Читать книгу Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor / The Bridesmaid's Secret: Australia's Most Eligible Bachelor - Margaret Way - Страница 10

THERE followed the most glorious day of her life. The word dazzling should be kept for the rarest occasions, Miranda thought. A private mini-bus was waiting at Marco Polo airport to take them to their water taxi, which again had to be private, because they had it all to themselves. What it is to be rich! Miranda mused, all but mesmerised by this whirl of luxury and dream trips to fabled locations. With her particular mind set, another thought inevitably struck her. One would need to be sprightly when visiting Venice, with all the getting in and out of water craft. She had to think of the elderly, and people with back and knee problems. Mercifully, at the grand old age of twenty-one, her body was wonderfully flexible.

In a haze of unbounded pleasure and excitement she moved ahead of Corin into the cabin, and from there into the sunshine at the rear of the vaporetto. There was so much to take in. So much to capture the imagination. The triumph of Venice, a city built on water! At times like this she would have given almost anything to be an artist. She could scarcely believe she, Miranda Thornton, raised by ordinary country folk, the people who had loved her the most, yet who had kept secret from her the fact she had been abandoned by her mother as an infant, was now entering upon the most glorious street in the world. A street that had been immortalised by some of history’s truly great artists. Canaletto immediately sprang to mind. And the great English painter J. M. W. Turner. She had adored Turner’s work on her gallery trips with Zara, who was very knowledgeable about art. Turner had really spoken to her. Then there was the American John Singer Sargent, who had painted many scenes of Venice. And why not?

The sheer grandeur was breathtaking: the splendid frontages of the magnificent palaces—Venetian Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance—that lined either bank of the famous waterway with a hot sun beating down. She felt as though she was absorbing the palpable sense of history—of a city founded in the fifth century—through her pores, though it was near impossible to absorb the totality of the scene, so much splendour was on show.

The water was an indescribable blue-green. Not sparkling, like the waters of home, but with a kind of lustre like oil spreading out over the surface of the great canal, thus picking up marvellous reflections. She wondered what Venice would look like at night. And she was here! It made one have faith in miracles.

“Well?” asked Corin, studying her enchantingly pretty face. From the moment he had met her he had found her fascinating—not just her highly distinctive looks, but her manner, her speech, the sense of purpose that even at seventeen had emanated from her. He and Zara had visited Venice, a favourite city of their mother’s, many times before, but this time with Miranda, brand-new to the fabled Serenissima, he found his own pleasure expanding by the minute.

She turned to him eagerly with a spontaneous smile, turquoise eyes glittering. “It’s beyond—way beyond—my expectations. The extraordinary light!”

“The golden glow of Venice,” he said.

“The colour of the water is indescribable!”

“From a height it shimmers,” he told her. “Anyone familiar with our waters in Australia speaks about the dazzling blue sparkle, but the Grand Canal—indeed all the waters of Europe—have a different palette and a different character.” He studied her flawless white skin with the luminosity of alabaster. “Are you wearing sun block?”

She shook her head almost guiltily. “No.” She had meant to put some on. Not that she had needed it so far in London.

He tut-tutted. “And you a doctor in the making. It’s very hot, and it will get hotter as the day wears on. It’s a different heat from ours, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed. Come back inside. Don’t worry. We’ll see everything. Take a gondola ride. The gondolas can reach the narrowest and most shallow canals. It’s the best way to get around. These days it costs an arm and a leg, but you learn the city from both sides of the canal. There’s a tremendous amount to see, but we have to make the best choices to fit in with our time. We might manage a visit to the island of Murano.”

“World-renowned for its glass-making. I do know that.” She had a girlfriend whose parents had brought her back a beautiful necklace and earrings set from Murano.

He nodded. “For centuries they were the only craftsmen in the whole of Europe who knew the secret of making mirrors. They held on to the technique for all that time.”

“I’m not surprised.” She laughed. “It would have brought in a great deal of money as well as prestige.”

