Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (43 page)

Rone glanced at her. “I thought you were looking for inspiration, something to help decipher a code that might be in the journal.”

“Yes, and maybe I was only fooling myself. Maybe there’s no chance of ever making sense of it.”

“But think what a great thing it will be if you do. And even if you don’t, are you any worse off than you were in New Orleans?”

“That’s easy to say, but it’s your time being wasted, too,” she pointed out.

“If I don’t care, I don’t see why you should.”

“Right, I almost forgot,” she said in stringent tones. “If I find something, you want to be around.”

He gave her a direct look. “Maybe I want to be around anyway.”

“Don’t!” she said sharply. “You don’t have to say things like that.”

“I know,” he answered. “On the other hand, I don’t have to stop, either.”

She gave him a quick look, but sidestepped the issue, saying instead, “What I’m trying to tell you is that I’m thinking of quitting. I may try to see this garden, since the tour group is going to Florence anyway. Then again, I may just stick with the group. Two days in Tuscany, on to Rome for three days, and that’s it; I head for home.”

“Fine.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “What do you mean, "Fine"? I’m saying that you can go on about your business now.”

“We’ve been through this already. You’re stuck with me to the bitter end.”

“Somehow I don’t remember agreeing.”

His attention seemed to be on a flower stall just ahead of them as he said, “Maybe I’m enjoying the whole thing.”

“And maybe,” she said deliberately, “I’d like to enjoy what’s left of my trip.”

He was silent a long moment. Finally he said, “Sorry, but it seems more important that you get home in one piece.”

“So you intend to make certain that I’m miserable.”

He gave her a slow smile. “That wasn’t my intention, no.”

There was an undercurrent in his words that she did not like. She stared at him, at the firm planes of his face and the opaque look in his dark blue eyes. She could make nothing of his expression, however. Her eyes narrowing, she said, “Look—”

“Later, if you don’t mind. I’m starving, and besides, I need to make a phone call. We’ll find a restaurant and argue while we eat.”

He turned and moved on as he spoke. She stared after him a long moment while she thought strongly about turning and walking away in the opposite direction. Let him catch up with her if he could. And yet, escaping him did not, somehow, seem as satisfactory as telling him what she thought of his high-handed tactics. Compressing her lips in a firm line, she stalked after him.

They returned to the hotel after lunch. It was a free afternoon. Since they would be leaving for Florence early on the following day, however, Joletta intended to repack her suitcase and, just possibly, take a nap.

It chafed her to have him still at her side, but she couldn’t think what to do about it. There was nowhere to run, no way to break away from him. What troubled her more, at the moment, was wondering what he was going to do in their small hotel room while she commandeered the bed.

As they walked toward the hotel desk to pick up the key, a couple rose from a bench further along the hallway.

“Finally!” Natalie said in laughing exasperation. “Caesar and I have gotten to be old friends while we waited for you two. We had about given you up.”

“Nevertheless,” the Italian added with his warm smile, “it’s a pleasure to see you at last. The blue color you wear, Signorina Joletta, is
perfetto,
perfect for you.”

Joletta saw Natalie give Caesar a glance that was both amused and sardonic. They were standing very close together, their shoulders almost touching, and there was an air about them of interrupted discussion. Joletta glanced at Rone. He was watching them also, and the look on his face could only be described as wary.

“Did we forget an appointment?” Joletta asked.

“No, no,” Caesar answered. “I came to the hotel with an idea for a drive and met your cousin, who was waiting. We had a long lunch; this is Italy, so there was no problem. But it would have been better if we could all have gone to see the villas of the River Brenta together.”

“Villas?”

“A little like the châteaus of the Loire Valley, you understand. They are country retreats built by the old Venetians to get away from the damp and play at farming with the profits made from sea ventures. Few tourists find them, which is a great pity.”

“We could still go,” Natalie said. “It’s only twenty miles, not much of a drive. Caesar was telling me about a wonderful trattoria he knows in a town called Mira. We might wind up there for dinner.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Rone said, taking Joletta’s arm. “We have other plans.”

“What other plans?” Joletta asked as, with deliberate movements, she removed her elbow from his grasp.

Natalie’s gaze moved quickly from Rone’s frown to Joletta’s flushed face. Her voice was sharp as she said, “You have to eat somewhere.”

“Not in a crowd,” Rone said.

Joletta turned a chill stare in his direction. That he would try to arrange her time after everything that had happened was beyond belief. “I think,” she said distinctly, “that this trattoria sounds interesting.”

“You don’t know the first thing about it,” Rone said in clipped tones.

Caesar struck in quickly: “It’s the best in the region, this I promise.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rone,” Natalie said, her voice hard. “Perhaps we should have a little talk? I think I can persuade you to see reason.”

Rone stiffened before he swung his head slowly toward the other woman. His voice hard, he said, “I doubt it, Natalie; I really do. Joletta already knows who I am.”

Natalie’s eyelids flickered. She looked from him to Joletta once more, her gaze lingering on his stance, the way he shielded Joletta both from view of the door and from direct eye contact with Caesar. Her lips twisted. “So that’s the way it is?”

“That’s it,” Rone answered, the words abrupt.

“Does she also know,” Natalie said softly, “what
good friends
we are?”

The stress she put on the words was suggestive, and was meant to be. Joletta felt the sting of distress behind her eyes. She forced a smile as she answered for herself. “He didn’t tell me, but it wasn’t necessary. I thought the two of you reached an understanding with amazing speed.”

“Yes, indeed,” Natalie drawled. “He is amazingly quick to make up his mind. You have to admire that.”

