Veretti's Dark Vengeance. Lucy Gordon

her room she settled down to make enjoyable decisions. This dress? No, too blatant. That one, then—black, elegant, slightly severe. But she didn’t know when their meeting would occur. It might be daytime, so perhaps something more businesslike would be suitable. In the end she laid out several outfits, ready for her final decision.

      As she got out of the shower the telephone rang. She answered cautiously, meaning to disguise her voice, but the man at the other end wasn’t Salvatore.

      ‘Am I talking to Signora Helena Veretti?’

      ‘You are.’

      ‘I am secretary to Signor Salvatore Veretti. He asks me to say that he was very glad to hear of your arrival in Venice, and looks forward to a meeting.’

      Helena assumed her most formal voice to say,

      ‘How kind of Signor Veretti.’

      ‘Would this evening be too soon?’

      ‘Not at all.’

      ‘He suggests dinner at the Palazzo Veretti. His boatman will call for you at seven-thirty.’

      ‘I look forward to it.’

      She hung up, and sat still for a moment, caught off-guard by something happening inside her.

      The invitation was exactly what she’d wanted, so it was illogical that she was assailed by doubt, but she had the sudden shocking feeling of confusion. It made no sense, she told herself. She had nothing to fear from this man. The power was in her hands, not his.

      Hands. The word seemed to leap out at her. His hands on the nape of her neck, caressing fingers touching, retreating, touching again. And herself trying to breathe through the storm that had engulfed her without warning.

      Never, never again! She’d promised herself that long ago as a child of sixteen, when the brutal end to her first love had left her hostile to men and frozen to their caresses.

      They didn’t know. Stupid as they were, there wasn’t one of them who could see past the façade of sexual availability that had been her trademark, to the bleak, icy truth within. She’d played them off against each other, used them to climb to the pinnacle of her career, made money out of them. And she’d slept alone.

      In all those years she’d never again known the dizzying, irresistible desire that had once carried her to disaster. Once or twice a faint whisper of pleasure had troubled her but she’d controlled it, fleeing the man, never letting him suspect. With time, those occasions had grown rarer.

      Looking down the vista of her future life, she’d been prepared for loneliness. Instead she’d found Antonio, a man who’d adored her without being able to risk a physical relationship. They had been perfect for each other. And his true legacy wasn’t wealth, but the fact that he’d made her strong, strong enough to face an uncertain future.

      ‘Hell!’ she thought, exasperated with herself. ‘I’m thirty-two. Next stop, middle-age. I’ve managed so far. I can manage the rest.’

      So, the black dress, one of Antonio’s last gifts to her, chosen for its allure. It was silk, tight-fitting, with a neckline that dropped just a little. The hem came to just above her knees, not high enough for immodesty, but high enough to show off her long legs. And after a day in sensible shoes it was a pleasure to don high heels.

      She let her luxuriant hair hang loose, not drawn back as during the day, but free-flowing over her shoulders.

      Her jewellery was restrained. Apart from her wedding ring she wore only a dainty gold watch, two tiny diamond studs in her ears and Antonio’s glass heart. Unlike the blue shading of Salvatore’s gift, this one was dark red, sometimes lightening to deep pink, but always returning to a hue that was like red roses.

      ‘Right,’ she told the mirror. ‘Let battle commence.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      SHE waited downstairs, and at last the doorman came to escort her out to the waiting boat, which turned out to be a gondola. The gondolier bowed as he handed her in, saw her comfortably settled and moved off.

      Early evening was the best time to see the Grand Canal. Lights blazed from the windows of the buildings lining the banks, and the April sun was setting, casting a glow on the water with its throng of boats. At this time of day they were mostly gondolas, conveying tourists to dinner, sightseeing, music, romance. The air was alive with the anticipation of pleasure.

      ‘Is it very far?’ she called up and over her shoulder to where the gondolier was standing behind her, plying his single oar.

      ‘Very little distance, signora. The Palazzo Veretti is further along the Grand Canal. It is magnificent. Everyone admires it.’

      A moment later she saw what he meant as they turned the canal’s curve and the building came into sight. It was, as he’d said, magnificent, pale grey marble, ornately decorated in the Renaissance style, rising four storeys, each with ten windows facing the canal, all lit up.

      She drew an admiring breath at its beauty, at the same time noting the message of dominance that came from every line. This was the home of a man who was powerful, and wanted everyone to know it.

      The gondola was turning, heading for the landing stage at the front of the palazzo. And there, standing in readiness, his eyes fixed on her approach, was Salvatore.

      She watched his face and saw that in the evening light he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. As the gondola drew up to the landing stage he reached out to help her from the boat. She felt the strong clasp of his hand, drawing her up until they were level. His hand tightened as he saw her face, but there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes. Was she? Wasn’t she?

      She gave him a deliberately challenging smile, full of amusement at his expense, calculated to annoy him.

      ‘Good evening, Signor Valetti,’ she said sweetly. ‘How kind of you to invite me here tonight.’

      ‘You?’ he said slowly. ‘Did I invite—you?’

      ‘You invited Signora Helena Veretti,’ she said, ‘and I am she. I hope I don’t come as a disappointment.’

      His eyes narrowed.

      ‘Not a disappointment, signora. A surprise perhaps.’

      ‘You mean a shock, don’t you?’

      ‘Perhaps I do,’ he said slowly.

      ‘Ah, that little trick I played on you this afternoon. Was it very bad of me? Are you angry?’

      ‘Of course not. I hope I can appreciate a joke as well as the next man.’

      He was lying, Helena knew. His smiling civility was for the boatman’s benefit. Beneath it he was furious at being wrong-footed.

      Good!

      He paid the gondolier, who seemed pleasantly surprised by the amount, and made himself scarce.

      Offering her his arm, Salvatore led her into the brightly lit downstairs hall, with its sweeping staircase. Only then did he look at her closely enough to see what she was wearing around her neck. He drew a sharp breath as he saw the glass heart, so like the one he’d given her that afternoon, but deep red.

      ‘A gift from my husband,’ she said, touching it.

      ‘I congratulate you, signora, a very clever performance. No wonder you wouldn’t tell me your name.’

      ‘It would have been a pity to spoil a good joke.’

      ‘It would indeed. But let us leave that matter for later. I’ve brought you here to enjoy the very best meal of your life.’

      You’ve brought me here to crush me, she thought, amused. Now you need a delay to regroup your forces.

      He led her into a large room, ornately furnished with items that seemed several hundred years old. In her first confused impression she could only