were humming along with one of the better known arias being performed on stage at that moment. Italian audiences knew all the words and loved to join in with the performers, especially when a famous song had a good tune to it, and celebrated having a good time: wine, women and song. Saskia stared at the vivid party scene on stage, dancers whirling around, people raising champagne glasses to each other, but her mind was elsewhere.
It hadn’t once occurred to her that Domenico might be here tonight or she would never have taken the risk of booking for the opera; in fact, she would never have come to Venice at all if she had even dreamt that she might see him there.
Domenico was passionately fond of opera, of course, and went to La Scala, in Milan, frequently. He would never miss any performance of La Traviata there, especially by a soprano as fine as the woman singing the heroine, Violetta, tonight, but she never remembered him visiting Venice.
Apart from going to the opera, or to concerts, Domenico was engrossed in his work. He often went abroad, to America, or other parts of Europe, he visited other parts of Italy, and when he was at home he occasionally gave dinner parties, and went to them, but they usually had some business connection. Everything in his life had to fit in with his business.
‘I have no time for inessentials,’ he had often told her impatiently, when she tried to persuade him to take her to see a light-hearted film or play, or take a holiday in the sun somewhere.
She had often had a secret feeling that he saw her as inessential; a frivolity, a toy he had picked up in an idle moment and enjoyed playing with, but did not actually need.
Domenico had been essential to her; or, at least, she hadn’t been able to imagine life without him at one time. It was only when the pain hurt too much that she had fled. There was a limit to love, she had finally been forced to realise, or rather, a limit to how much you could bear in the name of love.
She hadn’t seen him since the night she left his house; she feverishly ached to see him now, and at the same time was terrified.
Where was he sitting? Not close to her, she was sure of that, but within sight of her, because he had seen her, before the lights went down.
There was no point in looking around, trying to see him in the darkened theatre. It was full; not a seat vacant in the house, which, the tour operator had told them, was normal for the Fenice. The Venetians loved opera. This particular production had been a runaway success as soon as it opened. The new soprano had a miraculous voice and was lovely to look at, too: black-eyed, with long, silky black hair, worn dressed up in the party scene, but loose and flowing when she was in her bedroom. Her voice had sensuality and so did her slim, sexy body and she had a way of walking across the stage that made every man in the opera house catch his breath and sigh. You couldn’t get a seat for months ahead, the tour operator had also told them, pleased with himself for having booked ahead long ago.
‘How’s the tooth now?’ asked Jamie.
Behind them someone hissed, ‘Shh...’ in an affronted voice.
Jamie made a rueful face at her and looked back at the stage.
Saskia’s eyes wandered restlessly. A sea of faces surrounded them; pale glimmering circles in the gloom, all eyes fixed on the party scene taking place on stage.
Which face belonged to Domenico?
She closed her blue eyes, concentrating on finding out exactly where he was sitting. It didn’t always work; so much depended on the other person giving off strong enough signals.
Slowly she turned her head, like a radar dish, homing in on his emotions. Anger; black and dark red, she could almost see it in the darkness, like a smouldering fire, which was how she found him, knew when she was looking in the right direction.
He was sitting in a box on the left-hand side of the stage.
She opened her eyes and looked that way, saw the silky curtains swagged and held back with tarnished gold tassels, and between them the stark outline of his head, an immediately familiar silhouette.
He was sitting turned towards her, not towards the stage. She couldn’t see his face from this distance, but she didn’t need to see him. She knew what she would see if the lights came back up again: black hair brushed back from a high, bony forehead, chiselled features, cold grey eyes, a strong jawline and a mouth which was hard and reined in, yet hinted at potential passion. Domenico was not cold in bed; far from it. He was a possessive and demanding lover, but he kept his emotions in one compartment and his working life in another. The two were never allowed to meet.
Tonight, though, his emotions were uppermost; across the theatre she picked up what he was thinking, feeling, and it made her flinch and tremble.
Jamie felt her betraying movement, turned again and looked at her anxiously. ‘Is it getting worse?’
Everyone began to applaud at that moment, some of the men actually getting to their feet, calling out the soprano’s name and blowing her noisy kisses, throwing her red carnations.
Under cover of the uproar, Saskia whispered, ‘Jamie, I think I’m going to have to go—you stay, though; I don’t want to spoil the evening for you.’
‘I’m sure that if you take a couple of pills they’ll help,’ he urged.
She risked a quick glance towards the box where Domenico sat. His head was still turned their way. She knew he was watching them. He couldn’t see their faces or hear what they were saying, but if she got up to leave Domenico would follow her, catch up with her.
At the back of the box in which he sat she saw a faint movement, a darker shadow which detached itself as Domenico lifted his hand in a commanding gesture. A man came forward, bent to listen to him.
She drew a sharp breath. The bodyguards. She had forgotten them. He could send them round here to get her! She should run, now.
On the point of getting up she hesitated, biting her lip. Oh, what was the point? If she got away now, he would still be able to trace her through the tour firm. The theatre management would tell him who had booked those seats, and which hotel the tourists were staying at in Venice.
Oh, why didn’t I realise how risky this holiday was? she thought grimly. It was crazy to think of coming to Italy, any part of Italy; but after two years she had begun to think there was no need to be so nervous or take elaborate precautions against running into him again.
She didn’t know Venice at all, and, remembering that Domenico never went there either, she had decided it would be safe enough, especially as this would be a coach tour, constantly moving on each day until it reached Venice and halted there for a few days. There shouldn’t be any risk.
Wrong! she thought, shuddering. She should have stayed in England, in obscurity, where he could never find her. This was his country, his territory; she had made a serious mistake in coming here. Although if she hadn’t come to the opera he would never have known she was here, probably.
She wasn’t even able to enjoy the opera. She had hardly noticed anything that happened on stage—the girl in the lovely dress whirling around, singing, now that her party guests had gone and she was alone.
Saskia sighed as the girl’s singing broke through her own agitated thoughts, and the man beside her looked sharply at her again, leaning over to ask, ‘Toothache getting worse?’
She nodded. ‘At
