Dark Venetian

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DARK VENETIAN Anne Mather

Emma Maxwell knew her stepmother, Celeste, must have some scheme in mind, even before they arrived in Venice. When she heard what it was, Emma wanted no part of it. Then she met Count Vidal Cesare, on whom Celeste had designs, and decided he was old enough and experienced enough to look after himself. Emma was very firm about her own future. She informed the Dowager Contessa, "No, signora. When I marry it will be for love. And my husband will love me . . .and only me!"

CHAPTER ONE THE man climbed silently out of the water, his tight black rubber suit gleaming wetly, like sealskin, in the pale light of a waning moon. He stood motionless for a moment, listening, but the only sound was the gentle lap-lap of the water against the sides of the cemented wharf. He looked down at the murky depths of the canal, and half-smiled to himself, before melting back into the shadows, seeking the darkness of the warehouse behind him. The warehouse was filled with crates of fruit, waiting to be loaded in the morning, and there was the sweet smell of fruit and wooden packing cases, which banished the kind of damp atmosphere present in the building. The man strode behind a pile of crates, removing his goggles and breathing apparatus, and stripping off the skin-fitting suit expertly. In a matter of seconds he had bundled his gear into an empty guitar case, all except the oxygen tanks which were concealed under some bagging. Then he slid his arms into the jacket of the lounge suit he was wearing, deliberately fastening his tie with studied movements, mentally slowing himself down. Then, he emerged, the guitar case in his hand, a cigarette between his lips. He opened the door of the warehouse silently, glanced once up and down the deserted wharf before stepping out and closing the door behind him. He walked easily away along the quay, his footsteps masked by rubber-soled shoes. Count Vidal Cesare climbed negligently out of the gondola, paid the gondolier, and walked indolently across the landing stage to the pillared gateway of the courtyard of the Palazzo Cesare. A faint pink glow on the horizon heralded the dawn of a new day, gilding the many spires and campaniles of the city, turning the waterways from grey to pink. A muted murmur in the distance, and the city was slowly coming to life; soon the canals would teem with

craft of all kinds, gondolas, motoscafos (motorboats) and the small steamboats called vaporettos which ferried you to your hotel if you were a visitor arriving at the railway station on the Grand Canal. But to Count Cesare the city was his home, and he had long since explored every inch of it from the Doge's Palace to the little known church of San Francesco della Vigna. The Palazzo Cesare was built round three sides of the small courtyard into which Count Cesare entered now, but the courtyard had been left untended for so long that it was encrusted with moss and weeds, and climbing plants ran riot over the grey stone walls. The facade of the Palazzo was still intact, and still maintained some of the glory of a bygone age. Typically Venetian in design, its loggias were laced with openwork carvings, and had at one time been gilded although much of this now had worn away. Yet it was still imposing and could have been vastly renovated to its earlier glories had the Cesare family remained as affluent as their ancestors. An iron-studded door led into the lower hall which at this early hour was as cold as the waters of the canal itself, and smelt faintly musty. A stone and marble staircase swept grandly up to the first floor, where from the long room which ran from the front to the back of the Palazzo, apartments had been modernized for the Count and his grandmother, the Dowager Contessa, who were the only surviving members of the Cesare family. Apart from this suite of rooms which by normal standards were spacious and luxurious in appointment, the remainder of the Palazzo was unfurnished, and unattended, and was gradually deteriorating from damp and decay. Occasionally, Count Cesare felt the pangs of regret that this state of affairs should be allowed to continue, but short of marrying an heiress, he did not see any chance of them being changed. And although Count Cesare was not averse to dalliance

with the opposite sex, as were all his countrymen, he had not as yet met any woman who even allied with a fortune might make him surrender his bachelor status. He supposed one day he would have to marry, if only to continue the Cesare line of sons to carry on the family name, but it amused him to have eligible females thrust into his notice by doting mothers to whom a title meant everything. But, as he had said before, what was the point of buying the fruit when it was there for the taking? The Contessa despaired of the life he led, nights spent gambling or wenching, as she put it, and he was used to accusatory lectures in the light of the morning. At eighteen Vidal Cesare had been orphaned, and pushed unceremoniously into his position as Count Cesare, and head of the Cesare family, and with a fortune at his finger tips he had gone a little mad. But all that was in the past. There was no way of redress, and the future was, as ever, nebulous. Such experience as he had gained had stood him in good stead over the years that followed, and the Count of today had no illusions about the world in general and women in particular. He had learned to play the game so skilfully pursued by his contemporaries, and had in his turn become skilled and sometimes unscrupulous in his dealings with the kind of society that seemed at times to resemble the complex laws of the jungle. He entered a small ante-room which gave on to a large light room furnished as a lounge, whose wide windows gave a picturesque view of the quiet canal outside, and its meeting with the wider, more important waterway which wound round the maze of alleys, palaces, tiny squares, churches and market places. The lounge with its amber-coloured carpet and dark furniture was neither modern nor antique in design. Comfortable low green velvet-

covered armchairs and couches, were placed beside examples of sculpture, retained by his grandmother from an original collection of sculpture and paintings which had long since been sold. A charming full-length statue of a Roman prince occupied a prominent position, an appealing marble relief of two heads by a sculptor famous in the late sixteenth century, and a bust of a priest which Count Cesare personally abhorred. The walls, hung with tapestries, mocked a twentieth- century television set and cocktail cabinet, while the low coffee table was definitely French. In the window embrasure was a dropleaf table in polished wood and it was here that the Count, when he was at home, and his grandmother ate their meals, and at this early hour of a little after five-thirty, it had been laid in readiness for the Contessa's breakfast by Anna, the housekeeper, whose husband, Giulio, was the general handyman around the Palazzo. They were the only two servants to be retained, and they were nearing retiring age. The Contessa would never dream of asking them to leave and getting younger staff; they had been with her for over forty years and had known Count Cesare since his birth. Count Cesare loosened his tie a trifle wearily, and crossed the lounge to the door of his dressing-room. He undressed, showered, and then slid lazily between the silken sheets of the enormous four-poster bed in the massive bedroom which had been the master's bedroom since time immemorial. He fell asleep almost immediately, and was awakened at eleventhirty by Anna swishing back the long velvet curtains unceremoniously, letting in a stream of sunlight which caused Count Cesare to groan and turn over, burying his face in the soft pillows. 'Anna!' he exclaimed in exasperation. 'What are you doing?' Anna, small and fat and good-natured, and dressed in her usual black, swung round and smiled at him, cheerfully.

'The Contessa is waiting to speak to you,' she replied, folding her hands over her white apron. 'She has something of importance to tell you, and she can wait no longer.' Count Cesare ran a lazy hand through the thick darkness of his hair, and then reluctantly levered himself up in the huge bed. 'The coffee is on the table beside you,' said Anna, pointing, 'and there are rolls and butter, still hot from the oven, if you want them.' 'Dear Anna, what would I do without you?' remarked Count Cesare sardonically, as he poured himself a cup of black coffee from the silver jug, and added two lumps of sugar. Anna shrugged her plump shoulders. 'I have run your bath, and placed a change of clothes in your dressing-room,' she continued, as though he had not spoken. 'Is there anything else you require, signore?' Count Cesare shook his head. 'No, thank you, Anna. As always you have anticipated my every wish.' There was a smile in his fight blue eyes and Anna allowed a gentle indulgence to appear momentarily. For her, the Count Vidal Cesare could do no wrong. 'Very well, signore.' She withdrew and Count Cesare slid out of bed, wrapping a dark blue silk dressing-gown about him. Pouring another cup of coffee, he walked into the adjoining bathroom to take his bath unhurriedly. When he emerged into the lounge some time later, he found his grandmother seated at her bureau writing some letters. Although the Contessa was almost eighty she was as agile- minded as ever, despite the fact that her body would no longer obey her every command. Crippled periodically by rheumatism, she still managed to maintain the air of a grand duchess, and no one who came into contact with

her could fail to be intimidated by her sometimes forbidding manner. And yet, to those to whom she took a liking, she could prove to be a good friend, and although her grandson caused her many hours of concern, he was still the most important person so far as she was concerned, and his happiness, and the necessity of providing the Cesare family with an heir were always uppermost in her mind. She was dressed today in a pale mauve silk two-piece, with several strings of pearls about her rather sinewy throat. Small, and slender, until one saw her eyes one would not consider her at all formidable, but those pale blue orbs revealed the flame within, and could wither one with a glance. As Count Cesare entered the room, she moved round in her chair to look at him, her eyes bright and piercing in their scrutiny. 'Well, Cesare,' she said bleakly. 'So you have decided to honour us with your presence at last!' Count Cesare shrugged his broad shoulders and reached for a cigarette before replying. 'As always, Grandmother, you attempt to intimidate. What can be so urgent that I must be aroused from my bed at this hour of the morning?' As he had anticipated, his provocative remarks infuriated the old lady. 'It is almost lunchtime,' she exclaimed angrily. 'If you did not spend all your nights wasting your time in some nightclub or casino or other you would not need to lie in bed until this time! Your way of life appals me, Cesare, and I dare not think what might happen if I should die leaving you to manage your own affairs ' 'I manage my affairs very well, thank you,' remarked Count Cesare indifferently, and flung himself into a low armchair, lifting a copy of the daily paper.

'Cesare! Listen to me!' The Contessa clenched her fists angrily. 'Have you no conception of the honour of your family? Have you no decency? Don't you care for me at all?' Count Cesare flung aside the paper. 'Very well, Contessa, what is it you have to say?' The Contessa rose to her feet, drawing herself up to her full five feet two inches. Folding her hands, she said: 'We are to have visitors at the Palazzo.' 'What!' At last she had aroused his interest. Count Cesare's eyes were narrowed, and he looked not at all pleased. 'Yes, Cesare, visitors.' The Contessa looked rather smug now. She had taken his attention completely, and ever the dramatist, she intended to hold the stage for just a little longer. 'You will not perhaps recall Joanna Dawnay. She and I attended school in Paris together many, many years ago. We were great friends, and even after our schooldays were over we corresponded regularly. Then, when I married your grandfather, Joanna was one of my attendants.' Count Cesare began to look a little bored. 'So? This woman ... she is coming to stay here?' 'Ah, no. Joanna I am afraid died, some fifteen years ago.' 'Then get to the point,' said Count Cesare impatiently. The Contessa smiled. 'I will, Cesare, I will.' She linked her fingers together thoughtfully. 'Joanna did not marry until quite late in life, and the man she married was not by any means a rich man. Her parents had had a little money, but that had died with them, so naturally Joanna had to marry someone, in order to survive.'

'She could have got a job,' remarked Cesare dryly, unable as yet to see any point in all this story. 'Ah, not almost forty years ago. Girls of Joanna's upbringing did not "get jobs", they married someone. So Joanna married Henry Bernard, an English parson, and went to live somewhere in the south of England. And some five years later she produced a daughter, Celeste, to whom I acted as godparent. Is my story becoming a little clearer?' 'No.' Cesare was blunt. 'Ah, well, it will soon. Celeste was an adorable child, although I saw little of her after her eighteenth birthday. Joanna died, as I have already told you, and Henry Bernard had little time for anyone with money. So contact was temporarily severed, but occasionally Celeste wrote to me, and I replied, and from her letters I have gathered a little of her life story. When she was only twenty years of age she married a man already in his forties, a widower with one child, a girl of perhaps seven years of age. Unfortunately, this husband of hers was killed in a road accident when they had been married for only ten years, and Celeste was left with a seventeen-year-old stepdaughter and no money of any consequence.' 'Money is not everybody's yardstick,' remarked Cesare idly. 'Some people are extremely happy without any at all.' 'Tch!' The Contessa was scornful. 'I have not noticed that you share that view. You seem to run through your money without any visible signs of a struggle.' Cesare smiled. 'That is my concern,' he said softly, and only his grandmother was aware of the slender veneer of patience he was controlling.

'Very well. In any event, it is not important now. Let me continue with my story; Celeste is not a woman to be dashed by circumstances. No, instead of falling into a rut, she gained an invitation for herself and her stepdaughter to visit a distant cousin in the United States of America, and there she married again, this time a rich industrialist. Unfortunately, however, this man, Clifford Vaughan, was quite elderly when she married him, and he died only two years after their marriage leaving Celeste a wealthy woman at last.' 'How convenient,' said Cesare dryly. 'And I suppose she loved him very much!' The Contessa shrugged. 'I doubt it ; it is not important. If she married him for his money knowing full well he would not live very long, who am I to judge her? I admire her. She is a woman after my own heart.' 'Heart!' Cesare shook his head. 'And how much heart have you if you can countenance a marriage for mercenary gains only?' The Contessa smiled. 'My dear Cesare, that is the only kind of marriage you are likely to make, is it not? So pray do not criticize me!' Cesare rose negligently to his feet. 'That is a little different. I do not intend marrying some old hag, not even for a fortune.' 'No. And it is right that you should not. Old hags could not bear you strong sons, sons to carry on the name Of Cesare.' She fingered her pearls thoughtfully. 'No, Cesare, you should marry Celeste Vaughan!' Cesare stared incredulously at the Contessa. At last her schemes were revealed, the reason for the comprehensive life story he had just listened to with complete disinterest. She had introduced him to girls

before, but this time every circumstance had been weighed and found perfect. The woman was young, but not too young; charming, or so the Contessa believed; and rich, which to the Contessa Francesca Maria Sophia Cesare, was the most important thing of all. Her lifelong desire was to restore the Palazzo, and to actually see it happening before she died was all she asked of what remained of her life; that and a great- grandson. Count Cesare shook his head. For a moment, the completely unexpected statement had thrown him off balance; momentarily he thought only of his own feelings in the matter. But now realization of what this might mean came flooding back to him, and he was necessarily more abrupt than he had intended. 'It is ludicrous!' he said coldly. 'And if our visitors are to be this woman, and her stepdaughter, then I suggest you quickly contact the postal services sending a cablegram to England, or the United States, wherever they might be, informing them that circumstances beyond your control forbid such a visit at this time, or you may find there is no longer a Count Cesare at this address!' But his words did not have the expected reaction. 'It's too late,' she replied complacently. 'They are already staying at the Danieli, and I telephoned a welcome to them this morning, inviting them to stay here as long as they wish !'

CHAPTER TWO EMMA sank down on to the side of the bed a little wearily, giving herself a welcome break from packing. It seemed quite ridiculous to her that Celeste should have unpacked so many articles when she must have known from the beginning that they would not be staying long at the hotel. But as Celeste had no intention of packing cases herself when she had Emma to do it for her, it was perhaps not so ridiculous after all, particularly as Emma knew that Celeste liked having beautiful things, things of her own, around her, secure in the knowledge of her own possessions. Emma had had good cause to remember that. Drawing a deep breath, Emma studied her reflection in the full-length mirror of the dressing-table, just across from her. She saw a pale replica of herself, pale cheeks, pale lips and pale hair. Did she seem doubly insignificant after seeing again the riotous glory of Celeste's red-gold curls, and flashing blue eyes? She could not fail to compare herself unfavourably with her stepmother, conscious as she was that a severe dose of influenza had left her mentally as well as physically depressed. She supposed she ought to feel grateful to Celeste for taking her away from a damp and chilly May in England to the warm, and deliciously heady climate of Venice in spring, but somehow anything Celeste did now seemed necessarily to have strings attached, and she had not as yet discovered what those strings might be. It had been a shock to the young Emma to discover her father's passion for a girl young enough to be his daughter, particularly as it was only a few months after Emma's mother's death, and when he had married Celeste, Emma had had to force herself to be pleasant to her new stepmother. But she needn't have bothered. Celeste had no time for young girls, and lost no time in persuading Emma's father to despatch her forthwith to boarding school, despite the fact that his salary as an accountant would barely run to the fees.

Emma had accepted school life. She had always been popular at the local school, and found no difficulty in making friends with girls at Saint Joseph's Academy, near Aylesbury. Holidays were a different matter, and Emma was sent to various aunts and cousins until she was old enough to spend holidays at home without interfering with her stepmother's life. Her father, much to her concern, seemed to deteriorate in stature every time she saw him, and she could only assume that Celeste's constant demands for money were getting him down. In her final term at school when she was preparing for 'A' levels, he had died, and she had been sent for from school, never to return. When her father's affairs were settled it was revealed that there was nothing left except the house they lived in, which had been left unconditionally to Celeste, who immediately told Emma that she intended to sell it, and Emma had better find herself employment and a room of her own. It was difficult then for Emma to adjust, and she had felt a violent anger at her stepmother for being the cause of her father's sudden demise. But time healed many things, and Emma, who had seen really little of her father since her stepmother had taken charge, did not miss him as much as she might have done in different circumstances. Celeste she heard had gone to the States, and she had not expected to see her again. A brief notification advised her of Celeste's second marriage, and an even briefer notification advised her of Clifford Vaughan's death and her stepmother's subsequent elevation in capital. Emma had been neither interested, nor envious, but rather detached, as though it was all happening to some stranger she had heard about or read about. In her absorption in her work as a student nurse in a large London hospital she had found she could forget completely

Celeste's intervention in her life and remember only things that used to be when she was a child, and dearly loved by both parents. She had realized that her father had been a rather weak-willed man and she could not entirely place the blame for her exile from her home on her stepmother, for had her father been a different type of man, Celeste would not have been able to mould him so easily to her will. During Celeste's time in the United States, Emma progressed to second-year nurse and the companionship she found with her contemporaries outweighed her lack of home life, welcome as she was to visit any of the girls' homes. She worked hard, gained commendations from her seniors, and had really thought she had found a niche for herself at last, free from any fears of upheaval. But six weeks ago she had developed a severe attack of influenza, which verged on the brink of pneumonia for several days, and when the crisis was past she was left weak and spent, and utterly incapable of coping, at least for several weeks, with the strenuous work of a junior nurse. Matron had called her into her office and asked whether there was not some relative who might be willing to have her stay with them for a while until she was completely recovered, preferably. Matron said, away from the diesel-laden air of London's streets. Emma had not been able to think of anyone. Her frequent holiday visits to relatives from school, devised by Celeste, had stiffened annoyance in those relatives, most of whom had been her mother's relations anyway, and although she had no doubt that they would take her if requested, she did not feel like sponging on them once again. Matron had been unable to suggest any-

thing at that time and the problem had been left in the air, until Celeste's air-mail letter arrived from New York. It contained an invitation for Emma to accompany her stepmother on a visit to Italy for several weeks, the actual time was not specified, and notification that Celeste was flying home to London the following day, and could Emma meet her at the airport. At first Emma felt affronted that after all this time Celeste should simply write and ask her to go away with her, and also issue instructions that she, Emma, should meet her at the airport. But knowledge of her precarious financial position, together with a trace of curiosity without which she would not have been human, urged her to comply and she had taken a bus out to the airport and returned with Celeste in a taxi, a pile of new suitcases adorning the front seat. Celeste's invitation was re-issued in the lounge of a suite Celeste took at the Savoy, and Emma, in her white vinyl raincoat, and windswept hair, felt she must look more like Celeste's maid than her stepdaughter. She told herself that there must be some snags, that Celeste's greedy nature could not change overnight, and that Celeste would hardly be spending all this money on her fares and accommodation for nothing, but for the life of her she could not see the flaws. And when Celeste took it upon herself to be charming and sympathetic that Emma should have suffered such a severe dose of 'flu, she could be entirely disarming. At any rate, Emma was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt particularly as, as she explained, Matron had forbidden her duties at the hospital for at least six weeks. Celeste was triumphantly pleased at this state of affairs, and told Emma that in the circumstances there was no need for a prolonged delay. She would give Emma some money to attire herself in clothes

suitable to the daughter of a wealthy woman, and after passport arrangements were made they would leave. It was not until they had spent two days at the Danieli, during which time Emma had been left to her own devices to explore at will, that Celeste sprung on her the news that they were leaving the hotel and going to stay at a palazzo belonging to Celeste's godmother, the Contessa Cesare. And now, Emma, in the throes of restoring Celeste's suitcases into some semblance of order, was wondering again whether she was about to discover the catch in all this. Just why had Celeste brought her? And why when she so obviously had intended visiting this Contessa had she decided she needed a companion? If it was a maid she wanted, she could have hired one far more cheaply than it was costing her to maintain her stepdaughter in a private room at the Danieli, and providing her with enough spending money so that no one might consider she was mean towards Emma. Emma could not fathom it all. Why in any case did Celeste want to go and stay at some stuffy, old-fashioned palazzo, when she had the comfort and liveliness of this luxurious hotel? Emma felt sure that Celeste was not going to stay with the Contessa, whom she had described to Emma as being at least eighty, for purely altruistic reasons. Celeste was just not like that! So why was she going there? Had the Contessa a son? And if she had, was he the reason for Celeste's excitement at the invitation? After all, Celeste had everything else now, did the idea of a title impress her? And if this was so Emma again came back to the reasons for her own inclusion in the invitation. The door of the suite opened, and Celeste came in, glowing and vivid, her emerald green silk sheath, clinging lovingly to the slender curves of her small, yet perfectly moulded, body.

'Emma,' she greeted her easily. 'Have you finished packing yet?' Emma rose to her feet. As she was five feet eight inches tall she always felt enormous beside the delicately framed Celeste, although she was quite attractively proportioned, and had none of the bony angles sometimes evident in tall girls who veer towards thinness. 'Not quite,' said Emma. 'I was just taking a breather. Tell me, Celeste, are you quite sure you want me to come with you to this palazzo? I mean, I could just as easily stay here, or at some smaller, less expensive pensione.' Celeste's face assumed a strange expression, and Emma felt that awful foreboding in her stomach that she used to get whenever Celeste called her to her to tell Emma some new arrangement which had been settled for her. But now Celeste did not intimidate her, although she sometimes looked at Emma in this strange way, as though she was only there on sufferance. 'Of course you will come with me,' said Celeste now, firmly, her smile belying the coldness of her eyes. 'We have both been invited, and naturally you will accompany me.' Emma shrugged. 'But why should the Contessa invite me?' she persisted, and Celeste made an impatient movement. 'You ask too many questions!' she said irritably. 'Where's my lemon chiffon? I shall wear that for dinner this evening. The Contessa is joining us here for the evening, and we'll leave the hotel tomorrow morning for the Palazzo.' She turned away, studying her reflection satisfactorily. 'By the way, you'll be dining with us this evening.'

Since their arrival at the Danieli, Emma had dined in her room, leaving their table in the dining-room to Celeste, who liked the mystery she created around herself, and liked to know everyone was speculating about the lovely widow who sat alone at her table every evening. Emma's eyes widened now, but she made no further comment. The mystery deepened, and a faint suspicion was dawning within her that Celeste wanted to impress this Contessa with her affection towards herself. But why? Unless the Contessa had expected that Celeste would take care of her stepdaughter when Charles Maxwell died. Could this be the link she was seeking? Emma wondered. It was painfully true that until now Celeste had considered Emma an encumbrance, the sooner to be rid of, the better. Emma wore a pink linen gown that evening, which while having cost Celeste quite a large sum was nevertheless very simple in design, and did not entirely suit Emma's fair colouring. She suited more definite colours rather than pastel shades, and in her present mood of suspicion, Emma couldn't help but wonder whether Celeste had chosen her clothes more to detract from her attractiveness than to add to it. It was true that in the past she had not had a lot of money to spend on clothes, but those she had were serviceable and youthful, and she had never before had this feeling of being quietly manoeuvred into anonymity. The Contessa arrived on the dot of eight and Celeste and Emma met her in the downstairs lounge. Emma thought she had never, seen a more regal person in her life, and as both Celeste and the Contessa were so small she felt doubly at a disadvantage.

However, the Contessa was in a mood to be charming, and when the introductions were over, and they had ordered a pre-dinner aperitif, she turned from her minute questioning of Celeste, to Emma, and said: 'And you, my dear; how do you find your sudden change of fortune?' Emma glanced at Celeste, and then shrugged disarmingly. 'I . . . er . . . it's very different from the hospital,' she said uneasily. Celeste's fingers gripped her arm warningly. 'Hospital?' said the Contessa, frowning. 'You have been in hospital, my dear? But this is very unfortunate at your age.' 'I... w ...' began Emma, but the grip on her arm was painfully tightened. 'Did I not tell you in my letter that Emma had had a severe dose of flu'?' Celeste was saying swiftly. 'It almost turned to pneumonia, and of course hospital was the safest place.' Emma stared at her stepmother in amazement. If she had needed any confirmation of her earlier suspicions, surely this was it! 'No, my dear Celeste,' said the Contessa, as Celeste relaxed her grip on Emma's arm. 'You did not tell me. But no matter. How fortunate it was that you were coming to Italy. You will find recuperation here far more enjoyable than in London I venture to say. I know that country very well, and the climate appals me!' Emma swallowed hard, unable to think coherently for a moment.

'Your English is excellent, Contessa,' she murmured awkwardly, unable for the life of her to think of anything else to say, and she knew she was expected to say something. 'Thank you, my dear. I have always thought so, myself.' The Contessa smiled. 'Come, drink up your martini. I think it is time we went in for our meal.' She slid an arm through Celeste's. 'And now, my dear, you must tell me everything. I want to know all about these two late husbands of yours, and whether you are thinking of marrying again. At thirty-three your life has barely begun. We must try to make your stay an unforgettable one.' Emma felt stunned. She wanted to plead a headache, which she surely had, and leave them for a while to gather her scattered wits,' but her innate sense of decency would not allow her to insult the Contessa in this way. Besides, she knew well what Celeste's reaction would be if she suddenly found her stepdaughter trying to escape from the evening's entertainment. So she went in to dinner, and toyed with her food while she listened to the conversation going on between the Contessa and her stepmother. The meal was delicious; the minestra, a soup made of vegetables and herbs, was both aromatic and tasty, but Emma hardly noticed what was on her plate. Even the sweet dessert failed to arouse her from the lethargy into which she had sunk. To her relief, the Contessa addressed most of her remarks to Celeste, so she was saved of the need for more lies, although Celeste was not averse to embroidering the truth to suit her own ends, as well as altering circumstances completely should she find it more in her interests to do so. 'Poor Charles,' she was saying. 'He was still a young man when he died, barely fifty-three, and so charming!' She glanced at Emma. 'Naturally, Emma and I shared our grief together, and I think we helped one another at that awful time.'

