A Secret Affair. Barbara Taylor Bradford

had strolled here, there had been hundreds and hundreds of pairs of feet covering it, obviously the reason he had never noticed it before now.

      His eyes followed the flow of the pattern: flat gray stones covering most of the square, balanced on either side by narrow white marble bands set in classical motifs. At once he was struck by the way the motifs directed the eye and the feet toward the Basilica. No accident, he thought, walking on. When he came to the church, he did not go inside. Instead, he turned right and went down the Piazzetta San Marco, which led to the water’s edge.

      For a long time Bill stood looking out across the lagoon. Sky and sea merged to become a vast expanse of muted gray, which soon began to take on the look of dull chrome in the lowering afternoon light.

      It was so peaceful here it was hard to believe that just across the Adriatic Sea a bloody war still raged. Nothing ever changes really, Bill thought as he turned away from the water at last. The world is the same as it’s always been, full of monsters, full of evil. We’ve learned nothing over the centuries. We’re no more civilized now than we were in the Dark Ages. Man’s monstrosities boggled his mind.

      Hunching deeper into his trench coat, Bill Fitzgerald retraced his steps across the empty square. He began to hurry now as dusk descended, making for the Gritti Palace, where he always stayed. He loved its old-fashioned charm, comfort, and elegance.

      The rain started as a drizzle but quickly turned into a steady downpour. Bill, increasing his pace, was almost running as he approached the side street where the front entrance to the Hotel Gritti Palace was located.

      He sprinted around the corner of the street at a breakneck pace and collided with another person also moving swiftly. It was a woman. As her large-brimmed cream felt hat and her umbrella went sailing into the air, he reached out and grabbed hold of her shoulders to prevent her from falling.

      Steadying himself, and her, he exclaimed, “Excuse me! I’m so sorry,” and found himself staring into a pair of startled silvery-gray eyes. In Italian, he added, “Scusa! Scusa!”

      She responded in English. “It’s all right, honestly,” and disentangling herself from his tight grip she ran after her hat, which was blowing down the street.

      He followed her, outran her, caught the hat, picked up the umbrella wedged against the gutter, and brought them both back to her. “I apologize again,” he said.

      Nodding, she took the hat and the umbrella from him. “I’m fine, really.” She glanced at the hat. “And this isn’t any the worse for wear either.” She shook it and grimaced. “Just a bit splattered with mud. Oh well, never mind. Who cares? It was never my favorite hat anyway.”

      “I’m a clumsy fool, barreling around the corner like that. It wasn’t very smart of me. Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked in concern, unexpectedly loathe to let her go.

      She proffered him a faint smile, slapped the hat on top of her dark curls, and sidled away from him, saying, “Thanks again.”

      He stood rooted to the spot as if paralyzed, watching her walk off when he wanted desperately to detain her, to talk to her, even invite her for a drink. He opened his mouth. No words came out. Seemingly, he had lost his voice, not to mention his nerve.

      Suddenly he galvanized himself. Almost running up the street after her, he shouted, “Can I buy you a new hat?”

      Without pausing, she called over her shoulder, “It’s not necessary, thanks for offering, though.”

      “It’s the least I can do,” he cried. “I’ve ruined that one.”

      She stopped for a moment and shook her head. “No, really, the hat doesn’t matter. ’Bye.”

      “Please slow down. I’d like to talk to you.”

      “Sorry, I can’t. I’m late.” She glided on, swung around the corner.

      Bill hurried after her.

      It was then that he saw the man coming toward her, waving and smiling broadly.

      The woman increased her pace, waving back and exclaiming in Italian, “Giovanni, come sta?”

      A moment later she was holding her umbrella high over her head so that the man she had called Giovanni could properly embrace her.

      Disappointment surged through him. Immediately, Bill turned away, rounded the corner, and went down the street toward the Gritti Palace. He could not help wondering who she was. Certainly she was the most stunning woman he’d seen in a long time. Those luminous silver eyes set in a pale, piquant face, the head of tumbling dark curls, the elegant way she carried herself. She was beautiful, really, in a gamine sort of way. It was just his luck that she was apparently already spoken for. He would have liked to get to know her better.

      CHAPTER THREE

      They met in the bar of the legendary Gritti Palace, which faced the Grand Canal.

      “It’s great to see you, Francis Xavier!” Bill exclaimed, “Just great that you could make it.” He enveloped his best friend in a bear hug.

      As they drew apart after their rough, masculine embrace, Frank said, “And likewise, William Patrick. It’s been too long this time around. I’ve missed you.”

      “So have I—missed you.”

      Still grinning at each other, they both ordered single malt scotch from the hovering waiter and sat down at a small table near the window.

      “A lot of wars have been getting in the way,” Frank went on, “and we seem to have been covering different ones of late.”

      “More’s the pity we haven’t seen the same action.”

      They exchanged knowing looks for a long moment, remembering the tough situations they had encountered together and had shared. Genuinely close since journalism school, the two men, who were not only friends but colleagues, understood each other on a very fundamental level. And each worried about the other’s well-being. They had a great deal in common, always had had—a love of truth and the need to find it, traits which made them superlative newsmen; diligence, honesty, and a zest for adventure. Yet, despite the latter, both were cautious, fully aware of the dangers involved in their work. Whether together or alone on assignments, they always endeavored to minimize the risks they took in order to get the story.

      Their drinks arrived, and after they’d clinked glasses, Frank said, “There’s no way I’ll go back to Bosnia, Bill.”

      “I know. And I don’t blame you. I’ve sort of had it myself. How is it in Beirut?”

      “Fairly quiet. At the moment, anyway. Things are improving, getting more normal, relatively speaking, of course. I don’t think it will ever be the Paris of the Middle East again, but the city’s perking up. Good shops are opening, and the big hotels are functioning on a more efficient basis.”

      “Hezbollah’s still lurking, though.”

      “You bet! We have to live with the threat of terrorism around the clock. But you know that.” Frank lifted his broad shoulders in a light shrug, his dark eyes narrowing. “Terrorism is more prevalent than ever. Everywhere in the world. The bastards are all over the place.”

      Bill nodded, took a sip of his drink, and leaned back in the chair, enjoying being with Francis Peterson.

      Frank said, with a wide smile, “Let’s change the subject, get to something more worthwhile. How’s my little Helena?”

      “Not so little, she’s grown a tad. Which reminds me…” As he spoke Bill pulled out his wallet, removed a photograph, and handed it to Frank. “Your goddaughter wanted you to have this. She sends you hugs and kisses.”

      Frank stared at the picture Bill had just handed him. He smiled. “She’s the most adorable kid, Billy, you’re so lucky. I see she’s still got that Botticelli look about her…positively angelic.”

      “To