Eurostar glided into the platform.

Both of them ignored it.

“Listen to me Vanessa,” he said
gently. “You were unlucky, that’s all. Your only mistake was staying with him.
I would never, ever treat you like that. In fact, I wouldn’t treat anyone like
that.”

“But we’ve just met,” Vanessa
stammered, ignoring the tourists with unwieldy suitcases who pushed past her to
board the train. “We don’t know each other. It might not work between us. I
live in England and you’re here…”

Marco smiled then, the soft gentle
smile that had made her trust him instantly when they had met. “You never know
unless you try. Why don’t you stay a few more days and let me show you that not
all men are like that bastard.”

“Marco, I…”

Not waiting for another half-hearted
protest, Marco stepped closer still, gathered her into his arms and covered her
mouth with his.

Cheers went up on the platform.
Vanessa pulled away in shock, before realising that they had a considerable
audience.

“Thank god!” one American lady
exclaimed. “I was going to have to prevent you from getting on this train
myself. Anyone can see he’s crazy about you girl!”

Vanessa laughed, brushing at the
tears that now streamed down her face. Then she reached up to kiss Marco. Her
arms went about his neck and he pulled her close.

The cheers escalated to whistles and
cat-calls.

“Come on,” Marco whispered in her
ear, a smile in his voice. “Let’s get out of here before we start a riot.”

Hand-in-hand, they did just that.

The End

Venetian
Distraction

by Jayne
Castel

Faye Wilson stepped out of the water
taxi, onto the wharf, and looked about her in awe.

Now, finally, she understood what all
the fuss was about.

Venice was indeed like no other city
she had ever seen. Around her, bell towers and dusky-coloured buildings rose
out of the glittering lagoon. It was a city from another world, another era –
before cars, planes and computers. An endless swath of blue stretched overhead.
The growl of the water taxi departing, blended with the gentle slap of water
against the wharf.

It was mid-morning and despite an
early start, Faye felt energised. She had managed to get some rest on the
plane, and once the jet had touched down at Venice’s international airport, she
had followed the other passengers out to where the water buses and taxis all
docked – waiting to take visitors into the city. Only in Venice, Faye thought
wistfully, could you arrive by boat from the airport.

Faye turned and waved to the taxi
driver. He waved back with a grin. Michele, who only spoke a few words of
English, had chattered away to her in rapid-fire Italian for most of the trip.
Unfortunately, Faye’s rusty Italian did not make conversation easy between
them. She had studied the language for one year at university, but these days
felt as if she had forgotten more than she had ever learnt. She could follow
most of what he asked well enough, although she had trouble answering.
Fortunately, Michele had not appeared to mind.

Faye put her carry-on bag down at her
feet and got out her map. She brushed her bronze, layered bob out of her eyes
and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head. It was late August, and despite
that there were still a couple of hours till midday, Venice sweltered. Tracing
the labyrinth of streets with the tip of her finger, Faye discovered that her
hotel,
Pensione Aurora
, was only three blocks away.

Glancing at her watch, Faye smiled.
Her interview with Massimiliano Paolini was not until 2.30pm. She would have
plenty of time to check-in to her hotel and do a bit of exploring on her own.

She picked up her bag, slid her
sunglasses back into place and set off along the street, towards St. Mark’s
Square. Her hotel was in a street behind Venice’s most famous square. The
closer Faye got to St Mark’s Square, the busier the streets became. She crossed
the Bridge of Sighs, weaving her way through the crowds of jostling tourists,
and into the Square itself. Despite the crowds, the magnificence of the
expanse, with the domed façade of St Mark’s Basilica dominating it, took Faye’s
breath away. She could not wait to drop off her bag and go exploring.

“Please signorina, some money
please!” As Faye made her way past the church, an old gypsy woman knocked
against her. The old woman grasped at Faye’s sleeve with one hand and rattled a
crumpled paper cup containing some coins in Faye’s face. Shocked by such an aggressive
approach, Faye shrank away and shrugged the woman off. Not caring if she
offended the gypsy or not, she grasped her handbag close and hurried away.

Reaching the opposite side of the
Square, Faye had to admit that the encounter had shaken her. Her nerves were in
a worse state than she had thought.

