The Rich Shall Inherit (34 page)

Claudia stared around her in a panic. What had she done, oh, God, what had she done …? She hadn’t meant to hurt him, she’d only meant to jolt him out of his icy complacency, force him to be nice to her … he
owed
her, dammit! She paced the chilly hall frantically, sobbing and wiping away the tears and smudged mascara with the back of her hand. It had never been as bad as this before—of course, they’d always fought, but this time she’d gone too far. And they’d never talked about that time in the stables, not even immediately afterward—but she’d always thought somehow that Pierluigi really loved her, that he was like a stern parent, keeping her on a tight rein because he knew she was wayward and unpredictable.

Still brooding about Pierluigi, Claudia didn’t notice the passing of time until the long-case clock in the hall boomed the hour, making her jump. It was ten o’clock and he must have been gone for over half an hour, trudging through the snow to the village. It was a long, dark walk on a treacherous icy road, he might fall and break his leg, and then he’d just lie there in the road and nobody would find him until the next day—he’d be frozen to death …. She couldn’t bear that—she loved Pierluigi, and she knew he loved her….

Terrified, she flung on her coat and ran outside. It was slippery and the snow stuck to her high heels, making her skid as she struggled across the courtyard to the garage. The doors were open and the snow was blowing in and she looked at it, puzzled. Pierluigi must have tried to start the car, but he never drove—he had a phobia about it….

Switching on the headlights, she backed out into the driveway, bumping over the frozen ruts until she came to the road leading to the village. It led downhill beneath a shelter of arching lime trees and so far not much snow had managed to penetrate the canopy. The windshield wipers flickered angrily back and forth as she peered out, searching for him in the darkness ahead, afraid she might not see him. She wiped away her tears again, sobbing as she murmured his name. “Pierluigi,” she whispered, “I didn’t mean it. I love you, truly I do. I don’t know what makes me say these things to you.” But there was still no sign of him. She
fumbled in her purse on the seat beside her for a tissue to wipe her tears, keeping her eye on the road.

There! What was that? Yes, that must be him … look, he’d stopped and was staring into the headlights … “Pierluigi,” she called. And then suddenly the back of the car seemed to slide away from her and the steering wheel was spinning under her clutching hands. Instinctively, Claudia pressed her foot to the brake, trying to steer into the skid, but there was no response; she was going faster and faster, sliding sideways across the road, over the bank, into the woods below. There was the brittle sound of breaking glass as the car came to a stop, upside down under an olive tree. And then there was just a deep, unearthly silence.

Aria stood in front of Van Dyck’s seventeenth-century portrait of a gentleman dressed in black. He wore breeches and buckled shoes, and his white lace collar and cuffs peeked from his velvet jacket. He was leaning arrogantly against a marble column with an expression on his face that said he owned the world and anyone who tried to take it from him would receive short shrift.

“He’s intimidating,” she whispered to Orlando.

“Sinister, you mean,” Orlando said thoughtfully.

She nodded. “Like Carraldo, sort of powerful and scary.”

“Let’s not talk about Carraldo,” he urged, “try to forget him for a while.”

They wandered on through the elegant galleries of the Ca’ d’Oro while Aria pointed out its treasures, enjoying watching his serious, handsome face as he inspected the paintings, moving back a little to study each one from a different angle. Being with Orlando wasn’t like being with one of her fellow students from the art college, he was so interesting and sensitive, and quite different from
anybody
she’d ever known.

It was almost like a miracle that Orlando should have come into her life when she was at such a low point. She didn’t have to
explain
to him about how she felt about her mother, or Carraldo, or even Poppy Mallory—he just understood.

Like now, wandering through the museum, they were tuned into the same wavelength; she respected his judgment on the paintings, and he asked her own poor little amateur view of them, listening carefully while she explained, and then pointing out to her what she had missed—but nevertheless praising her own intuitive opinions. “All any painting is, is what the viewer sees in it personally,” he told her. “If it means nothing to you,
then it has no value to you. Van Gogh’s irises can be worth millions to one person and another wouldn’t want it on his walls.”

