Veretti’s Dark Vengeance (2 page)

‘He’s a hard man,’ he said. ‘I was always the black sheep of the family, and he disapproved of me.’
‘But you’re more than twenty years older than he is,’ she pointed out. ‘Shouldn’t it be you disapproving of him?’
‘I wish!’ Antonio said ruefully. ‘I preferred to leave running the factory to my manager, so that I could enjoy myself.’
‘And Salvatore doesn’t enjoy himself?’
‘Well-it depends what you mean by enjoyment. Ever since he grew up he could have any woman he wanted, but they always came second to ruling the roost. He’s a bit of a puritan, which is odd in a Venetian. We tend to think more about relishing life today and letting tomorrow take care of itself. But not Salvatore.
‘It might be something to do with his father, my cousin, Giorgio, a man who really knew how to have a good time. Perhaps he overdid it a little with too many women. His poor wife certainly thought so. Salvatore also takes his pleasures freely, but he’s more discreet, and no woman is allowed to impinge on his real life.
‘Everyone’s afraid of him. Even me. Venice wasn’t big enough to hold both of us, so I left, travelled the world, went to England, met you, and have been happy ever since.’
Salvatore’s picture showed that he was handsome, slightly fierce, with a face that was a little too firm and a mysterious air about him that Antonio told her attracted women.
‘They all think they’ll be the one to soften him, but none ever has. I keep meaning to take you to Venice to meet him, but I dare not.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘You’re so beautiful he’d make a play for you in minutes.’
‘Then he’d be wasting his time,’ Helena had told him, laughing. ‘Let’s make that trip. I should like to see Venice.’
Now she was seeing Venice, but not in the way she’d hoped.
‘We should have come here together,’ she told Antonio, and on the words she awoke.
At first she didn’t know where she was. Then she saw the high painted ceiling, elaborately decorated with cherubs, and the exotic furnishings that might have come from the eighteenth century. Slipping out of bed, she pulled on a light robe and went to the window, pushing it open to find herself bathed in dazzling light.
It was like stepping into a new universe, brilliant, magical, and she stood entranced. The water that flowed past the building was busy with boats. The landing stages were crowded with people, and everywhere she looked there was activity.
A shower brought her fully back to life, ready to go out and explore. She chose clothes that were elegant but functional, being particularly careful about the shoes.
‘The stones of Venice are the hardest in the world,’ Antonio had groaned. ‘If you’re going to walk-and you have to walk because there are no cars-don’t wear high heels.’
To placate his nagging ghost she selected a pair that were flat and efficient and that looked good with hip-hugging winered trousers and a white blouse. Her glorious hair was swept back and fixed so that it hung down her back. Then she stood before the mirror to regard herself critically.
Neat, slightly severe, nothing that would hog attention. Good.
Having breakfast in her room would be too dull, so she went down to the restaurant to confront the banquet there.
It was one of the pleasures of her life that she could eat whatever she liked without putting on weight. Now she enjoyed herself to the full, then went to the information desk to collect some leaflets about the city. Serious business could wait while she had some fun. The young man behind the counter asked politely if she had any special reason to come to Venice.
‘I’m interested in glass,’ she said casually. ‘I believe there are several glass factories here.’
‘They are on the island of Murano, just across the water. Murano glass is the very finest in the world.’
‘So I’ve heard. I believe there’s one called Larezzo that’s supposed to be the best of all.’
‘Some say it is, some say that Perroni is the best. They’re about equal. If you’re interested in seeing a glass works there’s a tour going to Larezzo today.’
‘Thank you, I should like to join it.’
An hour later a large motor boat drew up by the hotel landing stage and she boarded it, along with five others. Ten tourists were already there, and the driver proclaimed that they had now made the last stop, and could head for Murano.
‘Once the factories were in Venice,’ Antonio had told her. ‘But the city fathers were afraid of those roaring foundries, in case they started a fire that would consume the whole city. So, in the thirteenth century, they banished the glass makers to Murano.’
There they had remained ever since, dominating the art with their inventive techniques and the unrivalled beauty of their products.
Now Helena stood near the front of the boat, full of curiosity about what she would discover, and revelling in the sensation of the wind whipping about her. Of course, it made good business sense to inspect her property incognito before confronting Salvatore, but she knew, if she was honest, that she was simply enjoying this.