'Of course.' The Contessa was understanding. 'It is always an unhappy time, and you were lucky to have a companion so near your own age. After all, my dear, you could not by any means be taken for this child's mother! You look ridiculously young yourself, and you could almost be taken for sisters.' The calculating look she gave Emma as she said this implied more implicitly than words that she considered Celeste far too attractive and delicate to have such an opposite for a daughter. 'Emma and I are good friends,' said Celeste, looking again at Emma, as though daring her to deny this statement, but Emma was too absorbed to care. And, as the evening wore on, she wondered why she cared anyway. After all, she had never been left in any doubt as to Celeste's feelings towards herself from the time she . was sent away to boarding school, and she had only assumed she was being taken, on this trip as a kind of maid-companion, so what did it matter if Celeste chose to act as though she were the fairy godmother who had taken Emma from a life of prosaic existence, to the elegant world of palaces and countesses and riches? It seemed logical to suppose that Celeste wanted to appear as Emma's saviour and mentor, and the Contessa with her obvious pride in family would hardly consider a woman who had abandoned her stepdaughter without regret two or three years ago as a fit and proper member of her society. Emma was not a fool, whatever Celeste might think, and chances of free holidays, although they might not come every day, should not be sufficient to warrant the deliberate deceiving of an old lady. For that was what Celeste was doing, there was no doubt about that. And the reasons would no doubt become evident if the present Count chose to make an appearance. Middle-aged, ugly, debauched; he might be any or all of these things, but Celeste, who had not baulked against

marrying a man already in his seventies in the United States for the sole and obvious purpose of gaining a wealthy position in society, would hardly consider any of these things important when compared to the noblesse she would achieve by calling herself the Contessa Celeste Cesare. Emma felt sickened, and ashamed. By even being here she was allying herself in the deception, and all thoughts of the pleasure she herself might gain from this free holiday were banished by embarrassment of the situation. She would tell Celeste as soon as they got back to their suite that she was going home, and Celeste could move into the Palazzo tomorrow and do whatever she liked without any assistance from her. The Contessa suddenly turned her attention to Emma. She studied her for a moment, and then said: 'How are you liking your visit to Venice, my dear?' She smiled. 'Are you interested in old buildings and museums and art galleries? Or are you more enamoured of the Lido, and the calm blue waters of the Adriatic?' Emma gathered her thoughts. 'I think it's a beautiful place,' she replied politely, none of her earlier enthusiasm now evident, and Celeste looked curiously at her. 'Of course I've already visited the Doge's Palace, and this morning I had coffee in one of those outdoor cafes in St. Mark's Square.' 'Ah, yes, the Piazza San Marco. And did you go into the Basilica?' 'Unfortunately, no. I didn't have the time to explore it properly, and I didn't want to have to rush it.' The Contessa clasped her hands. 'I can see you do find pleasure in beautiful things. That pleases me. My family used to have a great

collection of paintings and sculptures, but alas, many of these have had to be sold, but that does not prevent me visiting the art galleries, and the churches where there is a veritable fortune in famous art treasures to be seen and gloated over.' She laughed, and turned to Celeste. 'Your mother and I used to spend hours in the Louvre when we were young students. Did she tell you?' Celeste hesitated. 'Of course, dear Aunt Francesca,' she said smoothly, but Emma felt sure that this was just more of Celeste's lies. She herself had been unable to prevent the surge of excitement that talking about such world-famous masterpieces could arouse, and the Contessa's knowledge, strengthened by. years of exploration and interest, would have enthralled her for hours. It was a pity that tomorrow she must return to London, and try and forget this almost unforgettable interlude. When dinner was over, Emma excused herself thankfully. Now at least she could leave without arousing Celeste's annoyance, for she felt sure her stepmother wanted to be alone with the Contessa to pursue whatever reason had brought her to Venice in the first place. Emma went up to her room, collected a light wrap, and went downstairs again. If she was leaving in the morning, she intended enjoying as much of her final evening as was possible. She didn't particularly care that it was not the thing for an unescorted young girl to venture out alone on the streets of Venice, particularly as Italian men were noted for their amorous advances. But Emma felt perfectly capable of handling any would-be suitor and she ignored the admiring glances cast in her direction, and the casual greetings sometimes flung across at her. The Riva degli Schiavoni was crowded even so early in the season, and gondolas were departing at intervals from the landing stage

taking couples for an unforgettable trip along the canal, the gondolas with their lights glinting in the dusk. The shops were closed now, but the numerable cafes were still open, and Emma was tempted to go in and ask for coffee, but in this her courage defeated her. She had not brought her purse with her or she might have hired a gondola herself, despite the extravagance, for there at least she would be free of the necessity of continually looking away from bold dark eyes. She returned to the hotel at last, depression beginning to invade her consciousness. She still had Celeste to face, and it was not going to be pleasant. She could remember in the past the viciousness of Celeste's temper when she was crossed. She reached the Danieli, and was crossing the foyer unseeingly, when she was brought up unexpectedly against the chest of a man coming just as self-absorbedly from the bar. She stepped back awkwardly, her cheeks flushed, and a ready apology on her lips. But the man forestalled her, his inbred courtesy always in evidence. 'Scusi, signorina. Si lo un mio scaglio.' 'Non import a, signore,' Emma murmured, swiftly, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth as her eyes encountered the light blue gaze of the man confronting her, and as his experienced appraisal of herself was taking place she found herself studying him just as intently. There was something about him which she felt set him apart from the other Italian men she had encountered this evening. That he was Italian she was left in no doubt despite the fact that he was easily six feet in height, which is tall for an Italian. He was lean, but his shoulders were broad and belied the casual elegance of his dinner jacket. She felt sure he was not simply a sybarite, although he looked completely at ease in these luxurious surroundings. His skin was

darkly tanned for a European, as though he spent much time outdoors, and his lashes were the longest she had ever seen on a man and were the only effeminate thing about an otherwise completely masculine face. She supposed some women would call him handsome, but his attraction did not rely on. good looks, but rather on a magnetic kind of charm which surrounded him leaving a woman completely aware of her own femininity. He was much older than Emma, anywhere between thirty-five and forty-five, with a kind of agelessness that utterly disarmed Emma. She had never been attracted to older men; boys of her own age had always seemed much more fun than the older doctors at the hospital but suddenly all her earlier opinions seemed to go through a swift revision, and she realized she really had had very little experience of life. The man smiled now, and said: 'Par la lei Italiano?' Emma sighed. 'No.' She shrugged. 'Only phrase-book Italian, anyway.' 'So.' He spoke English now with only a slight accent. 'You are English. Tell me, did I hurt you?' Emma shook her head, ignoring the fact that when she had stepped back so precipitately someone had kicked her ankle and it was really quite painful now. 'Good, good. You are holidaying here, signorina?' 'Yes, signore.' Emma nodded, and then realizing she was allowing herself to be 'picked up' as they say in England, she began to move away, but the man stopped her, a light hand on her arm, his fingers hard and cool. 'Don't go, signorina. Allow me to buy you a Campari, if only to show that you accepted my apology.'

Emma shook her head. 'Thank you, but no, signore. My... my friends are waiting for me. I must go. And of course I accept your apology. It was as much my fault as yours.' The man's eyes were amused. 'Very well, but at least tell me your name.' Emma smiled. 'All right. Emma Maxwell.' 'Bene. Arrivederci, signorina.' 'Good-bye.' Emma walked resolutely across to the elevator, but she felt supremely, conscious that his eyes followed her, and felt a leap of something like excitement inside her at the possible prospect of seeing him again. It was not until she gained the sanctity of her own room that she remembered her earlier decision to tell Celeste that evening that she was leaving in the morning. Emma faltered, and walked across to her dressing table mirror, drawn by a desire to see her reflection, to study it appraisingly, and just how stupidly she was behaving. What would a man like that want with an idiot teenager like herself? If she had been madly beautiful like Celeste, there might have been some reason for her to feel this mad surge of happiness, but she had nothing in particular to commend her. Her hair was blonde, it was true, but it was disappointingly straight and at the moment hung over her shoulders in silky strands; her complexion was fair, but would soon tan in the hot sun; and her eyes which she had always considered her best feature, large and wide-spaced and most definitely green, had lashes which were nowhere near as long as that man's. And finally she came to the pink gown; it really did do nothing for her whatsoever, and she decided that whatever happened, first thing in the morning she would visit one of those small markets, that abounded in the tiny alleyways among the canals, and buy some material and cottons and run herself up a couple of dresses in colours

which she knew suited her. A vivid red, perhaps, and that gorgeous shade of kingfisher blue. But first of all there was Celeste, and somehow now the desire to escape from Venice at the first opportunity seemed to have lost its appeal.

CHAPTER THREE CELESTE did not come up to the suite until well into the early hours of the morning, and when she did she was humming softly and smugly to herself as though well pleased with the evening's happenings. Emma had sat up reading until midnight, and then she had gone to bed to he awake wondering what on earth Celeste was doing. Surely the Contessa did not keep these hours at her age. Emma slid out of bed, and wrapped a quilted dressing-gown about her slim body. Then she quietly opened the door of her bedroom and entered the lounge of the suite. Celeste had just lit a cigarette, and was standing smoking, a lazy smile on her face. She started, almost guiltily Emma thought, at her stepdaughter's appearance; and said: 'Emma! What in heaven's name are you doing, creeping around at this hour of the morning?' Emma shrugged her shoulders, and advanced into the room. 'I... I couldn't sleep,' she said casually. 'Celeste, I'm thinking of going home tomorrow— or I mean today, actually.' Celeste's expression altered considerably. 'Home? You mean to England?' "Yes.' Emma hugged herself nervously. 'I... I don't know what lies you've been telling about our relationship, but I'm certainly not prepared to deceive that sweet old lady by any more of it...' Celeste stared incredulously at her, and then she laughed scornfully. 'That sweet old lady, as you called her, happens to care more about money than my deficiencies,' she snapped. 'Has it dawned on your

naive intelligence that the reason I'm here is to grab myself a title, and in the subsequent process restore the Cesare family fortunes?' Emma flushed. 'I've been working it out,' she admitted slowly. 'But it can't be as simple as that, Celeste, or you wouldn't have bothered to bring me along, would you?' Celeste smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. 'To a degree you have a point. The Contessa is money-conscious, I admit, but like all Italians, the family means a lot to her, and if I had arrived here without my dear stepdaughter, I venture to suppose she would be curious as to the reasons.' 'You could have told the truth: that I have a job in London-.' 'Oh, no, darling. Perhaps with your small- minded approach to fife it hasn't occurred to you to wonder exactly how much Clifford left me, but I can assure you the Contessa knows my bank balance down to the last farthing, I shouldn't wonder.' 'What has that to do with it?' asked Emma wearily. 'Lots of girls whose parents have money work for a living, why shouldn't I!' Celeste shrugged. 'You just might,' she murmured reflectively, 'but with several million dollars in cash and securities, I think it's unlikely, to say the least.' 'Several million dollars!' Emma was incredulous. 'Of course. You didn't imagine I married Clifford and put up with his pawing for peanuts, did you?' Emma was nauseated. 'Celeste,' she said, almost inaudibly.

'So? Emma, be sensible! What possible harm can there be in allowing an old lady to imagine that you and I are on the best of terms, just to satisfy her . . . how shall I put it... proprieties?' Hearing it put like that Emma was temporarily bereft of reasons. If it was true that the Contessa was only interested in Celeste for her money, wasn't it reasonable that Celeste should have the chance to acquire her title, if that was what was so important to her? After all, Celeste was the type of person to get what she wanted despite any opposition. Emma shook her head. 'The whole situation is disgusting. If this is what money brings you, I'm glad I don't have any.' 'Why, darling? Wouldn't you like to be a Contessa?' 'Not particularly. I'd rather marry a man I loved than some middleaged playboy who has gambled away all his own fortune and now wants to start on someone else's.' Celeste laughed. 'Oh, Emma, you couldn't be more wrong as far as the Count Vidal Cesare is concerned. He's far from middle- aged, and he's very attractive. Not that that mattered, as you will have gathered, but it's nice to know the father of my children won't need aphrodisiacs to stimulate his natural desires.' Emma turned away. 'Celeste!' she exclaimed, 'that's a horrible thing to say.' 'You're far too sensitive, darling,' retorted Celeste carelessly. 'If you stay long with me you'll soon shed that sensitive skin of yours and toughen up a bit. Grow up, darling, surely you're well aware that the reason the Contessa wants me and not some older and possibly richer woman is because I can produce the heir that she so ardently desires for her grandson. See?'

Emma shrugged. 'Well, that settles it. I'd rather stay on the outside, if you don't mind. I'll go back home, and you get on with your life without me. You've managed very well so far; don't think you'll need to feel any further responsibility for me. Like you, I can survive in my own sphere.' Celeste's voice was suddenly hard. 'You're staying.' 'I think not.' Emma was firm. 'Then think again, Emma. The Contessa has taken a liking to you and I have no intention of allowing you to return to England leaving me with a host of unexplainable details to contend with. No, darling, you're staying, and if you intend making any speeches, don't! You may not believe this right now, but I could make life pretty unpleasant for you, if I was forced to do so, and if you walk out on me I will consider myself forced to do so.' Emma's cheeks burned. 'Don't threaten me, Celeste. I support myself, you know. I don't need any assistance from you.' 'No, perhaps not. But this hospital you are training at in London could no doubt use some funds, and if you cross me I'll find someone on their staff who is corruptible enough to do anything for money, understand?' Emma stared at her. 'You must be joking!' 'I was never more serious in my life.' 'There are other hospitals.' 'I would always be able to find you. I have the money, darling, and believe me, I know, money can buy anything, but any thing!'

'I believe you would hound me,' said Emma wonderingly. 'Why? Celeste, why? What have I ever done to you?' 'Nothing. And that has nothing to do with it, Emma. I want you here, and if you walk out on me, your life will become so unpleasant you will surely wish you'd never crossed me.' She sighed, and her tone changed again. 'Darling, what am I asking, after all? Six weeks of your time, six weeks during which time you can explore one of the most exciting cities in the world; surely that's not so much to ask?' Emma shook her head, too choked to speak, then without a word she turned and walked back into her bedroom. She was nineteen, which was not a very great age, inexperienced and a little frightened by her stepmother's threats, and there was no one in the world to whom she could turn, apart from a couple of distant relatives back there in England, who couldn't care less really what happened to her. It seemed she would go with Celeste, because just at present she didn't feel up to standing up to her.

At breakfast the next morning the scene the previous evening might never have happened. Celeste had resumed her earlier indulgent attitude, and if she thought Emma was a little silent, and perhaps rather subdued, her own inconsequential chatter amply covered any evidence of that. She told Emma lightly that she had met Count Vidal Cesare the previous evening. 'He joined us after dinner,' she recounted, a smile on her lips, a little self-satisfied smile like the look of the cat when she has just been at the cream. 'He couldn't join us for dinner, because he had commitments which couldn't be broken, but he stayed long after the Contessa had returned home, and we went for a trip on a gondola.

Emma, darling, it was marvellous! We must see what we can do about arranging an escort for you while you are here, because one cannot enjoy any of the delights of Venice by night without a suitable male in tow.' 'Thank you, but that won't be necessary,' said Emma quietly, and Celeste looked at her sharply. 'You are not leaving.' It was a statement rather than a question. 'No, Celeste, I'm not leaving. But nor do I intend to be manoeuvred by you into accepting the company of some hangabout relation of this Count's.' 'Don't be so vehement, darling. No one is going to force you to do anything you don't want to do . . . now.' She rose elegantly to her feet. 'And now I'll go and get dressed, and you can finish the packing, if you'd be so kind. A gondola is coming for us at eleven. Some fellow who works for the Contessa, Giulio, I believe his name is, will arrive to escort us to the Palazzo. Imagine it, Emma, me, Celeste Bernard, staying at a Venetian palazzo!' To Emma, the Palazzo represented many things. It was certainly old, and she supposed it might be called beautiful, but the thoughts uppermost in her mind were those concerning Celeste, and she did not find the excitement in the visit she might have done in different circumstances. Celeste .shivered as they crossed the chill dankness of the lower hall and ascended the staircase in the wake of Giulio, who was laden down with two of Celeste's larger cases. Emma was carrying a small case and a hold-all which accommodated most of her belongings, while in the hall below stood the huge trunk which Celeste had filled with her evening gowns and shoes and jewels.

'We must have a lift installed,' remarked Celeste, over her shoulder to Emma. 'No one walks upstairs in the States!' The Contessa awaited them in the large lounge, and Celeste was relieved to note that in these apartments central heating had been installed and the furniture was reasonably modern and comfortable. She saw no reason to retain the inner rooms of the Palazzo in the same state as the outer walls, and Emma felt sure her first thoughts were the amount of renovation which would take place as soon as it was certain that she was to be the next Contessa. The maid, Anna, was waiting to serve coffee and biscuits, and after several cups and a couple of cigarettes, Celeste and Emma were shown their rooms. Celeste's room was a huge barnlike salon with a massive tester bed hung with velvet drapes from a central cornice that could be let down to enclose completely the occupants of the bed. The tesselated floor was strewn liberally with soft piled rugs, and the furniture was made of dark stained wood accentuated by the bright colours of the bed covers and curtains. 'Heavens!' exclaimed Celeste, in amazement, 'It's like a small auditorium.' 'Perhaps that's what it was used for in the olden days,' remarked Emma, forgetting for a moment her own problems. 'Maybe the Contessas used to hold audience in their bedchambers like kings and queens used to in days gone by.' 'Is that a fact?' Celeste made a moue with her lips. 'Ah, well, so long as the bed's comfortable, I don't suppose I shall worry. Actually, though, I imagine those drapes could prove rather stuffy on a hot evening.'

'In this place?' Emma shook her head. 'I shouldn't imagine these rooms ever get stuffy, as you put it. They're built of stone, you know, these palazzos. And stone takes an awful lot to warm up.' Celeste sighed. 'And where is the bathroom? I wonder if the plumbing is modern. Let's hope so.' The bathroom was huge, and stately, and the bath was big enough to hold half a dozen adults at one go, but the plumbing was modern, and when the taps were turned on, a refreshing stream of steaming water splayed out on to the porcelain basin. Anna had offered to unpack for Celeste, so leaving her stepmother to the maid's ministrations, Emma decided to explore. Her own bedroom was far less imposing than Celeste's, but it was still rather big although the bed was a modern divan-type four-footer, for which she felt rather disappointed. She, much more than Celeste, would have welcomed the genuine atmosphere of old things in their proper place. The lounge when she returned to it was deserted, but sounds penetrated from a door opening off to the left which seemed to lead to the kitchen quarters and she thought perhaps the old lady might be supervising the arrangements for lunch. She stepped back out on to the long gallery which ran from front to back and stood for a moment looking down on the deserted and rather dark hall below. She could picture what the Palazzo must have looked like in the days when the hall was used for receptions, when the room was filled with beautifully adorned women in silks and satins and brocades, their jewels more fabulous than any Emma had ever seen, while the men, bewigged perhaps, or simply elegantly clothed themselves in satin breeches and waistcoats joined their ladies in the minuet, the strains of violins floating up to the younger

members of the family, as they watched perhaps from the secrecy of this very balcony. She was lost in thought, a faint smile touched her lips, and she started, shaken out of her reverie, when the outer door opened below and a shaft of sunlight momentarily dispersed the gloom, revealing a man who was entering the Palazzo, carrying a guitar case in his hand. Completely unaware of her scrutiny, he walked silently across the hall to an anteroom. He opened the door, and without a sound disappeared inside. Emma frowned, and straightened up. She had been leaning on the balcony rail, and her arm felt cold from the touch. But she was unconscious of any discomfort to herself. There had been something peculiar about the entrance of the man downstairs; she could not have said what it was exactly, but his movements had been deliberately stealthy, as though the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to himself. And if that was the case, who could he be? And what was he doing down there? Emma swallowed hard. It was difficult for her to gauge the situation. From what Celeste had told her, and the Contessa's conversation the previous evening, she had gathered that only the apartments on the first floor were used by the Contessa and her grandson, and if this were so, what possible reason could anyone have for entering the ante-room downstairs, and with a guitar, too? It sounded ridiculous when she thought about it, and shrugging her shoulders, she turned resolutely away. Whatever was going on it was no concern of hers, and she hardly knew the Contessa well enough to go and ask whether she knew that someone was using one of her downstairs rooms. Walking back along the gallery, she passed several heavily carved doors, and she knew an almost overwhelming desire to open these doors to see what mysteries lurked behind them. The little incident

she had just witnessed, which might prove to be perfectly innocent, had given her the strangest feeling of nervousness, and she decided she had better return to the lounger forthwith before she let her imagination run away with her. She nearly jumped out of her skin, therefore, when a voice said: 'And just where do you think you are going?' Emma swung round, a hand to her lips suppressing the gasp of pure unawareness of anyone's approach. Then she stared: 'You!' It was the man from the foyer of the Danieli. He looked taken aback, and his eyes narrowed. 'Why are you here?' His tone was clipped, as though he was angry about something, and she couldn't understand it. 'I . . . well ... the Contessa Cesare has invited my stepmother and myself to spend a visit with her. But... but who are you?' His face relaxed. 'You are Celeste Vaughan's stepdaughter?' 'Yes. But you haven't answered my question.' She have an exclamation suddenly. 'You're not the Count T Her voice was very faint now. 'At your service,' he agreed smoothly. 'Then . . .' Emma faltered. 'But where have you come from . . .? I mean ... I didn't hear you come in. That is . . . was that you down there in the hall?' His face darkened momentarily. 'You have been standing long on the gallery? Or did you hear something and come to investigate?

'I'm afraid I was day-dreaming . . .' Emma remembered to whom she was addressing herself. 'I beg your pardon. I should say Signor - or Signor Conte, should I not?' She flushed. 'I'm afraid I'm a little bemused. You startled me so.' 'That is of no importance. You were saying you were day-dreaming?' 'Yes. I ... I saw someone come in, with a guitar case, and go into one of the anterooms, that's all. I just thought it was a bit odd, when the Contessa had said the downstairs rooms were never used. Of course, if I had known it was you...!' The Count frowned, and ran a restless hand over his dark hair. He studied her for a moment, and then said: 'I sometimes use the ante-rooms for storing things. That is all.' Emma nodded. They stood in silence for a moment, a silence that seemed somehow tangible to Emma in this somehow perceptive mood she was experiencing. And with the moment came thoughts into her brain like wings of steel beating against gossamer; this was the Count whom Celeste intended to marry; this man, who the previous evening, had filled her with such a glorious feelings of self-confidence; whose eyes had told her that he found her almost attractive, and who had invited her to have a drink with him. It was incredible, and unacceptable and horrible. How could he allow himself to be sold, even for the restoration of the Cesare family fortunes? It was nauseating. She was aware that he was looking at her, and she looked down at her slim-fitting dark blue jeans and pale blue tee-shirt in disgust, remembering suddenly that she had promised herself some new

materials for new dresses, but the argument with Celeste had thrown everything else out of her mind. He was smiling strangely, however, and he said: 'I understood Celeste's stepdaughter to be a child, little more than a schoolgirl.' Emma's cheeks burned. 'I'm nineteen,' she said defensively. 'I shall be twenty in a few months.' 'Indeed.' Emma shrugged her shoulders. 'Well . . . shall we go in?' 'If you want to.' There was about him that certain air of assurance, the assurance of a man who knows his power over women, and Emma felt a sudden surge of annoyance that even for a moment she had felt herself weakening towards him when he was an inveterate gambler and womanizer, and showed not the slightest qualms about marrying a woman simply for her fortune.

