Bartering Her Innocence (9 page)

She clasped her hands together tightly on her empty knees.

And then, as she watched, the bare-footed artisan’s purpose became clear. A leg, she realised. Two legs, fine and slender. A roundness and then two more legs, with a twist to make a neck before the tweaking continued, the artist’s movements now almost frenetic, working the glass before it cooled too much and set before he was finished.

She gasped when she realised. A prancing horse had emerged from the glass, with flowing mane and tail, and mouth open to the air, alive.

With a snap it was free, set down on a table where it stood balanced on its back legs and tail, front hooves proudly held high in the air.

She applauded louder than anyone and, when the glass had cooled, the artisan presented it to her.

‘For the beautiful
signorina
,’ he said with a bow, and she held the creation still warm in her hands, blinking away tears she hadn’t realised she’d shed.

‘It’s magical,’ she said, turning it in her hands, marvelling at the detail—the tiny eyes, the shaped hooves—the glass glinting in the light. ‘You are a true artist.’

He bowed and moved away, back to the kiln for his next work of art.

She turned to the family alongside, who were all watching with admiration and held it out to the mother. ‘You take it, please,’ she said to the startled woman, pressing it into her hand. ‘For your son, as a memento of this day.’
For the tiny child who could never receive her gift.

The woman smiled and thanked her, the husband beamed and the little boy just blinked up at her with those beautiful dark eyes.

She couldn’t stay. She fled. She strode away, feigning interest in a cabinet filled with numbered jars of coloured sand, with curled samples of glass hanging from a board, her back to the family, arms wound tight around her belly, trying to quell the pain. Trying not to cry.

‘Did you enjoy the demonstration?’ she heard Matteo ask. ‘Did you like your souvenir?’

She had to take a deep breath before she could turn and face anyone, let alone them. She plastered a smile on her face that she hoped looked halfway to convincing.

‘She gave it to the boy,’ called the artist before she could say anything, gesturing with a grin towards the family, who were all still gathered around admiring it.

Luca laughed and slapped his cousin on the back. ‘I told you she doesn’t like glass.’

His cousin shrugged as a woman came running from another room, a large bunch of flowers in her arms that Matteo took from her, thanking her for remembering.

‘Thank you for delivering these,’ he said, handing Luca the flowers. ‘Tell her I will come and see her soon.’

They left then, Matteo kissing her cheeks again as he bade them farewell, before the boat set off, the flowers lying inside on one of the long loungers.

‘Who are they for?’ she asked, curious, when Luca hadn’t spoken for a while.

He looked straight ahead, his jaw grimly set. ‘Matteo’s mother. It’s her birthday today but he has to take his daughter to the hospital for an appointment. He won’t have time to visit her.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘There,’ he said, pointing to a walled island she belatedly realised they were heading towards.

She shuddered. ‘But surely that’s...’

‘Yes,’ he said grimly. ‘Isola di San Michele. The Isle of the Dead.’

CHAPTER TEN

T
HE
brick walls loomed larger the closer they got, dark walls with white detail in which was set a Gothic gateway framing three iron gates.

Behind the walls the heavy green stands of cypress and pine did nothing to dispel the sense of gloom and foreboding.

She shivered.

‘You must have been here before,’ he said as the boat pulled alongside the landing.

She shook her head. ‘No. Never.’

He frowned. ‘I remember now. You didn’t come to Eduardo’s funeral.’

She sensed the note of accusation in his voice. ‘I didn’t make it in time. My flight had engine trouble and was turned back to Sydney. By the time I arrived, the funeral had already been held and Lily was barely holding herself together. There was no chance to pay my respects.’

He studied her, as if trying to assess if she was speaking the truth. Then he nodded. ‘So you can pay your respects now, if you wish. Or you can stay with the boat if you prefer. Some people are not fond of cemeteries.’

‘No,’ she said, thinking nothing could be more forbidding than those imposing gates. Nothing could be worse than waiting to the accompaniment of the endless slap of water against the boat. ‘I want to come, if you don’t mind. I liked Eduardo. I’d like to pay my respects.’

Once again he paused, as if testing her words against what he knew of her. Then he gave a careless shrug. ‘Your choice.’

Inside the imposing walls she was surprised to find the gloom fall away, replaced by a serenity that came with being in a well-tended garden. The sounds of motors and the chug of passing vaporettos seemed not to permeate the thick walls. Only birdsong and the crunch of gravel underfoot punctuated the silence. Here and there people tended graves, or just sat under the shade of the cypress trees in quiet reflection.

Luca led the way, past rows of neat graves adorned with marble cherubs and angels and freshly cut flowers. Everywhere she looked seemed to be bursting with the colour of fresh flowers.

He carried the bunch in his arms almost reverently. Flowers might soften a man, she thought, but not Luca. They only served to accentuate his overwhelming masculinity. Big hands, she thought, and yet so tender, the way they cradled the flowers.

