Lucy Gordon - Wedding in Venice

A swift conversation in Venetian ensued, after which Guido said, "He's coming over after dinner, before Liza changes her mind. Hey, Justine, fancy you thinking of the Busoni!"

"It's the only Venice hotel I know," she said quickly.

Over dinner she had the chance to observe the count and Liza when they weren't squabbling and had to admit that they made a charming couple. The handsome man was so dotingly in love with the plain woman that Justine's cynicism took a knock.

But she settled it back into place, reminding herself that she didn't believe in eternal love. She couldn't afford to believe in it.

They had coffee in the garden overlooking the Grand Canal, with a clear view of the floodlit Rialto Bridge. Justine fixed her eyes on it, concentrating on the beauty so that she didn't have to think too closely about what she had just done.

What had possessed her to suggest the Busoni? Who said that Riccardo would be making the hotel's deliveries anyway? And what did she care whether he did or not?

"He's here," Guido said, jumping up and heading toward the building, from which a figure was just emerging.

"Riccardo!" Guido yelled.

"Justine," Dulcie said excitedly, "isn't that the same man who -?"

"Yes," Justine murmured. "It is."

The light and shadow contrasts of the moonlit garden emphasized everything about him that had made an impact on her. He was just as she remembered, but more so.

"Justine," Guido said eagerly, "do you remember this guy from the journey yesterday?"

"Oh, we've met since then," she said, extending her hand to Riccardo. "I fell into his barge this morning, and I can promise you, his cabbages are the best."

"I'm saving money on staff by doing some of the donkey work myself," Riccardo said.

He was talking to Guido but his eyes were on Justine, and his hand held on to hers longer than necessary.

"I would have told you the truth this morning," he said, "but you ran away without giving me the chance."

"Plus you enjoyed having a joke at my expense."

"Well – yes," he admitted.

"To think I was worried about getting you in trouble with your boss!"

"I did tell you that I could handle anything he threw at me," he reminded her.

"Hmm, so you did!"

He grinned.

"You don't trust me?"

"Where would you get an idea like that?" she asked ironically.

"From your voice, your eyes, your face. It's an interesting question for the two of us to explore. Unfortunately, it must wait until my work is finished."

It was reasonable for him to put work first, but his lordly assumption that she would wait like a doll on a shelf riled her.

"That's sounds fascinating," she said, "but it's been a long day. I'm sure everyone will forgive me if I go to bed."

Riccardo's eyes gleamed, acknowledging a round to her.

"You are wrong," he murmured. "I will not forgive you. But I can bide my time."

Justine slipped away alone the next morning. This was a working trip, and as well as photographing the wedding, she wanted to explore Venice.

She called Dulcie to say she wouldn't be home for lunch.

"I'm in St. Mark's Square. I'll get something to eat here."

"You should go to Florian's," Dulcie told her. "It's a genuine eighteenth-century café, and Casanova used to go there because it was the only one in Venice where women were allowed."

Justine found Florian's and sat in the window drinking a sinfully delicious concoction of coffee, chocolate and cream, and listening to the four-piece orchestra playing just outside. The surroundings were still as they must have been two hundred years ago.

If she closed her eyes she could see Casanova, a tall, elegant man in powdered wig and knee breeches. In her vivid imagination, he paused a moment, smiling before he spoke.

"Can we talk for more than two minutes this time?"

His voice was familiar. Justine opened her eyes to find "Casanova" pulling up a chair beside her – in the form of Riccardo.

No wig or knee breeches. Just black jeans and a black shirt that showed tanned, muscular arms. In these sedate surroundings, his look of having just stepped off the brig of a pirate ship made him riotously out of place.

He hailed a waiter and ordered something for himself and a repeat of her order.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said urgently. "I swore I'd only allow myself one."

"I think you can afford the calories," he said with an admiring look at her tiny waist and long legs.

She was used to that kind of look, but this was different, as though he had taken in everything about her in one instant. She hoped she didn't look self-conscious.

"I'm sorry about my little deception," he said.

