Prelude to Enchantment, page 5
His gaze flickered over her appraisingly and she was intensely aware of the limitations of the white pleated skirt and the orange shirt blouse that was open at the throat for coolness. ‘You intrigue me,’ he said, at last. ‘You are such a mixture of liberalism and naïveté. I wanted to see you again.'
Sancha's breathing seemed to be constricted. ‘Well, now you have,’ she said, rather chokily. ‘Am I—am I a disappointment?'
Immediately his eyes darkened and she looked quickly away, realising that her remark had been tantamount to an invitation to him to find out.
‘What do you want me to say to that?’ he queried huskily. ‘Whatever your wish, this is not the place to do it. Come!'
He rose abruptly to his feet, taking her hand in his without waiting for her permission. Sancha hung back, but the desire to experiment with this man was greater than her own reluctance and when the Italian driver brought the vaporetto in to the next landing stage she vaulted our of the craft without demur. It was not her usual alighting place, and she looked about her in some trepidation as the vaporetto began to move away, realising that she had taken the first really dangerous step of her life.
The Count looked at her apprehensive expression and said: ‘What is wrong? Do you regret leaving the vaporetto already?'
Sancha's fingers tightened on her bag. ‘I'm not sure,’ she admitted truthfully, and with a faint smile, he said:
‘Let me take your hand. I promise not to ravish you in the first dark corner we encounter, eh?'
He was laughing at her, she knew that, and yet when she allowed him to take her hand again she felt no fear. The cool hardness of his flesh against hers sent shivers of anticipation up her spine and she knew with a terrible sense of self-revelation that she wanted much more of him than that.
They walked through a maze of streets and bridges. The Count seemed to know the city like the back of his hand and had no difficulty in finding his way even in spite of the lack of signposts. Although Sancha had no coat she felt no chill in the cool darkness of the narrow calles where sunlight scarcely penetrated even on the hottest day, for it was a warm evening and her blood was heated by the disturbing strength of her emotions. She would never have believed if anyone had told her earlier in the day that she would be walking the streets of Venice with Count Malatesta before the evening was over, and yet she was, and what was more she was enjoying the experience.
As they walked the Count pointed out various places of interest that Sancha would otherwise have missed, and she thought how much more exciting it all seemed in the encroaching fall of night. His casual conversation lulled her into a false sense of security, but when he stopped at the head of a flight of steps leading down to a cellar bar Sancha's temerity surged to the fore and she released herself from him with haste.
‘Now what is wrong?’ he enquired with a trace of impatience in his voice.
Sancha swallowed hard. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked nervously.
The Count ran a hand round the back of his neck, the movement opening the jacket of his dinner suit to reveal the soft white silk of the shirt beneath. ‘This is a perfectly respectable bar run by a friend of mine,’ he replied briefly. ‘Not a place for women of easy virtue or even a haunt for drug addicts. Just a bar—nothing more.’ He regarded her with cool eyes. ‘When I need that kind of stimulation, I don't take a female along!'
Sancha was horrified, and she was sure he had intended her to be. Without another word, he took her wrist between his fingers and pulled her after him down the cellar steps.
They entered into a discreetly lit bar-cum-eating house. The atmosphere was warm and slightly smoky, but rather pleasant. The bar was attractively lit with coloured lights, while the tables of polished wood were set around the walls with a trelliswork of climbing plants between each of them. The centre of the floor, a small area of highly polished wooden tiles, was obviously used for dancing, for at the end of the room a three-piece group were playing the kind of soft music that went well with good food and small talk.
Sancha looked at Count Malatesta as he released her, but he did not look at her. A short, dapper little man with a curling moustache was approaching them, and it was to him that the Count addressed his attention.
‘Cesare! Cesare!’ the little man who appeared to be the proprietor was saying. ‘Cesare! E meraviglioso, Comé sta?'
