Rising Fire. William W. Johnstone

of years.

      Later, back out in the plaza, Denny sat on one of the benches to rest. Malatesta sat beside her while Louis wandered off to look at the wares in one of the shops.

      Not far away, water bubbled in a fountain adorned by a statue of a naked cherub. Denny didn’t know if the statue was a work of art or just a decoration. She supposed it didn’t matter.

      “Are you enjoying yourself?” Malatesta asked.

      “I am,” she admitted. “It’s getting a little warm, though.” She was grateful for the hat she had worn, with its broad, floppy brim. The shade it provided for her face was welcome.

      “We can go back to the hotel soon,” Malatesta told her. “You will want to rest before I take you to supper tonight.”

      Denny laughed. “Who said I was going to have supper with you?”

      “But you must eat at the Café Top Rosso Elegante.” Malatesta kissed his fingertips and then blew that kiss off them. “The best food in all of Venice. You cannot pass up the chance to dine there.”

      “I don’t believe I’ve heard of that place.”

      Malatesta waved away her comment. “The ones who actually live in a city always know the best places to eat there. The café is, how you say it, off the beaten path. But you will love it, I give you my word.”

      “Is Louis invited to dinner as well?”

      Malatesta smiled slightly. “No offense to your wonderful brother, but it was my fondest hope that perhaps this evening, the two of us could spend some time alone together, cara mia.”

      “Isn’t that rather bold of you, referring to me as your beloved?”

      “Fortune favors the bold,” the count replied. “Isn’t that what they say? But as for me, I care not for fortune. All that matters to me is that Signorina Denise Nicole Jensen favors me. Say that you do, and my heart will leap so high, there is no way of knowing where it will come down.”

      Denny looked at him for a long moment, then finally said, “You’re starting to grow on me a little, I suppose.”

      He exclaimed in Italian as a brilliant smile broke out across his face. “My heart, she soars out of sight,” he added in English.

      “Better hold on to your heart,” Denny advised him drily. “You might need it.”

      He shook his head. “No, because the joy of being in your presence fills my chest instead and beats as warmly and strongly as my heart ever could.”

      “What you’re full of is . . . fancy talk,” Denny said, the smile on her face taking any sting out of the words.

      “So you will have supper with me?” he persisted.

      “I will,” Denny said. His flowery, grandiose proclamations amused her—quite possibly, intentionally on his part—and there was no denying that he was handsome and charming. It wasn’t going to hurt anything to spend more time with him.

      But she wasn’t going to lose her heart to him. She was absolutely certain of that.

      * * *

      Despite her best intentions, Denny spent most of every waking hour with Count Giovanni Malatesta during the next week, and even though she told herself that it was crazy, that she hadn’t come to Venice to have some sort of whirlwind romance with a dashing Italian nobleman, she realized that she was falling in love with Giovanni.

      They ate in the finest restaurants and coziest cafés. They explored the shops, from the most expensive and luxurious to the quaint, hole-in-the-wall establishments that always struck Denny as the slightest bit shady. They visited the great palazzos where the noble families opened their homes so visitors could admire all the beautiful treasures within. The very best of art, music, and fine food, Giovanni laid at Denny’s feet. And in between, the gondolas carried them along the city’s canals as glittering scenery slid smoothly past them.

      She had vowed to herself that no Italian count was going to sweep her off her feet, no matter how handsome and dashing he might be—but that was exactly what Giovanni Malatesta did.

      Poor Louis was left out most of the time, of course, and Denny felt bad about that, but he assured her that he was enjoying the visit and could take care of himself.

      “I hope I can say the same of you,” he commented to her, one day in the hotel as he gave her a meaningful look. “That you can take care of yourself.”

      “I know what you mean. Just because you’re a few minutes older than me doesn’t mean you have to start playing the protective big brother.”

      “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Denny.”

      “I’m not going to,” she said confidently. “Honestly, Giovanni has been a perfect gentleman so far.”

      “Let’s hope that continues.”

      The thing of it was, Denny wasn’t sure she wanted Giovanni’s gentlemanly behavior to continue. She found herself growing more and more curious what it would feel like to have his strong arms around her, to taste the warmth of his mouth with hers . . .

      That evening, they dined again at the Café Top Rosso Elegante, where they’d had dinner for the first time in Venice. The food was as good as ever, the candlelight dim and subdued, the atmosphere romantic. When they left, Giovanni suggested a stroll along the canal before he hailed a gondola and took her back to the Metropole.

      “I think I’d like that,” Denny said.

      Arm in arm, they walked along the cobblestones with the canal at their right. Up ahead, a bridge arched up and over one of the smaller canals.

      “The Bridge of the Roses,” Giovanni told her. “Legend has it that lovers come here, after they have been . . . intimate . . . and each tosses a rose into the canal. If the current carries the roses away together, the couple will stay together forever. If the current separates the roses, so, too, will the lovers drift apart.”

      “So it’s either romantic . . . or terrible.”

      “Such is life,” Giovanni said with an eloquent gesture. “Shall we walk across the bridge?”

      “We have no roses.”

      “Not yet,” he said, smiling.

      Denny hesitated, then said, “I don’t suppose walking across it will hurt anything.”

      “Perhaps we will find someone selling flowers on the street, on the other side.”

      “Perhaps,” Denny said.

      The hour was late enough that the streets and the canals weren’t as busy as they often were. The two of them were the only ones on the bridge, in fact. It was dimly lit by lamps at either end, but at the top of the arch in the middle, thick shadows gathered.

      Giovanni stopped there, turned to her, and said in a husky voice, “Denise . . . Denny, cara mia . . .”

      When he put his hands on her shoulders and bent his head to hers, she didn’t stop him.

      The kiss was long and lingering and started her heart pounding almost painfully in her chest. Her hands clutched at the front of his shirt. He moved his hands down to the swell of her hips and held her close to him.

      Denny felt herself weakening. She already had her hands on his broad chest. She pushed against it, moved her head back to break the kiss, and whispered, “Giovanni, no . . .”

      “My apartment is near, cara mia,” he said. “And I have roses there.”

      She shook her head a little. “We can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

      “No one will know. No one will be harmed. And there will be joy for you, joy unlike any you have ever known.”

      She pushed harder against his chest, shook her head more emphatically. “I’ve had a