Prelude To Enchantment. Anne Mather

that you should be anything else. Besides, few Italian women have your excessive fairness.'

      Sancha bent her head. ‘I see.'

      ‘So now—you have not answered my question. Why are you working in Italy?'

      Sancha shrugged her slim shoulders, wishing he would move away, go and sit elsewhere, anything!

      ‘My uncle is the editor here,’ she explained. ‘I was working in the London office when he suggested I might like to spend a year working in Venice.'

      ‘Eduardo Tessile, he is your uncle?'

      ‘Yes, signore. His wife is my mother's sister.'

      ‘Ah so,’ the Count nodded. ‘And do you like it here?'

      ‘Very much.’ Sancha managed a slight smile. ‘Venice is a very beautiful city.'

      ‘You think so? You do not find the odorous scents of the canals offensive?'

      ‘No, signore.’ Sancha made an expressive gesture. ‘Do—do you?'

      ‘Me?’ The Count's eyes narrowed. ‘No, signorina. But you see Venice is as much a part of me as I am of it. It is my city, my home. The churches—the squares—the bridges; they represent so much more to me than mere architecture.'

      Sancha smoothed the cover of her notebook. ‘The Piazza San Marco is very impressive,’ she volunteered awkwardly.

      The Count finished his wine. ‘Yes, very impressive,’ he agreed dryly. ‘But then it is designed to be. However, myself I prefer the less—shall we say tourist-inhabited places of the city.'

      Sancha accepted his words silently. She couldn't think of any constructive comment to make. Although she had been in Venice six months she had in fact see little of the lesser-known areas of the city. She worked all week and at weekends her uncle and aunt seemed to think it was incumbent upon them to provide entertainment for her. They had no children of their own and consequently they went out of their way to show Sancha how much they enjoyed her company. In consequence she had done little sightseeing.

      ‘Tell me, signorina, how long have you been in Venice?’ The Count had poured himself more wine, and was now regarding her searchingly.

      ‘Oh—er—about six months,’ she replied quickly, wondering whether he was capable of reading her thoughts as well as disconcerting her as he did.

      ‘And of course you are staying with your uncle and aunt?'

      ‘Actually, no.’ Sancha shook her head. ‘My uncle's house is outside the city and although he commutes to his office every day he suggested I should share the flat of two other girls who work for Parita.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I—I spend weekends with them.'

      ‘I see.’ The Count inclined his head. ‘You must forgive me if I am excessively curious, signorina, but in Italy a girl such as yourself would not be permitted such freedom.'

      Sancha shrugged. ‘Oh, we are quite-emancipated,’ she said, uncomfortably aware of the sardonic gleam in his eyes. She rose quickly to her feet and crossed the wide room to the tall windows which overlooked the canal, staring out with assumed interest. Opposite, the high wall of a building cast shadows on the water and beyond could be seen the gilded campaniles of the city. It was late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, but the scene was unbelievably beautiful.

      The Count flicked his lighter and the sound caused her to turn and glance quickly behind her. He was lighting another cheroot and the flame of the lighter illuminated the tanned length of his fingers. The only effeminate thing about him was the inordinate length and thickness of his lashes and these flickered upwards now as his eyes encountered hers. For a moment he held her gaze and then she looked quickly away tremblingly, aware that his eyes had been assessing her with an almost clinical detachment. But why? What reason could he have? …

      The opening of a door relieved her mortification and she swung round eagerly to see Tony entering the room with Paolo just behind him.

      The Count's reactions in comparison were smooth and unconcerned. ‘You have completed your pictures, Mr. Braithwaite?’ he enquired.

      Tony smiled politely. ‘I would like a couple of shots in here, if I may, signore,’ he replied, ‘but otherwise, yes, I'm very happy with what I've taken.'

      ‘Good! Good!’ The Count straightened and gestured expressively. ‘Go ahead. Is there anything in particular you wish to photograph?'

      ‘You would not agree to be photographed holding a copy of your book, I suppose?’ Tony suggested awkwardly.

      The Count drew deeply on his cheroot. ‘My dear Mr. Braithwaite. I understand your dilemma, believe me. But it is not exactly to my liking that this article should be done at all as no doubt you have gathered from your editor. But my publisher——’ He spread a careless hand. ‘The palazzo is yours to do with what you will, but I …’ He shook his head. ‘I prefer my anonymity in this mad world of ours, Mr. Braithwaite.'

      Tony smiled, obviously with difficulty, and glanced rather meaningfully in Sancha's direction. ‘Very well, signore,’ he said politely. ‘If you'll excuse me I'll get on.'

      Within ten minutes it was finished and the Count was bidding them both arrivederci. ‘It has been most enlightening,’ he said, with enigmatic charm. ‘I trust you have both enjoyed it.’ He smiled. ‘As I have.'

      Tony managed a polite rejoinder and Sancha murmured her thanks in an undertone.

      Then Paolo was escorting them down the marble steps to the lower hall and out into the brilliant sunlight.

      Once in the launch, Tony flexed his muscles and breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God that's over!’ he exclaimed fervently, surprising Sancha. Tony was usually so unconcerned.

      She looked up at him curiously. ‘What's wrong? Didn't you get the photographs?'

      ‘Oh, yes, I got plenty of photographs. Paolo saw to that,’ replied Tony lighting a cigarette with hands which were not quite steady. ‘But it was bloody awful down in the dungeons!'

      ‘The dungeons?’ Sancha stared at him.

      ‘Yes. You knew they had such things, didn't you?'

      ‘I—I suppose so. I never thought of it. Why? What went wrong?'

      ‘Nothing.’ Tony exhaled and seemed to regain a little of his composure. ‘Nothing except that that bloke Paolo seemed to resent me being there.'

      ‘You mean—he said so?'

      ‘Nothing so simple. No, it was his attitude. Sancha, I tell you, it made me realise that these servants men had who were reputed to be intensely loyal to the extent of murdering for their masters were real. My God, I believe old Paolo would have murdered me if he'd thought it would do any good.'

      ‘But why?'

      Tony sighed. ‘I told you, the Count didn't want us to do the interview. He's been practically blackmailed into it by his publisher. Paolo knows this. These old Venetian families are pretty tough, you know. They're not used to having to do anything.'

      ‘Oh, Tony, you're exaggerating!'

      Tony managed a chuckle. ‘Maybe I am,’ he admitted, raking a hand through his hair. ‘Nevertheless, I was damn glad when we got out of there. How did you fare? Did you get the interview okay?'

      ‘Oh yes, yes.’ Sancha nodded, flicking open her notebook and showing him the pages of scribbled shorthand.

      ‘He's some man, isn't he?’ Tony regarded Sancha closely.

      ‘How do you mean?’ Sancha was deliberately obtuse.

      ‘Oh, come off it, Sancha!’ Tony stared at her exasperatedly. ‘Don't tell me you didn't notice.'

      ‘I—I thought he was rather—well—jaded,’