After fifteen minutes they arrived. Hands reached out to help them ashore, and a guide pointed out the factory.
She had never been anywhere like it before. The exhibition of finished glass objects was pleasing enough, but beyond that were the secrets of how these beautiful things were made. The furnaces, the designers, the vases being blown by hand-all these things entranced her.
She let herself fall back to the edge of the crowd, then slipped away out of sight. Now she was free to wander alone, pausing to watch as the fancy took her. It was like another universe, one where the most dazzling arts were practised with an almost casual skill.
At last she reckoned she should rejoin the others. They were just below, at the foot of the stairs, and by passing a nearby door she could reach them quietly.
The door was half-open, giving her a glimpse of a man talking into the telephone in a harsh, angry voice. She slipped past, unnoticed, and would have proceeded to the head of the stairs, had not the sound of her own name pulled her up short.
‘Signora Helena Veretti, I suppose we must call her, though it goes against the grain.’
Slowly she moved backwards until she could just make him out again. He had his back to her, but suddenly he turned, giving her a glimpse of his face and making her pull back sharply.
Salvatore Veretti.
She might be mistaken. She had only an old photograph to go on.
But there was no mistake about what he was saying.
‘I can’t think why she’s not here yet. I came to Larezzo to see if any of the staff had heard anything, but they all swear blind that there’s been no sign of her.’
Now she was glad that she’d learned Venetian dialect, for without it she wouldn’t have understood a word, although the ill-will in his tone was unmistakeable.
‘Don’t ask me what happened to the stupid woman. It doesn’t really matter, except that I don’t like being kept waiting.’
Really! thought Helena with wry humour.
‘Whenever she arrives I’m ready for her. I know just what to expect; some smart miss on the make who married Antonio to get her hands on his money. She may have fooled him, but she won’t fool me. If she thinks she’s going to take over here, she’s mistaken. And if she thinks I don’t know the kind of woman she is, she’s even more mistaken.’
There was a pause, during which Helena reckoned the other party was actually managing to get a word in edgeways. It didn’t last long.
‘It’s no problem. She won’t know what Larezzo is worth, and she’ll jump at whatever I offer. If not, if she’s mad enough to try to keep the place, I’ll simply drive her to the wall, then buy her out for peanuts. Yes, that’s fighting dirty. So what? It’s the way to get results, and this is one result I’m determined to get. I’ll call you later.’
Helena moved away quickly, hurrying down the stairs to rejoin the party. Now she was seething.
She’d been ready to do a reasonable deal, but this man wasn’t reasonable. He wasn’t even civilised. And his behaviour was beyond bearing.
If she thinks I don’t know the kind of woman she is…
Those words burned into her consciousness.
I’ll tell you the kind of woman I am, she mused. The kind who won’t put up with your behaviour, that’s for sure. The kind who’ll give you a black eye and enjoy doing it. That kind.
Right! If that’s how you want to play it, I enjoy a good fight.
CHAPTER TWO
HELENA slipped quietly back into the group, relieved that nobody seemed to have noticed her absence. Rico, the guide, was announcing the end of the tour.
‘But before we take you back, you will please honour us by accepting some refreshment. This way please.’
He led them into a room where a long table was laid out with cakes, wine and mineral water, and began to serve them. As he was handing a glass to Helena he looked up suddenly, alerted by someone who’d just come in and was calling him in Venetian.
‘Sorry to trouble you, Rico, but do you know where Emilio is?’
Helena recognised the name. Emilio Ganzi had been Antonio’s trusted manager for years.
‘He’s out,’ Rico said, ‘but I’m expecting him back any moment.’
‘Fine, I’ll wait.’
It was him, the man she’d seen in the office, and now Helena had no doubt that this was Salvatore. She stayed discreetly back, taking the chance to study her enemy unobserved.
He bore all the signs of a worthy opponent, she had to admit that. Antonio had said he was a man who expected never to be challenged, and it was there in the set of his head, in an air of assertiveness so subtle that the unwary might fail to see it.
But she saw it, and knew exactly what Antonio had meant. Salvatore was tall, more than six foot, with black hair and eyes of a dark brown that seemed to swallow light. Helena wondered if he worked out in a gym. Beneath his conventional clothing she sensed hard muscles, proclaiming a dominance of the body as well as the mind.