CHAPTER FOUR To Emma's relief Celeste was not in the lounge when they entered, but the Contessa was there, and she smiled as they came in, and said : 'Ah, I see you two have become acquainted. Cesare, isn't it time you changed for lunch?' Count Cesare was wearing dark slacks, and a white silk shirt, open at the throat to reveal the mat of dark hairs on his chest, and to Emma's eyes looked just as attractive as he had done the night before. She chided herself- for her naiveté, so far as he was concerned, for after all, he was no callow youth to attract by feminine giggles, but a mature man of the world, a man moreover who was actually old enough to be her father. 'As you say, Contessa,' murmured Count* Cesare, his eyes flickering thoughtfully over Emma once again, and she flushed, and said: 'I suppose I ought to change, too. I'm afraid I've been wasting time.' 'What have you been doing, child?' The Contessa moved towards her warmly. 'I was exploring,' said Emma eagerly, anything to shake this depression that was threatening to overwhelm her. 'I think this must have been a marvellous place years ago.' She looked awkward, realizing the implication of her words. 'That is . . . in the days when luxurious living was taken for granted.' 'I understand you, child,' replied the Contessa easily. 'Do not be afraid to tell me that the Palazzo is falling about our ears from neglect. My grandson cares little for the past; he lives for the present.' Emma looked nervously at the Count. He was standing perfectly still, listening to their conversation, and did not appear at all concerned at

his grandmother's lack of tact. On the contrary, she seemed to amuse him. 'You will have gathered that my grandmother is very anxious that the Palazzo should be restored,' he remarked to Emma. 'To her, things are more important than people. Me, I consider a human being needs only somewhere to live, food to eat and the bright sun to warm him.' He laughed, a low attractive laugh, which infuriated his grandmother. 'And money?' she said. 'What about money, Cesare? You are the last person to live without money!' Cesare shrugged. 'Contessa, you really know very little about me. Men change, you know, mature, grow more adult; gain from experience.' 'Hah!' The Contessa burst into a stream of Italian which Emma thought sounded very uncomplimentary, and with jerky movements, she slipped unobtrusively out of the room and into her bedroom. Lunch was served on the terrace overlooking the canal, and with a warm sun beating down, and the delicious aromas of good food emanating from the kitchen, Emma felt a little more relaxed. She had changed into a dark blue light woollen dress which she had owned long before Celeste came back into the picture and which she knew suited her fair colouring, and she had brushed her straight hair until it shone. Not that she could be anything other than insignificant beside the glorious technicolor beauty of her stepmother, who was seated at the Contessa's left hand at the head of the table. Celeste was wearing a brilliant yellow poplin sheath, with a huge, stand-up collar that added tawny tints to her red-gold hair. Pendant

diamond ear-rings glistened from her ears, which matched the diamond pendant which rested seductively in the hollow between her breasts. Count Cesare seated opposite her could not fail to find his eyes drawn irresistibly to that glinting bauble in its alabaster setting, Emma thought, and toyed restlessly with the delicious risotto on her plate. She had never before had to contend with the kind of emotions that Count Cesare roused in her, and she could only assume that the rather unreal quality of the setting, added to the fact that he was the first Italian count she had encountered, or any count, she mentally added, had temporarily anaesthetized her into this state of lethargy. After all, she told herself, she was not as completely innocent of men as all that. She had had plenty of boy-friends during the last three years, and had indulged, with them, in the usual light-hearted necking accepted by all concerned. She thought that probably the romantic history of Venice encouraged one to think continually of love, and lovers, and it was, naturally, rather a thrill for someone from such an ordinary little rut as hers to suddenly be transported into this kind of atmosphere. But no matter how she tried, or argued within herself, her eyes were still inescapably drawn to Count Cesare, studying him with an intensity that must have conveyed itself to him, for he suddenly turned and looked in her direction and she bent her head hastily and gathered up the remainder of the mushrooms and rice on her plate. When lunch was over, Celeste announced that she was going to indulge in her acquired habit of siesta, and as the Contessa was going to do likewise, Emma thought she might have time to go to shopping, completely forgetting that in Italy the shops are closed between one and four in the afternoons.

She collected her leather shoulder bag, shed her court shoes for more comfortable sandals, and leaving word with Anna that she was going out for a while, she descended the staircase to the lower hall. She was surprised when a figure stepped out of the shadows below the staircase, and said: 'Well, now. And where are you going?' Emma shivered. 'I'm going shopping, Signor Count. And I wish you wouldn't startle me like that all the time.' He smiled, and took her arm lightly. 'The shops are closed, and it is too warm to walk in the heat of the day, so I suggest you come with me, and I will show you a little of the delights of the lagoon.' Emma's eyes widened. 'You! But I mean... why?' 'Because I want to, and I always do what I want to do.' 'Really.' Emma stared half-annoyedly at him. It was all very well to admire him from a distance, but she couldn't deny being near him like this was a little over-powering. She was also rather afraid of the magnetism he exuded. She wasn't at all sure of herself with him, and on top of everything else she was certain Celeste would not approve. Count Cesare fingered a strand of the pale hair, and said: 'You want to come, so why not? If you are worried about your stepmother, I shan't tell her.' Emma felt affronted. 'In other words you Want a clandestine outing with me in between passionate rendezvous with Celeste!' He smiled, and ignoring her, he propelled her to the door. Emma let herself be drawn along; it was difficult to resist anyway, when you badly wanted to give in.

Once outside, in the sunlight, he said: 'What a . . . how do you say it . . . old- fashioned creature you are; with your clandestine meetings and rendezvous. Of what possible interest can this be to us, mia cava, on this most delightful of afternoons? Come, you are not going to refuse me, are you? After all, Miss Emma Maxwell, we met last evening, did we not, and today I called at your hotel to again express my apologies, and to offer myself as your escort should you desire to explore my city.' Emma was flabbergasted. 'I don't believe you,' she exclaimed impulsively. 'Why should you do that?' He shrugged, and they crossed the outer courtyard, and reached the landing stage. 'I am beginning to wonder,' he murmured softly, and she looked up at him and smiled, unable to resist the tone of his lazy voice. He was tall, and Emma, used to men who were little more than her own height, thought how nice it was to have to look up to him. A motor boat was moored at the landing stage, and he said: 'This is mine. Do you mind if we use this instead of a gondola? I prefer to do my own propulsion, without fear of someone listening into my conversations.' Emma was tempted to make some comment, but she didn't. She merely allowed him to assist her into the small launch, and waited while he jumped in beside her. To begin with she stood beside him in the small cockpit, absorbed in the ever-changing variety of their surroundings, realizing as he pointed out places of interest to her that he was well versed in the history of the place, whatever his grandmother might say about him. She saw the church of Santa Maria della Salute, and the Ca' d'Oro, the house of gold;

the Gritti Palace Hotel which used to be a Gothic palace, and Was now one of the most luxurious hotels in Venice; Count Cesare knew the names of almost all the palaces they passed, and Emma, who had never dreamed that there were so many, just stared and stared, and clasped her hands together at the splendour of it all. They passed under the Rialto bridge, and Emma saw all the shops that lined it, their exclusive wares stocking the windows. 'It is best to see the bridge on foot,' said Cesare, 'the shops sell every kind of tourist attraction; Murano glass, Venetian lace and jewellery and toys and souvenirs of all kinds.' Emma nodded. 'I'm sure it is. But I must admit, the familiar tourist establishments don't particularly appeal to me. I would rather go somewhere less... commercial.' 'All right,' Cesare smiled. 'If you care to trust me, I will do as I first suggested, and show you the lagoon.' 'Trust you?' She frowned. 'I don't understand.' Cesare swung the launch off the main Canal into a darker, closerhoused waterway, that ran between the dark stone walls of houses that opened directly on to the canal itself. Here were creeper-hung archways leading into inner courtyards, wrought iron grilles, like gateways into watery gardens. There seemed a profusion of trellises and openings, and small craft moored to sidings flanked sometimes by poles and fluted columns. 'I mean that many of the islands of the Lagoon are deserted now, uninhabited, yon understand. Of course, there are Murano and Burano and Torcello, but I think we will save them for another day, yes?'

Emma glanced at her watch. 'It's already after three o'clock, signore. Perhaps it would be as well to leave the lagoon until another day also.' Cesare shrugged his broad shoulders, and Emma could not help but admire the rippling muscles beneath the grey silk jacket of his suit. She wondered why he had never married, because there must have been many women who would willingly have sacrificed their freedom for his sake. Suddenly they emerged from the maze of waterways into a bright, open expanse of water, as blue as the sky which melted into it on the horizon. It was so unexpected, and so beautiful, that Emma could only gasp and shake her head in astonishment. Cesare switched off the boat's engine, and for a while they drifted with the current, soon leaving the spires and churches of the closely clustered islands of Venice far behind them. There were few craft out at this hour of the afternoon, and they seemed alone in a blue, blue world of secluded unreality. 'You like it?' he asked, looking down at her quizzically. She shook her head helplessly. 'How could I not?' She moved back to the stern of the small craft, and seated herself on the soft cushions which covered the bench seat. Count Cesare followed her, and seated himself beside her, offering her a cigarette. Emma shook her head. 'I still don't understand why you should have brought me!' 'Why not?' He lay back lazily, studying her with an intentness that embarrassed her. 'I like you.' Emma couldn't leave it alone. 'Count Cesare...' 'Cesare will do,' he remarked softly.

'Well . . . Cesare, then. You're just not getting through to me. I know perfectly well that Celeste is a far more interesting proposition so far as you are concerned than I shall ever be, so why are you bothering with me?' She sighed. 'Please, don't try to fool me.' He spread his hands indignantly. 'But I MI not, truly. I do like you, and I wanted to see your reaction to all this.' 'Why didn't you bring Celeste? Why aren't you having a siesta?' 'You ask too many questions,' he replied coolly, his voice less than cajoling now. 'Accept the gifts as the gods offer them.' Emma turned her back on him. She simply could not believe that this man, this Count Vidal Cesare, should have taken such an immediate liking to an insignificant little thing like herself, that he would jeopardise his chances of success with her stepmother in order to take her out with him. It was ludicrous. There had to be another reason why he should be prepared to waste his time with her, but for the life of her she couldn't imagine what it might be. He was far too attractive to women, to find her anything more than fleetingly pretty. His invitation to buy her a drink the previous evening had been the completely involuntary reaction of an Italian wishing to show his sincere apologies, and not to be taken seriously. Whether he had called again this morning as he had said was as improbable point, and in any ,case he had not expected to find her camping on his doorstep so to speak later in the day. At that time he had spoken quite sharply to her, as though her presence in his house could only be construed as annoying. She watched him throw the end of his cigarette into the water and watched it slowly disintegrate and separate into tiny strands of tobacco, before disappearing into the depths. The afternoon had gone sour on her, and she was disappointed and miserable.

She looked at Count Cesare and found him staring out unseeingly across the water, as though lost in thought. But he was immediately aware of her glance, and he looked at her wryly. 'Do you want to go back?' Emma shrugged. 'I think we'd better.' He flicked a speck of ash off his trousers, and then rose to his feet. He stood looking down at her upturned face, and with hard fingers he cupped her chin and turned her face critically from side to side. 'Don't belittle yourself so, Emma Maxwell,' he murmured softly. 'You're a nice child, and with the right handling you could be quite beautiful, did you know that?' 'I'm not a child!' she retorted, albeit a trifle childishly, and he raised his dark eyebrows. 'No? Perhaps not to the young men of your own age group, but to me you seem incredibly young and naive. I can't ever remember being so young myself. I feel as though I was born old.' 'Women mature much earlier than men,' she replied quickly. 'All right, I'll accept that. But as you told me earlier on, Celeste is much more my age group.' 'I didn't mention age,' said Emma stiffly, her cheeks burning, and he released her. 'No. But you were perceptive,' he said enigmatically, and moved forward to start the motor.

Emma sighed. So what had she proved, really? That Cesare did not find her by any means a challenge to his masculinity, and that he had no sexual attraction towards her. She got up and joined him. 'Tell me, honestly, why did you bring me out today?' Cesare sighed. 'Because you're a nice child, and I like you.' 'And that's the only reason?' 'What would you have me say?' He smiled. 'I don't become emotionally involved with teenagers, no matter what you may have heard from your so-charming stepmother.' 'You couldn't be more explicit!' exclaimed Emma, almost in tears now. 'Oh, I wish I'd never come!' Cesare laughed, and for a second she thought he had the look of the devil himself, taunting her, and teasing her, until she could have slapped his face, so angry did she feel. 'Did you expect a light-hearted flirtation?' he asked, with complete candour, and Emma was too astonished to answer him. 'Are you perhaps, at heart, just another tourist coming to Venice for the holiday romance of your life, and then going back home to England to sink back into the ordinary everyday happenings?' 'Of course not.' Emma turned away. 'I've revised my first opinion of you, Signor Count, I had thought you were a gentleman!' They were back in the maze of waterways now and with his expert knowledge of the canals it was not long before they were alongside the moorings of the Palazzo Cesare.

Emma did not wait for his assistance to jump out, but instead climbed hastily out as he was tying the rope, and walked swiftly across the courtyard and into the Palazzo through the heavy door. He caught up with her as she reached the foot of the staircase. 'I gather you're angry with me,' he murmured mockingly. 'My feelings towards you are non-existent,' she retorted coldly, mounting the first stair with as much dignity as she could muster. But her feet were damp from the bottom of the boat, and the stone stairs were worn smooth with time and much use, and her foot slipped back again, and she stumbled awkwardly, and would have fallen had he not been behind her, ready to prevent an accident. She was caught up against him, her back against the warm hardness of his body. His arms held her there for a minute, pressed hard against him, and her legs turned to jelly beneath her. Never in her life before had she experienced such an onslaught of sexual awareness, and she could tell from the increased tenor of his breathing that the contact was disturbing him also. If she were to turn round in his arms, she felt certain his mouth would seek hers, and it was terribly difficult to resist that temptation. Then she was free, and he had stepped back abruptly. Without glancing round, Emma fled up the stairs, and the pounding of her heart was like thunder in her ears.

CHAPTER FIVE CESARE left Marco Cortina's office in the heart of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. He thrust his way through the bustling crowds that never seemed to completely disperse at any hour of the day, and made his way towards the Rialto Bridge. Mingling with the tourists, he was able to pass almost unnoticed in the crowds and that suited him admirably. He had no desire to draw attention to his presence in this particular quarter of the city. Bypassing the bridge, he made his way through the myriad sidestreets and alleyways towards the Piazza San Marco. He glanced at his wrist-watch; it was almost eleven o'clock, and he had promised to meet Celeste at one of the outdoor cafes that abound on the square, at eleven o'clock. She had, he was grateful to accept, some shopping to do beforehand, thus ridding him of the necessity of making excuses as to why he could not accompany her earlier. It had been imperative that he contact Marco and give him the information he had discovered, but it would not have been easy to find excuses for visiting the Fondaco. He wondered again at the possible stupidity of his allowing his grandmother's guests to remain at the Palazzo when so much might be at stake, but short of behaving boorishly, which was not his nature, he had had to accept their presence as best he could, without advertising the fact of Celeste's considerable monetary assets. He doubted whether anyone would believe his indifference to his grandmother's plans, and his own attempt at appearing interested in the stepdaughter had failed disastrously. Remembering the afternoon he had spent with Emma two days ago he cursed himself afresh. It had been a stupid and completely idiotic gesture and he had merely succeeded in destroying any casual friendship he might have had with the child.

Child? He wondered. There had been nothing childlike about the yielding softness of her body as he had held her momentarily on the stairs, and his own reactions had been violently adult. He admitted it, honestly, that in any other circumstances he might have found an affair with Emma quite diverting. It was true young women were in the main all of a piece so far as he was concerned, but Emma's lack of sophistication and pathetic denial of any interest he might have in her had moved him strangely, and he would have liked to have furthered the experiment. Celeste was another matter. She was very beautiful, and she was very rich, and her age was not so far short of his own. He knew she was quite willing for him to speedily hasten their acquaintance into something deeper, but for once in his life the desire for possession was dulled. He had known many beautiful women; in fact he had considered beauty a necessity to physical desire, but now he was discovering this was not always so. The child, Emma, was not beautiful, and yet her tall, slimly rounded body was desirable, although she was unaware of it herself, and her hair was soft, like silk, and smelt faintly of the lemon shampoo she used. Her hands had been soft, too, and Cesare felt a fierce, self-condemning anger inside him as he contemplated so emotionally the pleasure he would derive from feeling those small, delicately proportioned hands on his body, and the sensual delights she would experience in his arms. 'Cesare! Cesare!' he told himself angrily, 'what manner of man are you that you should allow yourself to become so carelessly involved with a child of only nineteen years to your forty?' It mattered little to his own self- condemnation that his involvement should be purely mental rather than physical, for his religion which he took as seriously as anything in his life preached that the thought was as damning as the deed. He reached the Piazza and lit a cigarette before going to meet Celeste, to enable himself to control his insurgent thoughts. His only

insurance against his senses ruling his sensibilities was that he should become so involved with Celeste that she would drive all thoughts of Emma Maxwell out of his mind. But that way lay danger, too, of a very different kind. Celeste was awaiting him, sipping a Campari soda, and holding a long American cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers. She was wearing a pale blue linen dress, with three-quarter-length sleeves, and a low round neckline. Her hair, which was not very long, she wore in a curly mass about her shapely head, and a light chiffon scarf was slotted about her neck. She looked young and beautiful and elegant, and completely in control of herself. She looked up with pleasure when he halted at her table, and smiled. 'Well, Vidal,' she murmured. 'You're late. It's already five minutes past eleven.' Her tone was gently chiding. 'I'm sorry. I was delayed.' Cesare seated himself beside her, snapping his fingers for the waiter. 'Will you forgive me?' Celeste allowed him to take one of her hands in both of his and moved her shoulders prettily. 'As it is you, I will,' she said flirtatiously. 'Where have you been?' Cesare shrugged casually. 'Attending to my affairs. Now, what will you drink, Celeste?' Afterwards, Celeste suggested they might enter the Basilica. 'Are you sure you want to?' Cesare seemed reluctant. 'Of course, my dear. I couldn't spend very long in Venice without seeing the Basilica, now could I?' So they followed a stream of tourists and entered into a world of Venetian-Byzantine architecture, encrusted with marble and

glittering with golden mosaics. The floor was a miracle of mosaic and there was such a splendid confusion of statuary and paintings it was difficult for anyone to take it all in. 'Parts of the church date from the ninth century,' remarked Cesare, watching Celeste's face. Here there was none of the uninhibited delight he had glimpsed in Emma's face, but instead a kind of bored acceptance, as though the beauty of her surroundings did nothing to move her emotionally. 'Old buildings are not really my cup of tea,' remarked Celeste candidly, and with some relief, when Cesare suggested she had seen enough to be going on with. 'I simply can't go into raptures over paintings,' she went on. 'I mean, I have some paintings, myself, that were Clifford's, but I'm afraid I look on them more as an investment.' She gave a girlish giggle. 'Do you know much about painters, Vidal?' 'A little,' he replied, a trifle stiffly, and she stared at him. 'Have I offended you, Vidal? I didn't mean to, honestly, darling, but I guess I'm a modern at heart. Give me lots of plate-glass and concrete and good old Swedish wood, and I'm happy.' Cesare shook his head. 'No importa,' he replied, for once lapsing into his native Italian, and Celeste felt irritably aware that somehow she had disappointed him. She slid an arm through his, and said: 'Vidal,' reproachfully. 'Where are we going now? You said something about lunch, I believe.' 'Lunch?' Vidal shrugged. 'We will go back to the Palazzo for lunch, si? Celeste knew better than to argue. 'All right. But in a gondola, yes?' Cesare shrugged. 'If you so desire.'

The gondola moved slowly and rhythmically over the calm waters, and Celeste relaxed in the stern, satisfied to have Vidal beside her. The padded seats were very comfortable, and were narrow enough to necessitate a closeness of bodies that was in itself romantic, particularly at night. This was midday, however, but Celeste was utterly aware of the man beside her, and she felt sure he could not fail to be aware of her. 'Vidal,' she murmured appealingly, 'I'm sorry. I know I've annoyed you, but don't be like this. Say you forgive me.' Vidal Cesare looked at her. This close he could see the tiny lines which were beginning to form about her eyes and at the corners of her mouth, revealing she was not so young as she would have you think. But she was still quite staggeringly attractive and he would not have been human if he had not thought so. But in some obscure way she repelled him, and it was difficult for him to lean gallantly forward permitting her to press her lips to his cheek. 'Vidal,' she breathed, 'you do know why your grandmother sent for me, don't you?' He nodded. 'Yes, I know.' 'Well?' 'Let's not rush things, Celeste,' he murmured gently. 'Let's take it easy, carissima. We have all the time in the world.' Celeste's eyes narrowed. It was a new experience for her to be rebuffed; she was always the one to call the tune. She stiffened, and drew herself up away from him into a more upright position, and there were two flags of hectic colour in her cheeks which Emma could have told him heralded a bout of temper. But she would not lose her temper with him; that would never do. Not at least until they

were married, and then, when she was the Contessa, Cesare he would not be able to treat her in this manner. Cesare watched her, half amused by her behaviour. She was acting like an outraged child, simply because things were not going exactly her way. Biting lips in an effort to control her temper, she said: 'Aren't there some islands around the coast hereabouts where one can go and bathe? And what about Murano? Isn't that where they make gorgeous Venetian glass?' Cesare lit a cigarette lazily. 'Yes. There are islands; or there is the Lido.' 'No. Somewhere more secluded. Bathing with a crowd doesn't appeal to me. I'd rather find some deserted atoll, and take a picnic lunch. Could we do that, Vidal? Maybe tomorrow.' Cesare frowned through the haze of smoke. 'You mean.. .just the two of us?' 'Why not?' 'I thought perhaps your stepdaughter might enjoy the opportunity. After all, she has not bathed since she came here, has she? And young people like the beach, do they not?' Celeste ran a tongue over her dry lips. 'Emma must amuse herself,' she replied coldly. 'I am not her keeper.' 'Nevertheless, I think it would be less than hospitable to leave her at home again all day with my grandmother. I know they get along very well together; my grandmother was telling me yesterday evening how apt a pupil Emma was. My grandmother is teaching her a little

about art, how to recognize certain artists and so on; your stepdaughter seems to enjoy their sessions.' 'Stop calling her my stepdaughter,' said Celeste, through clenched teeth. 'Why? She is, isn't she?' 'Of course. I wouldn't bring a fraud into your home.' 'Very well then. Look, Celeste my dear, you have been at the Palazzo now for several days and during that time Emma has had little opportunity for getting out, apart from that first afternoon, of course,' he murmured reminiscently. 'We went out into the lagoon.' Celeste's eyes were sharp and cold. 'I understood Emma went shopping on our first afternoon at the Palazzo. As she has done a couple of times since.' Cesare wondered whether he ought to have mentioned anything to Celeste. With her temper she was quite likely to go back and make 'Emma's life a misery. 'I met Emma on the landing stage. She was at a loose end and so was I. I offered to show her a little of Venice. That was all.' His tone was cool now, almost curt in his own annoyance at having opened his big mouth. Celeste stared at him, and then looked away. From the set of her jaw Cesare was almost certain that Emma would hear of this. 'Celeste,' he said, purposely using a caressing tone, 'cara mia, it was a perfectly innocent expedition. What else could it be? But my dear, if we are to become much closer acquainted, surely it is natural that I should want to get to know the girl who is my... well... your stepdaughter.'

He emphasized his words in such a way that Celeste was temporarily disarmed. When he chose to be charming she was unable to resist him, and by the time they reached the Palazzo. Cesare felt almost certain she had forgotten their earlier conversation.

He would have been less pleased had he witnessed the scene in Celeste's bedroom that afternoon, when lunch was over, and the Contessa had gone to rest. Cesare had disappeared immediately after lunch, no one knew where, and Celeste called Emma into her room on the pretext that she wanted Emma to mend some lingerie for her. But once the door had closed, the heavy door which blotted all sound - from outside or within, she turned on Emma like a cat attacking a mouse. 'You little liar!' she stormed furiously. 'I could put you over my knee and slipper you for making a fool out of me!' Emma straightened up in astonishment. 'You might find that easier said than done,' she remarked calmly, more calmly than she felt. But it was ridiculous to imagine a little creature like Celeste attacking her, a young Amazon, with a slipper. 'Don't be clever with me, Emma,' warned Celeste angrily. 'Well, what is it? What's wrong? What have I done to cause this furore?' 'You went out with Vidal, that's what's wrong!' stormed Celeste. 'And you told me you'd been shopping!' Emma's cheeks were burning, but she managed to retain her dignity. 'Correction,' she said quietly. 'I said I was going shopping when I went out. When I came back, you didn't ask me where I'd been.'

'You sly minx!' exclaimed Celeste. 'Of course I didn't ask you. I naturally assumed you had been shopping.' 'Well, what of it?' asked Emma wearily. 'There's nothing to know about it, anyway. The Count took me out in his motor boat. We went to the lagoon, that's all. He was very polite, and very pleasant, and we certainly didn't do anything to be ashamed of.' Celeste looked slightly mollified. 'Nevertheless, you will not do anything like that again, do you understand? If the Count asks you to go out with him, no matter how innocent, you will refuse. Do you see?' 'I see that you're a vain jealous woman,' cried Emma, her eyes rather too bright now. 'Oh, why can't you let me go home, to England? I'm doing no good here. Let me go. Please!' 'You're doing plenty of good,' retorted Celeste, beginning to look smug now. 'The Count told me the Contessa has taken a liking to you. I understand she's teaching you a little about art.' 'Paintings, yes. Tintoretto and Canaletto have done a lot of work here. The Contessa is teaching me about them; it's very interesting.' Emma sighed. 'But I would still like to go home.' 'I'll tell you when you can go home,' said Celeste, quietly and firmly. 'Now you can go. I want to rest. I had quite an energetic morning, one way and another.'

CHAPTER SIX THAT evening Count Cesare took Celeste out to dinner. They had been invited to a ball being held in the palazzo of a friend of Count Cesare's, and a few intimate friends, including the Count and his lady, had been invited for a meal before the ball. Celeste wore a glittering silver lame ball gown, and a fortune in jewels about her throat and wrists, and Emma saw them enter a huge gondola, decked with scarlet trappings, from her bedroom window. The Count looked dark and sinisterly attractive in evening clothes, and Emma wondered whether she had dreamt the instant response she had aroused in him when he held her close against him. Certainly during the last two days he had given no sign that anything of consequence had happened between them, and had treated her with polite indifference, almost as though they had never met at any time other than within the sight of either his grandmother or her stepmother. His attitude had caused her many bad moments, for she could not forget the incident so easily, and every time he came near her, she recalled the warm insistence of his body, and the clean, male smell about him. The next morning, Celeste breakfasted in her room. Since her arrival at the Palazzo, she had always roused herself to come to the breakfast table, simply to see Count Cesare, Emma privately thought, but today Anna announced that the Signora had a bad headache after the ball the previous evening, and would the Contessa excuse her if she spent part, if not all, the day in bed. 'But of course,' exclaimed the Contessa warmly, to Anna. 'Please convey my sincere condolences to the Signora, and tell her that she may stay in bed as long as she wishes.'