She gave a rueful smile.

"You don't expect to find a hotel owner collecting his own vegetables. And you were so convincing as a bargee. You swung me up onto the bank as if I weighed nothing."

He laughed and flexed his biceps theatrically. "No problem. I developed these tossing sacks of potatoes around."

She joined in his laughter, but regarded him wryly.

"I see. Women, potatoes – it's all one, huh?"

His eyes gleamed with pure mischief. "Oh, no! Not at all. Between a sack of potatoes and a woman – well, one is a lot more fun than the other."

She felt a sudden flicker of self-consciousness, and was annoyed at herself. For Pete's sake, she was a woman of the world, not a blushing violet! She'd known where this might lead as soon as their eyes met on the lagoon the first day.

But the word "fun," signposting the way ahead, had almost caught her unaware.

Yes, he would be fun, she thought, considering him. The whipcord strength of that easy, loose-limbed body, the sensual light in his eyes, his air of devilment.

Fun. But also a great deal more.

"It's early days for the hotel," he said, apparently not seeing her turmoil, or choosing not to see it. "I turn my hand to most things. Tomorrow night I shall be serving food at the Calvani party."

He watched as she sipped the sweet drink he had ordered for her.

"You never really answered my question yesterday," he said. "How long do you mean to stay in Venice?"

"You practically answered it yourself."

"Yes, I told you that you should stay forever. I'm afraid I tend to arrange people's lives for them, like a dictator. But only the ones I like."

"I don't know how long I'll be here," she said, not answering this directly.

"Is there nobody waiting for you at home who will object if you stay away too long?"

"No," she said wryly. "There is nobody who will object if I stay away too long."

"There ought to be. Please excuse me – I told you I was a dictator. To me it is so clear that you are a woman who should not live alone -"

"But perhaps it's my choice, and then you really are being a dictator."

"Is it your choice?"

"I'm divorced," she said abruptly.

"Your wish or his?"

"He slept with someone else. I threw him out. End of story."

"Had he been faithless before?"

"If he had, I'd have thrown him out before."

"You didn't want to try to save your marriage?"

"There was nothing to save," she said tensely. "It was over."

"So quickly? So easily? So ruthlessly?"

The last word was like a dagger.

"I really have to go," she said, rising. "Thank you for the coffee."

"Are you offended with me?"

"Yes. You have no right to – Never mind."

She fled without a backward look.

Justine spent the rest of that afternoon in St. Mark's Basilica, judging angles, working hard to put Riccardo out of her mind by sheer force of will.

But when she returned to the Palazzo Calvani, Dulcie was bubbling with the day's events.

"Riccardo came this morning to check things for the party. I was just talking to him when you called."

So their meeting had been no accident. He had known where to find her. The thought gave her a strange feeling.

* * *

The palazzo was filling up with guests. On the day of the party several of the count's cousins arrived from distant parts of Italy.

Once, looking out of a window, Justine saw Riccardo arrive in a barge laden with food and two members of his staff. She turned away quickly. She did not want to think about him. He had left her thoughts in turmoil with his casually cruel remarks.

So easily! So ruthlessly!

What did he know?

"You look upset," Dulcie said.

"It's just that I found myself talking about Neil yesterday. Now I wish I hadn't."

"Do you regret divorcing him so fast?"

"Not you, too! I did what had to be done. That was it."

More guests arrived and Dulcie went down to greet them, leaving Justine with her thoughts.

It had been a mistake to marry Neil – she'd known that even on the wedding day. They were in love, but she didn't believe in love – not the lasting kind. How could she when her parents' divorce had left her homeless? Both of them had remarried, and she had been shunted around to a series of aunts, "until things settle down."

But things had never settled down. Eventually she'd realized that there was no place for her in either home. After that she had set her face against the world.

She had an eye for shape and color, which had made her a success as a photographer. As her success grew, so did her social life. She was beautiful. Men wanted her. And that was fine, as long as they didn't ask for her heart as well.

She had locked that up in a safe, bolted, barred and labeled Do Not Touch.