Cesare replied in their own language, speaking swiftly so that Sancha, with her small knowledge of Italian, was lost from the start. They seemed to be great friends, and certainly their familiarity was evident in the way the proprietor called Count Malatesta by his Christian name. For a few moments Sancha felt as though she would not be missed if she were to turn and leave, but she realised she was mistaken as turning away to survey the rest of the room she was halted by the Count's hand reaching out and fastening itself round her wrist again, drawing her inexorably forward.
‘Giulio,’ he began, ‘I want to introduce you to a friend of mine—Signorina Forrest. She is from England.'
Giulio beamed and taking his cue from the Count he spoke in English, too. ‘I am most happy to meet you, signorina,’ he exclaimed, taking her hand between both of his.
‘Giulio is the proprietor of this establishment,’ the Count said in Sancha's ear. ‘A most respectable citizen, eh, Giulio?'
Giulio chuckled. ‘Oh, most assuredly, Cesare,’ he replied effusively. ‘And now—a table, si?'
‘Si.'
Without consulting her, the Count pressed Sancha forward with purposeful insistence, and she was forced to follow Giulio down the length of the room to a table set between trellises overgrown with trailing creeper. They sat on a banquette, Sancha sliding as far away as possible, and Giulio attended to them personally.
Count Malatesta ordered Camparis as an aperitif without asking Sancha whether she liked them or not, and then spent some time consulting the huge menu Giulio had supplied for him. The little Italian put in a comment here and there about some particular dish, but in the main the Count gave the orders. Sancha looked on silently, reluctantly sipping the Campari and soda Giulio had placed before her, and feeling as though the Count had forgotten her presence.
Presently, however, the consultation was over and Giulio disappeared to issue the Count's instructions to the chef. The Count swallowed a mouthful of his drink and then resting his arms on the table regarded Sancha out of the corners of his eyes.
‘Bene, signorina, this is not so frightening, is it?’ he murmured softly.
‘I did not say I was frightened, signore!’ Sancha was indignant. She sipped her drink hastily, conscious of his eyes upon her, increasing her confusion. ‘I—I was not prepared to dine out. My clothes——'
‘Your clothes look perfectly charming to me, signorina,’ returned the Count, his blue eyes narrowed so that his dark lashes veiled their expression.
Sancha took a deep breath. ‘I find it hard to believe that the Count Cesare Alberto Venturo di Malatesta has nothing better to do than to take a very ordinary junior reporter out to dinner,’ she said bluntly, her cheeks flushed.
He smiled. ‘You are not a very ordinary junior reporter,’ he contradicted her gently. ‘And I am happy to see that you remembered my name in such detail.'
Sancha was at once annoyed with herself for being so eloquent. Covering her embarrassment, she said: ‘You forget, Count, I am writing the feature about your book. Naturally I've been involved with the details constantly.'
‘Ah!’ He lifted his glass between his lean fingers, stroking the rim absentmindedly, making Sancha absurdly aware of the sensuous quality of the movement. ‘And that was the only reason, Miss Forrest?'
Sancha's throat felt constricted. ‘What other reason could there be?'
The Count transferred his gaze to the warm mobility of her mouth. ‘You might have regretted not lunching with me last week,’ he remarked insinuatingly. ‘You might have become curious about me in spite of yourself.’ His eyes flickered lower, lingering on the creaminess of her throat rising from the opened collar of her blouse. ‘I think you were curious about me, Sancha. You still are. That's why you are here.'
Sancha forced herself to concentrate on the rhythmic motions of the bass player in the three-piece group that was playing at the end of the room. It was the first time the Count had used her name, and on his lips, with his faint but distinctive accent, it had a disturbingly alien quality. She was inordinately relieved when Giulio reappeared a few moments later carrying dishes containing a delicious fish soup which the Count had ordered to begin their meal.
Sancha applied herself to the soup with assumed eagerness, finding the delicacy of it acceptable to her churning stomach. She had not thought herself capable of eating anything, feeling as she did, but to her relief the Count became absorbed with his thoughts and refrained from regarding her with that strange mixture of insolence and intimacy.