'Si, si, Contessa,' Anna nodded, and went to, attend to this request, and then she returned and spoke to Count Cesare, who had been sitting idly drinking cups of coffee, and studying the daily journal. 'Signore, the picnic basket you desired, this will not be necessary now, no?' Cesare looked up, and then he looked purposely at Emma. 'Si,' he said, nodding. 'It will be necessary. The Signorina Emma and I will use it, eh?' The Contessa looked at her grandson strangely. 'You are taking Celeste on a picnic today?' 'Yes, Contessa. But as you have heard, she cannot come.' The Contessa bit her lip. 'And now you intend taking... Emma?' Emma shivered involuntarily, despite the heat of the morning. Count Cesare's words both overjoyed and frightened her in turn, and she was aware that her face gave away her emotions. Cesare moved restlessly. 'If Emma wants to go. And you do want to go, don't you, Emma?' Emma swallowed hard. 'Where are you going?' 'To an island I know. Out in the lagoon. One of the small, deserted islands I told you about. There is a small chalet there, suitable for changing, and the beach is ideal for swimming from. The water is warm, and we will have plenty of time to swim and sunbathe.' The Contessa stretched out a hand and gripped her grandson's arm. 'Cesare, are you sure ... * Her voice trailed away. 'You are making it terribly difficult for Emma to refuse, even if she wanted to.' She

looked anxiously at her goddaughter's stepdaughter. 'Emma, are you sure you want to go?' For some reason, the Contessa wanted her to refuse. But why? Unless she was aware that her grandson was a dangerous companion for an impressionable young girl, and a deserted island was hardly the place for two unattached people to go at any time. ... Emma knew also that she ought to refuse. By even agreeing to accompany him she was creating a terrible situation for herself with Celeste, and no doubt a prolonged period with Vidal Cesare would create difficulties of a very different, and more provocative, kind. But she wanted to go; to spend several hours alone with him, and just at that moment, she didn't much care what Celeste might do or say on their return. 'I'd like to go very much,' she said, refusing to look at Cesare. 'That is, if you don't mind, Contessa.' The Contessa leaned back, releasing her grandson's arm. 'Of course I have no objections; how could I have?' She looked somehow defeated. Cesare looked across at Emma. 'Do you have a bathing suit?.' 'Yes.' 'Then get it, and we'll go. Before anyone else thinks up some reason why we shouldn't. Is the picnic basket prepared, Anna?' 'Oh, si, signore. As you said,' Anna nodded. 'Bene. Get it, Anna, there's a good girl. Emma! Have you finished your breakfast?'

Emma was spared the necessity of going in to say good-bye to Celeste by Anna, who told her that her stepmother had closed her eyes again and was resting, and it might be as well not to disturb her. Emma felt sure that Anna had guessed the situation correctly and wanted to spare her any last-minute lectures. The spectacular scenery of the morning, with sunlight gilding the spires and campaniles of the city, relieved Emma of the necessity of making polite conversation with Count Cesare as he guided the motor launch through the narrow canals and waterways that led from his palazzo to the waters of the lagoon. She pretended to be too absorbed in her surroundings to pay much attention to him, whereas in actual fact her whole body throbbed with an awareness of his presence, of the lean tanned arms, bare to the elbows, which rested lazily on the wheel, of the lithe strength of his body, and the sometimes quizzical glances he cast in her direction. She had changed the unbecoming dress, one of the new ones Celeste had bought her, for a pair of wide-fitting yellow trews, worn together with a caftan-styled over- blouse. The blouse was a jungle print, its vivid colours adding warmth and attractiveness to her usually pale cheeks, and her hair hung straight and silky-smooth to her shoulders. At last, as the islands of the city were left behind them, Emma felt compelled to say something, and turning to Cesare she said: 'I'm sorry to inflict myself on you like this.' Cesare's eyes grew mocking. 'Sweet Emma, don't start that again. I thought we agreed the last time I took you out that we were to be friends, and nothing more. As such, I want to get to know you better. To find out what interests you.' 'Everything interests me,' remarked Emma, deliberately baulking him. 'What interests you?'

Cesare grinned. 'Many things! Like you, I am open to suggestion.' 'Stop mocking me,' she said, becoming annoyed. She was unused to this kind of thrust and parry conversation. 'Why should I? You rise so beautifully to the bait. Emma, why can't you accept things as they are? Why do you continually try to find reasons for everything? If I choose to take you for a picnic, that's not so terrible, is it? You had every opportunity to refuse.' 'I think you're trying to make Celeste jealous,' remarked Emma at last. 'And maybe it amuses you to have someone to torment. Like your ancestors of old, perhaps you enjoy finding new ways of torture.' Cesare stared at her for a moment, and then he burst out laughing, shaking his head. 'Oh, Dio, Emma, you do persist in being obstinate, don't you?' He sobered a little. 'It might interest you to know that despite the difference in our ages I enjoy your company, for yourself alone, and believe me, I have no desire to arouse your stepmother's wrath. On the contrary, my grandmother expects great things of our association.' 'So I've heard,' retorted Emma, and turned her back on him. He drew out his cigarettes and offered her one, his arm curving round her from behind, placing the case near her hand. Emma took one in the hope of calming her nerves and then moved away from him jerkily, so that he swore angrily, as he held out his lighter. 'You had better do it yourself,' he said coldly. 'Since it is obvious you cannot rid yourself of a feeling of alarm in my presence.' His lips

sneered. 'Must I repeat yet again, you are young enough to be my daughter.' Emma flicked the lighter awkwardly, almost dropping it into the canal, and Cesare sighed as he watched her. 'Give it to me,' he said impatiently, and taking the lighter he lit it easily, holding it out for her cigarette. Emma steadied his hand with the tips of her fingers, and shivered at the contact. His skin was cool and firm, and when she looked up unexpectedly she encountered the penetrating intensity of his gaze. Then his long lashes veiled his eyes, and he lit his own cigarette, and thrust the lighter back into the pocket of his close-fitting navy blue pants. He was also wearing a dark blue knitted shirt with short sleeves, and the sombre attire contributed to his foreign air so evident today. Emma drew oh her cigarette, and standing back glanced down into the tiny cabin below them. Twin bunks separated by a polished wood table, were adjoined by a small cooker and a covered basin, while wall cupboards fitted the opposite area. Bookshelves, generously filled with paperback novels, curved round the end of the cabin, and the whole gave an appearance of comfortable living. Cesare watched her, and then said: 'Go make us some coffee. You'll find all the necessary equipment in the cupboards.' Glad of something to do, Emma agreed, and descended the several small steps to the cabin below. It was an enjoyable experience acting steward in the small galley, and when the milk was heating on the stove she glanced at the paperbacks, which were unfortunately all Italian, and opened cupboard doors to discover their contents.

There was a fully fitted cocktail cupboard above the bookcase, with a plentiful supply of liquor, while cut glass goblets and china, together with real silverware, supplied the necessary eating utensils. Emma made a moue with her lips, wondering whether in fact these things were important to Count Cesare. It was obvious his grandmother considered that anything was acceptable providing the fortunes of the Cesare family were restored, but did the Count really not care about selling himself for such a price? Emma sighed, shaking her head. It was just as distasteful to her now as it had been when Celeste first broached the subject, and she knew she ought to be feeling nothing but contempt for a man who would prostitute himself in this way. She bent and opened the cupboard beneath a small basin, wondering why she felt so curious about him. It had never been her nature to probe private personalities, for with Celeste it had been easy to assess her selfish nature. But with Count Cesare it was as though she wanted to find a decent reason for what he was doing, to justify the wholly undesirable awareness of him she was unable to dispel. In the cupboard there was nothing but a guitar case, and she frowned, remembering suddenly how she had seen him enter the Palazzo so stealthily that first morning with just such a case. Emma lifted it out. She used to know a boy who had played a guitar and had herself attempted to strum a melody. The boy had said she had promise, for music came easily to her and the guitar was a very soothing instrument. Lifting the lid, she was astonished to discover not the guitar she had expected but instead underwater diving equipment. There was a gleaming black rubber suit, goggles and breathing cylinders. All that was missing was the oxygen cylinders. How extraordinary! 'Basta! Dio, what in hell do you think you are doing?'

Emma swung round guiltily, a hand to her throat. 'Signore?' she faltered. Cesare descended the steps to her side. 'I asked what you thought you were doing,' he muttered furiously. 'How dare you poke and pry like some peeping tomcat?' Emma's cheeks burned uncomfortably. 'I'm sorry, signore,' she managed, still unable to assimilate her misdemeanour with his incensed anger. 'So you ought to be! I do not recall giving you permission to investigate my private possessions.' Emma was regaining some of her composure, and anger was taking the place of embarrassment. 'For heaven's sake!' she exclaimed indignantly. 'What have I done? Opened a silly old guitar case that didn't hold a guitar at all.' Cesare, also, seemed to be controlling his temper now, and he closed the case with a definite click. 'Scusi, signorina,' he said coldly. 'I was rude. But in future I should be grateful if you would not allow your curiosity such free rein among my possessions.' Emma sighed. It had been her fault after all, and whatever she thought privately, he was within his rights to complain. 'I'm sorry, too,' she said slowly. Then, as the smell of burning became evident to them both, she exclaimed, 'Oh! The milk! Now look what's happened!'

Cesare lifted the burnt pan from the gas, and turned off the jet. Then he dropped it into the basin, filling it with water. He looked at Emma strangely, and shrugged his broad shoulders. 'Come, we will say no more about it. Let us have a can of lager instead of coffee. It is very warm, and I am thirsty.' Emma agreed and went up on to the deck of the launch while Cesare pierced a couple of cans of lager, lifted two glasses, and followed her. Emma seated herself in the rear of the boat, and accepted a glass of lager from her host awkwardly. She still felt incredibly naive and stupid, and was sure she had ruined the rest of the day. Cesare seated himself beside her on the low wooden seat. He swallowed a mouthful of lager appreciatively, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand lazily. "That was good!" he remarked, and suddenly smiled. 'All right, Emma, all right. I have apologized. But occasionally something happens for which you can offer no explanation, except the obvious one, that there is an explanation but I cannot divulge it.' Emma sipped her drink, and then looked at him. 'I don't know what you mean.' 'I know. But maybe one day you will. All I can say is that I wish you would forget you ever opened that case and saw its contents, si? She frowned, her brow furrowed. 'Forget it?' 'That is correct. Is that so much to ask?' Emma shook her head. 'Good. Then we are friends again. I must admit I was not so concerned about you peering into my cupboards and opening my books.'

Emma was baffled. 'Now. Have I your word that you will not mention this incident to anyone? And I mean anyone.' 'Of course,' said Emma shortly, brushing back her heavy hair with a careless hand, and giving her attention to the drifting waters of the lagoon. The island Cesare had chosen for their picnic was small and quite deserted. The chalet was there, as he had said, and as soon as they had arrived, and moored the launch, Cesare stripped off his pants and sweater and dived into the grey-blue waters enthusiastically, shedding the slight stickiness that the heat of the day and their heated exchange had put on him. Emma was more cautious and investigated the chalet in his absence. It was a one-roomed dwelling, with slim yet strong walls, and only one window, the catch of which seemed to be stuck. There were several cane chairs, and a table, and a cupboard which was disappointingly empty. She merged from the chalet as Cesare came striding up the pale warm sands of the beach, and her stomach did a little acrobatic twist at the sight of his tanned body. He wore only pale blue swimming shorts, and was dripping water, his hair smooth against his head. He lifted a huge orange towel from amongst the load of things which he had dumped on the beach and began drying his chest and shoulders. He saw Emma, and said: 'Well? Are you coming in?' Emma unzipped the six-inch zipper of her over-blouse and then fastened it again nervously. Her bathing suit was in the small duffel

bag which she had brought with her, and at the time she had packed it, she had felt almost certain she would not be wearing it. To picture herself and Count Vidal Cesare bathing together had seemed the height of folly, but now she realized he intended that she should. 'I'll have to change,' she said, glancing round at the chalet behind her. 'Well, it's early yet. Come and sit down, and you can bathe later. Si?' Emma consented, but wondered what on earth they would find to talk about if she did sit down. However, she need not have worried. Count Cesare was an adept conversationalist, and it was difficult to retain her assumed identity when all the while she was tempted to tell him about her training at the hospital and her subsequent attack of influenza. Instead, she had to pretend a knowledge of the United States which she did not possess and pray that he would not obtain different answers from Celeste. Cesare lay back lazily on his towel, surveying her through halfclosed eyes, looking considerably younger than he actually was. Despite the sometimes hectic life which he led, he retained his health and vitality which was due in no small measure to the fact that he got plenty of exercise contrary to the lazy, indolent air he assumed in the casinos. Emma sat forward, hugging her knees with her arms, and gazing out across the water, glistening now in the hot sunshine. She seemed preoccupied, and he said: 'You're not still thinking about that incident on the launch?'

'No,' she denied honestly. 'I was thinking many things. But not that.' She sighed. 'I wish I could speak Italian. It would be nice to be able to converse with the ordinary people.' Count Cesare grinned. 'And are we . . . my grandmother and I... so extraordinary?' 'Yes. At least, well... anyway, I would like to learn.' 'Would you like me to teach you?' he asked. 'Could you?' She looked down at him, blushing for some unknown reason. 'Of course.' He sat up, and reached for his sunglasses. Then he said: 'Maybe it will be easier to learn individual words first of all. A sort of vocabulary, si? He glanced round. 'For instance, the beach is la spiaggia; this towel is l'asciugamano; the coast is la costa.' Emma repeated the words after him, asking him the names of every article she could see, and relaxing completely with him for the first time. It would be difficult for her to remember all the names he told her, but it was an amusing interlude when they laughed together at Emma's terrible pronunciation, and she no longer felt defensive with him. When the hands of his gold watch crept round to twelve-thirty he said, with some surprise: 'You'll have to save your swim until later. We shall now have lunch. What do you like? Chicken? Ham? Lobster? Anna always packs enough for an army!' Emma accepted a plate of lobster and salad, eaten with tiny rolls oozing with fresh butter. Then she had some fruit salad and ice-

cream, and washed it all down with some delicious white wine which Cesare recommended. 'That was delicious,' she said at last, when Count Cesare thrust the remains of their meal back into the huge hamper. 'And I am enjoying myself.' 'Good.' He grinned, drawing out his cigarette case. He had pulled on his shirt over his bare chest, and changed back into his slacks again. All his body was tanned, she had noticed, and she assumed he spent many such days in the sunshine. He lay back lazily; sliding his sunglasses back on to his nose. He seemed unwilling now for conversation and Emma wondered why the prospect of the end of this exciting day should seem so bleak. It was no good feeling this way, she thought angrily. When Celeste found out that they were together she would be absolutely furious, and even though Emma was in no way concerned in the deception of their hostess, the old Contessa, she was concerned about the possible effect on their relationship. Their association was brittle enough, heaven knew, without the added complication of something like this. Besides, the Count was clearly entertaining her because it amused him to do so, and possibly because he had nothing better to do. He obviously thought of her in the light of her becoming his stepdaughter should he marry Celeste. He was not to know that once their alliance was sealed his newly acquired stepdaughter would be sent back to the hospital in England, probably never to be seen again. But at least this was one prospect Emma did not mind. She knew she would never be able to live with Celeste and Count Cesare, knowing that they were married and living a life of intimacy together. The idea was repugnant to her, but she refused to analyse why this should be so.

Getting up quietly so as not to disturb him, she walked up the beach towards the chalet and beyond it to the cluster of shrubs and trees which formed the centre of the island. It was a very small atoll, one of the many lying hereabouts where it was relatively easy to find a deserted place. The far side of the island yielded yet another beach, this time not so attractive, and shaded by the foliage. Then she turned and walked slowly back to where Count Cesare was lying. She thought she would change while he was resting, and then swim later. But to her astonishment and alarm, when she returned to the beach below the chalet, the Count was not there. He had gone. The towel still reposed in the spot where he had been lying, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen. Refusing to admit to a feeling of panic, Emma stared about her in bewilderment, and as she did so her gaze was caught by a moving craft heading across the lagoon with some speed. Straining her eyes against the glare of the sun, Emma swallowed disbelievingly. It was the launch; she was sure of it. And he had gone and left her! Her legs gave way and she sank down on to the sand shakily. Oh, God! she thought wildly. What on earth is he doing? How could he just leave, like that, without a word? She felt near to tears, and forced herself to remain calm. She had to think, and think coherently. Things like this did not just happen. There had to be a reason behind it, and obviously, as he had left the hamper and the towels, he must be coming back. At this her thoughts cheered; but that didn't explain the reason for his unexplained departure. She hunched her shoulders depressingly. Her lovely day was spoiled, and she wanted to cry quite badly now.

Determinedly she rubbed a hand over her damp eyes. She would not behave like an idiot. If the worst came to the worst she could always hail a craft passing by, and anyway, there was lots of time yet. It was barely three o'clock. Opening her duffel bag, she drew out the yellow one-piece bathing suit which she had bought herself in London just before she left. It was edged with dark brown beading, and suited her fair complexion' and blonde hair. She changed in the chalet, and then walked down to the water's edge. It was warm, beautifully so after the cold English Channel she was used to swimming in, and she struck out bravely away from the shore, doing a lazy crawl. After a while she turned on to her back and floated, drifting with the water, her hair like seaweed floating about her. Then, not wanting to risk getting cramp, she swam back to the shore and waded up on to the beach. It was not until then that she remembered she had forgotten to bring a towel herself. With reluctant movements she lifted the huge orange bath-towel which the Count had brought, and wrapped it about her wet body. It was warm from the warmth of the sun, and enveloped her like a blanket. She thought she could vaguely smell the odour of his shaving lotion and an indefinable scent of his body. She was afraid suddenly, not so much of being alone, but of the implications of her own feelings towards Count Cesare. She was thinking far too much about him, allowing his affairs to monopolize her thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. He was Celeste's concern, anyway, not hers. It was Celeste he wanted, Celeste and her millions of dollars, so that he could restore the crumbling old palazzo and regain the family treasures. It wouldn't matter if in so doing Celeste installed full central heating, and fitted carpets, and perhaps a

lift, because by then they would be married and their lives would be one. To imagine Count Cesare with Celeste was painful enough at the moment. What would it be like once they were married? Emma felt sick, and buried her face in the towel feeling the hot tears scalding her cheeks. She despised herself, and her stupid emotions. How could she act like this? Why couldn't she shake off this feeling of depression that was threatening to overwhelm her? She lay back on the sand, sighed deeply. The sun was hot on her face and she closed her eyes wearily. Anything to escape from the futility of her thoughts, from the awareness of her feelings for a man who was not only far out of her reach but who clearly thought very little of her. So little that he didn't even bother to explain before leaving her alone, on a deserted island in the middle of the lagoon.

CHAPTER SEVEN THE launch glided in to its mooring without a sound and Count Cesare vaulted out of the vessel on to the sand, mooring it securely. Then he walked up the beach, lighting a cigarette with thoughtful movements, still absorbed with the results of his mission. He was almost on Emma before he saw her, a huddled bundle in the orange towel, her head pillowed on one arm, fast asleep. But her eyes were puffy from recent weeping, and the stains of dried tears were on her cheeks. With a muffled exclamation he flung away the cigarette, and sank down on to his haunches beside her. He was cruel, and a beast, and he had known his unheralded departure would disturb her, but he had not expected her to react so violently. He had reassured himself with the thought that she would know he would return, eventually, and excused his own behaviour on the grounds of its importance. But that did not alter the fact of his having used her to further his own ends, however noble they might be, and that was inexcusable. 'Emma,' he murmured, softly but insistently, tugging at the towel gently. The towel drawn back exposed the soft childish curve of her shoulder and the nape of her neck, while the swelling fullness of her breasts was outlined clearly by the damp costume. Cesare, used as he was to the shape and guile of a woman's body, found his senses stirring in spite of himself, and he was unable to prevent his fingers sliding caressingly over the smoothness of her upper arms. 'Emma,' he said again, shaking her a little, until the wide green eyes opened, and gazed at him uncomprehendingly.

'Cesare,' she said wonderingly. 'Where . . . oh!' Memory flooded her being, and she sat up sharply, releasing herself from his hands. 'You ... you're back!' Cesare remained on his haunches looking at her. 'Yes, I'm back,' he agreed quietly. 'I'm sorry if I frightened you.' 'You . . . you didn't frighten me,' she retorted, assuming an anger that was hard to arouse now that he had returned. 'Then why were you crying?' he asked, his eyes narrowed slightly. 'I ... I wasn't,' she denied hotly. 'For goodness' sake, I'm not a baby.' 'Aren't you?' he murmured, stroking one cheek with caressing fingers. 'You don't look very old to me.' 'Oh, stop it!' she cried, brushing his hand away, and bending her head to avoid looking at him. 'Emma,' he said solemnly, 'I apologize for doing what I did. It was unforgivable, but very necessary just the same.' Emma looked up at him, her eyes flashing. 'I've told you. Forget it ! Just take me back to the Palazzo. I want to leave here at once!' Cesare stared at her intently. The orange towel had slipped from her shoulders now and she sat there, in the fading sunlight, a small, outraged girl, who nevertheless seemed to epitomize all that was warm and sweet and feminine. 'Emma . . . ' He said her name softly, and saw a shiver of apprehension slide over her. His fingers stroked the skin of the arm, so near to Mm, his eyes never leaving her face. Then his hand curved round the nape of her neck,

tipping her head back so that she was unable to lower her gaze. Falling on to his knees beside her, he bent his head and put his mouth to the side of her throat, then drew her back on to. the sand as her eyes closed convulsively. His mouth parted her lips in a slow, languorous kiss, which hardened and deepened as he felt her immediate response. To Emma, aroused from sleep and still only half awake, his lips were warm and desirable, and her response was more revealing in this lethargic state. 'Dio * he groaned, feeling the yielding softness of her body beneath him. Her young mouth' moved sensuously under his own, arousing him in spite of the control he was holding with iron will over himself, and he felt his head swimming dangerously. He had wanted to comfort her, to make up to her for his tardy behaviour, but instead his gentleness was turning to passion, and he realized, with disgust at his own actions, that he wanted her completely. With a superhuman effort, he pulled himself away and stood up, smoothing his hair with hands which were not quite steady. 'For God's sake, Emma,' he said, more violently than he had intended, because of his own disturbing desires, 'get up and stop acting like a cortigiana!' His voice was sardonic and hateful. Emma got to her feet, wrapping the towel about her. 'What does that mean?' she asked, in a small voice. 'That was not part of our vocabulary.' 'Cortigiana!' His tone was mocking. 'Find it in the dictionary. Now come on! Get dressed, and we will go. Your stepmother will be wondering where you are. Mothers usually worry over their children, don't they?'

'Oh, Cesare!' she exclaimed. 'How can you?' He turned away, ashamed of himself, both for his actions and the words he was now using to dispel any feelings he might have aroused in her. He was a pig and a careless fool, only thinking of his own pleasures. But she was so deliciously sweet and untouched, and all thoughts of Celeste, or any other woman for that matter, had fled when his mouth touched hers. It would have been so delightful to teach her the arts of making love, but he was more than twenty years her senior, experienced and jaded, with no right to despoil such freshness. She needed a younger man, a much younger man, with whom she could share the trials and errors of inexperience. Besides, he was living a dangerous existence on the knife-edge of disaster, and no woman deserved that kind of treatment; not even Celeste. He must resolve this affair before allowing Celeste and her millions to ruin everything. When Emma was dressed she walked back to him, wrapping her bathing suit inside the towel, and lifting his shorts to do likewise. 'I'm ready,' she said dully, and he nodded, throwing away the end of the cigarette he had been smoking while waiting for her. He climbed into the launch, and then gave Emma his hand to do likewise. She stumbled on the top of the side, and almost fell into the bottom of the boat, saved only by his body. She felt the tautness of his muscles, as she was pressed momentarily against him, and she said weakly: 'Cesare, please!' imploringly. He ground his teeth together, and pushed her away, unfastening the mooring rope, and flinging it into the water.

'We must find you a boy-friend, Emma,' he said tightly. 'It seems you are becoming ridiculously infatuated with the idea of making love. Maybe some youth of your own age will quench these rather embarrassing fires.' Emma stared at him disbelievingly. Then she stamped her foot angrily, knowing with a kind of woman's intuition that that was not the whole of the truth. 'I'll choose my own friends, thank you,' she said coldly. 'And don't imagine I'll attempt to embarrass you, Signor Count. Nothing would induce me to speak to you again, unless there's absolutely no choice.' 'Very well, signorina. That pleases me greatly. I am not used to dealing with impulsive teenagers who fling themselves at my head.' 'Oh! Oh!' Emma could think of no reply, and as she could feel the betraying tears prickling at her eyes yet again she turned away from him and went down to the cabin, to remain there for the rest of the journey.

Celeste had had a very annoying day. The headache which had disturbed her sleep had caused her to wake with such depression was swiftly eased by the administration of two tablets which the maid brought her with her morning cup of coffee. Celeste had never known such speedy relief and she bestowed a condescending smile on the maid, and said: 'You may run my bath, Anna. I feel quite refreshed. I think I will join the Count after all.' Anna's face was bland indifference.