“Exactly. There’s a very fine museum on the island called Palazzo Guistinian. Thousands of pieces cover the entire history of glassmaking from the ancient Egyptians to the present day.”

“Wasn’t there some Bond movie when they sent a cabinet toppling?” She frowned, trying to remember. Was it an older movie, with a marvellously handsome Roger Moore?

“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he said wryly. “They sent a palazzo toppling into the Grand Canal for the first one featuring the new James Bond, Daniel Craig. If you like I can arrange a water taxi so we can go over on our own. Only a short trip.”

“That would be wonderful, Corin. But I must admit I’m a bit worried about how much money you must be spending.” A fortune already, in her reckoning.

“Don’t feel guilty. I’ve got it. One of the perks of being a Rylance.”

She watched him closely. He had only been standing in the sun a short time, but she could have sworn his golden tan had deepened. “It’s sad and strange, isn’t it, that you and Zara, brought up with such wealth, haven’t had a happy life?”

“And you all of twenty-one!” He gave her a smile.

“Okay, okay!” She drew in a quick breath. “But please let me tell you I’ll never forget this birthday if I live another eighty years.” It came out with enormous gratitude and a tiny quiver of sob.

Instantly, he enfolded her in a brief hug, as if she was his favourite cousin. “So why do you think I brought you?” he said.

Her suite overlooked a great breadth of the luminous waterscape, looking towards the island of San Giorgio. She could see its magnificent church, San Giorgio Maggiore with its Renaissance façade, gleaming white in the sun, and the imposing campanile—the bell tower. The bedroom’s décor was like no other she had ever seen. Sumptuous, seductive, otherworldly in its way, with antique furniture, fine art, fragrances on the air—and she thought a delicious touch of spookiness. But then she did have a great deal of imagination.

As she stood there, marvelling, Corin turned to face her for a moment, with amused and indulgent dark eyes. “I don’t like to drag you away, but I must. A quick lunch, then as much as we can comfortably fit in of a grand tour, before dinner here. The hotel has a very fine restaurant and chef. Then we take in the city by night. Don’t forget the sun block.”

“I wish I could say in Italian your wish is my command.”

“Then let me say it for you.”

She applauded as he broke into fluent Italian. “Non parlo Italiano, I’m afraid,” she smiled. “Apart from the usual one liners. Arriverderci, addio, ciao, and the like—and what I’ve picked up from Donna Leon’s Venice-based books. I really enjoy her charming Commissario Brunetti. I studied Japanese at school, but I had to concentrate on Maths, Physics and Chemistry. Not much time available for languages, I’m sorry to say.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to learn,” he said casually. “This won’t be your last trip to Italy, Miranda. This is your first.”

She couldn’t help it. She clapped her hands. “Prophecies already? Marvellous!”

“Don’t mention it,” he said.

She knew she would be having flashbacks of this fabulous trip to Venice for the rest of her life. In a single afternoon and evening they had packed in as much as they possibly could see of what had to be the most fascinating and mysterious city on earth. The fact that Corin spoke fluent Italian and knew the city so well proved to be an enormous advantage. She was free to soak up so many dazzling sights and scenes, buildings and churches. The famous Basilica of San Marco the focal point of the great piazza, Santa Maria della Salute. She loved the art, the sculpture—it was like partaking of a glorious banquet. Corin kept up a running commentary. She listened. They took a gondola ride. When they walked it was hand in hand. She knew he was keeping her close to his side, but they might have been lovers. Except they weren’t. Nor could they be. Theirs was no conventional friendship, yet Miranda had never felt more close to anyone in her life.

When they met up for dinner he greeted her with a low, admiring, “Come sei bella, Miranda!”

Although he had adopted the lightest of tones, something in his expression made her throat tighten and tears prick at the back of her eyes. Did he find her beautiful? She had tried her hardest to be. For him. She had packed a short glittery silver dress, little more than a slip, but she was slim and petite and it did touch in all the right places and show off her legs. She well remembered the lovely day shopping with Zara, who had picked the gauzy dress out for her.