The two weeks Orlando had been in Venice had been the happiest Aria could remember in a long time, and she’d been relieved, too, because she hadn’t seen Carraldo in all that time. He was away on business, much to her mother’s fury, because the emerald engagement ring was still not firmly affixed to Aria’s finger. Francesca had glared at Orlando suspiciously when she first met him, and Aria had the feeling that if Carraldo himself hadn’t sent Orlando to tutor her, she would have dismissed him.

“What is Carraldo doing, sending that good-looking young man here?” she’d asked, fuming. “You’d better behave yourself, Aria, that’s all I can say. Carraldo is not a man who would take an insult lightly.”

“Are you warning me, Mother?” Aria had challenged.

“Of course I am,” she’d replied angrily, “and you’d better take heed, or you—and Orlando—might have cause to regret it.”

Of course, she didn’t care about herself, but it was what Francesca had said about Orlando that worried Aria. He’d told her enthusiastically how much Carraldo had liked his work, how they’d talked about his need to be free to paint, and how Carraldo had given him this opportunity. It would be awful if Carraldo got angry and refused to help with his career. She knew how very important that was to Orlando.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“You,” she said honestly.

He laughed. “I hope they were pleasant thoughts.”

“Of course they were. I was just wishing there was some way I could help you in your career.”

“That’s up to me,” he said quietly, “nobody can do it but me.”

“But if I get Poppy Mallory’s money I can be your patron,” she said. “I’m serious, Orlando, you wouldn’t have to worry about money anymore; you could have as much as you need. Then you’ll be free to paint, instead of having to tutor girls like me.”

He linked his arm through hers, laughing. “I’m enjoying tutoring girls like you. I’ve just realized that I never got to meet ‘girls like you’ before … all I met were hard-boiled rich women who always wanted
more
, no matter how much they’d got. You never seem to want anything.”

“Oh, I do,” she said, looking at him with earnest dark blue eyes.

“Tell me what,” he asked, but she just shook her head.

“It’s a secret.”

“And you’ll never tell, is that right?”

She nodded again, her dark hair falling over her eyes. “Maybe never,” she said firmly.

He laughed again. “Only you could have made that statement, Aria—
maybe
and
never
in the same sentence. I shall take it to mean that one day you’ll tell me. Okay? Meanwhile, Carraldo is paying me very well for this pleasant job, so what do you say I take you out to dinner tonight? Where would you like to go? Harry’s Bar?”

“Oh, please, let’s go to Corte Sconta,” she said. “But it’s always so busy, I’m not sure we’ll get a table.”

“Leave it to me,” he told her. “What time shall I pick you up?”

She hesitated. “I think it’s better if I meet you there … I’m sorry, but my mother wouldn’t approve,” she added miserably. “Because of Carraldo, you see.”

“Okay,” Orlando said curtly. “Meet me there then, at ten.”

Corte Sconta was tucked away down a tiny alley off the Riva degli Schiavoni in the Castello area, and Aria waited impatiently for the waterbus. It was a bitterly cold night and the fog was rolling in across the lagoon, muffling sounds and reducing visibility to twenty yards. Snuggling deeper into her jacket, she paced the
vaporetti
stop impatiently. She had been waiting ten minutes already and she was afraid she was going to be late, and she thought that a single minute less in Orlando’s company was a minute wasted. Exclaiming angrily, she turned away from the canal and began to walk; she could be there in fifteen minutes if she took the shortcut.

The heels of her new tasseled cowboy boots rang on the trachyte volcanic-rock tiles of the Piazzetta, sounding lonely in the fog. The weather seemed to have kept everyone indoors and many of the cafes and shops were already shuttered. She turned into a side street and began to wend her way through the alleys, thinking about Orlando and the secret she couldn’t tell him. How could she? He’d probably just laugh at her if she ever said she was in love with him. Orlando knew such sophisticated women, she must seem just a girl to him. But inside she wasn’t; she was very grown up and she was yearning for him to kiss her. Of course,
she’d kissed dozens of boys before, but with Orlando it would be different because she would be committing herself. Love was love. And it had nothing at all to do with Antony Carraldo!