'Unfortunately, the Signor Count has already left the Palazzo,' she intoned calmly. 'It will not be possible for Madame to join him.' Celeste had a sneaking suspicion that the maid was enjoying her role as adviser. Consequently her voice was sharp as she said: 'I don't understand! The Signor Count and myself were to go on a picnic this morning. Surely he hasn't gone alone!' Anna shook her head. 'But no, madame. The Signorina Emma has gone with him. They left almost an hour ago.' Celeste's fingers with their scarlet-painted nails gripped the bedcover convulsively, but she controlled the fury of anger that rose up inside her. 'I see,' she said quietly. 'Very well, then, Anna. But you may still run my bath. I can't lie here all day, and I'm interested to see as much of Venice as I can.' Anna raised her dark eyebrows 'Si, si, madame,' she replied, shrugging her buxom shoulders, and marching into the bathroom to do Celeste's bidding. It was no part of her duties to be lady's maid, and it was with resentment that she filled the huge bath and added the bath essence that Celeste indicated. 'That will be all,' Celeste smiled spitefully, and Anna nodded politely and withdrew. But Celeste's success with Anna did in no way appease the fury that still raged in her breast at the thought of Emma out with Count Cesare for the whole day. How dare she? Celeste seethed angrily. Particularly after their words of a few days ago. And why had Cesare done it? It could not be because he was interested in a little nonentity

like Emma. Celeste had no illusions about her own beauty, and she was aware that beside her Emma's pale hair and complexion looked insipid. And yet, at times, even Celeste had glimpsed a warmer, more interesting nature, and she was half afraid that soon, as she grew older and Emma reached the prime of her life, their positions would be reversed. But she was determined when that time came, Emma's life and her own would be separated for good. During the afternoon, Celeste rested and then prepared herself for the return of Cesare and her stepdaughter. It was important that Cesare should not suspect that his absence had in any way perturbed her. But Emma would feel the sharp edge of her tongue for her disobedience and complete disregard of Celeste's instructions concerning the Count. Late in the afternoon a young man arrived at the Palazzo. Celeste was resting on the loggia, her assumed appearance of relaxation only a facade presented to the Contessa beside her, while her eyes and ears were alert for the return of the motor launch. The young man was introduced to her as Antonio Vencare, Count Cesare's cousin, and son of the Contessa's daughter, Giuseppina. He was not so tall as Count Cesare, but very good-looking, without seeming effeminate. Celeste judged his age to be about twenty-three, and glancingly calculatingly at the Contessa it crossed her mind that the old woman might conceivably have produced this unexpected young man for Emma's benefit. After all, she as much as Celeste, desired that the Count should marry her goddaughter, and Emma was proving rather a nuisance to both of them. If this was so, and Celeste was pretty sure it was, it was an interesting plan, and one of which she heartily approved.

In consequence she greeted Antonio enthusiastically, asking him about himself, and what career, if any, he was following. Antonio was quite astonished by her interest, for she was looking particularly attractive in a clinging dress of green chiffon, which moulded her perfect figure, and contrasted strikingly with the red-gold brilliance of her hair. 'My father is a ship-owner,' he explained, smiling at her. 'He owns many vessels, and since I leave the college I am learning the business, you understand?' His English was not so good as Cesare's, but his accent was appealing, and Celeste thought with satisfaction that he would easily be able to charm the inexperienced Emma. The Contessa left them alone while she went to organize some afternoon tea, a habit she had acquired from her English friends, and the motor launch returned almost unnoticed to the landing stage below. Emma sprang out, leaving Cesare to deal with their belongings, and ran up the stairs to the apartments, her cheeks flashed and her eyes overly bright. She was brought up short at the sight of her stepmother and a handsome young Italian entering the lounge through french doors, their attention concentrated on herself momentarily. She was not to know that the unaccustomed exertion of running up so many stairs had brought the hectic colour to her cheeks, transforming her "usually pale features into unusually glowing vitality, while the brightness of her eyes added a brilliance all their own. 'Oh!' she said, in surprise, a hand going automatically to her throat, while she struggled to regain her breath. Celeste's eyes were cold, but her lips smiled, as she said:

'Ah, you're back, Emma. We have a visitor, as you can see. This is Count Cesare's cousin, Antonio Vencare. Antonio, my stepdaughter, Emma Maxwell.' Antonio, with the suave assurance he had cultivated over several years of association with women, took Emma's hand gallantly and raised it to his lips. Then as her colour deepened, he said: 'I am delighted to meet you, signorina. It is not often this old palazzo is graced by the presence of two such charming ladies.' 'Very prettily said,' remarked a sardonic voice, and Emma stiffened, withdrawing her hand jerkily, and revealing, all too clearly to Celeste's eyes, the reaction Count Cesare had upon her. 'Buon pomeriggio, Cesare,' said Antonio, smiling a little at his cousin's sarcasm. 'I trust you had a good day.' Cesare shrugged, and then looked at Celeste. 'Ah, cam,' he murmured, 'you are better, I hope?' Celeste came across to him, taking his arm possessively. 'Much, much better, darling,' she said, smiling warmly. 'But I missed you.' She made a moue with her lips, teasingly. 'But I'm glad you took Emma with you. It would have been boring for her, here alone.' She looked across at her stepdaughter, who seemed engrossed in twisting and untwisting her fingers. 'Still, now there is Antonio, so perhaps Emma will not be lonely after this.' Antonio made a slight bow. 'I should be delighted to escort the Signorina Emma she may wish to go.' Cesare looked bored with the whole proceedings suddenly. 'Do not be so premature, my cousin,' he said. 'Give the signorina time to get to know you. She is English; the English need time to think things

over. They are not... how shall I say it? . . . impetuous, like us Italians.' 'Oh, I'm sure Emma would be grateful for the attention,' remarked Celeste silkily. 'After all, she is younger than we are, Vidal, and the things that interest us are hardly likely to interest her.' Emma looked at them swiftly. 'No one need concern themselves on my account,' she interjected hastily. 'Don't be like that, Emma,' said Celeste smoothly. 'Antonio will think you're terribly gauche.' Emma had never felt so awkward or embarrassed in her whole life, and with a helpless movement of her shoulders she fled into her bedroom, leaving "Celeste to make whatever nefarious plans might come to her agile mind. Just at that moment, it didn't seem to matter what Celeste arranged. She needed to be alone, a few heavenly minutes alone to regain her scattered dignity and self-respect.

CHAPTER EIGHT ANTONIO stayed for dinner, which was an informal affair with Celeste monopolizing the conversation. There had been no opportunity for Celeste to speak to Emma alone and in private yet, but Emma was convinced that time would come. Celeste would not allow herself, Emma, to spend a whole day in Cesare's company without there being repercussions of an extremely unpleasant kind. But in a way it had been worth it, despite the rather unhappy end to the afternoon. The morning, and early afternoon had been delightful, and to begin with they had seemed in atune with one another; a situation which Emma recognized as being dangerous. Tonight she ate the delicious fish soup which Anna had so skilfully served without really tasting it, and the steak and salad which followed might have been sawdust for the notice she took of it. She was wearing one of the dresses Celeste had chosen for her, an insipid pink crepe, which she felt sure made her look awful. Her hair she had tied back with a ribbon and she felt singularly unattractive. In contrast, Celeste, in kingfisher blue silk, looked vivid and exciting, and her stepmother seemed to find a sadistic kind of enjoyment in casting pointedly baiting remarks in Emma's direction. But for once Celeste's taunts did not hurt her. The hurt that Count Cesare had inflicted that afternoon had caused her to withdraw completely into her shell, and it didn't seem to matter what Celeste might say. When the meal was over the Contessa rose to her feet, and said: 'The evening is still young, Cesare.' She smiled at Celeste. 'As you are both in evening clothes, why do you not go to the Casino? It is pleasant at the Lido on an evening as perfect as this.' 1

Celeste clapped her hands together. 'Oh, yes, Vidal! Could we?' Antonio looked disgruntled. 'But . . . Grandmother! I am not in evening clothes, and I cannot go! Surely, Cesare, you could go to a nightclub instead.' 'I could,' remarked Cesare dryly, lighting a cheroot. 'But I have no intention of doing so.' 'Antonio can take Emma out instead,' said the Contessa, and Emma was mortified. 'Oh no? she began protestingly. 'I ... I should prefer an early night, if no one has any objections.' Antonio, who obviously was not enamoured of taking out a girl who dressed so atrociously, gave a sigh of relief, but the Contessa was adamant, for some peculiar reason. 'Nonsense, Emma. You are on holiday here. I will not have you going to bed early on my account. No, Antonio, you are agreeable, are you not?' 'Si,' murmured Antonio, without enthusiasm, and Emma's cheeks burned. She was conscious of Cesare's speculative glance upon her for a long moment, before he said, abruptly: 'Come, then, Celeste. Antonio has his own launch. We will go.' After the others had gone, Emma began to protest again, but it was to no avail. The Contessa could be very stubborn when she wished, and Emma had no choice but to obey. 'I . . . I'll just wash my hands,' she said uncomfortably, and left the room.

In her bedroom she studied her reflection critically. No wonder Antonio was so reluctant to take her anywhere. The pink dress reached her knees, and hung without style or fullness from her hips. Her hair, pulled back with the ribbon, drew attention to the paleness of her cheeks, accentuated today, and a hangover from her dose of influenza. She sighed, and dragged the ribbon off her hair. She would not go on any longer looking like a drudge. If it was in Celeste's mind to make her stepdaughter as insignificant as possible, she was going to be disappointed. After all, if she could put Count Cesare completely out of her mind, Antonio Vencare was a very attractive young man, and it might be that his company could erase all thoughts of an undesirable nature which might attempt to invade her tired mind. But it would not do to expect Antonio to be interested in a pathetic, inelegant teenager, when it was obvious that girls would fall over themselves trying to date him. With determined actions, she flung off the hated pink dress and opened the door of the capacious wardrobe, inside which her own small collection of garments looked completely lost. What was there that she could wear that was not old or outmoded, or merely ageing? Apart from the dresses Celeste had provided her with, there were only two others: a dark blue Crimplene, which, though modern, was more of a day dress, and an apricot-coloured velvet which she had had for several years, but which she had only worn for parties. So she chose the velvet because it was doubtful where they might be going, and it fitted anywhere. It was simply styled, with a low round neck, three-quarter-length sleeves, and a semi- flared skirt which fell to ankle length. She combed her hair and left it loose, and it shone in the warm lights above her dressing-table. At least now she felt and looked more like the Emma Maxwell she had been before her illness and subsequent departure from her old life.

She emerged from her bedroom nervously, and was gratified to see Antonio's eyes widen in astonishment, arid then soften miraculously. 'Emma,' he said, half-disbelievingly. The Contessa stared at her. 'Why, Emma, you look very attractive!' Her expression was as astounded as Antonio's, and Emma wondered what terrible appearance she must have previously presented. 'Do I look all right?' she asked, savouring her triumph after the discomfort of the early evening. Antonio took her hand. 'You look lovely,' he said, smiling warmly. 'Now, where would you like to go?' They eventually went to a small nightclub, which while being, Emma thought, expensive, was nevertheless a relaxing place to go, where the music was low and rhythmic, and the cabaret was excellent, with a trumpeter and a singer forming a duet. They returned to the Palazzo about one- thirty, tired and contented, and even Emma seemed to have shed all traces of the unhappy girl she had been. As it was late, Antonio left her at the foot of the stairs leading up to the apartments, and kissed her gently before saying arrivederci. Emma mounted the staircase slowly, thinking lazily of how nice it would be to climb into her bed. Her feet ached from dancing, and the wine she had drunk seemed to be lightening her head. The staircase seemed long and endless, and she gripped the handrail determinedly, smiling at herself for finding such a small task so wearisome. Hearing a sound below her, she looked down, but all was in darkness; a kind of deep blackness filled the wide hall below, and she thought how mysterious it looked at night compared to the daylight.

Shivering, she hastened her steps unconsciously, with a kind of suffocating awareness that someone was down there, watching her. She stumbled, and breathing swiftly she ran up the remainder of the stairs.. Reaching the top, she pushed open the door into the lounge of the furnished apartments, and found a light burning, although the place was deserted. She closed the door, fumbling for the key, and turning it in the lock. Then leaning against a chair she recovered her breath. She was probably being stupid, and all kinds of a fool, but after the day she had experienced that last little incident was too much. Straightening her shoulders, she walked across to her bedroom door, and entered her own room thankfully. She looked round her expectantly, but all was as she had left it, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Undressing, she had a swift wash before climbing into bed. She could discern the faint sounds of the water of the canal as it brushed gently against the sturdy walls of the Palazzo, and her eyelids drooped wearily. She must have slept for a while, because she was awakened by knocking, and she opened her eyes wondering what on earth was going on. Then she remembered, She had locked the outer door, and apparently Count Cesare and Celeste were not then home. She slid swiftly out of bed, pulling on her dressing-gown hastily, and feeling rather ridiculous she ran across the wide lounge and unlocked the door. Celeste brushed past her arrogantly, enveloping Emma in a wave of expensive perfume. Count Cesare waited until Emma had turned and followed her stepmother before entering himself, and closing the door, leaning heavily against it for a moment.

Some premonition of disaster caused Emma to glance round, and her eyes widened in horror. The Count was wounded; blood was pouring from his shoulder, and the front of his immaculate white shirt was stained a brilliant red. 'What's happened?' Emma did not stop to analyse her actions. All her nursing training came swiftly into play, and she went across to the Count, helping him to peel off his jacket with the least possible effort. But Count Cesare did not want her attentions. 'Get Giulio,' he ordered, gritting his teeth as the movement of his arm opened the wound more fully. 'Don't play around with things you don't understand!' 'Oh, but I do ... ' began Emma, only to be silenced by Celeste. 'Do as Count Cesare says,' she commanded angrily. 'Don't argue!' Emma compressed her lips, gave a despairing look at the torn flesh, visible now as Count Cesare opened his shirt with difficulty, and ran across the room to the kitchen quarters. She knew the wound needed stitching; she knew he needed the services of a doctor, someone capable of dealing with that type of injury, but all he asked for was Giulio. What could Giulio do? And how had it happened anyway? Giulio helped his master into his bedroom, and the door was closed firmly on the three women, for now Anna had come to join them. The old Contessa had not awoken, which was just as well, in the circumstances. Emma lit a cigarette, and then looked at Celeste. 'How... I mean what happened?'

Celeste shed her wrap carelessly, drawing deeply on her own cigarette. She looked pale, and disturbed, and Emma thought it was the first time she had seen Celeste this way. She had seen her angry many times, but not nervous like this. Celeste shook her head now. 'It happened so quickly!' she said, as though talking to herself. 'We had just entered the lower hall when this man sprang on Count Cesare from behind. I couldn't even scream; I was petrified! They fought, but it was so dark . . . and the man had a knife, while Vidal . . . ' She shivered. 'It was terrible! And so pointless!' 'A thief!' said Anna firmly, folding her arms across her ample girth. Emma frowned. 'There's nothing in the lower hall for a thief to want,' she countered, remembering her own feeling of impending danger, so evident as she had mounted the staircase earlier. But, if this were so, and she had subconsciously sensed the presence of disaster, what had the man been doing? If he were merely a thief he would have had plenty of time to make his getaway between her arrival and the much later arrival of Count Cesare and her stepmother. It didn't make sense. There was nothing in the hall, so the man must have been waiting for the Count. But why? Her brain could not find reasons, and gave up in despair. There seemed to be so many things she couldn't understand. Not least of which was the Count's inexplicable absence that afternoon, or rather the previous afternoon, for it was already the early hours of the following day. Celeste turned her gaze on Emma, and her eyes were cold. She stubbed out her cigarette deliberately, and then lifted her wrap from its resting place, and said:

'Come, Emma. I wish to talk to you.' Emma could guess what about. Her temporary reprieve was over. 'But the Count. . . ' she began, glancing at Anna. 'Anna will let us know if there's anything we can do,' said Celeste, 'won't you, Anna?' Anna shrugged her broad shoulders. 'There will be nothing, madame,' she said tonelessly, and with veiled insolence. 'Giulio can cope.' She gave Emma a slight smile. 'Goodnight, signorina, madame.' Celeste flung herself across the room with ill-temper, determined that as soon as she became the Contessa Cesare, Anna must go. Emma gave a helpless little movement, and then followed her. She felt unutterably tired, and did not relish the idea of a scene with Celeste at this hour of the morning. On top of which she was very worried about the Count. Wounds of that nature could so easily fall victim to infection, and antibiotics were the safest method of preventing infection. Giulio could not possibly have the knowledge required, she fretted anxiously. In the huge bedchamber used by Celeste, there was little to remind her of their surroundings. Chairs and cupboards alike were strewn with Celeste's belongings, while the dressing table groaned under the weight of perfumes and cosmetics that Celeste used liberally to retain her clear complexion and soft skin. Celeste needed a maid, and had employed one until she found Emma a more than adequate substitute. 'Now,' she said, as the door closed. 'You know why I want to speak to you, don't you?' Emma sighed, 'I can guess.'

'Don't be impertinent. Just remember I have ways of making you sorry you ever crossed me!' 'Oh, Celeste,' exclaimed Emma. 'I wanted to go out today. And when Count Cesare invited me...' Her voice trailed away. 'You couldn't wait to go with him!' snapped Celeste. 'Don't imagine for one moment that you're fooling me, Emma! I know you too well! You're patently transparent, I'm afraid, and it's just as patently obvious that you imagine yourself in love with Vidal!' 'In love!' echoed Emma. 'Don't be so ridiculous!' 'It's not I who am ridiculous,' retorted Celeste, smiling grimly. 'I've seen too many cases of adolescents falling for middle-aged men and Vidal is far from that, yet. Oh, I don't blame you.' Celeste reached for a cigarette. 'He was as much of a surprise to me as he was to you. In fact, I think that were he not the Count Cesare, I would still want to many him. I really think that for the first time, I'm in love!' Emma turned away. 'Is that all?' 'No, damn you, it's not! I'm not finished yet. I want you to know that if you attempt to do again what you've done today, I shall find some way to humiliate you so badly that you'll wish you'd never been born, believe me!' 'Oh, Celeste!' Emma hunched her shoulders. 'If you feel this way, why don't you find some reason to send me home?' Celeste shook her head. 'No. It wouldn't do. There is no valid reason that I could find that would convince the Contessa absolutely. Already, she knows, and shares, my hopes for this marriage, and I believe she produced Antonio simply to equalise the situation. She believed, as I've led her to think, that I wouldn't want to be parted

from my sweet little stepdaughter, so as she, as well as I, could see where you were heading so far as the Count was concerned, she's provided Antonio as a substitute!' Emma swung round, her cheeks scarlet. 'You can't be serious!' 'Oh, but I am. The Contessa may be old, but she's not senile, and she's well aware of Count Cesare's predilection for the opposite sex, and when it's offered to him on a plate... well, he's a man, and he's only human!' She smiled cruelly. 'Poor little Emma!' she mocked. 'You could never seriously imagine that a man like that could be interested in you!' 'I thing you're despicable!' exclaimed Emma, shaking a little now. 'I can't imagine what my father ever saw in you to love!' Celeste looked uninterested. 'What does it matter? He was a lonely man, and if a person is lonely, he's open to suggestion. And I can be quite persuasive, you know!' 'I know! Unfortunately!' Celeste seemed to be enjoying herself now, her temper spent, and the ridiculous aspects of the situation appealed to her malicious sense of humour. Then, as though recalling the incident in the hall, she said: 'Now go! I don't want to see you any more. You're beginning to bore me. And should that creature Anna attempt to ally herself with you, she'll find the strength of my influence is not to be ignored.' Emma left her, feeling sickened and humiliated. Were her emotions so revealing? Had Celeste guessed something from her actions which she herself, as yet, would not even admit to herself? To envisage herself facing Count Cesare after this seemed more than she could

bear, particularly after his hateful accusations flung at her on the launch. Life had become so painfully complicated, and she wished with all her heart she had never agreed to come to Italy with Celeste in the first place. She should have known that Celeste could not change overnight. That she never did anything for purely altruistic reasons. She climbed back into bed as the faint light of dawn crept over the horizon. She wondered what was happening to Count Cesare; whether indeed Giulio had attended to him, or whether a doctor had been summoned. This latter event seemed unlikely, as there had been no sounds of arrival that she had heard, and although Celeste's bedroom prevented much sound from penetrating some sixth sense seemed to tell her that there were reasons why such an occurrence should not be made public. It was all very puzzling, but Emma had had a tiring day, and she fell asleep almost at once, a deep dreamless sleep from which she did not rouse until midday.

CHAPTER NINE EMMA did not encounter Count Cesare the next day at all. He remained in his room until dinner time, and then he and Celeste went out while Emma was changing for the meal. The old Contessa mentioned that they were dining with friends, and did not refer to his arm injury at all, and as Emma had grown used to subterfuge, she did not like to ask outright. In consequence, their meal was a quiet affair, and afterwards the Contessa said vaguely that she had some letters to write and excused herself. The next morning Emma went shopping with Anna. The old servant welcomed the young girl's company, and her help in carrying the loaded shopping baskets, and Emma bought herself two more dresses in case she should see Antonio Vencare again, and be expected to go out with him. She was in a particularly dejected frame of mind, and half- hoped the young Italian would hot trouble her again. She was quite prepared to do her own exploring during the daytime, and stay in during the evenings. She was determined never to inflict herself on Celeste or Count Cesare again. Soon their time here would draw to a close, and if the affair ended successfully for Celeste she would be allowed to return to England and her old peaceful life at the hospital. She had many friends there, some of whom had written to her asking how she was enjoying her holiday, but as yet she had not had the heart to reply to them. It would be difficult to enthuse about her surroundings when the situation she was in grew daily more difficult. At lunch time she entered the lounge before the meal was served to find Count Cesare at the drinks cabinet, helping himself to a liberal glass of whisky. Emma turned uncomfortably away, but the Count had seen her. He swallowed half the liquid in his glass, and then said:

'Well, Emma! Are you disturbed that I should be taking such strong stimulant at this hour of the day?' Emma turned back to look at him. She noticed that he still looked a little pale under the dark tan of his lean face, while he held his left arm rather stiffly, but in a dark lounge suit he was arrestingly attractive, and her cheeks burned suddenly, as she remembered their last encounter alone together. She realized anew that it was not good looks which attracted a woman to a man, but rather the kind of vibrantly sensuous magnetism which emanated from him, enveloping her and leaving her weak with a longing to feel those hard brown hands on her body, and that savagely passionate mouth against her own. Now, she said, 'What you do is no concern of mine.' She bent her head, looking for a cigarette. He held out his case, and she extracted one nervously, allowing him to light it for her. Then, puffing on it jerkily, she walked around to the open doors leading on to the loggia. It was a perfect day, and the faintest of breezes stirred the canvases of a small craft passing below on the canal. She was aware of him acutely, particularly as he came to stand slightly behind her, looking and unseeingly. 'I feel I should apologize for my behaviour . . . the other afternoon,! he murmured softly suddenly, and Emma started. 'That's not necessary,' she replied coldly. 'I . . . I've forgotten all about it. It ... it wasn't the first time anyone made a pass at me.' 'Perhaps not . . . ' He shrugged carelessly. 'But 1 dislike this schoolgirlish attitude you seem to have adopted in my company. You continually act as though I'm about to jump on you.'

Emma composed her face, and then looked at him rather scornfully, she thought. 'You're imagining things, Count Cesare. If my manner seems slightly strained it's simply because my presence here is obviously superfluous, and I could wish there was some way you could be relieved of it.' He felt in his pocket for something, and she saw him wince at the pain he was feeling from his arm, before retrieving a packet of cheroots and lighting one with his right hand. Then he stared at her intently, his light blue eyes hard as steel. 'You are right,' he said at last. 'I also wish there was some way you could leave the Palazzo, but not for quite the same reasons as you imagine.' Emma turned a little paler. 'I'm sorry I can't oblige you.' The Count studied the tip of his cheroot thoughtfully. 'It is your welfare I am thinking about,' he said, his voice deep and soft. 'Oh, really!' Emma was disbelieving. 'Yes, really. Emma, please believe me . . .' '...No, thank you,' she interrupted him, turning away. 'In any case, you're forgetting our arrangement; we were not to exchange any conversation, other than the most perfunctory greetings.' His eyes darkened angrily, and he took a step towards her, turning her towards him, and then grimacing in agony as he used his wounded arm again. He released her abruptly, pressing his arm to his side, fist clenched. Emma's heart turned over with compassion. 'Oh, Cesare,' she said impatiently. 'That arm should be in a sling!'

'What do you know about it?' he muttered, through gritted teeth. 'More than you think,' she cried, shaking her head. 'Has . . . has it been stitched? Have you taken any drugs?' He stiffened. 'Don't practise your ambulance training on me!' he muttered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. 'It's not ambulance training,' said Emma angrily. 'I was ...' 'Emma!' Celeste's voice arrested her. 'What do you think you're doing?' 'Doing?' Emma swung round. 'I'm not doing anything. The Count is in pain, that's all!' Celeste ignored her, and approached Cesare. 'Darling! Whatever's happened? Has Emma accidentally hurt your arm?' Count Cesare's eyes were veiled by his long lashes. 'No,' he said decisively, 'Emma did nothing. Absolutely nothing at all!' Emma left them. She couldn't bear to see Cesare in pain, no more than she could bear to see Celeste acting the part of the ministering angel. It was all so... so awful; so artificial!

Several days passed by, almost uneventfully. Emma saw little of either her stepmother or Count Cesare, but whether they were together all this time it was difficult to ascertain. Certainly, Celeste did not act like the happiest of women, and she treated Emma many times to the knife edge of her tongue. She ordered Anna about, gave Emma endless small tasks to perform, and generally made a nuisance of herself.

Emma had not much time left to herself for although Celeste departed in the mornings shopping, she made sure Emma had enough to occupy herself with until her return. As for Count Cesare, whenever Emma saw him she made sure they were not left alone together, and tried to ignore the strained look of fatigue he sometimes wore, as though he wasn't sleeping too well. Antonio appeared the second day and made arrangements to take Emma to a performance of Pagliacci at the Fenice, the opera house, and they both enjoyed it enormously, for although Emma was no particular fan of opera, her surroundings, and the costumes, combined with the stirring music, cast a spell over her, from which she was loath to arouse herself. Antonio seemed to enjoy her company, and another evening he took her to meet his mother and father, and three sisters. This was quite an ordeal for Emma, although she found Count Cesare's aunt a delightful and attractive woman, who did her utmost to put the younger girl at her ease. The days passed by, and much to the Contessa's disappointment, Cesare and Celeste seemed no further forward in their relationship, which although it was to be a marriage of convenience should nevertheless have shown some signs of fruition. Emma fretted continually in her quiet moments, both about Cesare, and about her own prospects when she returned to England. The white walls of the hospital seemed so cold and far away, and the charm of the ancient palazzo was beginning to weave its spell about her. If she sometimes pondered on the enigma of its owner, she thrust these thoughts to the back of her mind, and only concerned herself with worrying whether his wound had healed cleanly.