“It’s you exactly, Miri!”

Pleasures! Ecstasies! She had allowed them to enter her life. Now she began to fear their power. She realised with a degree of shock that she didn’t know herself very well. She had thought herself as a calm, contained person, well in control. A young woman with a brain perfectly designed for study: taking in reams of information and retaining it. She had a serious purpose in life. What she had to confront now was the fact that beneath the containment, her serious ambitions in life, she had a very passionate nature. And it was Corin who had unlocked it.

Dinner was absolutely brilliant; the sala da pranzo richly appointed. Wherever her eyes rested it was on something beautiful. The hotel was renowned for its collection of artwork, all on display for the pleasure of their guests. They had a table for two looking directly across the lagoon at San Giorgio Maggiori. To her delight it was all lit up for the night.

Dishes materialised as if by magic. A superb mingling of flavours, combinations and textures; the finest, fresh ingredients; the presentation a work of art. In the background soft harmonious chamber music added to the ambience. Vivaldi, most likely. His famous church the Pieta was just next door. Her choice of dessert was a bitter chocolate mousse with coffee granita and ginger cream. It simply melted in her mouth. Corin’s choice was a classic tiramisu she thought had to be carried to the highest level of perfection.

“This has been so groaningly delicious I think we’ll take a stroll before bed,” he suggested. They had finished coffee, and now he motioned to their discreetly attentive cameriere.

“Yes, of course. Good idea!”

She didn’t want the night to end. But Corin had arranged a tour of the Grand Canal in a private vaporetto in the morning, including a trip to the Guggenheim, the great heiress Peggy Guggenheim’s former home, right on the Grand Canal, now one of Europe’s premier museums devoted to modern art. This might have been Miranda’s gap year, but no gap was being left unfilled. She was having a wonderful time. Small wonder the children of the wealthy were granted their finishing year in Europe. It added a fine polish. And there was nothing in the world like first-hand experience.

Outside the door of her suite, Corin tucked a breeze-ruffled curl behind her ear. “Sleep well. Lots to do tomorrow.”

They had returned from their stroll around the great piazza, along with the summer tourists enjoying the warmth and beauty of their surroundings, her arm tucked cozily in his. Now it was time to say goodnight.

“I can’t thank you enough for this trip, Corin.” She looked up to meet those brilliant, intense eyes. He had such an aura. She could only imagine it would increase with the years. “You and Zara have been wonderful to me.”

“You don’t think it’s because you’re easy to be wonderful to?” he asked with a smile. “You’re so receptive to new experiences, Miranda. You undoubtedly have an eye. I know you’ve added a considerable lustre to my stay. Now, goodnight. Breakfast at eight. Okay?”

“Fine. My first night in a huge canopied Venetian bed. This is such an alluring place!” She threw up her arms.

Did she know just how alluring she was? Corin thought as he moved resolutely away. All those fascinating changes of expression! Every minute he spent with her bound him closer and closer. It had taken all his resolve to walk away, pretending light affection, when he hungered to pick her up, take her to her Venetian bed and make endless love to her. She was twenty-one. Was she still a virgin? Had the usual experimentation gone on? Not with her Peter. He was sure of that. But with another intelligent, caring young man? Miranda wouldn’t settle for less. She was now very much a part of his life. He had no intention of letting her get away. But it would take time. Such was his high regard for her and her ambitions he was prepared to wait.

Only he was human, and he wanted her so much it was pain.

