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laughter.’
His face darkened as though he was containing his fury with difficulty, but she was on a high, and nothing would make her stop now.
‘And don’t count on me not knowing what Larezzo is worth,’ she went on. ‘You’ve told me what a powerful man you are in Venice, but powerful men have enemies. I’ll bet there are a dozen people willing-no, eager to tell me about the value, and give me tips on your weaknesses.’
He was on his feet, looking down into her eyes.
‘So you think you can find my weaknesses?’ he said.
She moved a little closer so that her breath brushed his face.
‘I think I’ve found one now,’ she whispered.
He took hold of her arms and she knew at once that she was right. He was trembling. How far, she wondered, did she dare push him? Just a little further?
But she was thwarted by the sound of footsteps, and broke away from him just as the door opened. It was the maid.
‘Signor Raffano is on the telephone.’
Salvatore was pale, but his voice was calm. ‘I’m just coming.’ To Helena he said, ‘Will you excuse me a moment? I must just deal with this.’
‘Of course.’
In the next room Salvatore picked up the phone. ‘Pronto!’
‘I just had to find out how you were doing,’ came Raffano’s voice. ‘Have you set the price yet?’
‘No, this is going to take time.’
‘Difficult, is she?’
‘Let’s just say she’s not what I expected.’
‘What does that mean?’
Salvatore ground his teeth. ‘It means that she wrong-footed me.’
‘Heaven help her!’
‘It might be heaven help me,’ Salvatore admitted reluctantly. ‘This is one very clever lady. I made the mistake of underestimating her.’ In a reflective voice he added, ‘Which I won’t do again.’
Left alone, Helena began to explore the room, which, at one end, became a picture gallery, and she walked slowly along the portraits. Many were of the Cellini family, as the notes beneath them proclaimed. But the last ones were Valettis, stern-faced makers of money in the nineteenth century.
More recently the pictures weren’t paintings but large photographs, one of which made her pause and regard it fondly.
There was Antonio, years before she’d met him, probably in his late thirties, before his hair had turned from black to grey and started to fall out. She’d known him as a ruin, but once he’d been this fine young cavalier. Some of his wickedly handsome looks had remained to the end, and she could still see the Antonio she’d known.
Salvatore, coming to find her, found her standing before Antonio’s picture, so lost in it that she didn’t hear him. From this angle he could just make out the fond look on her face, the tenderness of her smile. As he watched she raised her fingers to her lips and blew a kiss. She might, or might not, have given a little sigh. He couldn’t be sure.
Helena seemed to become aware of him.
‘Look at his eyes,’ she said, indicating the picture. ‘He was a real devil, wasn’t he?’
‘He was in his youth. What about when you knew him?’
‘We-ell,’ she mused, remembering Antonio’s frailty, and thinking that a man didn’t have to be physically capable to be a devil. There were other ways, charming ways that ended in laughter. Remembering those times, she smiled, her eyes fixed on the distance.
Salvatore, watching intently, saw what he’d expected. She had seduced Antonio into action, driving him beyond his strength until he reached the inevitable end. Suddenly he was angry with himself for forgetting so easily that she was an experienced temptress. Her smile, with its hint of a secret history, told him everything he needed to know.
It was a useful reminder not to forget again.
She passed on and he stood for a moment, considering the soft seductiveness of her walk, the way one part of her body moved against another, which could drive a man to distraction.
Or to death, he thought.
He caught up with her as she paused before a wedding picture.
‘My parents,’ he said.
It