It had been a long while since Faye
Wilson had taken a holiday – in fact, it seemed like months since she had
looked forward to anything. Although she loved her little flat in Brixton,
South London, and her job as a journalist, life had become stressful and
joyless of late; an endless grind of deadlines, and a stressful work
environment that was on the point of giving her stomach ulcers. Six months
earlier, she had finished her relationship with Richard, another journalist,
after she discovered he had been sleeping with a colleague; a woman Faye had
believed was her friend. Everyone at work had known about it, long before she
discovered the truth. Even six months on, working with people she now loathed,
had taken the shine off life.

Here in Venice, none of that
mattered. She had three days here, and she intended to make every moment count.

“Ciao bella!” a gondolier called out
from where he stood next to his gondola, touting for customers. “Let me show
you Venezia!”

“Maybe later,” Faye replied with a
smile.

“Okay beautiful,” his thickly
accented voice trailed after her. “I wait for you!”

Despite the gondolier’s cheesy lines,
which he probably used on every female tourist who passed his way, Faye’s smile
widened.

Italian men were incorrigible.

***

Faye scooped the last of her
strawberry and chocolate
gelato
out of the cup, before tossing the empty
container and spoon into the rubbish bin. She had never tasted ice-cream like
it; the flavours were so vibrant and fresh.

Dipping her hands into a fountain to
clean them, Faye glanced around. She had spent most of the morning exploring.
Then, after enjoying a plate of gnocchi with fresh tomato and basil sauce for
lunch, Faye made her way towards the
Arsenale
, the Venetian Arsenal, for
her appointment with Massimiliano Paolini.

Massimiliano, or Max as he was often
called, Paolini was one of Italy’s most famous landscape artists at present. He
had risen to fame at Venice’s last Biennale, two summers earlier, and had spent
the past two years in virtual seclusion, creating a range of water-colour and
oil seascapes that had won him international acclaim at this year’s Biennale.

Faye was looking forward to meeting
this artist, and discovering a bit about one of the art-world’s most
charismatic newcomers. She had done some research before coming here, and had
found very little on Paolini’s background. She knew he was from a small village
in Umbria, and that he had studied art in Rome. The few photos she had seen
were of a tall, athletic man with brooding Italian good looks and a mop of
black hair that fell over one eye. Faye had a number of questions for this
enigmatic artist, and hoped he would also show her his exhibited works inside
the
Arsenale
.

It was a long walk in the heat to the
Venetian Arsenal, but a beautiful one. The walk stretched alongside the
waterfront that looked over the sparkling lagoon. In the distance, Faye could
see the fawn outline of Lido Island, and the black silhouettes of the
vaporetti
and water taxis that criss-crossed the water in a haphazard manner.

The
Arsenale di Venezia
was a
magnificent complex of shipyards and armouries; a legacy of Venice’s naval
power. There were a number of visitors in the complex today, filtering into the
south-east corner of the complex where the Biennale exhibitions were housed.
Faye joined the crowd and, five minutes before her scheduled appointment, found
herself at their designated meeting-place – the Artillery.

The day’s heat had intensified and,
taking a slurp from her water bottle, Faye found herself a spot in the shade of
the building to wait.

Faye was still waiting thirty minutes
later. She glanced at her watch, for the tenth time in the last minute and
unclenched her jaw. There had been many instances during her career as a
journalist when VIPs had kept her waiting; yet, it was something she never had
come to accept.

It was rude.

Muttering under her breath, Faye dug
her mobile phone out of her bag and scrolled through her address book till she
found Massimiliano Paolini’s number. Then, she called him.

The line was engaged.

Faye glared at her mobile and tried
not to grind her teeth.

What if he wasn’t coming?

It did not matter, she told herself.
Faye had three days here, and she would track him down – at his home if she had
to. She glanced at her watch once more: 3.05pm.

Faye began to stalk back and forth
across the entrance to the Artillery.

I’ll give him five more minutes, she
seethed, and then I’m leaving.

It was then that she spotted a tall,
dark-haired man, dressed it snuggly-fitting jeans and a brushed cotton shirt,
walk out of the entrance to the Artillery. He had his mobile phone glued to his
ear and he was gesticulating wildly as he talked. Faye instantly recognised the
artist from his photos. She put her mobile back into her bag and strode across
to meet him.

Max Paolini was not having a good
day.