The soup was followed by pheasant prepared with vegetables and ham, and to Sancha, who had never tasted pheasant before, it was tender and easily digestible. A dish of fruit was provided to finish the meal, but Sancha ate only a few grapes and cupping her chin on her hands concentrated again on the musicians.
‘It would seem I have a rival for your attentions,’ observed Count Malatesta, resting his arm along the back of the banquette behind her. Coffee had been brought, and with it a liqueur for the Count, but Sancha had refused. Now he raised the goblet of brandy to his lips and savoured the flavour of the amber liquid before continuing: ‘If you persist in staring at the young men in the group they will imagine you are inviting their interest.'
Sancha looked away from the musicians abruptly, staring down blindly at her empty coffee cup. As usual the Count had succeeded in making her feel rather like a chastened schoolgirl.
Now he sighed and she wondered if he was becoming bored with her company. After all, she was not the sophisticated type of woman she felt sure he was used to dining with, and her naïveté must strike him as being rather childish and uninteresting. She glanced surreptitiously towards him; he was in the process of lighting himself a cheroot and his expression was enigmatic. What was he thinking? Did he regret the impulse which had caused him to wait for her this evening?
She tugged at a strand of her hair and the Count was attracted by the nervous movement. ‘If you wish to—er—wash your hands the cloakroom is over there,’ he said gravely, and Sancha seized the opportunity to escape for a few moments at least. But she was conscious of him watching her as she crossed the small area of polished floor and she hoped her skirt was uncreased and that she had no ladders in her tights.
The cloakroom was deserted and unattended and she washed her hands and touched up her lipstick, a colourless lustre that accentuated the soft fullness of her mouth. Then she regarded herself somewhat critically in the mirror. There was a trace of anxiety about her eyes and she half wished there was some back exit through which she might make her getaway. She was sure the Count was bored with her and there was nothing more destructive to a woman's ego than to feel unattractive and uninteresting.
But there was nothing for it but to go back and she emerged from the cloakroom with resignation.
However, as she crossed the dance floor again her footsteps faltered. The Count was no longer sitting where she had left him; the table was deserted, their dirty coffee cups the only evidence that once they had occupied it.
Her heart sank to the pit of her stomach and the flush which had risen up her cheeks when she realised he had gone had faded to leave her face pale and rather haunted.
Taking a deep breath, she halted hesitantly at the table and looked about her. Was that sympathy she could read in the faces of the other patrons of the restaurant? Was that compassion in the slightly acquisitive stare she received from two young men seated together in one corner of the room? She felt absolutely terrible, and gripping her handbag tightly she began to walk down the room. Had Count Malatesta paid their bill? Or would she be expected to find the money herself? She speculated desperately on how many lire she might conceivably have in her purse.
‘Sancha!'
The roughened tones were painfully familiar to her, and she swung round in bewilderment to confront the Count who had apparently followed her down the room.
‘Sancha! Where are you going?’ he demanded heatedly.
Sancha was so relieved to see him that she swayed a little on her feet and he put out a hand and she caught it, holding on to it tightly. ‘I—I thought—you had gone,’ she scarcely whispered the words.
‘Oh, Sancha!’ The harshness of his voice was belied by the burning emotion in his eyes. Without another word, he urged her forward and they reached the outer door. Outside, the Count did not attempt to mount the steps but pushed her against the wall to one side of the door and placed one hand on either side of her. ‘You were going to walk out on me!’ he said, in peculiarly taut tones.
Sancha shook her head, his nearness almost too much for her. All evening they had been conscious of one another, but not like this, and she knew that she wanted him to touch her with some of the passion he was displaying in his voice.
‘Where were you going when I stopped you?’ he demanded, moving closer to her in the gloom as several young people came down the steps and disappeared inside the bar, completely disregarding them.
‘I—I suppose I was going home,’ Sancha confessed weakly.
‘Oh, Sancha,’ he said, again, a huskiness invading his voice, ‘surely you did not think I would leave you? I was talking to Giulio in the kitchens, nothing more. When I came out and saw you rushing away, I had to stop you!'