His face told two different stories; one of sensuality just below the surface, one of stern self-control. He would yield nothing except for reasons of his own. Remembering the angry frustration in his voice so recently, and comparing it to the civilised ease of his manner now, she guessed that the control was in full force.
Yet, despite being masked, the sensuality asserted itself in the slight curve of his mouth, the way his lips moved against each other. There was an instinctive harmony in his whole being, a sense of power held in reserve, ready to be unleashed at any moment.
He was moving among the group, discovering that they were English and switching easily to that language, asking politely why they had wanted to visit a glass factory, and why this one in particular. His manner was friendly, his smile apparently warm. Under other circumstances Helena would have found him charming.
When he noticed her he grew still for a brief moment, which was what men always did, noticing her beauty, only half believing it. For a moment she contemplated her next move.
Why not have some fun?
Driven by an imp of wickedness, she gave him an enticing smile.
‘Can I get you a glass of wine?’ he asked, approaching her.
‘Thank you.’
He produced it, took one himself, and walked aside with her, enquiring politely, ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
She preserved a straight face. He had no idea that she was the enemy that he was so confident of defeating. As a model she’d often needed acting skills. She used them now, assuming a note of naïve enthusiasm.
‘Oh, yes, I really am. I’m fascinated by places like this. It’s wonderful being able to see how things work.’
She gave him the full value of her eyes, which were large and deep blue, and had been known to make strong men weep. He rewarded her with a wry half-smile, clearly saying that he liked her looks, he wasn’t fooled by her methods, but he didn’t mind passing the time this way, as long as she didn’t overdo it.
Cheek! she thought. He was appraising her like a potential investment, to see if it was worth his time and trouble.
Helena was as free from conceit as an accredited beauty could well be, but this was insulting. After the remarks she’d overheard it was practically a declaration of war.
But she had also declared war, although he didn’t know it. Now it was time to discover the lie of the land.
‘It’s just a pity that the tours of this place are so short,’ she sighed. ‘No time to see all I wanted to.’
‘Why don’t I show you a little more?’ he asked easily.
‘That would be delightful.’
Envious looks followed her, the woman who’d captured the most attractive man in the room in two and a half minutes flat. As they departed a voice floated behind them.
‘We could all do that if we had her legs.’
She gave a soft choke of laughter, and he smiled.
‘I guess you’re used to it,’ he murmured.
He didn’t add, ‘A woman who looks like you.’ He didn’t have to.
The trip was fascinating. He was an excellent guide with a gift for explaining things simply but thoroughly.
‘How do they get that wonderful ruby-red?’ she marvelled.
‘They use a gold solution as a colouring agent,’ he told her.
Another marvel was the row of furnaces, three of them. The first contained the molten glass into which the tip of the blowpipe was dipped. When the glass had been worked on and cooled a little it was reheated in the second furnace through a hole in the door, known as the Glory Hole. This happened again and again, keeping the glass up to the ideal temperature for moulding. When the perfect shape had been achieved it went into the third furnace to be cooled slowly.
‘I’m afraid you may find it uncomfortably hot in here,’ Salvatore observed.
But she shook her head. True, the heat was fierce, but far from being uncomfortable it seemed to bathe her in its glow. She stood as close as she dared to the red-white light streaming from the Glory Hole, feeling as though her whole self was opening up to its fierce radiance.
‘Get back,’ Salvatore said, taking hold of her.
Reluctantly she let him draw her away. The heat was making her blood pound through her veins and she felt mysteriously exalted.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, keeping his hands on her shoulders and looking down into her flushed face.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she murmured.
He gave her a little shake. ‘Wake up.’
‘I don’t want to.’
He nodded. ‘I know the feeling. This place is hypnotic, but you have to be careful. Come over here.’
He led her to where a man was blowing glass through a pipe, turning it slowly so that it didn’t sag and lose shape. Watching him, she felt reality return.
‘It’s incredible that it’s still done that way,’ she marvelled. ‘You’d think it would be easier to use a machine.’
‘It is,’ he said. ‘There are machines that will do some kind of job, and if “some kind of job” is what you want, that’s fine. But if you want a perfect job, lovingly sculpted by a glass worker who’s put his soul into his art, then come to Murano.’