Читать книгу Rising Fire - William W. Johnstone - Страница 11

CHAPTER 5

It wasn’t exactly a whirlwind courtship, but once it got started, it moved along pretty fast.

Count Malatesta sent flowers to Denny at the hotel the next day, and the day after that, but he didn’t come to call until the third day. Denny had considered suggesting to Louis that they go ahead and leave Venice, but she found herself strangely unwilling to do so.

Her reluctance to go couldn’t have anything to do with the way Giovanni Malatesta was attempting to woo her so determinedly, she told herself. It was just that Venice was such a beautiful city, and she and Louis hadn’t yet seen everything there was to see. That was why they couldn’t leave yet.

She knew Louis would have scoffed at that reasoning—and in the back of her mind, she did, too.

When Malatesta showed up at the hotel and asked her to go with him to the Piazza San Marco and St. Mark’s Basilica, Denny couldn’t come up with a good reason to refuse the invitation, especially after Malatesta asked Louis to come along, too. That proved the Italian nobleman didn’t have any improper intentions, or if he did, he was being sly about them.

“I don’t need a chaperone,” Denny said to her brother as they were getting ready to leave the hotel. Malatesta had gone back downstairs after telling them he would meet them in the lobby.

“Good, because I wouldn’t amount to much as one, even if there was any trouble,” Louis said.

Denny looked over at him. Louis wasn’t frail, exactly, but he wasn’t the picture of health, either. He had been born with a flaw in his heart that often left him pale, weak, and struggling for breath. In times of trouble, Denny was more likely to be the one taking the bull by its proverbial horns.

She hated that he thought less of himself because of his condition. It was no fault of his own, and as far as she was concerned, no girl had ever had a better brother.

She put her arms around him, hugged him, and said, “Don’t you ever think anything like that. You don’t know how much I depend on you, Louis.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a rueful smile. “I just hope I don’t ever let you down.”

“You won’t,” she assured him.

They went downstairs, where Malatesta greeted them in his jovial, booming voice as if they were old friends he hadn’t seen for years, instead of having left them at the door of their hotel room less than a quarter of an hour earlier. He ushered them toward the entrance doors of the vast, elaborately furnished lobby with its golden mosaics, jeweled tapestries, and gleaming marble floor.

The Hotel Metropole was a square, four-story building with its name emblazed on a large sign that ran across the front, above the entrance. Steps on the other side of the small plaza in front of it led down to the Grand Canal, where gondolas and other boats waited to carry passengers along the watery thoroughfares of this ancient city. To the left as Denny, Louis, and Giovanni Malatesta walked toward the Grand Canal was one of the many graceful arched bridges to be found in Venice, this one crossing a smaller canal that ran alongside the hotel.

Malatesta led the two Americans to a waiting gondola manned by a stocky, swarthy gondolier in the traditional outfit of tight white trousers, loose colorful shirt, and flat-crowned straw hat adorned by a small ribbon. The count took Denny’s hand and helped her step into the boat, then started to assist Louis as well, only to have him say, “Thanks, but I can manage.”

“Of course, my friend.” Malatesta boarded with the grace of a large cat and took Denny’s hand again as they sat on one of the sumptuously padded benches. Louis sat opposite them, facing backward.

The gondolier pushed off with the long pole that was the tool of his trade and sent the gondola gliding smoothly through the water. With expert skill, he guided the boat into the traffic on the Grand Canal.

“With all the bridges, it is possible to walk from the hotel to St. Mark’s,” Malatesta said as he leaned back against the cushioned seat, “but I did not know if the two of you had ridden in a gondola yet. It is an experience that every visitor to Venezia must have.”

“It just so happens that we’ve been to Venice before,” Denny said, “and this isn’t our first ride in a gondola. But it’s been a while, and it’s always a nice thing to do.”