Like he might cradle a child.

What would have happened had their child lived? If he had not been born too prematurely to be saved? Luca would not have welcomed the news that their one night of passion had ended with more than a face slap and that he was a father, but would he have wanted to meet his child? Would he have cradled him in those big hands as gently as he cradled those flowers and smiled down at him? Could he have loved him?

She dragged in air, shaking her head to escape the thoughts. There was no point in thinking what-ifs. Nothing to be gained but pain layered on pain.

Through different garden rooms they walked, and around them the closely packed lines of graves went on.

‘It’s quite beautiful,’ she said softly, so as not to interrupt the pervasive sense of calm. ‘So peaceful and well maintained. More like a garden than a cemetery.’

‘Their families look after the graves,’ he said, turning down a side path. ‘They are all recently deceased. Space is limited, they can only stay here a few years before they are moved on.’

She remembered reading something of the sort. Probably around the time Eduardo had died. It seemed strange in one way, to disturb the dead and move their remains, but then again, who wouldn’t want a chance to rest, at least a while, in such a beautiful setting, with the view of Venice just over the sea through the large iron gates?

‘Matteo’s mother died recently then?’

‘Yes, two years ago, although space is not an issue for my family,’ he continued, leading her towards a collection of small neoclassical buildings. ‘The Barbarigo family has had a crypt here since Napoleonic times when the cemetery was created.’

Of marble the colour of pristine white sheep’s wool, the crypt stood amongst others, but apart, more the size of a tiny chapel, she felt, no doubt demonstrating the power and wealth of his family through the centuries. Two praying angels, serene and unblinking, overlooked the gated entry, as if watching over those in their care, guarding who went in and who came out. Tiny pencil pines grew either side of the door, softening the look of the solid stone.

She took the flowers for him while he found the key and turned the lock. The door creaked open and cool air rushed out to meet them. He lit a candle either side of the door that flickered and spun golden light into the dark interior and took the flowers from her. And then he bowed his head for a moment before stepping inside.

She waited outside while he said some words in Italian, low and fast, she heard Matteo’s name and she knew he was talking to his mother, passing on his cousin’s message.

So true to his word.

So honourable.

So...
unexpected
.

She didn’t want to hear any more. She breathed in deep and moved away, faintly disturbed that it should bother her.

It was peaceful and quiet in the gardens, dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, leaves whispering on the light breeze—so serene and unpopulated when compared to the crowded Centro, and she thought what an amazing place Venice was, to have so many unexpected facets, so many hidden treasures in such a tiny area.

She found another treasure amongst the trees—a gravestone she’d happened upon with a sculpture of a child climbing a stairway to heaven, fresh flowers tied onto his hand, an offering to the angel smiling down on him, waiting patiently for him at the top. She knelt down and touched the cool stone, feeling tears welling in her eyes for yet another lost child.

‘Would you like to pay your respects now?’

She blinked and turned, wiping a stray tear from her cheek, avoiding the questions in his eyes. ‘Of course.’

She followed him into the tiny room, the walls filled with plaques and prayers to those buried here over the years.

‘So many,’ she said, struck by the number of name plates. Flowers adorned a stone on one side—Matteo’s mother, she reasoned.

‘Eduardo is here,’ he said, pointing to a stone on the other wall. ‘His first wife, Agnetha, alongside.’

She moved closer in the tiny space, Luca using up so much of it, and wishing she had stopped to buy a posy of flowers to leave in the holder attached to the stone.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said, and moved to go past her. She stepped closer to the wall to let him, and it was then she noticed the names on the wall alongside. ‘Your grandparents?’ she asked and he stopped.

‘My parents,’ he said, stony-faced, pointing to a spot lower down on the wall. ‘My grandparents are in the row below.’

He turned and left her standing there watching his retreating back. His parents? She looked again at the plaques, saw the dates and realised they’d died on the same day as each other nearly thirty years before.

Luca must have been no more than a few years old...

He was cold and distant when she emerged a few minutes later, his sunglasses firmly on, hiding his eyes. ‘Ready to go?’ he said, already shutting the door behind her, key to the lock.

‘Luca,’ she said, putting a hand to his arm, feeling his corded strength beneath the fine fabric of his shirt. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea that you’d lost both your parents.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ he snapped.

‘But you must have been so young. I feel your grief.’

He pulled his arm away. ‘You feel my
what
? What do you know of my grief?’

The pain of loss sliced through her, sharp and deep as he walked away. ‘I know loss. I know how it feels to lose someone you love.’

More than you will ever know.

‘Good for you,’ he said, and headed back towards the boat.

* * *

She found a box waiting for her on their return, on the table next to the bed. ‘What’s this?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t order anything.’

‘Open it up and find out,’ he snapped, before disappearing into the bathroom, the first words he’d spoken since the cemetery. His silence hadn’t bothered her during the journey home. Instead she’d welcomed it. It restored him to the role of villain. It balanced any glimpse of tenderness he might have shown—the reverent way he’d carried the flowers for his aunt—the quiet respect he’d shown when he’d entered the crypt.