The bathroom of her suite was magnificent, lavishly covered in Italian marble. The finest bath and body products were to hand, and robe and slippers. Miranda took a quick shower and emerged glowing. She dried herself off, slipped on her nightdress and her own satin robe, then padded into the bedroom with the panoramic tiny terrace beyond. Truth be told, she felt too keyed-up to sleep. She had thought the warm shower followed by a quick cool blast would quell all the stirrings in her body. But just the opposite. This intense awareness of herself as a woman, the awareness of her body, had been brought about by Corin. His brilliant dark eyes as he had said goodnight had been hooded—just the broad, high sweep of his cheekbones. Was that to hide his thoughts? They had connected on many levels, but the physical one was definitely there. She had seen it. She had felt it when he took her face between his hands. So much was transmitted by touch. Whatever he felt, however, he wasn’t going to do a thing about it. In his position he would be weighing up the consequences. She wasn’t the only one with defence strategies. Did he consider a sexual relationship with her taboo? Technically she was his stepsister, wasn’t she? Was there a liability attached to having a physical relationship?

Feeling a wave of sweet melancholy, she picked up her crystal-backed brush to give her hair its ritual thirty strokes. Forget one hundred. Mentally she had long dreamed of Corin as her lover. Incredibly stupid of anyone to hanker for someone out of their reach. Her past lovers had been infrequent. Two, actually. Both fellow students, both in love with her, both very tender in their ministrations. She had wanted to know what making love was all about. She hadn’t found much of an answer in either short-lived experience. She had considered at those times she mightn’t be capable of giving herself completely to anyone. Look what had happened to her mother. She didn’t understand her mother’s life. It was crucial she understood her own.

That was when she casually looked up, glancing into the ornately carved pier mirror in front of her.

A man was staring back at her, his body as solid and impenetrable as a stone statue.

The level of shock was bottomless. She drew in a sharp breath that quivered like an arrow in flight. A judder racked her spine. Yet not a single word burst from her throat. No scream. No cry at all.

Somehow she kept upright, determined to stay that way. He was dressed very oddly. He might have stepped out of another century. Could it be some sort of fancy dress? Venice was famous for it. But even as she considered that she had to reject it.

Push back the panic.

He remained eerily still. Where had he sprung from? The terrace? Had he been hiding out there? Had he slipped in earlier in the night when the maid came in to turn down the bed?

“What are you doing here?” she cried as she spun to confront him. Aggression seemed the best way to go, though some part of her brain had signalled he meant her harm.

She required an explanation.

Only she was by herself.

Quite, quite alone.

How could that be? A kind of dread started cold in her veins. She had a well-organised mind. She was certain she wasn’t losing it. Her eyes darted all around the room. This was alarming. He’d had no time to get anywhere within a framework of seconds. There had to be a logical explanation. Yet her view of life as she had known it started to waver. The parameters were suddenly blurred. She leaned against the canopied bed. Had he stepped out of a parallel universe? Was there any such thing? Many people believed there was, but she was far too rational to believe in—

Ghosts?

The word presented itself, only it was seriously weird. She’d had more than a glimpse of her visitor. It couldn’t have been a trick of the light. More than a touch of dizziness beset her. The air had definitely chilled around her. Indeed, the opulent room was filled with an impenetrable thick silence, as if she had cotton wool stuffed into her ears. Except she could distinctly hear the tinkling of the chandelier above her head. Something had set the lovely crystal lustres in motion.

There was no breeze.

Sometimes life can depart from the easily explained.

It had to be a trick of the light. Her imagination. The legendary mystique of Venice at work?

She made a big effort to get control of herself. None of those explanations would wash. What she saw, she saw. No way was she crazy or mildly intoxicated. The walk after dinner had cleared her head in any case. Already a strong suspicion was with her. There just could be a paper-thin wall between this world and that. The majority of the population managed to keep it at arm’s length. But many learned people, academics and the like—one had to discount the fanciful—had theorised that ghosts did exist. And they were notorious for hanging around castles and palaces.

She was fairly sure now what her visitor was.

An apparition.

One she had done nothing to summon up. Her mind’s eye retained a snapshot of that long, narrow face, the black beard, the shoulder-length dark hair, the strange dress like a priest’s cassock. His hands, as white as his face, had been quietly folded. A glinting medallion hung around his neck. He hadn’t appeared hazy. Quite the contrary. He’d been substantial. Someone strong enough to materialise if only for a moment. Energy, perhaps? Something of a person that lingered in the atmosphere? She was striving to rationalise what she had seen.