Despite the waterways that made it distinctive, in many ways Venice was like most of the other cities in Europe: a striking blend of beauty and squalor, wealth and poverty, and an assault on the senses. Nearly everywhere a person looked were gracious old buildings that were works of art every bit as much as the treasures some of them housed. But underlying the stunning visions that met the eye was the perpetual stink of dead fish. It was impossible to eliminate in a city built on the water. The canals themselves were lovely from a distance, but up close, trash floated in them. No one ever mentioned that. It was as if everyone in Venice, citizens and visitors alike, had agreed to turn a blind eye to the unavoidably ugly parts of life that went on here as they did everywhere else.

The trip to the vast Piazza San Marco, with its busy shops and museums on three sides and the massive, magnificent edifice, St. Mark’s Basilica, at the far end, didn’t take long. Once they were there, Denny, Louis, and Malatesta joined the throngs of people strolling around the plaza, gazing at the wide variety of beautiful goods on display. They were in no hurry, and considering the crowds, it wouldn’t have done them much good if they had been. It took them more than an hour to reach the huge church, and they spent another hour inside, staring raptly at the statues and icons and tapestries and paintings, masterworks of art from all over Europe, some of them dating back hundreds of years.

Later, back out in the plaza, Denny sat on one of the benches to rest. Malatesta sat beside her while Louis wandered off to look at the wares in one of the shops.

Not far away, water bubbled in a fountain adorned by a statue of a naked cherub. Denny didn’t know if the statue was a work of art or just a decoration. She supposed it didn’t matter.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Malatesta asked.

“I am,” she admitted. “It’s getting a little warm, though.” She was grateful for the hat she had worn, with its broad, floppy brim. The shade it provided for her face was welcome.

“We can go back to the hotel soon,” Malatesta told her. “You will want to rest before I take you to supper tonight.”

Denny laughed. “Who said I was going to have supper with you?”

“But you must eat at the Café Top Rosso Elegante.” Malatesta kissed his fingertips and then blew that kiss off them. “The best food in all of Venice. You cannot pass up the chance to dine there.”

“I don’t believe I’ve heard of that place.”

Malatesta waved away her comment. “The ones who actually live in a city always know the best places to eat there. The café is, how you say it, off the beaten path. But you will love it, I give you my word.”

“Is Louis invited to dinner as well?”

Malatesta smiled slightly. “No offense to your wonderful brother, but it was my fondest hope that perhaps this evening, the two of us could spend some time alone together, cara mia.”

“Isn’t that rather bold of you, referring to me as your beloved?”

“Fortune favors the bold,” the count replied. “Isn’t that what they say? But as for me, I care not for fortune. All that matters to me is that Signorina Denise Nicole Jensen favors me. Say that you do, and my heart will leap so high, there is no way of knowing where it will come down.”

Denny looked at him for a long moment, then finally said, “You’re starting to grow on me a little, I suppose.”

He exclaimed in Italian as a brilliant smile broke out across his face. “My heart, she soars out of sight,” he added in English.

“Better hold on to your heart,” Denny advised him drily. “You might need it.”

He shook his head. “No, because the joy of being in your presence fills my chest instead and beats as warmly and strongly as my heart ever could.”

“What you’re full of is . . . fancy talk,” Denny said, the smile on her face taking any sting out of the words.

“So you will have supper with me?” he persisted.

“I will,” Denny said. His flowery, grandiose proclamations amused her—quite possibly, intentionally on his part—and there was no denying that he was handsome and charming. It wasn’t going to hurt anything to spend more time with him.

But she wasn’t going to lose her heart to him. She was absolutely certain of that.

* * *

Despite her best intentions, Denny spent most of every waking hour with Count Giovanni Malatesta during the next week, and even though she told herself that it was crazy, that she hadn’t come to Venice to have some sort of whirlwind romance with a dashing Italian nobleman, she realized that she was falling in love with Giovanni.

