They were in Italian and rattled along too fast for her to comprehend them. Then the man she thought might be Giovanni turned on his heel and stalked toward the palazzo’s entrance. Watching the way he moved, Denny was convinced that he was indeed Giovanni.
And no doubt he was on his way back up here. Hurriedly, she tossed the sheet onto the bed and started looking around for her clothes.
She was fully dressed by the time Giovanni opened the door and strode into the apartment. At the sight of her standing there, he exclaimed, “Cara mia, you are awake!”
“Did you plan to let me sleep all night?” she asked coolly. She wasn’t angry with him, but for some reason, at this moment she felt the need to keep a little distance between them. Under the circumstances, it would be too easy to open herself completely to him unless she stayed on her guard.
“Of course not,” he answered as he shook his head. “That would worry and upset your brother. Actually, the hour is not all that late. You can tell Louis that we were strolling along the canal and lost track of the time.”
“Lie to him, in other words.”
Giovanni spread his hands. “It’s not a lie, not exactly. We did stroll along the canal, and after that, I was not thinking about the time, and I fervently hope that you were not, either.”
“You don’t have to worry. I have no intention of telling Louis what happened tonight. The attack by the thieves . . . or anything else.”
He came to her and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Denise, you have nothing of which to be ashamed.”
“I didn’t say I was ashamed. I just don’t think it’s any of his business.”
Giovanni nodded and said, “I will get you back to your hotel. Unless . . . you would rather stay . . .”
“I can’t,” Denny said. She started to look away, but then forced herself to meet his eyes. If she claimed she wasn’t ashamed, she didn’t need to act like she was. “I have to think about what’s happened, Giovanni. I’m not upset, but I still have to think about it.”
“I understand,” he said, but she had a feeling he was just trying to be agreeable.
“I’m curious about one thing, though. Who were those men you were talking to just now, out on the street?”
His hands still rested on her shoulders. They tightened slightly as he frowned, shook his head, and said, “I was not talking to anyone.”
“Yes, you were,” Denny insisted. “I saw you from the window in the bedroom. You were talking to two men.”
Grinning, he lifted both hands from her shoulders and waved them expressively. “Oh, those two! Minor annoyances, I assure you. They sent word that they wanted to see me, and since I have known them practically forever, I should have known what they were after. They wanted to borrow some money, only I know that were I to give them any, I would never see those lire again! Still, they are old friends, so I could not refuse to speak with them.”
“No, I suppose not,” Denny said. Giovanni’s words had the ring of truth to them. She went on, “I need to get back to the hotel now.”
“Yes, of course. There are still some gondolas available, even at this hour. But before we go . . .” He gripped her hands. “Cara mia, I want you to know just how happy you have made me and how deeply I care for you.”
He leaned in and kissed her again, not urgent and passionate this time, more of a gentle caress with his lips. Denny responded without thinking, putting her arms around his neck and returning the kiss.
Yes, everything had changed, she thought, but she believed . . . and hoped . . . that this might be the start of something even better.
* * *
Louis was upset when she came into their suite at the Hotel Metropole, even a little angry, just as Denny expected. She thought he also suspected that something had happened between her and Giovanni, but he was too much of a gentleman—or too embarrassed—to press his sister for details about such a thing.
However, over breakfast in their sitting room the next morning, he did say, “I think we should leave Venice. We’ve already been here a lot longer than we intended.”
“I’m not ready to go yet,” Denny said.
“If we stay much longer, we won’t be able to stop at all the other places on our itinerary. We’ll have to start back to England.”
“I don’t care. We’ve already been everywhere anyway. What does it matter whether we make the entire grand tour this time?”
Louis didn’t prolong the argument, but Denny knew he wasn’t happy with her. She didn’t want to annoy him—but she wasn’t ready to leave Giovanni, either.
They continued spending most of their time together, but no matter where they went, they nearly always wound up back in Giovanni’s apartment in the old palazzo, making love in the big four-poster bed while soft evening breezes blew in through the window, carrying the faint strains of romantic songs being sung by the gondoliers poling their boats through the canals. Denny didn’t understand most of the words, but the language of love was unmistakable.
She was so distracted by the unexpected affair with Giovanni that perhaps she wasn’t as alert as usual, but even so, eventually she came to realize that someone was following them.
More than once, she caught a glimpse of a man lurking in the shadows as they strolled along the narrow streets. It wasn’t always the same man, either. Sometimes the watcher was tall and thin, other times short and stocky.
Denny’s mind went back to the night they had been attacked on the Bridge of Roses, a fateful night in more ways than one. Maybe the men who had jumped them hadn’t been random thieves after all. Maybe they had had a more sinister purpose to their assault, although she had no idea what that might have been. She might have gotten around to asking Giovanni about it . . .
But then some of the answers presented themselves, in an unexpected and unpleasant way.
CHAPTER 8
Denny and Giovanni were having dinner in one of the city’s finest restaurants when a man came over to their table. Denny saw the way Giovanni stiffened when he spotted the man approaching and knew something was wrong.
She took a closer look and realized that despite the stranger’s expensive suit, he looked out of place in these elegant surroundings. The cruel, hard-planed look of his face reminded her of some of the men she had seen in Big Rock during the visits she and Louis had made to the Sugarloaf.
Hard cases had definite similarities, whether they were in Colorado or Venice.
“Count Malatesta,” the man said with an insincere smile as he stopped beside the table. “I bid you good evening on behalf of Signor Tomasi.”
Giovanni jerked his head in a curt nod and said, “Tell Signor Tomasi good evening in return, if you will.”
“Of course. The signore would be pleased if you and the signorina would join him in his private salon.”
Giovanni
