beautiful, with large black eyes, a creamy skin, a straight nose and full red lips. Her figure was voluptuous, her scarlet-tipped hands smooth and plump. As well as several dress rings, she wore a wide chased wedding band and a magnificent matching diamond solitaire.
At close quarters, Sophia could see she was somewhat older than she had first appeared, probably in her middle thirties.
In fluent but heavily accented English, she said, ‘I would like to know more about this picture…’
To Sophia’s dismay, she had taken down the miniature that Mrs Caldwell had remarked was both her favourite and Peter’s.
Stretching out a hand, and trying hard to keep her voice even, Sophia suggested, ‘Perhaps you’d like to give it to me?’
In spite of all her efforts, it must have sounded too much like an order because, with a haughty look, the woman informed her, ‘You are talking to the Marquise d’Orsini.’
‘I’m sorry, but no one is allowed to remove any of the paintings.’
‘You do not understand. I intend to buy it.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not for sale.’
‘How can you say such a thing?’ the Marquise cried angrily. ‘An art gallery exists to sell paintings, does it not?’
Aware that the woman’s raised voice was attracting curious glances, Sophia said soothingly, ‘Of course. All the paintings on this floor are for sale, including some excellent miniatures.’
‘But it is this one I want.’
‘I’m extremely sorry, but that one and the other miniatures on the balcony are part of a Peter Jordan exhibition, and not for sale.’
‘Nonsense! I wish you to—’
Sophia heard no more as, glancing up, she saw a tall, good-looking man approaching. He was dressed in smart casuals, his carriage was easy and there was a quiet assurance in the way he held his blond head. His dark grey eyes were fixed on her face.
Rooted to the spot, she gazed at the man she had never seriously expected to see again.
Was his coming into A Volonté a coincidence?
No, surely not.
A surge of gladness filled her and brought a glorious smile to her face.
He smiled back, that white, slightly crooked smile that made her feel hollow inside.
The Marquise, realizing she had lost Sophia’s attention, turned and, seeing him, grasped his arm and broke into a rapid stream of Italian. ‘This girl had the nerve to tell me I shouldn’t have taken down the miniature—’
Speaking in the same language, he said, ‘Didn’t I advise you not to?’
Her hot temper making her reckless, she snapped, ‘I get tired of being “advised” what to do. Men always think they are right. They always say, “I told you so”. You should be on my side, not agreeing with this insolent chit of a girl who—’
Putting a finger to her carmine lips to interrupt the flow, he warned, ‘It’s quite likely that the signorina speaks Italian…She is—’
‘I know what she is…A little nobody with an inflated sense of her own importance. Well, she’s making a mistake if she thinks she can—’
‘Cara, you are the one who is making the mistake. I advise you to calm down and—’
‘I don’t need advice,’ she flared. ‘I will act as I think fit.’
‘Very well.’
Though he spoke quietly, without any trace of anger, she clutched at his arm. ‘Stefano, darling, I’m sorry, so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that…’
When he said nothing, tears welling in her black eyes, she whispered, ‘Forgive me. I had no right to get angry with you…’
Watching his face soften, Sophia wondered—was he this beautiful woman’s husband?
The thought made her feel as though she’d been punched in the solar plexus.
Even if he wasn’t, he was almost certainly her amante. There was no other way to explain the feeling of intimacy between them, the possessive touch of her hand on his sleeve, the way she was gazing up at him. Her voice soft, seductive, she begged, ‘Please tell me what I should do.’
‘I suggest you apologize to the signorina and return the painting.’
‘Apologize! But Stefano—’
‘It might be expedient,’ he told her.
After a moment or two of silence, she turned to Sophia and, handing her the miniature, said grudgingly in English, ‘I am sorry.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ Sophia assured her pleasantly, and even managed a smile.
Looking far from mollified, the Marquise said, ‘I understand that the artist is no longer living?’
‘No, unfortunately he died early in March.’
‘Perhaps you can tell me who the sitter was and precisely when it was painted?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t.’
Glaring at Sophia, as if she were being deliberately obstructive, the Marquise ordered, ‘Then give me a catalogue, so I can look for myself.’
Handing her a catalogue, Sophia told her politely, ‘The miniature is listed on page twelve. You’ll find it just says, Portrait of a Venetian Lady at Carnival Time.’
Throwing the catalogue angrily on to the desk, the Marquise said, ‘I have wasted enough time. I want to buy this picture and I—’
‘I’m sorry but, as I’ve already explained, it isn’t for sale.’
‘I have had more than enough of your impertinence…’
The man she had called Stefano put a warning hand on her arm but, too furious to heed it, she rushed on, ‘I insist on speaking to the owner of the gallery or someone in authority.’
‘Very well.’ Sophia picked up the phone and, when David’s voice answered, asked quietly, ‘Could you please come to the desk?’
Alerted by her tone, he asked, ‘Trouble?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Replacing the receiver, she braced herself for the storm she could see was about to burst.
‘You may well look apprehensive,’ the Marquise cried. ‘If you think you can treat me like this and get away with it, you are mistaken. I will make sure you lose your job and—’
‘That’s enough, Gina.’ The man by her side spoke with a quiet authority that brought the Marquise up short. ‘You’re making a spectacle of yourself.’
After