“What do you mean, they’re not
coming?” he roared into his mobile. “I had ten extra paintings shipped here
yesterday especially!”

“I’m sorry, Max,” his agent attempted
to pacify him on the other end of the phone. “Their schedule’s overbooked. I’m
sure, if I pressure them, the British Fine Art Society can fit you in towards
the end of the week.”

“You do that,” Max snarled. “This is
the second time they’ve put me off. I’m losing my patience.”

With that, Max closed the phone call
and slipped his mobile into his pocket. His conversation had carried him out
into the bright afternoon sun, where he was half an hour late for an
appointment with a journalist – another simpering fool who knew nothing about
art most likely.

Max was not in the mood.

His gaze swept the courtyard, hoping
that the journalist had tired of waiting and left, and came to rest on a young
woman, no older than thirty, who strode towards him. She was attractive, with
pale English skin and thick red-bronze hair cut into a neat bob. Beneath cotton
drill pants and a gauzy shirt, he could see that she had a willowy, elegant
body. Her hips swayed slightly as she walked.

As she neared him, Max noted that the
woman was struggling to contain her annoyance. Although large, tortoiseshell
sunglasses covered her eyes, he imagined they were aflame.

Not concerned in the slightest, Max
waited for her to come to him.

“Massimiliano Paolini?” She asked,
with a surprisingly good accent.

He nodded, replying in English. “Call
me Max, most English-speakers find it easier.”

He reached out and took the hand she
offered. Her skin was warm and dry, despite the heat, and up close, she smelt
of a delicately floral perfume; very different from the spicy or heavy musk
perfumes that Italian women preferred. She removed her sunglasses, and Max saw
that she had beautiful hazel eyes; thick-lashed and captivating.

“I’m Faye Wilson,” she replied
briskly. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

Max shrugged. “I had a meeting that
went on longer than expected,” he answered, deliberately not apologising.

Faye followed Max Paolini into the
Artillery and smothered the instinct to smack him round the head with her hand
bag.

Arrogant bastard.

He had kept her waiting for half an
hour and did not even have the grace to apologise. Fuming silently, she
followed him through cool, lofty corridors; her sandals clicking on the marble
tiles.

“We’ll do the interview in the
exhibition hall with my paintings,” Max announced, his voice a bored drawl.
“It’s closed to the public at the moment so we won’t be interrupted.”

Despite that he had done little to
impress her so far, Faye had to admit he spoke English extremely well, with
only a light accent. His fluency in English should not have surprised her, as
she had read that he had lived in Torquay for three years after graduating from
art school.

 They entered the exhibition space; a
wide area that still had cannon balls piled up artfully in one corner. A
selection of paintings decorated the space; some hanging from the walls, others
on stands. Ignoring the artist for a moment, Faye stepped forward, her gaze
sweeping over the paintings which had rocketed Max Paolini to the top of his
field.

Despite that her first impressions of
the artist had been negative, Faye had to admit that that the man had talent.
Seascapes: from peaceful, luminous sunsets and sunrises; to tumultuous storms
and moody mist-shrouded scenes filled the space. It was hard to believe an
artist could take one subject and present it in so many original ways. In each
painting, his unique style was evident. Faye gazed at the paintings for a long
time, enraptured, before she turned to the artist.

“Do you like them?” Max Paolini’s
mahogany gaze settled upon hers. His eyes were so intense that Faye felt a
blush rise on her cheeks. She dipped her head, letting her hair shield her
face.

“They are incredible,” she said
simply, “as I am sure many have told you.”

“An artist never tires seeing others
enjoy his work,” Max replied. “I’m glad you appreciate them.”

Faye busied herself by pulling a
Dictaphone, pen and paper out of her hand bag.

“Are you happy for me to record our
interview?” she asked. “I shall take notes as well but I want to make sure I
don’t miss anything.”

Max shrugged, as if he did not care
either way. Faye switched on the Dictaphone and placed it on a ledge next to
where they stood.

“Right, let’s get started,” she said
briskly, adopting her well-worn role as journalist. Despite that she had been
looking forward to this interview, and that his artwork was even better in
real-life, Faye was anxious to get the interview over with. His rudeness,
coupled with his unnerving intensity, made Max Paolini a difficult person to
have a conversation with.