It helped her forget how good he could make her feel in those moments where she could put aside thoughts that this was all a pretence, all a hoax.

And she didn’t need to find things to like about him. She liked him being cold and hard and unapproachable and totally unforgivable.

It was better that way, she reasoned, as she tackled the box, looking for a way in.

Easier.

Necessary.

She found the end of one tape, ripping it from the seam of the box. Found another and swiped it off, opening a flap and then another layer of packing.

No!

Luca returned, his tie removed, his shirt half unbuttoned, exposing a glimpse of perfect chest. She tried not to look and failed miserably as he kicked off his shoes. And then she remembered the box.

‘Where did this come from?’

He shrugged, and pulled his shirt off over his shoulders. ‘You needed a new computer.’

‘My computer is fine!’

‘Your computer is a dinosaur.’

‘You’re a dinosaur!’

He paused, halfway to tugging off his trousers, and in spite of herself, she couldn’t help but feel a primitive surge of lust sweep through her as she considered all the reasons he might be undressing, her mind lingering longingly on one particular reason... ‘And there was me thinking you considered me a caveman.’

‘Dinosaur. Caveman,’ she said, trying not to notice the bulge in his underwear, trying to hide the faltering sound of her voice, ‘It’s all the same to me. All prehistoric.’

‘Surely not the same,’ he said with a careless shrug of his shoulders that showed off the skin over the toned muscle of his chest to perfection as he turned towards her. ‘I would have thought a dinosaur would be lumbering and slow, and awkward of movement. Whereas a caveman could have more fun, don’t you think, clubbing women over the head to drag them back to his cave to have his wicked way with them.’

She swallowed as he reached out a hand and stroked back the hair from her brow, winding a tendril of it around his finger. It was hard to think with a naked man standing in front of her, his proud erection almost reaching out to touch her. The caveman taunting her with his club. Making her hungry for him. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘You do the caveman thing particularly well.’

He smiled, and tugged on the curl of hair he had wound around his finger and drew her mouth closer to his. ‘Surely not the only reason you’re here, Valentina? Don’t you enjoy being with me?’

‘No,’ she said, as he tugged on her hair and drew her still closer to his mouth. She held her breath. ‘I’m counting down the days until I will be free.’

He smiled as if he didn’t believe a word of it. ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘I’d better make the most of the days that are left.’

He pulled her face to his, his lips meshing with hers, insistent but still coaxing, inviting. And when he finally took his mouth away and she breathed in again it was to have her whole body infused with his scent and his taste.

He sighed. ‘I’m sensing a problem here.’

It was impossible to make sense of his statement through the thick fog of desire clouding her brain. She licked her lips, tasting him on her tongue. ‘What problem?’

He put a hand to her breast, cupped the aching weight of her through her dress. ‘You’re wearing far too many clothes.’

And she almost sighed with relief as she gave herself up into his kiss. Of all the problems in her life right now, an excess of clothes was one problem she could fix.

* * *

She’d imagined he wanted quick sex, fast and hot and furious. What he did was make love to her as if she were as fragile as that tiny glass horse.

His hands were slow and hot, his mouth scorchingly tender, his tongue an instrument of exquisite torture, and with all these things he spun a web of silken arousal around her, so that when she came, it wasn’t wrenched from her or like being caught in the maelstrom of a storm, but almost like an admission. A confession. A giving up of herself to him.

She lay there panting, eyes open and afraid, staring at the ceiling.

Because sex was one thing. She could handle sex. Rationalise it. Treat it as a currency if she must. And she could stick it in that imaginary box under the bed in the cold light of day and shove the lid on and divorce herself from what was happening.

But giving herself up to him, losing herself in him when she knew she was going to walk away empty-handed in a few short weeks, that scared her.

It wasn’t just the sex that was making her feel this way, she knew. It was Luca himself who was changing. Showing concern when she felt shell-shocked on the boat—buying her a new computer because her old one was decrepit and inefficient. She knew he could afford it a million times over—she knew a few hundred euro would mean nothing to him—but it was the fact he’d even bothered that cut her deepest. For he didn’t have to do those things. He didn’t even need to find Lily an apartment when she already owed him so much.

Why did he have to appear half human when she wanted him to stay one hundred per cent monster? Why did he make it so hard to keep hating him?

She wanted to hate him.

She had to hate him.

She closed her eyes and sent up a silent entreaty to the gods. Because if she was ever to walk away from here with her head held high and her ego intact, she needed a reason to hate him.

Now, more than ever.

* * *

He should take more days off. He lay in bed listening to the rumble of his stomach—he would have to get up and have lunch soon, he supposed, before it turned on him and ate him alive—but there was something so utterly decadent about spending the middle of the day in bed. Especially when you had a good reason not to get out of it.

Like Valentina.