Sancha's breathing was becoming more difficult. ‘It—was—a misunderstanding,’ she murmured, suppressing a desire to place the palms of her hands against the soft silkiness of his shirt and feel the beat of his heart beneath her fingers.
‘And if I had gone,’ he said, his tones thickening, ‘would you have cared?'
Sancha put a hand to her throat, holding the two sides of the collar of her blouse together. She didn't know how to answer him and she was afraid to commit herself to a situation that was fast getting out of hand. She moved her head from side to side in a helpless gesture, and he suddenly put a hand on each of her shoulders and bending his head put his mouth to the side of her neck with burning intensity. Then his hand moved to where her fingers still plucked at the collar of her blouse and moving them aside he slid the material aside too and kissed the soft skin of her shoulder.
Sancha was at once exultant and horrified. It was an exhilarating experience knowing that a man like Count Malatesta wanted to kiss her, but it was horrifying to realise that he was a man possibly twice her age who probably imagined she would succumb eagerly to his demands.
Even so, as his mouth continued to caress the sensitive skin of her shoulder and neck her own hands encountered the silk material of his shirt, one of the buttons of which had become loosened and allowed her fingers to touch the warm growth of hair on his chest.
The sensuous feeling that touch evoked inside her frightened her by its intensity and like a swimmer surfacing after a particularly long period underwater she began to pant desperately and dragged herself away from him, buttoning her blouse with trembling fingers.
‘Please!’ she said, her cheeks burning hotly. ‘Please; I want to go home!'
The Count stepped back without a word. In the pale light of the street lamp she could see a look of strain about his mouth and eyes and he did not look at her as she passed him to mount the steps.
Keeping rigidly apart from him, she accompanied him back through the maze of streets to the waterway. To her surprise, however, they reached a spot where a motor launch was awaiting them and in it was Paolo, the Count's servant-cum-bodyguard.
He came to attention as they approached, but the Count's voice was expressionless as he said: ‘Will you please escort Miss Forrest to her destination, Paolo? I will take myself home by some other method.'
Paolo frowned. ‘You're not going back to the palazzo, signore?'
The Count's eyes darkened. ‘I said take Miss Forrest home,’ he snapped shortly, and with a brief: ‘Buona sera, signorina,' to Sancha, he was gone, disappearing into the maze of streets with apparent disregard for his own safety. …
CHAPTER FOUR
SANCHA had plenty of time during the next few days to speculate upon the events of that disastrous evening and ask herself what it all meant. She blamed herself for accepting his company in the first place and knew with a feeling akin to remorse that there had been fragments of it which she had enjoyed and would like to experience again. Even so, she was not foolish enough to imagine that the Count regarded her as anything more than a passingly attractive female whose behaviour had aroused a fleeting interest.
The manservant, Paolo, had no doubt found their abrupt departure from one another rather surprising and she had wondered what he had meant by asking the Count whether he wanted to be taken back to the palazzo. Her speculations led her to the disturbing conclusion that the Count had intended taking her back to his home, but for what purpose Sancha was not prepared to consider. It was better to accept that whatever interest he had had in her had been destroyed by her refusal to submit to his undoubtedly expert lovemaking and leave it there. Even so, she still found her heart pounding rather erratically when the time came for her to leave the office building, but there was never any sign of Count Malatesta.
When the weekend came round Sancha was almost relieved. Her anxieties about Eduardo had been pushed to the back of her mind, and somehow knowing a little of his side of the affair gave her less to worry about. In any event they talked quite amicably to one another on Friday evening driving out to the Tessile house.
Elizabeth greeted them with enthusiasm, her rubber gloves stained with soil from the garden.
‘You'll never guess what we have received, Eduardo,’ she exclaimed. ‘An invitation to dinner with the Bernadinos!'
Eduardo loosened his collar and pulled off his tie. ‘The Bernadinos?’ he remarked, with obvious deference. ‘Do we know them so well?'