Only she was certain she wouldn’t be able to sleep here. Imagine if he came back again? Imagine if he sat down on the side of the bed?

If anyone had asked her that morning if she believed in ghosts she would have laughed and quoted some lines from Hamlet:

“There are more things in Heaven and Earth,

Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

She wasn’t laughing now. She was a quaking bundle of nerves.

Corin answered the phone almost immediately.

“Pronto!”

“It’s me,” she said at a rush, ashamed of the tremor in her voice. “Can you please come down to my suite? Now!”

His answer was sharp. “You’re okay? What’s happened?”

“I’ll tell you when you arrive.”

She needed his strong arms to enclose her. His powerful presence. At least whatever she had seen was long gone. How did ghosts come by their clothes anyway? she pondered weakly. Did they have access to communal wardrobes? She began to feel mildly hysterical. Jewellery pools? How did he manage to hold onto the medallion he wore around his neck?

What she had so briefly experienced had opened up a nest of snakes. She didn’t feel at all foolish. She had her wits about her. She had seen what she had seen for long enough to be sure.

Vast relief swept her as Corin strode in. His thick, lustrous hair was tousled into deep waves. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans, hurriedly pulled on.

“For God’s sake, Miranda, you’re as white as a sheet. What’s happened? Did something frighten you?” He looked at her, then beyond her, obviously searching the room, and then just as she had hoped he reached for her and drew her into his arms, clamping her close. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Solid warm flesh, strong arms, vibrantly male. She could feel the strength and power in him. The dizziness eased.

“And am I glad!” she muttered into his warm chest. “Listen, I don’t want to make an issue of it—wake up the manager, demand an exorcism—but I think I’ve had a visit from Signor Vivaldi.” She was capable now of attempting a joke.

He drew back a little so he could stare into her eyes. “What are you talking about? Did someone get in here?”

She shook her head. “Trust me. It was Signor Vivaldi. Only he wasn’t carrying his violin. Don’t let go!” she cried out as his grip slackened in his surprise.

“I won’t.” He sounded gentle, but perplexed. “Come and sit down.” He led her, still with his arms around her, to the sofa, upholstered in rich scarlet, amber and gold brocade to match the bedspread and the hangings around the canopied bed.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Corin?” she asked, staring into his eyes. “Serious question, here. And please don’t laugh.”

“Who’s laughing?” he answered soberly. Indeed, there was no trace of a laugh in his face or his voice. “Are you telling me you saw a ghost?”

“Right there in the mirror,” she said. “Go on. Take a look. You’re so tall and strong you’ll probably frighten him off.”

“More like he’d frighten me!” Corin rose to his feet, moving position so he could stare into the ornate antique pier glass.

“I confess I’m only getting a reflection of you,” he said. She looked profoundly shaken, but it was obvious to him she was trying hard to keep herself together. That impressed him. “The brain does funny things sometimes. Miranda,” he said very gently. “Both Zara and I saw our mother in all sorts of places for ages after she’d gone. On the landing. The stairs. The end of the hallway. The rose gardens especially. It’s grief. It’s trying to come to terms with it. The sense of loss drives you to conjure up the loved one’s presence.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Of course, Corin. I understand about you and Zara. I’ve had my own moments with my grandparents, but I knew them for what they were. I don’t know this guy. I’m pretty clear-headed. Strong-minded, if I say so myself. I wasn’t hallucinating. I’m not losing my marbles. I know what I know. I saw what I saw.”

Corin resisted any attempt to convince her she had to be mistaken. “Well, it wasn’t Vivaldi. He had red hair. He was called the Red Monk.”

“Then it was one of his cronies. The whole place is intrinsically spooky. It wasn’t my imagination. The whole experience was beyond eerie. He didn’t look particularly dangerous, but I don’t fancy seeing him again.”