It was about ten days after the Count's accident when Emma was leaving to do some shopping for Anna early one morning, that she met Cesare in the lower hall of the Palazzo, emerging from the small ante-room which had intrigued her that first day. 'Buon giorno, signorina,' he said sardonically. 'Come sta?' 'Bene, grazie,' returned Emma coolly, and would have passed him but he stopped her by stepping in front of her. 'Very good,' he said lazily. 'Now, where are you going?' 'That's no concern of yours,' said Emma abruptly. The Count looked annoyed. 'You dare to speak to me like that!' he exclaimed. 'Now, where are you going... again?' 'Oh, just shopping for Anna.' She indicated the door. 'Giulio is waiting for me with the launch. Can I go now, Signor Count?' He stepped aside. 'Wait! I myself have business in the city. I will take you. It will save Giulio, si?' Emma sighed heavily. 'If you insist,' she said wearily. He frowned angrily, but she brushed past him carelessly, and opened the door herself, glancing back to see whether he was following her. He was standing motionless, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. 'Oh, lord! Did I hurt you?' He shook his head, but he did not speak, merely following her across the courtyard to the landing. By the time he had joined her and Giulio he was himself again, and a few rapid words in Italian to the old man sent him hurrying back into the Palazzo.

'Get in,' he said, and she complied, feeling guiltily aware of her thoughtlessness. And yet it should have healed somewhat by now, and not hurt so badly just by her brushing past him. She shook her head. He was asking for serious trouble by not having it professionally treated. And why had he never informed the police of the attack? Celeste had never mentioned this either, and that was unusual, unless Count Cesare had fobbed her off with some story of his own. It was most disturbing, and most puzzling. 'Whatever are you thinking about?' he asked, as they turned into the Grand Canal. 'You, if you want the truth,' she replied honestly. 'Your arm; it hasn't healed at all, has it?' His face turned masklike. 'That is my affair.' 'No, it's not. You're behaving childishly,' she exclaimed. 'Don't you know that gangrene could set in? You could lose your arm!' 'Unlikely,' he remarked coldly. 'It's not unlikely! I've seen it happen!' 'Have you? Where?' He sounded sceptical. 'Oh, I can guess. Are you one of these do-gooders who visit hospitals, dressed in style to impress the patients, and who glean a little bit of knowledge that seems to entitle them to diagnose anything from a toothache to pregnancy!' 'You're impossible,' she said, and bit her lip. She had already said too much, and if Celeste knew she would be furious. She ought to feel grateful that he had not guessed her secret. 'Where do you want to shop?' he asked, changing the subject.

'Where are you going?' 'As you are so fond of saying, that is my concern.' Emma flushed. 'I didn't mean that. I meant, you can drop me wherever it suits you.' 'All right. We will leave the launch near the Rialto. You can meet me back there in, say' ... he glanced at his watch... 'a couple of hours.' 'Very well,' Emma nodded, and thereafter they did not converse. It was exciting shopping alone. When Giulio accompanied her he usually came along to carry her parcels, but today she felt independent and free. She chose the fish and vegetables that Anna had directed her to buy in the markets, and then turned her attention to the other side of the bridge where the street markets led into the Merceria, Venice's main shopping area. She had plenty of time, and she wandered along aimlessly gazing into shop windows, and wondering what she ought to take back home as presents, for her nurse friends at the hospital. There were some glass figurines which were quite exquisite and reasonably cheap, compared to some of the glassware Emma had priced in the larger shops. But she decided to wait before actually buying anything. After all, there was plenty of time yet. She walked back to where the Count had left the launch in the charge of a ragged urchin with a dirty face, dirty clothes, but a quite enchanting smile. To reach the landing stage she cut through a narrow calle that led on to the waterfront, only to find a private wharf at the end, and she turned back to find her way blocked by two men, both dark-skinned

Italians, small and obviously unfriendly from the way they advanced menacingly towards her. Emma backed away a little disbelievingly. This couldn't be happening to her! Not in the heart of Venice! And if they expected her to be a rich tourist they were going to be unpleasantly disappointed. She had spent the money Anna had given her and was only left with a few hundred lire in her purse. Her back came up against the wall of the warehouse that blocked her escape, and she looked beyond the men helplessly, only to see that the curve of the narrow lane successfully hid them from view of the street. One of the men said something in Italian to his partner, and the other man laughed loudly, and Emma wished she could understand the joke. Who were these men? And what did they want? Then the man addressed himself to Emma in guttural Italian. 'Non capisco,' said Emma carefully. 'Ah, Inglese,' said the man, nodding, and coming closer to her. 'The Signorina Maxwell, si?' Emma frowned, bewilderedly, and nodded. She felt numb with fear, and she felt sure that were she given the opportunity to run she would not be able to do so. ''Bene, bene!' The man smiled, revealing black spaces where teeth were missing. What were left were decayed and yellow, and his breath smelt foully. 'What do you want? Who are you?' asked Emma desperately.

'We have a message for the Signor Conte,' said the man softly, thrusting his face close to Emma's, while his companion leant against the wall beside them, watching closely. 'A ... a message!' Emma thought she must sound half-witted. 'Si, a message.' The man drew out a knife from the pocket of his jacket, a long-bladed weapon that glinted in the sunlight. He smiled at Emma, as though he was about to present her with a much-desired present, and then he put the knife's blade close against her cheek. Emma thought she was going to faint. Her knees went weak, and all effort to speak or to scream seemed beyond her. 'Si, a message,' he repeated gently. 'One he may heed more than he has heeded before.' Emma tried to speak. 'Are ... are you going to k... kill me?' she choked. The man smiled wider. 'Now, whatever put that into your head?' he asked mockingly. He looked at the knife speculatively. 'Ah, I see, the knife! It disturbs you, signorina. Many pardons.' He stepped back a pace and the knife fell to his side as his arm dropped. Emma breathed a sigh of relief. 'Wh . . . what is your message?' she asked, attempting to regain her composure. Her only chance seemed to lie in keeping her head. The other man said something to his companion, his eyes raking Emma mercilessly, and she thought that despite her trousers and sweater she felt naked. But obviously what he said did not appeal to the man with the knife, for he shook his head, gesturing violently, and saying something which Emma tried to understand. But their Italian was spoken in dialect and it was difficult to follow the

swiftness of their speech, particularly as she was shivering quite violently herself. She caught the words: 'abbiamo fretta . . . non ho tempo . . .' which she knew conveyed that they were in a hurry, but even so they did not reassure her. 'Now, signorina,'' said the man, the smile returning to his face. 'I am prepared to believe you don't know why you are here, but my message to Count Cesare. he will understand very well...' He came closer, grabbing a handful of hair to force her head back. Then, slowly and deliberately, he undid the top buttons of her sweater, revealing her bare shoulder, and with delicate precision he slit the smooth flesh with his knife quite callously. With a choked scream dying in her throat, Emma fainted dead away. She came back to consciousness feeling giddy and sick. For a moment she lay on the cobbles of the lane not understanding where she could be, or why she should feel so ill. Then her memory returned and she managed to get on to her knees, staring about her like a frightened animal, but she was alone in the calle. She could feel a dampness about her neck and shoulder and putting up her hand she found it came away covered in blood. The world swam around her momentarily, but with difficulty she staggered to her feet, with trembling fingers she pulled the sweater away from the stickiness of the blood, and looked down at her shoulder as best she could. The blood was drying now, and there was no fear of her dying of lack of it, but from what she could see the man seemed to have carved his initials on her skin. She took a handkerchief out of her pocket, wiped the blood off her hands and dabbed at her neck. The material of her sweater was orange, and the blood did not look so terrible once she had managed to fasten the buttons again. She could not emerge from the lane looking as though she had been attacked, for - that would certainly

draw attention to her, and the polizia would be called, and then it was possible that that other knifing incident would be revealed and despite everything else, she could not allow that to happen. If the Count did not wish to make it known, she could not betray him. So she combed her hair into some semblance of order with shaking hands; lifted her shopping basket, and walked slowly out of the lane. Her shoulder throbbed, and stung a little, but it was possible to act completely naturally if she really put her mind to it, and put out of her mind any thoughts of an unpleasant nature. The Count was striding up and down the wharf impatiently, waiting for her, and came striding over to her when he saw her appear round the corner. He slicked back his cuff and showed her the hands of the gold watch on his wrist. 'Dio!' he said angrily. 'Where have you been? I've been waiting over an hour!' 'An hour?' echoed Emma blankly. Had it been so long? 'I'm sorry. I was delayed.' She swayed a little and the Count instantly caught her arm. 'What is wrong?' Then he noticed the slightly darker stain on her sweater. 'Mamma mia, you are hurt! Emma, you must tell me; what has happened?' 'C ... could we get in the boat... first,?' she said weakly, and he nodded vigorously. 'Of course. Come along.' He thrust her basket into the launch, paid the boy who was still hanging around hopefully, and then helped Emma to climb in. He

untied the painter, and then started the motor as he jumped in beside her. Emma sank down on the wooden bench which ran along the side and tried to gather her scattered wits. Her nervousness had left her now that she was with Cesare again. He gave her confidence, and for the moment she relaxed completely. She accepted the already lighted cigarette he handed her, and drew on it thankfully. 'Now,' he said, leaning his back against the side of the wheel, and keeping a keen gaze on their passage through the quite thickly populated waters of the canal. 'Tell me what happened.' Emma related her experience as best she could in the circumstances. It all seemed quite fantastic now, and only the stinging sensation of her shoulder reminded her that it was no dream. When she had finished she said: 'And so there was no message, after all.' Cesare shook his head. 'There was a message, signorina,' he replied softly. 'Or should it rather be called a warning? They knew I would understand, Emma.' Emma dropped the end of her cigarette into the dark water. It was all incomprehensible to her, which was perhaps as well. Someone had a grudge against the Count Cesare, and her. own involvement had been entirely coincidental. She had the feeling that had Celeste been with Cesare that morning, she would have been used instead. She looked at Cesare now. 'Don't you think it is time I was told why these things have happened?' she asked, feeling stronger and more capable of assimilating events.

His face was hard. 'No. It will never be time,' he returned, his voice cold. 'The less you know, the better. Had these men thought you were in any way involved in this affair, you would be dead? 'You must be joking!' 'But you are not laughing, signorina,' he said harshly. 'This is no game. And please, because you have been witness to several sets of circumstances, all completely apart, do not try to analyse them, or put them together. Put the whole matter completely out of your mind. It will soon be over, I trust.' Emma shook her head. 'For goodness' sake! I'm only human. How can I possibly explain this . . . ' she indicated her arm, ' ... to Celeste?' 'Will you necessarily have to?' Emma shrugged. 'It needs attention.' 'This it will have. Immediately. You may have noticed, we are not going directly to the Palazzo. I have a friend ... ' His voice trailed away as he ducked under a low bridge which crossed the much narrower canal they were now negotiating. They stopped beside a wharf which seemed to front a warehouse, but once through the wooden archway, Emma found herself in a stone courtyard, opening from which were several smaller calles, and alleyways. She followed Cesare down one of these calles, to where a gaunt, stone-fronted house faced a narrow street. It was not a very pleasing area, but when the Count opened the door of the house for her to enter she found herself in a carpeted hallway, with a crystal chandelier suspended over an extremely fine polished oak chest. The dark blue carpet spread up the shallow staircase which they ascended to a suite of rooms on the first floor.

A sign by the door of one of the rooms indicated Dottore Luciano Domenico', and Emma glanced at the Count curiously. Cesare opened the door, and entered without ceremony, and they were in a large waiting- room which was completely empty. Cesare glanced around tautly and then walked across and knocked on the door of the inner room. Immediately a voice bade him enter, and he beckoned Emma to follow him. Luciano Domenico was a man only a little older than Count Cesare himself. Not so tall, and more solidly built, he smiled easily, and Emma took an immediate liking to him. 'Ah, Cesare,' he said, in greeting, getting up from behind a huge desk, and coming to shake his hand. 'Come sta?' Cesare spoke to the doctor in Italian, swift incisive sentences that drew the doctor's attention to Emma, and then back again to himself. When Cesare had finished, and the doctor had asked several pertinent questions he turned to Emma herself. 'Now, signorina,' he said, in English. 'You have hurt your arm?' Emma glanced at Cesare. He nodded slightly and said: 'Do not be afraid, Emma. The good doctor is a friend of mine. He will ask no unanswerable questions, I assure you.' Emma breathed more freely, then she said: 'You would like to see my shoulder?' 'Of course.' The doctor glanced at Cesare. 'Perhaps you should wait outside, my friend,' he said, half-smiling.

Cesare looked at Emma's suddenly flushed cheeks, and nodded. After he had gone, the doctor helped her to remove her sweater and the full extent of the injury could be seen. Fortunately none of the cuts were very deep, although the doctor said she might be left with hairline scars. 'I shall do my best to avoid this, of course,' he said, adding some spirit to the sterilized cotton wool he was about to use to clean the cuts. It stung like mad, and Emma gritted her teeth, and gripped the arm of the chair so hard that her knuckles turned white. But the spirit contained a kind of anaesthetic which after a moment dissolved the pain completely and she relaxed again. As the doctor cleaned the dried blood away, and the cuts became clearly visible he suddenly exclaimed in astonishment, muttering something in his own language. 'What's wrong?' Emma stared at him. The doctor shook his head. 'A moment, signorina,' he said, and opening the door he called: 'Cesare. Entrate, perfavore.' Emma's eyes widened as Count Cesare returned, and she hastily snatched her sweater, holding it against her protectively. 'Relax!' he muttered, half irritatedly, as he passed her, and then the doctor was indicating her shoulder, and together they examined her cuts. 'Si,' said Cesare at last. 'You are right, my friend.' 'What is going on.' Emma hunched her shoulders. 'I think I have a right to know.'

'It is nothing,' said Cesare, his eyes narrowed as he studied the mess the man had made of the smooth skin of her shoulder. 'But rest assured, Emma. The men who did this will get their just rewards. I personally will vouch for that!' His voice was harsh. 'Oh, please!' Emma caught his hand. 'Don't go taking any risks on my account. I'm not seriously hurt; I was more frightened than anything. I'm only thankful I'm still alive!' The Count studied her pale reflection gently, and then he released himself. 'Do not worry, cara. I will take no risks. What happened the other evening was a piece of carelessness on my behalf.' Emma glanced at the doctor anxiously, but the Count merely smiled. 'You did not really imagine that Giulio dealt with my arm?' he said disbelievingly. 'Of course I did. Why shouldn't I?' The Count smiled. 'I'm sorry. I should have reassured you.' 'But your arm still pains you.' 'So would yours with twenty stitches digging him every time he makes a wrong move,' remarked the doctor dryly. 'It was not a pretty sight.' 'That I can believe,' shuddered Emma. 'Cesare, why didn't you tell me?' He shrugged his broad shoulders. 'We are not on speaking terms, remember?' Emma saw his expression and smiled a little herself. It seemed so ridiculous now, after the intimacy of the last hour.

Emma's arm was dressed and bandaged, and they took their leave of Luciano Domenico. As they walked back along the lanes to the wharf where they had left the boat, Emma plucked Cesare's sleeve. 'What was it the doctor saw... on my arm?' she asked. 'Please? The Count hesitated for a moment, and then said softly, 'It is of no use to try to keep it a secret It will become evident to you when the scars have healed sufficiently for you to remove the bandage.' He looked down at her. 'There is a number on your arm, cara, that is all. A number.' Emma's eyes were enormous in her small face. 'A number!' she echoed. 'But why? I don't understand. Why should they carve a number on my arm?' 'Would you try to understand if I told you that it is better if you don't know?' Emma compressed her lips for a moment. She felt near to tears. The events of the morning were so unexpected and confused, and the numbness was leaving her arm gradually and a throbbing ache was taking its place. She felt nervous and disturbed, and still a little frightened. What did it all mean? How could it be fair to expect her to accept everything that had happened without showing any curiosity? She was only human, and if there were dangers to face she ought to have some awareness of what form they might take.

CHAPTER TEN The journey back to the Palazzo was accomplished in silence. Emma did not trust herself to speak for fear of making a fool of herself, while the Count seemed engrossed with his own thoughts, and from the dark expression he wore she thought they could not be pleasant ones. Although it had been early when they left it was now afternoon and Emma dreaded the possible row Celeste might create. It would be awkward, too, gaining access to her room to change her sweater without meeting either Celeste or the Contessa. However, as they neared the mooring, Cesare turned the launch into a very narrow waterway, flanked on both sides by high stone walls. Grilled windows could be seen a little above the waterline, and it was dark and quite eerie. They approached a low archway which only just allowed the boat to slide through, and then they had to bend their heads until they came out into a dark, cavernlike cellar, piled with crates and boxes, - and smelling rather damp and musty. 'Where are we?' she asked curiously. 'Is this the cellar of the Palazzo?' He nodded. 'Part of it. A convenient escape route in case of danger in years gone by.' They left the boat, and climbed a flight of wooden stairs to a door which opened into a huge chamber with a massive sink and rusting taps, and a long wooden table, now mouldering with age. Cesare was carrying Emma's shopping basket, but even so, she soon tired, and he had to keep stopping to allow her to compose herself. They left the chamber by means of another door which led on to a narrow flight of stairs.

Emma was tired by the time they reached the top, and Cesare opened double doors into a long gallery, which Emma thankfully recognized as part of the gallery from which the furnished apartments opened. The Count closed the doors, and said: 'Well? We're almost there. We will enter through the kitchen quarters. There is a passage which leads from there to your bedroom. You should have no difficulty in entering without being noticed.' 'Thank you,' said Emma, rather dryly. .'But Anna wanted these vegetables for lunch. She will have been waiting for them so long. Perhaps she has had to do without them. Whatever will the Contessa say?' 'The Contessa need never know,' replied Cesare smoothly. 'You ca; leave the things with Anna as we pass thro., h. I myself will speak to her.' Anna showed little surprise when they entered by way of the kitchen, but stopped Emma a moment, to say: 'The Signora Vaughan has been asking for you this past hour. I told her you had gone shopping for me, but... ah, I don't think she believed me.' 'Oh, dear!' Emma grimaced, forgetting her injury for a minute. 'Oh, well, if she asks now, you can tell her -I'm changing for lunch.' 'Si, signorina.' Count Cesare's eyes were enigmatic as he watched Emma leave them to go to her room, and Emma couldn't tell what he was thinking. Their association had become so intimate in some ways, and yet so distant in others. She thought he treated her indulgently in many ways; like a spoilt child when she argued with him; and yet there

were times when something seemed to spark to life between them, igniting the already disturbed emotions he had aroused in her. Kismet, fate, chance, whatever you cared to call it, seemed determined to throw them together, intermingling their lives without thought as to the consequences, while Celeste watched, like a malevolent spirit, holding all the cards, and capable of playing them to win. Whatever Count Cesare might think of her, Emma, and whatever it was it was certainly not love, Celeste would become the next Contessa Cesare, and with her resources the Palazzo would be restored to its former magnificence. As Emma washed and changed in the bathroom, she wondered whether were she an impoverished aristocrat she could bear to marry a man for his money alone. Was anything worth the sacrifice? Were possessions more important than people? Was the past so all-perfect that any means were justified by the end? It was a question she had asked herself many times these past days, and always her answer was the same: no! It was sad, incredibly so, that collections of obiets d'art should be split up and sold separately, possibly never to come together again, but happiness did not depend on these things. So long as you had a home, and a family, and food to eat, and a little left over for luxuries, that, to Emma, constituted a happy life. She was a romantic; her friends had often teased her so, but she preferred to call herself idealistic.

Marco Cortina's rooms, he called them offices, were in the heart of the bustling Fondaco dei Tedeschi, yet despite this, once inside the soundproofed walls two storeys above the street below, he might have been isolated on some uninhabited island. The location was deliberate, of course. No one would expect to find the network of communication systems, the intelligence files stored in burglar-proof vaults, or the dedicated score of men and women whose lives were

disrupted by their connection with the organization, in such an obvious place. Whenever Cesare visited the 'offices' he felt a sense of satisfaction that he, at least, was helping them in some small way towards their goal. It was two days since the attack on Emma, but he had not dared contact Cortina before now. There were too many eyes watching him; too many ears in unexpected places. As it was he was using Celeste as a kind of decoy. He had driven her and Giulio into the heart of the city in the launch, then jumped the boat near the Rialto, allowing Giulio to take Celeste on to the Ca d'Oro, or House of Gold, which she had expressly asked to see. Her angry protestations when he unexpectedly produced reasons for visiting the Rialto without delay were still ringing in his ears as the soundless lift glided him silently upwards into the realms of locked doors and blank faces. Marco Cortina received him gladly in the wide room with which Cesare was now familiar. There were maps on the walls, charts indicating the whereabouts of other company offices, and unlocked filing cabinets, inviting the visitor to take a closer look; everything in fact to confirm that this was a respectable insurance company office, and nothing to reveal its true identity. 'Sit down,' invited the huge man, indicating a low armchair, and then pouring two drinks and handing one to Cesare. 'Trouble?' 'I'm afraid so,' said Cesare, savouring the cognac his companion had provided for him. 'This is good!' He accepted a cigar from Marco Cortina, and then when the other man was seated in his armchair, his feet stretched out on to the corner of his desk, he said: 'This girl I have staying at the Palazzo: Emma Maxwell; she was attacked two days ago, in a lane near the Rialto. Two men, their

descriptions are hazy, but I can guess at Ravelli and Moreno. They didn't seriously injure her, though her shoulder was pretty badly carved up.' Cortina clenched his teeth on his cigar. 'Pigs!' he muttered softly. 'Degenerate pigs!' 'The most important thing is still to come,' remarked Cesare lightly. 'They carved a number on her shoulder. One, five, seven.' 'One, five, seven!' Cortina's feet thudded to the floor. 'But that is the number . . .' His voice trailed away. 'How could they know?' 'Come, Marco, we have known for some time they were on to me. There has been nothing said, but I can sense it. Since the last consignment disappeared along with Paolo Ferenze, my days have been numbered. They are not fools, my friend. They look to the nearest and most likely suspect. I was the obvious one.' 'But we still have not found the whereabouts of Hassan Ben Mouhli,' exclaimed Cortina angrily. 'If I could get my hands on him . . . your mission would be accomplished.' 'And where are we now?' asked Cesare, smacking one fist into the palm of his other hand. 'My grandmother has tied my hands; made me vulnerable. It is an impossible situation, and one, my friend, I would wish to be changed. I cannot seriously think of marriage with this affair still unsettled, and daily growing more dangerous!' 'Calm down, Cesare,' said Cortina, shaking his head. 'We must think, and think carefully. As you say, things are boiling up, and it is conceivable that our friend Ben Mouhli will show his face before long.'

'I should think that is highly unlikely,' Cesare averred. 'After all, if he knows we are on to him—' 'But he does not know, my friend.' Cortina leaned forward. 'Cesare, with your reputation the police are the last friends they would look to you to have. No, I am still of the opinion that they imagine you have tried to dispose of the stuff yourself. Don't you see, everything points to this? The stuff has never been recovered, and yet they have not been arrested or spied upon. They know you could have them all arrested, if you wished. No, Cesare, no, my friend, they are waiting for you to make the move to dispose of this consignment. I am convinced that Ben Mouhli does not suspect we know of his involvement in all this. And if, as I hope, he thinks you are attempting to go it alone, he will find you, never fear.' Cesare rose abruptly to his feet. 'But don't you see, Marco, that is the last thing I want now? I have Emma and Celeste to think of. If they could touch Emma once, they could do it again, and there is definite reason to think she would not suffer so lightly a second time. They were warning me, Marco. They want that consignment, or else!' Marco rose also, and began pacing restlessly about the room. 'Can't you get these women from under your feet? Good God man, all our plans can't be destroyed because of two females you don't give a damn about! Get rid of them! Promise to marry this Celeste, if necessary, but get them out of the Palazzo!' 'It's not as easy as all that,' exclaimed Cesare angrily. 'My grandmother invited them. Only she can ask them, to leave. And what possible reason could I give her for asking them to do so? Only the truth bears any contemplation.'

'And that, of course, is completely out of the question,' muttered Marco broodingly. 'Couldn't you have stopped them from coming? Why on earth did you let them come in the first place?' 'You know perfectly well, it was not put to me before the deed was done,' returned Cesare irritably. Marco returned to his desk, and leaned on it, facing Cesare, the palms of his hands flat on the polished surface. 'Cesare,' he said stolidly, 'if they cannot go, then they must take their chance! What's it to you? One woman, more or less! This deal is too hot to put down now. If they are killed, you will not be heartbroken!' Cesare's face was pale now. 'No, Marco. I can't agree to that.' 'Why, for God's sake? In heaven's name why? Cesare, I have known you treat some women so badly they wished they were dead when you were finished with them! Women who would have willingly done anything to keep you! But you tired of them, and cast them aside like dolls out of favour! Do you deny this?' Cesare shrugged his broad shoulders. 'So! I am a swine. I do not deny it.' 'Then why jeopardize all our plans for two women who mean less than nothing to you?' Cesare turned away, walking across to the window and looking through the sun-blind down on to the busy square below. He felt sick to his stomach. Everything Marco had said was true; he had played around too much. But in all fairness to himself he had to concede that most of the women he had made love to had asked for nothing more, and expected nothing more. In his position, his title combined with wealth and certain physical attractions, had given him every

opportunity to live that kind of life, and he was only human. But he had never had any attraction to young girls; older women had always been more appealing, more experienced, and now, suddenly, at this time of his life, he was finding it incredibly difficult to rid himself of the memory of a soft young yielding body, that had aroused him in a way he had thought he could never be aroused again. He remembered everything about Emma; the greenness of her eyes, the thick silky softness of her hair that was naturally corn- coloured, the slim, curving young body, and her wide, generous mouth. He despised himself for feeling this way, but that did no good. The memories remained, disturbing his sleep with the awareness of her only several yards away. He could not allow Marco to put her life in danger, no matter how important their concerns might be. He had determined never to touch her again, continually reminding himself that no matter how womanly she seemed she was still a child, but he wanted to see her again, be able to talk with her, find something to bring the enchanting warmth to her cheeks. He turned back, leaning against the window frame. 'It's no good, Marco,' he said heavily. 'I can't do it.' 'But why? Do you actually love this widow, after all?' 'No.' Cesare's reply was curt. 'Then who? Good lord, you're surely not interested in the girl? I should have thought she was a little young for you!' 'She is,' replied Cesare abruptly. 'It is nothing like that, Marco, but she is little more than a child. I cannot be responsible for her life being endangered.'

