Rising Fire. William W. Johnstone

      Denny caught her breath again, the air hissing between tightly clenched teeth. This time she felt like she’d been punched in the gut, and it was all she could do not to let out a groan.

      She held it in, because she didn’t want the two people in the apartment to hear it and realize someone was out here.

      The woman spoke then, low enough that Denny couldn’t make out the words at first, but she caught the final part of the question the woman asked.

      “. . . afford that?”

      She had an English accent. Giovanni seemed to like women who had spent time in England, Denny thought wildly.

      He chuckled and said, “Don’t worry about that. With the money the American girl is having wired to my bank, we can live in luxury for months. And she will have no idea where to look for us, so you need not concern yourself with that, cara mia.”

      Denny wished he would stop calling her that. She squeezed her eyes shut to hold back the tears that wanted to well out.

      She could still hear, though, even if she couldn’t see at the moment. The Englishwoman said, more clearly now, “It took you long enough to get that money out of her. And I’ll wager you enjoyed every second of it, you scoundrel!”

      “She was quite a pleasing companion,” Giovanni agreed. “But not half so beautiful and exciting as you.”

      “What about that Tomasi fellow? From what you told me, he sounds rather dangerous.”

      “He has given me until tomorrow evening to meet him and settle accounts, and we will be long departed from Venice by then. Tomasi will not be able to find us, either,” Giovanni said.

      So at least he had been telling the truth about the money he owed to Salvatore Tomasi. That hadn’t been yet another lie, part of the big act he had put on to convince Denny to part with ten thousand dollars—and more.

      “I tell you, Vanessa, I have thought of everything. Soon we will be living the life that we deserve.”

      No, Denny thought, what he deserved was for her to kick this door open and go in there shooting with the Smith & Wesson in her bag. She realized that she was still gripping it, so tightly that her hand was starting to go numb.

      But that would be cold-blooded murder, she told herself, and Jensens didn’t do such things. Giving Giovanni a thorough beating, up one way and down the other, would be all right, but she lacked the physical ability to do that and so did Louis.

      Anyway, she would never tell her brother about this. It was too humiliating. Louis didn’t need to know how badly she had been fooled by that . . . that snake!

      There was something else she could do, she realized. As the idea took shape in her mind, her face settled into cold, hard lines. That mask threatened to crack when she heard new noises coming from inside the apartment, noises that left no doubt what Giovanni and his Englishwoman were doing, without even having the decency to go into the bedroom.

      Denny’s resolve hardened even more. She straightened, taking her ear away from the door. She didn’t need to hear what was going on in there. She had heard plenty already.

      She left the palazzo and walked back to the hotel. If any of the Italian men she passed made crude comments, she didn’t notice them this time. She was focused completely on what she had to do next.

      When she reached the Hotel Metropole, she went up to the suite for a few minutes and then returned to the lobby. She crossed the ornately furnished room to the desk and told the clerk, “I need to send some telegrams.”

      “The telegraph office will be closed at this hour, signorina,” the man said with a helpless shrug.

      Denny reached into her bag, but instead of taking out the gun, she brought out a wad of money and slapped it on the desk in front of the clerk.

      “This is important. Offices can be opened if the price is high enough. Give me some telegraph forms and wake up one of your bellboys. We’ve all got work to do.”

      The clerk probably wasn’t used to such a tone of command coming from a woman, but if he had any misgivings, the look in her eyes—and the money—must have caused him to set them aside. He swallowed hard, bobbed his head up and down, and said, “Sì, signorina.”

      * * *

      Louis woke up to a whirlwind of activity the next morning. Denny was packing, had in fact finished with some of the bags already.

      “What’s going on here?”

      “We’re leaving,” she told him. “I’ve had more than enough of Venice.”

      He stared at her. “Just like that?”

      “Yes,” Denny said as she fastened the clasp on a bag. “Just like that.” She gestured toward several bags resting on a table in the sitting room. “I packed some of your things, but you can finish up. We’re catching a train to Naples, and from there there’s a boat going to England.”

      “I know that,” Louis said in exasperation, “but why now?”

      She looked at him and said, “It’s time.”

      Louis cocked his head to the side, squinted at her, and said, “This is about Giovanni, isn’t it? The two of you have had some sort of falling-out!”

      “Can’t I just want to go back home?” she asked. She couldn’t quite keep the note of misery out of her voice.

      Louis heard that and went to her, still in his dressing gown, and took her in his arms, patting her lightly on the back. “Of course you can,” he told her. “To tell you the truth, I’ve seen plenty of Venice myself. I don’t care if we never come back here.”

      “Neither do I,” Denny said, her voice tightly controlled now. “You’d better hurry.”

      “Won’t there at least be time for breakfast?”

      “On the train.”

      * * *

      The bags had been loaded on a small boat, and a gondola was waiting at the landing in front of the hotel to take them to the train station. Denny stood there, waiting, dressed in a blue traveling outfit with a matching hat on her blond curls. Louis was next to her in a brown tweed suit and brown felt hat.

      “I thought you were in a huge hurry,” he said.

      “We are,” she said, “but we need to wait just a minute longer.”

      She caught sight of Giovanni then, hurrying along the street, hatless, his hair slightly askew as if he had just raked his fingers through it when the insistent knock on his apartment door pulled him out of bed with the Englishwoman Vanessa. His clothes were a little disheveled, too. But when he spotted Denny and Louis, he bounded down the steps to the landing and pasted the usual big smile on his face.

      “Cara mia,” he said, “what is so important that you must see me so early in the morning?”

      “I wanted to catch you before you went to the bank,” Denny said, “so you won’t waste your time.”

      Giovanni managed to keep smiling but frowned in confusion at the same time. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I thought everything was arranged—”

      “It was,” Denny said, “but I’ve unarranged it.”

      He shook his head. “What?”

      “You can go to the bank if you want, but there won’t be any money waiting there for you. I sent more wires last night canceling everything.”

      Now he looked shocked, angry, and a little scared. “Cancel . . . Why in the world would you do that?”

      She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of telling him that she had eavesdropped on him and his mistress, although more than likely he would figure that out if he stopped and thought about it. Instead she