“I bet you don’t !” Corin agreed on the instant. The weird thing was he believed her. Or believed her enough not to contradict her. “We’ll swap suites.”

Miranda reacted fast. “How do I know he won’t follow me to yours?”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he did.” His answer was wry.

“This isn’t a joke, Corin,” she told him sharply. “You have to stay with me.”

“What? Share the bed?” He had to try to inject some humour into a situation that was threatening to get out of hand.

“You can have the bed,” she said magnanimously. “I’ll sleep on this sofa. It’s big and it’s very comfortable. We might shift it closer to the bed, though.”

“So we can hold hands?”

“Do you believe me or not?” she challenged. “Or do you think this is some kind of idiotic ploy to entice you here?”

“Never occurred to me.” He kept his voice serious.

“If he’d been real I would have attacked him with my hairbrush. But there was no one. I suppose the fascination of Venice, apart from its beauty, mystery and exoticism, is that it’s tantalisingly spooky. Part of the mythology, isn’t it?”

He fetched up a sigh. “So my mother always said. As for me, I keep an open mind about ghosts. I have to admit it would take a lot to convince me. I do believe, however, you are convinced. Now, I have a suggestion. Why don’t I take you down to my suite? Let you see what you think?”

“No way!” She rejected the offer. “You have to stay here with me. The air changed, you know. It was like I had wads of cotton wool stuffed in my ears, except I could hear the tinkling of the chandelier.”

“It isn’t tinkling now,” he said somewhat dryly.

“Of course it isn’t!” She struck his arm. “He’s gone. Buzzed off. Maybe he has a full roster tonight? Some people are into the paranormal bigtime. The thing is he looked just like he would have looked in life. Not some ectoplasm I could walk through. Stay with me, Corin. This is the most beautiful place in the world, but it is scary.”

He released a long groan, feeling the onset of a raging torrent of emotions. “How can I possibly sleep in the bed and leave you on the sofa?”

“The bed’s big enough for both of us,” she said, trying to persuade him with the appeal in her turquoise eyes.

He groaned louder. “Miranda, there’s not a bed in the world big enough for both of us. What do you think’s going on here? You’re a beautiful girl, and I’m as frail as the next guy.”

“No, you’re not,” she said. “Not once you make up your mind. And you have made it up, haven’t you?”

He gave a soundless laugh. “How do you know my best intentions won’t fall into ruins?”

“If they do, it’s our secret,” she said. “We have secrets, don’t we, Corin?”

“Boy, are you full of surprises!” he exclaimed. “You’re saying you’ll sleep with me?”

“I’m desperate.”

He laughed aloud. “Miranda, I can’t sleep on the sofa. I’m too big. You can. We can’t share the bed. You know as well as I do that’s pushing it too far. My job is to look after you.”

“Well, I didn’t say you have this terrible aching longing for me, did I? You’re not by any chance getting engaged when you go home?”

“Miranda, engagements are the last thing on my mind.” The expression on his handsome face turned severe.

“Me too. So take it easy. Can you sleep in your jeans?”

“You bet I can.”

“Thank you for coming, Corin,” she said. “I’m not making this up. I’m sure of what I saw.”

“Then you’re a very lucky girl!” he offered darkly. “You’ll be dining off the experience for years.” He rose to his six foot plus, giving vent to a disturbed sigh. “Okay, I take the bed.”

“I’ll just curl up here on the sofa,” she said, immensely grateful for his presence. The force in him overrode all sense of trepidation. The worst of the trembling had stopped. “You can throw me the silk throw, if you would.”

“Anything, my lady.” He picked it up and passed it to her.

“Can we keep a light on in the sitting room?” she asked, settling herself with the luxurious silk throw over her.

“I don’t see why not.” He moved into the other room, switching on a single lamp, with its golden pool of illumination. “I just knew in my bones this was going to be a memorable stay. Shut your eyes and go to sleep now, Miranda. Your ghost will know better than to return.”