'All right, all right. Then get them out of the Palazzo, 'or I won't be held responsible. Cesare, there is nothing I can do now to stop what will be. Surely you can see that!' Cesare nodded. 'I must think of a way,' he agreed, sighing. 'But what I can't imagine. My grandmother is not one to be fobbed off with any old story. There must be a good reason.' That evening he took Celeste to the casino again. Antonio had arrived to escort Emma to a music festival, and the Contessa had stated her desire to have an early night. It was a wonderful evening and a gondola brought Celeste and Cesare home, its lantern gleaming like a beacon in the night. 'Isn't it romantic?' murmured Celeste, snuggling close against him as they lay on the cushions. Cesare winced a little in the dark, as the movement pained his wounded arm, but Celeste could not see him and was concerned only with furthering her own ends. 'Darling,' she continued, 'don't you think we ought to be seriously considering our relationship? Emma and I have been here three weeks now, and I think we know one another well enough to be sure that our marriage would not be a complete fiasco.' Cesare bent his head thoughtfully, and taking this as assent, she went on: 'After all, I always wanted to be a June bride, and there is absolutely nothing to stop us, is there?' Cesare shook his head. He had no answer, and Celeste was content. 'Now,' she murmured. 'Kiss me, Vidal.' Cesare bent lower and put his mouth to hers with a curious sense of distaste. Her lips parted eagerly, and her arms twined themselves

about his neck, forcing him to a closer awareness of the thinness of her dress, and the warm flesh of her body. With deliberate movements he freed himself after a moment, but Celeste was excited and triumphant. 'Oh, Vidal,' she said passionately, 'don't let this evening end. I've been so lonely since Clifford died.' Cesare straightened, pretending to be concerned about appearances, while his whole being revolted at the idea. He did not want Celeste, despite her passionate nature and obvious glowing beauty. And yet here was an ideal opportunity. If he could persuade Celeste tonight that their marriage would soon be a reality, maybe he could suggest that she went down to his villa in Ravenna for a few weeks to give him time to arrange all the details. She would naturally take Emma with her, and thus relieve him of the anxieties so rampant in his mind. 'Later,' he murmured now, and Celeste was content. Tonight there was no unwelcome visitor in the hall, and after a last drink in the lounge Celeste bade him a casual goodnight. Her eyes were eloquent with meaning, and Cesare tried to appear as eager as she was. After she had gone into her room he poured himself a stiff whisky, swallowing the raw spirit carelessly, welcoming the warmth it brought to his cold emotions. He thought he had never despised himself so much, and he lit a cheroot angrily, pacing about the lounge like a caged animal. The door clicked behind him and he turned to find Emma entering the room. He glanced pointedly at his watch. It was almost two.

'I know I'm late,' she said breathlessly, 'but Antonio met some of his friends, and we've been drinking dozens of cups of coffee in a cafe in St. Mark's Square.' She smiled reminiscently. 'It was fun, and there was so much-going on, and the lighting is like fairyland.' 'I see.' Cesare shrugged. 'Your shoulder; does it still pain you?' 'A little,' she admitted, bending her head. 'I... I thought it was inflamed... but I think it's all right now.' 'Inflamed!' Cesare. uttered a profanity. 'Surely you can tell! You were the one who told me to be careful!' 'I know, I know.' Emma flushed. 'I've said; it's all right.' She turned away. 'I'm tired, signore, good night.' Before Cesare could detain her she had slipped away to her room, and with an oath he went to his own bedroom. He stubbed out the cheroot and took off his jacket, then he unbuttoned his shirt. He still had to be careful not to jolt his arm and it took him a while before the shirt was thrown carelessly on to a chair. He unfastened the bandage that bound the dressing in place, and removed it, The wound was healing but still presented an ugly sight, the flesh puckered a little where it was drawn together. But he could only be grateful that the knife had not shifted a little further left. There was a tap at his door, and he turned irritably. Celeste, he thought clenching his fists, and calling: 'Come.' To his astonishment, Emma entered his room, closing the door behind her, and leaning back against it. Her face was pale, and she looked a little frightened. 'What's wrong?' he asked, standing at an angle so that she was unable to see his wound.

Emma ran a tongue over her dry lips. She had not expected him to have started undressing yet, and the sight of his bare, tanned chest with its liberal covering of dark hairs made her legs feel a little weak. 'I... I wondered if you would look at my shoulder,' she began. 'You're the only person I can ask, and I'd like to be sure. I'm . . . I'm sorry if I was rude just now, but I am rather tired.' Cesare's eyes narrowed. 'Very well, take off your blouse.' She was looking particularly attractive in a dark blue printed overblouse and a slim-fitting skirt of cream linen, but Cesare turned his mind away from such thoughts, as she unbuttoned her blouse and pushed it off one shoulder. Cesare came forward to unfasten the bandage, and Emma saw his arm and the ugly scars. 'Oh, Cesare!' she exclaimed. 'How awful!' 'I'm sorry if it disgusts you,' he said tautly, unwinding the bandage in such a way that he did not touch her skin at all. 'I was about to put a clean dressing on.' 'It doesn't disgust me,' she protested. 'But it must have been terribly painful!' Not thinking what she was doing, she ran her fingers along his arm near the scar, feeling the tightness of the flesh, and the dryness of the skin. 'For God's sake, Emma!' he muttered harshly. 'Don't touch me!' Emma's hand dropped away as though she had been burned, but her breath was coming swiftly now as the blood pounded through her veins. His reactions had been so violent that she became aware that he was not indifferent to her at all, and this situation was tantalizingly dangerous.

He unwound the last of the bandage, and with hands that were not quite steady he turned her into the light so that he could see her shoulder more clearly. 'It's all right,' he said, a little hoarsely. 'Now, get out of here.' Emma looked up at him with tormented eyes. She knew she ought to go, but she couldn't move. Minutes passed, and then with a stifled groan he pulled her to him, pressing her close against his hard body. The savage burning heat of his mouth found hers, and Emma slid her hands up the smooth skin of his chest and round his neck. He kissed her many times; long, impassioned kisses that told her of his need of her, and weakened her resistance completely. When he bent, uncaring of the pain in his arm, and lifted her on to the bed where the Counts of Cesare had slept since time immemorial Emma was barely conscious of it. She was lost in a world of warmth and love that denied any retraction. Once he looked down at her with darkened eyes, and said violently: 'Emma, you're crazy. You should stop me!' 'Why?' she asked, her eyes wide with bewilderment, and he did not protest again, but buried his face in the silkiness of her hair. Emma realized in those moments that she had been deceiving herself if she imagined she did not love him. She knew she adored him, and had done so since their first encounter. It was mad, and impetuous, and probably very unsophisticated, but she couldn't help it. And then, without warning, the door opened, revealing Celeste standing there, staring disbelievingly at them, one hand pressed to her throat.

'Why, you little bitch!' she said furiously, glaring at Emma, her eyes full of pure hatred. Emma seemed to come suddenly to her senses, for she released herself from Cesare, and slid off the huge bed, buttoning her blouse. Cesare himself rolled on to his back and then sat up. 'Well, Celeste,' he said coolly. 'As ever on cue.' 'Can you explain this, Vidal?' she asked, in acid tones, controlling her temper with difficulty. He shook his head, and slid off the bed himself, reaching for a navy blue silk dressing-gown which was draped over the end of the bed, and putting it on. 'You tell me,' he said, his tone sardonic, and Emma winced. She was unaware that Cesare was angry with her for acting like the upstairs maid caught out with the master of the house, when all he had wanted to do was to send Celeste packing and keep Emma beside him. As it was, she looked guilty, and he felt furious with Celeste for thinking she could move into his room without invitation. Emma herself was plagued with thoughts of a different nature. Why had Celeste come in like that? Without knocking? Had she been expected? Were they in actual fact lovers? Was this merely a nightly ritual? It nauseated her in the circumstances, and with a muttered cry she ran out of the room, cannoning straight into the Contessa. 'Oh, signora,' she exclaimed. 'Excuse me'. 'Calm down, child, calm down,' said the Contessa soothingly. 'But stay. Cesare, what is going on here? Doors are opening and shutting continually... Celeste!'

Celeste was furiously angry. Far from appearing ashamed, Vidal seemed undisturbed at any construction she might put on this affair, and Celeste could not bear to be ridiculed. 'Contessa,' she said, putting a sob in her voice and producing a handkerchief from the pocket of her quilted gown, 'I've had a most terrible shock! I heard . .. voices, and went to find Emma, but she was not in her room. Then I realized the sounds were coming from here!' Emma's mouth went dry. Celeste continued: 'I ... I have to tell you, Contessa. Your grandson . . . and Emma!' her voice broke convincingly. 'They were making love -' 'That's not true,' said Cesare, in a cold, hard voice. The Contessa looked horrified, and Cesare sighed heavily. 'Grandmother, sit down, before you fall down,' he said impatiently. 'Are you going to stand there and listen to such arrant nonsense, or do you want the truth?' The Contessa looked at Emma's drawn, white face. 'Why, the truth, of course,' she said shakily. 'But Celeste would not lie to me...' 'Of course not...' began Celeste, only to be silenced by a look from Cesare. 'Emma did come to my room, I admit,' said Cesare, 'and I also admit that I lost my head. I've been drinking, she's an attractive girl, I am only human, as you know so well.' 'They were on the bed!' said Celeste triumphantly. 'Yes, we were,' agreed Cesare, 'but nothing happened. Nothing at all!'

'Do you really expect your grandmother to believe that?' Celeste sounded scornful. The Contessa frowned. 'I must confess, Cesare, knowing you as I do, the whole story sounds improbable.' 'Improbable, but not impossible,' retorted the Count. 'Oh, for God's sake, why am I arguing about it? I don't particularly care what you believe!' 'Cesare!' His grandmother sounded hurt. 'Well! Go away, all of you! We'll discuss this in the morning.'. He firmly put Celeste outside the door, and closed it with a click, and they all heard the sound of the key being turned. The Contessa looked first at Celeste, and then at Emma. 'I agree,' she. said. 'This must be discussed more fully in the morning. Emma, my child, will you help me back to my room?' 'Of course,' said Emma, gathering her scattered wits, and taking the old lady's arm. The Contessa's room was smaller than Celeste's and very neat and tidy. Emma helped the old lady into bed, and then said: 'Is there anything you want, signora?' 'Not exactly,' replied the Contessa, her fingers catching Emma's wrist as she would have drawn away. 'Emma, dear child, you are not making a fool of yourself over my grandson, are you?' Emma's cheeks burned.

'Oh, my dear, don't you see how foolish that would be?' She sighed. 'Despite the enormous difference in your ages, he is not the kind of man to . . . how can I put it? . . . make one woman happy.' She tried to study Emma's expression. 'My dear, if he marries Celeste their marriage will be a success. She will not expect him to make vows he cannot keep, and I have no doubt she will take full advantage of the freedom he gives her. My grandson is marrying her for her money; Celeste knows this, and is prepared to accept it because she wants the title. Ours is an old established family. She will get her full share of the bargain.' Emma began to protest weakly, but the Contessa shook her head. 'No, let me finish. It may seem sometimes that I am old and a little stupid perhaps, but having Celeste here has been quite revealing for me. I have realized she is selfish and avaricious, and not at all as I had imagined her to be. But it is the Palazzo that is important, and ...' she lay back weakly on her pillows, '. . . I am getting too old to care any longer, so long as the money is there.' Emma drew her wrist away, and rubbed it awkwardly. 'Contessa, do you not love your grandson?' 'Love him? Cesare? My child, there is nothing I would not do for him.' 'Then how can you expect him to marry Celeste?' Emma sighed. 'Money is not everything.' 'The arranged marriage is usually entirely successful,' replied the old lady wearily, 'My own was an arranged marriage, and we were happy, Vittorio and I. I do not pretend that I was always the only woman in his life, he had his weaknesses, but he always came back to me.' Emma turned to the door. 'I must go,' she said.

'You would not have this kind of marriage? I am curious.' Emma shook her head. 'No, signora. When I marry it will be for love, and love only. And my husband will love me... and only me!' 'I hope you find this love you seek,' said the Contessa tiredly. 'I will,' said Emma with more confidence than she felt. 'And do not worry, signora. I won't prevent your grandson's marriage to Celeste. I rather think she might do that for herself.'

CHAPTER ELEVEN Emma slept badly that night. Her thoughts were too disturbed for her to relax completely, and she dreaded the morning and its unknown outcome. She was stupidly vulnerable where Cesare was concerned, and she knew that whatever Celeste might do to try and stop her, she must leave the Palazzo at once, preferably without seeing Cesare again. She rose early, breakfasted alone, and asked Anna whether Giulio was free to take her to the main railway terminal. She had hurriedly thrown most of her clothes into a suitcase, and it was waiting now just inside her bedroom door. Anna folded her arms and stared curiously at her. 'Si, Giulio is free. But I do not understand, signorina. Why are you going to the railway terminal?' Emma ran a tongue over her dry lips. 'Oh, Anna, please don't ask questions. I... I have to get away.' 'And the Signor? Does he know of this decision?' 'Of course not. Anna, surely you can see that I must get away?' 'Si, I understand why you are doing this. I am not blind, and the Signor is very dear to my heart, also. But are you sure this is the right tiling to do? It may be that...' 'It's the right thing to do,' averred Emma firmly. 'I'm sorry, Anna. But I can't take any more. I have a little money, sufficient I think to get me back to England, and then . . . well ... I can take up my life at the hospital. You didn't know that, did you, Anna? I was a nurse, before I came here.'

'Then you are not the Signora Celeste's stepdaughter?' exclaimed Anna, aghast. 'Oh, but I am,' returned Emma swiftly. 'It's just our circumstances that are different, but our relationship is the same as ever, unfortunately.' She rose to her feet, swallowing the last of the coffee in her cup. 'That was delicious, Anna, but now I must go.' 'Delicious! What nonsense!' Anna uttered an angry expletive. 'You have eaten nothing!' 'I'm not hungry.' Emma brushed down the navy slacks she was wearing, and brushed back her hair a trifle wearily. 'Will you tell Giulio I'll be ready in a couple of minutes?' There was nothing left to do. It was too early for the Contessa to rise, or Celeste either for that matter. And the Count. . . who could tell what his movements might be? She sighed, and walked out on to the loggia. The sun was gilding every spire in the city, and the canals were like rivers of molten gold in the burnished light. She would never be able to rid her mind of the beauty of this place, she thought. Always Venice would hold a special place in her heart. She looked down to the canal below the loggia, seeing the courtyard, and beyond it the landing stage, and the launch rocking gently on its mooring. This would be the last time she stood here; she had not wanted to come, but now she did not want to go. She turned away, her eyes glazed with tears, and saw the man standing below beckoning to her vigorously. Hastily she thrust a handkerchief to her eyes, and hurrying to her bedroom she collected

her case and without waiting to see whether Anna was coming to say goodbye, she let herself out of the apartments and ran down the stairs quickly, not looking back. The gloom of the hall struck a chill through her thin blouse, and she was glad to emerge into the sunlight again. Through the courtyard with its overlay of weeds and moss, and out on to the poled landing stage. There was no sign of Giulio now, and Emma compressed her lips impatiently, and looked about her. Where had he gone? Oh, please, she begged, let me get away! She looked down at the launch, and then, without warning, she was struck a sharp blow from behind and fell senselessly into the bottom of the boat. The painter was silently released, and the craft pushed out into the current as two men leapt aboard. They allowed the launch to drift a little downstream before starting the motor and turning into a side canal out of sight of the Palazzo. *** When Emma came to she was lying on something hard and unyielding and she felt she ached in every bone of her body. Her head throbbed painfully and it was difficult to focus on anything. Then, as memory returned slowly to her, she turned her head slightly to look about her and found she was in the launch but lying on the hard boards of the floor. Frowning, she tried to struggle upright, then sank back nauseously as the world swam around her dizzily. A man's voice became audible to her, speaking in rapid Italian, and then another voice said in English: 'Ah, she's coming round. Buon giorno, signorina!' Emma struggled up a second time, forcing the" dizziness back, and gaining a sitting position. Swallowing hard, she saw two men seated

in front of her, one of whom she vaguely recognized as being the man with the knife who had attacked her in that alley several days ago now. Shivering, she had to force herself not to become hysterical as she asked: 'Wh... where are you taking me?' The man she recognized spoke to her in English. 'Signorina, we used you once before as a warning to your friend the Signor Count. He has not heeded our warning, and so we have been forced to use you again.' He shrugged eloquently. 'Only this time there will be no mistakes. The Signor Count is going to pay for his errors in full.' Emma bit hard on her lips. 'You realize I haven't the faintest idea what you are talking about.' 'Oh, yes, we understand that, signorina. It was not difficult for us to find out that your background is hardly that of the Count's. No, but you provide the bait for the trap we mean to set for our friend, and whether you get out of this alive or not is a matter of little interest to us. For the present your life is not in danger. We are not sadists, signorina. We have no quarrel with you. But if the Count Cesare fails to obey our final demands, then you may have to pay the price as well as him!' Emma shook her head. 'I will be missed.' 'Yes, you will be missed,' agreed the man calmly. 'That is the whole idea.' Emma rubbed her head, wearily, and then another thought struck her. Would she be missed? Or would Anna think she had decided to go alone?

'Signore,' she exclaimed, 'it may not be as simple as you think. I may not be missed!' The man looked sceptical. 'Do not attempt to play any games with me, signorina!' 'But I'm not, signore! You don't understand! I was running away this morning. Only Anna, the maid and Giulio, her husband, know of my plans. I... I wanted to get away ... to escape from the Palazzo. I had decided to leave before anyone was awake. Anna knew this. She will in all probability tell the Signor Count that I have returned home to England. I am nothing to him. Why should he care that I have gone? He will not worry!' The men exchanged glances, obviously weighing up her story and wondering whether she was telling the truth. 'It's the truth,' exclaimed Emma. 'You don't suppose I would lie to you about a thing like that!' The men shrugged and talked together impatiently in Italian. Their conversation was too fast for Emma's ears, and besides, her head ached so badly she had no opportunity to concentrate and try and understand them. Just then she didn't much care what they said, if only she could he down again and close her eyes. But this was one thing she couldn't do, so she sat staring dully at the water-lapped stonework of the houses that edged the canal they were negotiating. It was not a particularly pleasant part of the city through which they were passing, and Emma wondered however she would find her way out of this maze should the chance be offered to her. A few minutes later the launch turned under a low archway, and the men had to bend their heads until they emerged into a cellar, similar to the cellar below the Palazzo Cesare. The launch was tied up, and Emma was roughly advised to climb out.

She did so, on shaking legs, and waited while the men had a muffled conference, and then, after eloquent shrugs of their shoulders, they motioned to her to climb the steep steps leading up to a door high in the wall above them. Emma climbed despite the jelly-like feeling in her legs, and the sickening plunging she was feeling in her stomach. She had never dreamed she would ever be involved in a situation like this, but despite its dreamlike quality, she knew it was all too real, and that was why she felt so terrified. Whatever the Count and these men were involved in was not legal, and therefore there was every reason to be scared. The canals of Venice were too useful to would-be murderers for the absolute disappearance of a body. At the door they all stopped, and one of the men beat a rapid tattoo upon it, as though it provided some sort of signal to whoever was inside. The door opened, and a bearded man stepped back to allow them entrance. Emma found herself in a huge room, down the centre of which was a long scrubbed table set with long continental loaves of bread, slabs of butter and meat, and bottles of vino. Around the table were seated several men, most of whom wore beards, while at the end was seated a clean-shaven man dressed in the long flowing robes of a Moor, his eyes small and set deep in the thickly-fleshed skin of his face. He was very fat, with thick fingers lavishly covered with rings drumming an impatient beat on the wood of the table. When he saw Emma, his eyes brightened considerably and then he said in a completely toneless voice: 'Is this the girl?' The Italians spoke in English now. It seemed that the Moor did not speak their. language and English provided the common link.

'Yes,' said the man who had spoken to Emma. 'This is the girl. Unfortunately circumstances may not be as simple as we think.' The Moor frowned. 'Why?' The Italian sighed. 'She was running away, apparently. The servants knew she was going, and will probably tell the Count that she has returned to England.' 'So?' The Moor shrugged. 'Someone must tell him the truth.' One of the other men at the table spoke. 'Yes, but the idea was that the Count should try to rescue the girl, surely, and in so doing walk into our trap. Do you honestly imagine he will walk into a baited trap when he knows it for what it is?' The Moor slammed his fist on the table. 'Silence! I make the decisions here.' He gnawed at his fist for a moment. 'I am not sure whether or not you are right,' he went on grudgingly. 'Damn you, woman, why did you have to choose today to run away?' Emma said nothing .She did not trust herself to speak anyway, and there was nothing she could contribute to this conversation. She was too conscious of her own vulnerability. She had counted the men around the table, the man at the door, and her own two captors, and altogether they made fifteen. Even if Cesare tried to come to her rescue he wouldn't stand a chance. One man, or possibly three, thinking of Giulio and Doctor Domenico, against so many! They obviously considered her no risk. She had not even been bound or gagged as she had grown used to reading in thrillers. She was merely left to stand alone and shivering, wondering what her fate would be. At last the Moor came to a decision. 'We will have to take the chance,' he said at last. 'There is no point in sitting around here waiting. Count Cesare must know with whom he is dealing. I never

completely trusted him. A man who will sell his integrity for the sake of a few old relics must be insane!' He laughed scornfully. 'But to imagine he could take over this organization, which I, Sidi Ben Mouhli, have built up from nothing! It's ludicrous!' His eyes turned to Emma. 'Whatever happens, my dear, we must get to know one another better.' Emma glanced round frantically. If only she could get away! Death in the cold waters of the canal might be better than this.

CHAPTER TWELVE Count Vidal Cesare dressed slowly after his bath, wondering what in heaven's name he was going to do now. He had not slept at all the night previously. He had merely lain on his bed, going over everything in his mind until his senses reeled with the intricacies of it all. If, if, if! If his grandmother did not depend on him- so utterly for the restoration of the Palazzo; if he had not allowed Marco Cortina to involve him in a net of intrigue and conspiracy that threatened to destroy them all; if he had not met Emma Maxwell and behaving completely out of character for him, fallen in love with her! For that was what he had done. There was no doubt about it now. No matter how he tried to evade it, the prospect of a life without Emma filled him with misery. He didn't care any more about the difference in their ages and backgrounds; she was warm and soft and loving, and completely feminine, and the natural mother for has sons. But how on earth was he ever to disentangle himself from this mess he had got himself into? He could see no way out, and between them Celeste and his grandmother were going to manoeuvre him into a position where he would be forced to marry Celeste because it was what was expected of him. He fastened his tie, slid his arms into the jacket of the dark suit he was wearing, and opened his bedroom door. The apartments seemed unusually quiet for this hour of the morning. It was a little after nine, and his grandmother was usually up and about by now. Entering the kitchens he came upon Anna, standing by the broad table mixing batter for pancakes. She was staring ahead of her in an abstracted way, and he said lightly, 'Anna? Is something wrong?' Anna jumped, and looked round. 'Oh, signore,' she exclaimed. 'I am glad you are up. I do not know whether anything is wrong or not. I am at a loss!'

Cesare felt the stirrings of apprehension in his stomach. 'So? Tell me! What is troubling you?' Anna shook her head. 'When I went into the Contessa's room this morning she is sleeping so deeply. I am worried, and I try to wake her, but she does not stir.' Cesare's face whitened. 'Is she alive?' 'I think so. At least—oh, signore, I am not sure any more.' 'Then why didn't you wake me?' Cesare strode to the door. 'And signore!' Anna's voice halted him. 'Well? Be quick!' 'The Signorina Maxwell, signore...' 'Goon!' 'She... she has gone!' 'Gone?' Cesare's tone was incredulous. 'Where has she gone?' 'I do not know, signore. Back to England, she said, and Giulio was to take her to the station, but then when he went to get her luggage, she had disappeared!' Cesare moved his shoulders helplessly. 'My God, Anna, you keep some strange things to yourself. Wait I must see my grandmother!' He entered his grandmother's bedroom quietly, and approached the bed. The old Contessa looked small and fragile, but praise be! she was still breathing. Cesare drew back one of the heavy brocade curtains, and looked down at her again anxiously. Her breathing was

very shallow, and her cheeks were very pale. Then as he looked, her eyes opened. 'Hello, Cesare,' she said weakly. 'I . . . I'm feeling rather tired this morning. I don't . . . think I'll get up, after all.' 'All right, Contessa,' said Cesare gently, smiling down at her. 'What's wrong? Have you been having too many late nights?' 'Something like that,' said the Contessa tiredly. 'But. . . no . . . Cesare, don't go. Not yet. I want to talk to you.' 'All right, Contessa.' Cesare seated himself beside her, taking one of her veined hands in his own strong brown fingers. 'What is it?' The Contessa ran a tongue over her dry lips. 'I'm worried, Cesare, very worried,' she said. 'It's... it's about Celeste!' 'Celeste? What about her? Oh, you mean about last night? Don't worry about that. I can handle Celeste.' T know you can, Cesare. I know she will marry you whatever your shortcomings, given the chance. But. . . but, Cesare, I'm not sure any more that that's what you should do.' 'What on earth are you talking about?' 'The Palazzo, Cesare. Is the Palazzo important, Cesare? Is it more important than you, than your happiness?' 'Contessa . . . ' he began impatiently, but she held up her hand. 'No, wait, Cesare. Listen to me. I'm very old, and I don't think I'm going to live very much longer. And it's very important to me, your happiness. I . . . I've been lying here all night wondering, and worrying. Cesare, «you don't love Celeste. You couldn't love her.