“Not,” Joletta answered, “when he’s making up mine for me at the same time. I think the drive sounds great.”

Caesar smiled with a lifted brow. “This means you will go? We can rent a boat and punt down the river; that’s the best way to see the villas. But we should leave soon if we are to have the daylight.”

It was not a comfortable outing.

Caesar was on his dignity with Rone. Natalie seemed annoyed with Caesar. Joletta had little to say to Natalie or Rone. Rone said nothing to anybody.

It was worth the trouble, however.

Many of the villas were quite literally Palladian, designed by Andrea Palladio himself. Classically pure of line and with perfect harmony in their proportions, they were more like palaces than villas, though their plastered facades of rich cream and gold and gray gave them a soft, airy look. The pediments and columns and arched windows glimpsed behind walls and greenery had very little of the
Arabian Nights
look so obvious in Venice.

The rowboats Caesar hired were designed for two people in each, with a pair of sweeplike oars that were used while standing, as in a gondola. Joletta was silently amused at the way Caesar maneuvered to hand her into the boat he had chosen for himself, leaving Rone to follow with Natalie.

The Italian tried to insist that Joletta remain seated while he sent the boat skimming down the river, but she refused. She felt the need for some kind of physical exertion to work off the irritation still bottled inside her. Besides, it was easier to see while standing, and much easier to avoid the pass she was afraid might come if Caesar decided to sit with her while letting the boat float along with the current.

“Ah, American women,” Caesar said as he leaned on his oar in the rear of the boat, gazing with open admiration at the grace of her movements as she swung the sweep. “They can do anything, and so beautifully.”

“I’ve seen Italian women rowing, too,” Joletta pointed out.

“A few,” he agreed with a grin, “but, like your cousin, most prefer that men do the work.”

Joletta wondered briefly if there was some salacious undertone to that remark; with Caesar, she had discovered, there often was. She gave him a direct look, but he only met it with smiling sangfroid.

A moment later he said, “So you go on to Florence tomorrow. Such a pity to leave Venice so soon.” The timbre of his voice dropped to a more caressing note. “I need not tell you, I think,
carina,
that I am at your disposal. Only speak, and I will drive you there, stay with you every moment.”

“Rone wouldn’t like that,” she said dryly.

He flicked his fingers. “I care not even that much for what Rone likes or dislikes. It’s what you want that’s important.”

His attitude was a refreshing change. That he had picked up on her dissatisfaction earlier and used it made no difference. An idea began to form in the back of her mind.

“You would have to get up very early,” she said, a warning in her voice, though her smile was brightly quizzical.

“For you it would be no sacrifice.”

“
Very
early.”

“Joletta,
carina,
command me.”

She glanced at the other boat that was some distance away but closing fast as Rone got the hang of the sweep oar. Keeping her voice low, she outlined what might be required. When she had finished, she asked, “Is it possible for you?”

Caesar spread his hands, letting the boat veer as it would. The look in his eyes several degrees warmer, he said, “How can you ask?”

She gave a slow nod. “Let me think about it a little more, and I’ll let you know if we’re on.”

“Think quickly, Joletta, I can live only so long on hope,” he answered in droll despair.

They had time after the river journey to visit the palatial Villa Pisani, which had been owned in succession by a doge of Venice, Napoléon I, and by the emperor’s stepson, Eugène de Beauharnais. They were also able to wander through the house called
la malcontenta,
supposedly named for an erring wife who was shut away in the country to prevent indiscreet behavior. At last they made their way in the lingering twilight toward the Trattoria Nalin.

The food was everything Caesar promised, from the antipasto of squid eggs, scampi, spider crab, and scallops to the delicate risotto and the crab fettuccine. To accompany it, they had a fine local wine, a Prosecco Conegliano, that tickled in its fresh astringency.

Because conversation with the others was still strained, Joletta and Caesar talked and laughed with each other. He paid her outrageous compliments and refilled her wineglass with practiced ease, in spite of her protests. When Rone objected to the amount she was drinking, Joletta stopped protesting and encouraged the Italian.

She came to her decision concerning the trip to Florence while ordering the dessert. Rone made one suggestion, Caesar another, and while she was making up her mind Rone ordered for her. It was a small thing, especially since he chose the gelato flavored with apricots and almonds that she was about to settle on herself. But she had had enough of having her decisions made for her, enough of having her wishes overruled.

Outside the restaurant, as they walked toward the car, she spoke to Caesar in quiet tones. The look he gave her was exultant.

It was late when they reached Venice again. Joletta and Rone parted company with Caesar and Natalie at the quay. At the hotel desk she asked for her key. Rone stood aside, waiting. She gave him a quick, warning glance, but said nothing until they had mounted the stairs and were outside her room.

“I thought,” she said as she fitted her key into the lock, “that you would have asked for your own room key.”

“I couldn’t,” he said evenly. “I turned it in, and they’ve already filled my room.”

“You did check then?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” he said, the words even.

She hadn’t been sure. Just as she wasn’t sure at that moment whether he was telling the truth.

She took a deep breath. “You know—”

“I know,” he said abruptly. “You don’t want me in your room, and you would like me to leave. I’m not going to do that. But I don’t intend to entertain the rest of the hotel with the argument over it.”

He reached above her head to push open the door she had unlocked. Stepping around her, he entered the room.

Joletta could stand in the hall or go join him. She moved after him into the darkened room. The door swung shut, latching behind them.

She noticed the smell even as she felt for the light switch. Spicy, fresh, it was a dense wave of fragrance reaching out of the darkness. She pressed the button under her fingers, and the room sprang into brightness.