Rising Fire. William W. Johnstone

here would love to be dancing with him.”

      Denny made a dismissive sound. “He thinks he can just come along and sweep me off my feet. This isn’t some Henry James novel. He’s not some sophisticated European taking advantage of the crass, crude Americans.”

      But despite her wariness, Denny said yes the next time the count asked her to dance, and after that they spent most of the rest of the evening together.

      When the hour grew late and the ball began to break up, Malatesta took hold of both of Denny’s hands and asked, “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you back to your hotel?”

      “I came here tonight with my brother.”

      “And I’ve spent enough time talking with Louis to know that he’s an intelligent, enterprising young man. I have no doubt he can find his own way back without your assistance.”

      Denny shook her head. “I’m sorry, but no, Count.”

      “Please, after all the time we’ve spent together this evening, you should call me Giovanni.” A smile lit up his face. “Or perhaps even Johnny. That is how you Americans would say my name, is it not?”

      “Let’s just leave it at Count Malatesta, shall we?” Denny replied coolly.

      “As you wish.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I should not move so fast, I know. It’s just that my resistance is always so weak in the presence of such a beautiful woman.”

      “Well, you’ll just have to be strong. Louis and I are going back to the hotel in the same carriage that brought us here.”

      “Of course.” He took hold of her hand and bent to kiss the back of it again. “But you and I, we will see each other again. It is written in the stars, cara mia.”

      She and Louis were in the carriage, on their way back to the Hotel Metropole, before she said, “What does cara mia mean in Italian?” Louis had always had a better flare for languages than she did.

      “I believe it translates to ‘my beloved,’ or something very close to that. Why?”

      “I heard someone say it tonight.”

      Louis looked over at her in the shadows of the coach. “Count Malatesta?”

      “Never mind.” Denny rolled her eyes. “The whole thing is ridiculous.”

      But as she gazed out the carriage’s window at the cobblestone street rolling past, she realized she had a smile on her lips.

      CHAPTER 5

      It wasn’t exactly a whirlwind courtship, but once it got started, it moved along pretty fast.

      Count Malatesta sent flowers to Denny at the hotel the next day, and the day after that, but he didn’t come to call until the third day. Denny had considered suggesting to Louis that they go ahead and leave Venice, but she found herself strangely unwilling to do so.

      Her reluctance to go couldn’t have anything to do with the way Giovanni Malatesta was attempting to woo her so determinedly, she told herself. It was just that Venice was such a beautiful city, and she and Louis hadn’t yet seen everything there was to see. That was why they couldn’t leave yet.

      She knew Louis would have scoffed at that reasoning—and in the back of her mind, she did, too.

      When Malatesta showed up at the hotel and asked her to go with him to the Piazza San Marco and St. Mark’s Basilica, Denny couldn’t come up with a good reason to refuse the invitation, especially after Malatesta asked Louis to come along, too. That proved the Italian nobleman didn’t have any improper intentions, or if he did, he was being sly about them.

      “I don’t need a chaperone,” Denny said to her brother as they were getting ready to leave the hotel. Malatesta had gone back downstairs after telling them he would meet them in the lobby.

      “Good, because I wouldn’t amount to much as one, even if there was any trouble,” Louis said.

      Denny looked over at him. Louis wasn’t frail, exactly, but he wasn’t the picture of health, either. He had been born with a flaw in his heart that often left him pale, weak, and struggling for breath. In times of trouble, Denny was more likely to be the one taking the bull by its proverbial horns.

      She hated that he thought less of himself because of his condition. It was no fault of his own, and as far as she was concerned, no girl had ever had a better brother.

      She put her arms around him, hugged him, and said, “Don’t you ever think anything like that. You don’t know how much I depend on you, Louis.”

      “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a rueful smile. “I just hope I don’t ever let you down.”

      “You won’t,” she assured him.

      They went downstairs, where Malatesta greeted them in his jovial, booming voice as if they were old friends he hadn’t seen for years, instead of having left them at the door of their hotel room less than a quarter of an hour earlier. He ushered them toward the entrance doors of the vast, elaborately furnished lobby with its golden mosaics, jeweled tapestries, and gleaming marble floor.

      The Hotel Metropole was a square, four-story building with its name emblazed on a large sign that ran across the front, above the entrance. Steps on the other side of the small plaza in front of it led down to the Grand Canal, where gondolas and other boats waited to carry passengers along the watery thoroughfares of this ancient city. To the left as Denny, Louis, and Giovanni Malatesta walked toward the Grand Canal was one of the many graceful arched bridges to be found in Venice, this one crossing a smaller canal that ran alongside the hotel.

      Malatesta led the two Americans to a waiting gondola manned by a stocky, swarthy gondolier in the traditional outfit of tight white trousers, loose colorful shirt, and flat-crowned straw hat adorned by a small ribbon. The count took Denny’s hand and helped her step into the boat, then started to assist Louis as well, only to have him say, “Thanks, but I can manage.”

      “Of course, my friend.” Malatesta boarded with the grace of a large cat and took Denny’s hand again as they sat on one of the sumptuously padded benches. Louis sat opposite them, facing backward.

      The gondolier pushed off with the long pole that was the tool of his trade and sent the gondola gliding smoothly through the water. With expert skill, he guided the boat into the traffic on the Grand Canal.

      “With all the bridges, it is possible to walk from the hotel to St. Mark’s,” Malatesta said as he leaned back against the cushioned seat, “but I did not know if the two of you had ridden in a gondola yet. It is an experience that every visitor to Venezia must have.”

      “It just so happens that we’ve been to Venice before,” Denny said, “and this isn’t our first ride in a gondola. But it’s been a while, and it’s always a nice thing to do.”

      Despite the waterways that made it distinctive, in many ways Venice was like most of the other cities in Europe: a striking blend of beauty and squalor, wealth and poverty, and an assault on the senses. Nearly everywhere a person looked were gracious old buildings that were works of art every bit as much as the treasures some of them housed. But underlying the stunning visions that met the eye was the perpetual stink of dead fish. It was impossible to eliminate in a city built on the water. The canals themselves were lovely from a distance, but up close, trash floated in them. No one ever mentioned that. It was as if everyone in Venice, citizens and visitors alike, had agreed to turn a blind eye to the unavoidably ugly parts of life that went on here as they did everywhere else.

      The trip to the vast Piazza San Marco, with its busy shops and museums on three sides and the massive, magnificent edifice, St. Mark’s Basilica, at the far end, didn’t take long. Once they were there, Denny, Louis, and Malatesta joined the throngs of people strolling around the plaza, gazing at the wide variety of beautiful goods on display. They were in no hurry, and considering the crowds, it wouldn’t have done them much