She's so cold and mercenary, and I am afraid that after I am gone the Palazzo will become a chain about your neck, and a sword in Celeste's hand to twist every time she does not get her own way.' 'I've told you. I can handle Celeste.' The Contessa sighed. 'Yes, yes, maybe you can at that. But what kind of life is that? Living under threats as you would be doing. Or getting your way by bribery and corruption. No, Cesare, I can't have it... I won't have it.' 'Contessa, Contessa! Calm yourself! Who has been putting these ideas into your head? Celeste? It hardly seems likely.' 'No, not Celeste. That . . . that child of hers. Or rather stepchild. Emma. What an innocent she is to be living with that woman. Celeste will do her best to ruin her life also. They are not living the kind of life Celeste would have us believe. I sometimes wonder whether she had ever bothered about Emma before they came here.' 'Emma,' said Cesare suddenly, remembering Anna's words. 'Contessa, I must leave you. There... there's something I have to do.' 'Before you go, Cesare, promise me one thing.' 'If I can.' 'That if you ever find someone you love ... if you have already found someone to love ... don't let the Palazzo stand in your way. I beg of you. I'm too old to care any more. And this building will always be here, whatever happens. The state will take care of it. If you had if off your shoulders you could live a normal life. Cesare, you would not be rich, but you would not starve. Please, Cesare, think about it.' Cesare stood up. 'All right, Contessa, I'll think about it. Now, be good and relax here until I come back.'

He smiled confidently at the Contessa until the bedroom door was closed, and then he leaned back against it, his face transforming completely into a hard mask. Emma was his prime concern now, and he could have kicked himself, for not realizing that her pride would not allow her to carry on as though nothing had happened; that she would try to escape, and in so doing maybe endanger her own life. He strode back to the kitchen to Anna, who had now been joined by Giulio. He closed the door, and said: 'The Contessa is alive, but very frail. She is staying in bed. But now, I want the whole story about Emma, and fast!' 'It is simple,' replied Anna, shrugging her broad shoulders. 'The signorina came to breakfast very early. She told me she wanted to get away without seeing anybody. She asked me to ask Giulio to take her in the motor launch to the main railway station so that she could make her way back to England. She told me she used to be a nurse in a hospital there. She wanted to go back.' 'Then what?' Cesare was impatient. 'Giulio came to collect her bags, but she had gone! Her bags had gone, and so had the motor launch. She must have decided to go alone. It is most peculiar.' 'That it is,' said Cesare grimly. 'For God's sake, Anna, why didn't you wake me?' 'Signore,' exclaimed Anna, 'the signorina was most adamant that you-should not know of her departure. I could not destroy her confidence in me.'

'But when the launch disappeared, did neither of you wonder why? After all, I do not believe the signorina knows how to navigate the vessel. My God, anything could have happened to her.' Giulio's face was grave. 'You think the signorina may have been taken . . .' His voice trailed away. 'This did not occur to me, signore.' 'Then it should have done,' snapped Cesare angrily. 'Look, go get another launch and go to the railway terminal at once. If there is no trace of her there, ring me at this number; at once, you understand?' He handed Giulio a slip of paper. 'Si, signore, I will be as quick as I can.' After Giulio had gone, Cesare went to his bedroom, removed his suit jacket, and donned a thick black sweater. Then he unlocked a small safe behind a picture on the wall and removed a small pistol which he slid into a concealed pocket inside the waistband of his trousers. Then he left his bedroom, closing the door and entering the lounge of the apartments. To his surprise Celeste was standing by the window, smoking nervously, and she turned quickly at his entrance, flinching at the grim expression on his face. 'Well, Cesare,' she said lightly. 'How are you this morning?' 'No better for seeing you,' returned Cesare bluntly. 'I can't stop now, Celeste. There are things to be done.' Celeste frowned. 'Why? What's going on? Where is everyone today?' 'Anna will tell you,' said the Count bleakly, and opened the door on to the gallery. 'If you are in need of an occupation I would suggest you pack your things,' he said, as an afterthought. 'I believe there are vacancies at the Danieli. Maybe you could get your old suite back again.'

' Cesare!' Celeste was aghast. 'Whatever do you mean?' 'Isn't it obvious?' The Count's expression became sardonic. 'You are no longer welcome in my home.' He closed the door on her before she could come to her senses and start venting some of her anger in his direction, and ran swiftly down the steps to the hall below. Making his way through various alleys and back streets he came to the network of wharves and warehouses at the back of which he found Domenico's surgery. Letting himself in he ran up the stairs, through the empty waiting room to the inner office. Using a key, he opened the inner door and entered Domenico's surgery. It, too, was empty, and he closed the door, re- locking it, and then opened the door of a cupboard on the wall which appeared to be merely a medicine cabinet. However, pressure on the right-hand side of the shelves caused the outer compartment to swing forward, revealing a comprehensive radio transmitter behind. Cesare seated himself at the transmitter, switched on and tuned himself in to the frequency necessary for using a direct line to Marco Cortina. When Marco answered Cesare merely said: 'Transportation B,' and switched off. Then he closed in the transmitter, locked the cupboard, and put his keys back into his- pocket. He paced about the room impatiently for a few minutes and then went out, locking up after him, through the waiting room and down the stairs to the door into the alley. Outside it was beginning to rain, and the outlook was grey and dismal. A few seconds later he heard the sound of a motor launch coming in his direction, and he left the house and walked swiftly

through the archway to the canal. He climbed silently into the launch, and went down to the cabin after a brief nod at the pilot. The busy square provided good cover as he entered the realm of Marco Cortina's offices, and he was quickly swept up to the upper regions of the building. Marco was waiting for him, in his shirt sleeves, a cigar clenched between his teeth. He shook hands with Cesare swiftly, his expression probing into Cesare's thoughts. 'Well?' he said. 'What's happened?' Cesare explained briefly, and then lit himself a cigar from the box on Marco's desk. 'Do you think I'm being overly cautious?' he snapped. 'Maybe, maybe not. You're in love with this girl, aren't you?' 'Goddammit, forget my reasons for anything! Is she in danger, do you think? Or has she really left?' Marco shrugged. 'There's word that Ben Mouhli is in the city,' he said flatly. 'I think you're probably right. He has got her!' 'Oh, God!' Cesare felt his stomach contort violently. 'Why?' 'Obviously to draw you to seek them out.' 'But what if I don't? I mean, they can't know whether I would care enough to put my own life in danger for a slip of a kid.' 'Can't they? She was a guest in your house. It's logical to suppose that pressure would be put upon you to try and find her. It's annoying that they've done it this way. It means we've got to come out into the open. I didn't want that to happen.'

'And the alternative?' Cesare drew on his cigar. 'I go it alone.' 'That's ridiculous,' muttered Cortina violently. 'You wouldn't stand a chance. Mouhli has more than a dozen men!' 'I know, I know!' Cesare strode about like a caged tiger. He was thinking, trying desperately to find a solution in a brain that seethed with emotion of a very different kind. If he got Emma back now . . . ! He would be able to fling it all up without a qualm. He would no longer be destroying his grandmother's plans for the Palazzo. That particular millstone could be dropped from his neck. 'Look,' he said, at last. 'Our strength lies in the fact that Ben Mouhli thinks I have no liking for policemen. He believes I'm trying to manoeuvre him out of the syndicate. He knows I was responsible for Ferenze's disappearance. He thinks I still have the stuff, just waiting for a chance to unload it and make the fortune that's there to be made. If I go to him ... I'm pretty sure I could find him somehow ... I could try and bluff it out...' 'Fantastic!' muttered Cortina. 'What a bloody idea!' 'Have you another one?' 'Not yet. But that's not to say there isn't one to be found.' He sighed, 'Good God, Cesare, I want you alive. You're no use to me dead!' 'But you want Ben Mouhli, too, don't you?' 'Of course I do. But there's little chance of going into those alleyways without attracting attention to ourselves.' He chewed his cigar. 'But, Cesare, if we got our hands on Ben Mouhli -' 'That's out! But positively!' Cesare's face was grim. 'If those villains get one inkling of what we're doing, Emma won't get out of there alive!'

'Okay, okay. So you go alone. Much good may it do you! Unless . . . ' he halted. 'You could take a consignment of the hemp with you. You won't stand a chance without something to bargain with.' '"But that's stupid! If Mouhli gets me, he gets the hemp! And there's no absolute guarantee that we'll get out of there alive anyway.' 'I know that.' Cortina's eyes were guarded. 'You'd have to try and convince him you were simply trying to take over the syndicate. Then when he's swallowing that, of choking on it more like, you try and make a deal with him.' 'Some chance!' 'I agree. But once you and the girl are out of there, we move in regardless!' 'Okay, okay.' Cesare stubbed out his cigarette. Then he frowned and studied Cortina's face shrewdly. 'You're taking this very coolly,' he said, but his friend did not reply. Then the telephone rang. Cortina answered it, spoke for a few moments, and then rang off. 'That was control downstairs. A call came through from Giulio. There was no sign of your Miss Maxwell at the railway terminal. No one of her description has been seen buying tickets and so on. I guess that wraps it up, doesn't it?' 'I guess it does,' agreed Cesare heavily. 'Okay, let's get busy.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE day dragged interminably by. The bench on which Emma was seated with one of her captors beside her was as hard as iron now, and she felt numb, and frozen with despair. There was no light or heating in this enormous room, and although it was a warm day Outside Emma knew nothing of it. She knew she ought to be grateful that so far her presence had been practically ignored by the big Moor, but she could see no way out of her dilemma, and she felt desperately near to breakdown. It was too much; after the trouble with Cesare, and her own ridiculous display of weakness towards him would only arouse his amusement when he had time to think about it. And if she had disappeared, who was there to care anyway? The old Contessa perhaps might spare a thought for the young girl to whom she had acted as teacher of classics, but there was no one else. After what happened last night Celeste would have nothing but hatred for her, and would do her utmost to ruin her life if she could. The man called Kavir had left a couple of hours ago to deliver the message of her kidnapping to Count Cesare, but had so far not returned. Emma wondered whether Cesare would come. It was becoming patently obvious that the syndicate dealt in something like arms, or drugs,, even, and consequently whatever opinion she had had of Cesare before this was going through a swift revision. She could not love a man who dealt in misery and death, no matter how attractive he might be, and part of her own misery stemmed from the knowledge that Cesare had been proved to be something she loathed and despised. Her own guess was that they dealt in drugs; the references to injections and consignments all seemed to point to something small but lethal, and if this was so maybe that was why Cesare had been so annoyed when she discovered that underwater diving equipment in the violin case. Already so many things were beginning to fall into place. Count Cesare's unexplained actions so many times; his

disappearance the afternoon they spent in the lagoon, and the men who attacked him and herself. It was all becoming painfully clear, and not at all what she wanted to believe. It hardly seemed possible that Cesare could align himself with men like Sidi Ben Mouhli. She sighed, and immediately the Moor's eyes turned to her. 'You grow weary, perhaps, Miss Maxwell,' he said, smiling maliciously. 'Rest assured, you will not have much longer to wait. The gallant Count is a somewhat tardy knight errant, but he will come, never fear, he will come.' 'And when he does?' Emma's voice was unsteady. 'And when he does, we will have a little fun. The good Count has had it his own way long enough. Now it is his turn to lose a hand, or maybe every hand, who knows! No one double-crosses me. No one!' 'Whatever the Count has done is of no interest to me,' replied Emma shakily. 'If I had known...' She bit her hp. 'What is this?' The Moor's eyes widened. 'You mean you knew nothing at all of his little game? That I can hardly believe. But you see, the Count is under the impression that he has fooled me. He has disposed of a cargo of which you yourself unfortunately have the number carved on your shoulder. This cargo was worth many thousands of dollars, and at first it seemed that the Count wanted to play me at my own game. But then certain information came to my sight which proved conclusively that which I had begun to suspect. That your dear Cesare was no longer one of us, but a shrewd, yet sometimes stupid, member of the Italian Intelligence service!' Emma stared at him, and despite her surroundings, and the hopelessness of her situation, her heart leapt. So she had not been

wrong about Cesare after all. He was not a member of a drugsmuggling gang, but something entirely different. 'And so you see, Miss Maxwell,' went on the Moor, 'when your good friend walks in here, so unsuspecting, he will be walking into imminent danger. There is not a chance that I would let him go free, knowing conclusively who I am.' Emma's stomach turned over, and she felt sick. 'But if he is a member of the Intelligence service, surely any information he has will be shared by the other members of the organization. .The Moor shrugged. 'Only up to a point. No one else knows his contacts; no one else knows this hideout. Kavir will find him and bring him to me.' Emma clenched her fists tightly, her mind searching for holes in his argument. 'And before you think of it,' he said, smiling, 'there will be no giveaway homing devices attached to his person on his arrival here. We are not so stupid as they think.' Emma slumped. Everything the Moor had said was true, and it seemed unlikely that either of them would get out alive. Suddenly there was a sharp rap at the door, and the Moor gestured to the man beside Emma, who immediately slapped his hard, dirty hand across her mouth. When one of the men moved to open it two men came in; one was Kavir, and the other was Count Vidal Cesare, looking lazily indolent as he followed the other man into the room. He looked supremely confident and Emma moved restlessly, trying to attract his attention.

His eyes swung swiftly round the room, taking in at a glance the tall massive figure of the Moor standing by the table, the other men sprawled around the table and Emma struggling to free herself. Then with superb assurance he crossed the room to the Moor and uncaring of the eyes upon him addressed Sidi Ben Mouhli. 'At last we meet. I am addressing the Sidi Hassan Ben Mouhli, am I not?' The Moor's eyes glittered. 'You are. And you are remarkably cool when one considers the hopelessness of your situation.' 'Hopeless?' The Count shrugged. 'Oh, I hope not!' 'Cool, but unconvincing,' remarked the Moor, reseating himself. Count Cesare's eyes narrowed. 'My mission here is to rescue the fair maiden,' he replied lightly. 'But in the process, there is no reason why we should not do each other a little good.' 'Signor Count, you are doing me good just by being here,' returned the Moor smoothly. He snapped his fingers. 'Will you have some wine?' 'Thank you, but no,' Count Cesare put his hand into his pocket, and immediately the butt of a gun was thrust into the small of his back. 'I think not,' said the Moor, as his men searched the Count thoroughly, and produced a gun triumphantly from a shoulder holster. 'Wait,' said the Moor. 'What were you to take out of your pocket?' Cesare smiled, albeit a little dryly now. 'Merely this,' he said, and threw a linen bag on the table in front of the Moor.

The Moor opened it cautiously, examined the contents intently, and then frowned. 'Hemp,' he said slowly. Then he fastened the bag. 'Thank you, Count Cesare. This will indeed increase my debt to you. Unfortunately, it is a little too late to try and regain your losses. Your presence here satisfies me completely. My business in Venice is now finished, or it will be when you and your little accomplice are disposed of.' Count Cesare's face did not mirror his racing thoughts, but the Moor laughed and signalled that the man might release Emma. 'You see,' he said, 'I know all about you, Signor Count. Everything!' Emma looked desperately at Cesare, and Cesare at last lost some of his indifference. 'It would seem that I have behaved foolishly,' he said slowly. The Moor smiled grudgingly. 'It would seem like that,' he agreed. Suddenly the door burst open and another man came into the room. 'Magnificence,' he cried, 'there • are men everywhere! The warehouse is surrounded!' Sidi Hassan Ben Mouhli got rapidly to his' feet. 'How is this?' he thundered furiously. 'Where were the guards? Surely the canals were watched?' The man shook his head. 'I don't know, Magnificence. There are none of our men to be seen.' The Count smiled a little sardonically, despite the fact that his common sense told him that this was the end so far as he and Emma were concerned. He ought to have known that Cortina was too much of an intelligence agent to be able to care one way or the other who

was involved when the stakes were so high. He had agreed too amiably to his plan; he had felt then that it was too easy. 'You should have asked your man Kavir where he caught up with me,' he said to the Moor, 'and he would have told you that I was on my way to find you. He did not stop to ask me whether I had met anyone on the way.' 'You mean . . .?' The Moor smote his fist down on the bare table. 'Fool, imbecile!' He glared at Kavir. 'So this is the end, is it, my friend?' He turned to Cesare. 'In other circumstances we might have been allies,' he said, surprisingly. 'You have qualities that I admire. Unfortunately, so far as you are concerned, this is as far as you go.' He pulled a lethal-looking little revolver out of the folds of his gown and turned it on the Count. 'Au revoir, and arrivederci,' he murmured, and to Emma's horror he pulled the trigger. It is impossible to dodge a bullet fired at such close range, and even Cesare's swift reflexes were not swift enough and he fell heavily to the ground. 'You've killed him!' Emma screamed, ignoring the man who tried to prevent her as she ran across the room and fell on her knees beside Cesare. The Moor smiled. 'What did you expect?' he said coldly. 'Are not traitors deserving of execution?' 'He wasn't a traitor,' cried Emma, cradling Cesare's head on her arms. 'You are the traitors!' The Moor's eyes darkened, and she felt the stinging slap of his fingers across the side of her head.

'No one speaks to me like that!' he said' violently. His eyes grew appraising. 'Little English girl!' His tone was sneering. 'Perhaps we should not have wasted the day. Maybe I would have found you most entertaining -' Emma was horrified, but even as he spoke there was the sound of voices outside on the canal, shouting and gunfire. The men were restless and were gathered near the door. 'Come, Sidi,' said the man called Labul. 'There is no more time. If we are to escape capture...' 'Yes, yes,' said the Moor. 'I am coming. Come.' He dragged at Emma's arm. 'You are coming with me!' 'No!' Emma's eyes were wide with fear. 'But yes, signorina, there is unfinished business between us.' Despite her pleas and attempts to struggle free, Emma was dragged across the room, and down the back staircase to the wharf below where the launch waited. The men climbed in impatiently, eager to be gone, but the Moor seemed loath to leave, just like that. He glanced at the piles of crates nearby, and with deliberate enjoyment he lifted a can of petrol and sprinkled the contents lavishly over the wood. Then he lit a taper, and drawing back threw the flame into the petrol. There was a violent explosion, all the worse for the enclosed space it occurred in, and Emma was thrown back against the side of the boat, hitting her head sickeningly, and then losing her balance and falling into the icy waters of the canal. She could hear shouting and screaming as she surfaced, struggling weakly to stay afloat despite the buzzing of her head. Then she

realized that the flames had completely engulfed the wharf and even the boat was on fire. Men were yelling and shouting and diving into the water around her, uncaring about her now in their own fear. Some had been caught by the flames, and Emma thought she could see the robes of Ben Mouhli burning on the quay. Nauseated by the heat and smoke, she swam wildly for the low passage which led to the canal outside. Hampered by her clothes, and dizzy from the bump, she found the swim incredibly tiring. Men were following her, but she didn't care. The sunlight was outside and it was intensely desirable to feel the fresh air on her face again. Then she remembered Cesare, lying dead on the floor above that burning inferno, and her heart felt as heavy as lead. It no longer seemed to matter what happened, whether she got out alive or dead. All meaning was gone from her life now. She floundered, but was near the concrete of a wharf, and strong hands lifted her to safety. She stared at her rescuers blindly, and one of them said : 'Miss Maxwell? Good,' at her nod, 'we'll get you to safety now.' 'Cesare,' she began bleakly, and their faces changed. 'We'll find him,' they said. 'But he's dead,' she said, her voice breaking. 'No, he's not,' said another voice behind her, and a big man lifted her chin smilingly. 'He is, I tell you,' she cried, shaking with misery. 'I saw him. That. . . that Moor killed him. I saw him!'

The big man laughed. 'It would take more than one bullet to kill Vidal Cesare,' he said, sobering. 'Thankfully I say this. For my name will be mud when he recovers.'

Later that day Emma was allowed to see Cesare in the hospital. They were keeping him in for a few days, despite his own assertion that he felt perfectly fit. The bullet had missed his heart by inches and had lodged itself in a lower rib. Its removal had been comparatively easy, and he was no longer in any danger of dying from the wound. 'You frightened me so,' she murmured, standing beside the bed, rather shakily. 'I frightened myself,' he remarked laughingly. 'I really thought I'd had it.' 'Oh, Cesare,' she whispered, and turned, looking towards the door where Marco Cortina was standing. Cortina withdrew, and Cesare said: 'So, Mouhli was too clever even for himself.' 'Yes. Fortunately for us.' 'For you mainly,' said Cesare. 'I at least would have recovered. If he had touched you . . .' His voice was husky. 'I . . . I've asked Celeste to leave.' 'Have you?' Emma twisted her hands. 'Yes. That's what you wanted, isn't it?' 'Me?' Emma bit her lip. 'What have I to do with it?'

Cesare half rose and then sank back as the wound pained him. 'All right, Emma,' he said thickly. 'You can go now. But when I get out of here, we have some reckoning to do.' Emma nodded, and left, while she still had the strength to do so. She still could not take it in. There had to be a catch somewhere. Miracles did not happen!

CHAPTER FOURTEEN At the end of that unreal and strange week, the old Contessa died. Celeste had left the Palazzo, and Emma stayed on, despite her misgivings. Cesare came home for the funeral, his arm still in a sling, but otherwise completely recovered. It was an unusually cold and dismal day, and afterwards when the mourners had left and only Emma and Cesare were alone in the huge lounge he said: 'Let's get this straight, shall we, Emma? I don't ever want you to leave. I ... I couldn't live without you, not now.' 'Do you think I want to go?' asked Emma shakily. 'But, Cesare, I'm not cut out to be a Contessa. I ... I couldn't live in this marvellous old palazzo, wonderful as it is, as its mistress. I'm just plain, ordinary Emma Maxwell.' 'Emma, stop it,' he muttered abruptly, turning away. 'Look, I haven't much money, I'm not wealthy. The Palazzo is my only asset. But I do have a villa in Ravenna, by the sea. If you could be happy there, then that's where we'll live. And you will be the Contessa Cesare, and I will be your adoring husband, if you'll have me. 'Oh, Cesare.' Emma pressed her hands to her cheeks. 'But... but what about this place? This palazzo! You can't give it up. It's your birthright.' 'It's a millstone about my neck,' replied Cesare briefly, lighting a cigarette. 'I don't want to live here any longer. I want to be free. And I want you.' His eyes were dark and passionately brooding. 'And Celeste?' She had to know. 'Was never anything to me. It was my grandmother's idea.'

'But the old Contessa ... I mean . . . her dearest wish was that the Palazzo . . .' Emma faltered. Cesare half-smiled. 'You sound as though you want to be free of me,' he remarked sardonically. 'Cesare! I... I only want you to be sure. I couldn't bear it if you regretted it later.' 'Regret marrying you?' Cesare reached out and pulled her towards him. 'I think not. As to the other, the morning you were captured the Contessa told me that she had been thinking it over and she had decided that the Palazzo was less than important compared to a person's happiness. She said you had convinced her of that.' 'Me?' 'Yes. I think she guessed I was in love with you.' 'Oh, Cesare, I'm so glad.' Emma slid her arms round his neck. 'And I'm sorry I doubted you. It's been an awful week.' 'But it's over now,' murmured Cesare, burying his face in the softness of her hair, feeling her instant response. 'You realize your reputation will be in ruins if you stay here with me.' 'Hmn. Who cares?' murmured Emma, turning her face up for his kiss. 'And you are going to make an honest woman of me, aren't you?' 'As soon as it can be arranged,' said Cesare huskily.

They were married four weeks later, and left for a prolonged honeymoon in the West Indies. Emma was in seventh heaven, madly in love with her handsome husband, and supremely conscious of her

own power over him. In the warmth of his love she grew tanned and beautiful, and Cesare took a delight in choosing her clothes himself and transforming her into a sophisticated socialite, while at other times, in tight-fitting jeans and sweaters, she looked like a teenager. One lazy afternoon when they were lying in the shade of a beach umbrella on the silvery sands below the villa they had rented, Emma said: 'Cesare, tell me, honestly, did you call at the Danieli that morning after we bumped into one another in the foyer?' Cesare grinned. 'Will you believe me?' 'Yes, if you say it's so.' 'Then... yes... I did.' 'But why?' He shrugged. 'I don't know, I guess you looked so forlorn and lonely I felt sorry for you.' 'Thank you,' she retorted sarcastically. 'No, really. Was that when Celeste had broken the news to you?' 'Hm. I'd just met the Contessa for the first time, and I felt terrible about deceiving her.' 'Oh? Well, I'd met Celeste, too, that evening, and I was afraid her presence, and the presence of her several million dollars in my palazzo might jeopardize my chances with the syndicate. They thought I was flat broke, willing to do anything for a dollar. Then I met you, and when you came to the Palazzo I thought I might use

you as a decoy, you know, ignoring Celeste, and so on. Naturally, I made a complete hash of it, as I did of everything else.' 'Except us.' 'Even that. I almost lost you, through my own stupidity, and if Hassan Ben Mouhli had touched you . . . ' He whistled through his teeth. 'Let's not think about that.' 'To think,' she murmured incredulously, running her fingers through the hairs on his bare chest, 'I almost lost you!' 'But you didn't,' he murmured softly. 'No. I think I'd have wanted to die if I hadn't you to love.' Cesare grinned sardonically. 'Lots of men make love very satisfactorily, so I'm told,' he remarked laughingly. 'There is only you, so far as I'm concerned,' whispered Emma quietly, half embarrassed at her own audacity. 'And that's how it should be,' said Cesare, pulling her mouth down to his. 'Did I tell you I find you very satisfactory, too?'