She heard the sound of muffled footsteps on the bridge behind her and glanced quickly over her shoulder, but in the glare of a streetlamp all she could see was swirling fog and shadows. She was quite alone. Nervously she increased her pace, straining her ears for the sounds … yes, there they were again, ringing on the stones of the little bridge she had just crossed. It was ridiculous, she knew, because if it hadn’t been foggy she probably wouldn’t even have noticed the footsteps, but the mist made everything seem sinister. The steps sounded even closer, increasing their pace, and with a cry of alarm she took to her heels, running two at a time down the steps that led to a little square where she could see the brighter lights of a cafe.

She paused under the lights, her heart pounding, glancing back to see who was there, knowing now she could run inside and ask for help. A prickling feeling at the back of her neck told her that she was being watched. But it seemed after all there was no one, and she told herself she was being foolish and continued on her way.

The Calle Crocera seemed very dark after the bright lights and suddenly losing her nerve, Aria began to run, swinging around the corner into the Calle del Pestrin, stumbling on the uneven paving stones. She was almost sobbing with relief as she reached the restaurant; with her hand on the doorknob she turned for one last look, but there was no monster looking at her from the swirling fog, only silence. Shaking her head and telling herself she was an overimaginative fool, she went inside.

Corte Sconta was a pocket-size cafe that had become famous for its superlatively fresh, imaginatively cooked seafood. Fashionable Venetians had soon discovered it and it was now so busy, its simple red-checkered tables were hard to come by. Aria glanced around eagerly for Orlando, but he wasn’t there.

“You
have a reservation, Signorina?” the young proprietor asked her.

“I think so,” she said hopefully. “Signore Messenger?”

He studied his list.
“Sì
, Signorina, at ten o’clock. The Signore is not here yet,” he said, escorting her to her table. “You would like a drink while you are waiting?”

“Aria!” Orlando hurried toward her, his blond hair beaded
with mist. “I’m sorry I’m late. I can’t believe this fog! I stopped a dozen times to ask directions and I still got lost!”

“Well, at least now you’re here,” she said, so glad to see him that she’d forgotten all about her fright. “I should have warned you, it’s a bit out of the way.”

“That’s okay.” He grinned at her. “I’m too used to stepping into a taxi and just telling the driver to take me there. In Venice you have to use your own two feet and your sense of direction to get where you are going!”

“But that’s half the fun,” she told him severely, “no cars, no fumes, no noise … that’s part of Venice’s beauty.”

“You’re right,” he said, taking her hand across the table, “and
you
are the other part.
You
look lovely tonight, Aria.
You
know, I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d let me paint your portrait … every time I look at you my hand itches to take up a brush and capture you on canvas, the reddish highlights in your hair, those wing-shaped eyebrows.” Reaching out his hand, he traced her lips with his finger. “Your lovely soft mouth …”

“Signore?” The waiter smiled at them understandingly. “For starters, tonight we have fresh eel,” he said, “and spiny-shelled crabs, mussels, sea scallops, and some very special shrimp … and for the main course …”

They were so absorbed in each other, they scarcely heard him. “What would you like?” Orlando murmured.

“Anything at all,” she whispered.

The waiter sighed, raising his eyes to heaven. “May I suggest the mixed plate for starters tonight, sir,” he said rapidly, “eel, scallops, mussels, and shrimp all together with two sauces, and then maybe a salad and the sea bass … is very, very fresh tonight … And to drink, Signore?”

“To drink? Why, champagne, of course.”

“But champagne is too expensive,” Aria whispered.

He shook his head. “It’s the only drink suitable, because tonight you’re going to tell me that I can paint your portrait.”

“But of course you can,” she cried, delighted, “you don’t need to bribe me with champagne!”

“It’s no bribe,” Orlando said so indignantly that the other diners glanced up, amused, “it’s a celebration!”

“A celebration because you are going to paint me?” She laughed.

“No,” he said seriously, “because I think I’m falling in love with you.”

It was as if the busy cafe just disappeared the way it did onstage when the spotlight shut out everything except the two principals; their eyes locked and their hands touched across the table, and Aria felt they were alone together, just she and Orlando. “You can’t mean it …?” she whispered.

“But I do.” He gripped her fingers tightly, staring unwaveringly into her eyes. “I’ve never met anyone like you before; you’ve turned my whole life upside down, Aria. I used to think that all that mattered was dashing around the world from one smart resort to another, and going to the smartest parties with the smartest people. My life has been superficial and stupid, and it’s taken meeting you for me to realize that.”