They ate in the finest restaurants and coziest cafés. They explored the shops, from the most expensive and luxurious to the quaint, hole-in-the-wall establishments that always struck Denny as the slightest bit shady. They visited the great palazzos where the noble families opened their homes so visitors could admire all the beautiful treasures within. The very best of art, music, and fine food, Giovanni laid at Denny’s feet. And in between, the gondolas carried them along the city’s canals as glittering scenery slid smoothly past them.

She had vowed to herself that no Italian count was going to sweep her off her feet, no matter how handsome and dashing he might be—but that was exactly what Giovanni Malatesta did.

Poor Louis was left out most of the time, of course, and Denny felt bad about that, but he assured her that he was enjoying the visit and could take care of himself.

“I hope I can say the same of you,” he commented to her, one day in the hotel as he gave her a meaningful look. “That you can take care of yourself.”

“I know what you mean. Just because you’re a few minutes older than me doesn’t mean you have to start playing the protective big brother.”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt, Denny.”

“I’m not going to,” she said confidently. “Honestly, Giovanni has been a perfect gentleman so far.”

“Let’s hope that continues.”

The thing of it was, Denny wasn’t sure she wanted Giovanni’s gentlemanly behavior to continue. She found herself growing more and more curious what it would feel like to have his strong arms around her, to taste the warmth of his mouth with hers . . .

That evening, they dined again at the Café Top Rosso Elegante, where they’d had dinner for the first time in Venice. The food was as good as ever, the candlelight dim and subdued, the atmosphere romantic. When they left, Giovanni suggested a stroll along the canal before he hailed a gondola and took her back to the Metropole.

“I think I’d like that,” Denny said.

Arm in arm, they walked along the cobblestones with the canal at their right. Up ahead, a bridge arched up and over one of the smaller canals.

“The Bridge of the Roses,” Giovanni told her. “Legend has it that lovers come here, after they have been . . . intimate . . . and each tosses a rose into the canal. If the current carries the roses away together, the couple will stay together forever. If the current separates the roses, so, too, will the lovers drift apart.”

“So it’s either romantic . . . or terrible.”

“Such is life,” Giovanni said with an eloquent gesture. “Shall we walk across the bridge?”

“We have no roses.”

“Not yet,” he said, smiling.

Denny hesitated, then said, “I don’t suppose walking across it will hurt anything.”

“Perhaps we will find someone selling flowers on the street, on the other side.”

“Perhaps,” Denny said.

The hour was late enough that the streets and the canals weren’t as busy as they often were. The two of them were the only ones on the bridge, in fact. It was dimly lit by lamps at either end, but at the top of the arch in the middle, thick shadows gathered.

Giovanni stopped there, turned to her, and said in a husky voice, “Denise . . . Denny, cara mia . . .”

When he put his hands on her shoulders and bent his head to hers, she didn’t stop him.

The kiss was long and lingering and started her heart pounding almost painfully in her chest. Her hands clutched at the front of his shirt. He moved his hands down to the swell of her hips and held her close to him.

Denny felt herself weakening. She already had her hands on his broad chest. She pushed against it, moved her head back to break the kiss, and whispered, “Giovanni, no . . .”

“My apartment is near, cara mia,” he said. “And I have roses there.”

She shook her head a little. “We can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

“No one will know. No one will be harmed. And there will be joy for you, joy unlike any you have ever known.”

She pushed harder against his chest, shook her head more emphatically. “I’ve had a wonderful time with you, these last two weeks,” she said, “and I want to go with you, I really do, but—”

She didn’t know what he would do next. She was afraid he would try to force her to go with him, and if he did that, she would fight back. And if that happened, he would be surprised just how much of a wildcat he had on his hands.

But those decisions were taken out of her hands, because at that moment, rapid footsteps slapped against the bridge and Giovanni let go of her so he could whirl around and face the handful of shadowy figures charging toward them. Denny heard the men’s rasping breath and harsh words she thought were Italian curses.

Then Giovanni exclaimed, “Thieves!”

They were under attack.