was very glad to hear of your arrival in Venice, and looks forward to a meeting.’
Helena assumed her most formal voice to say,
‘How kind of Signor Veretti.’
‘Would this evening be too soon?’
‘Not at all.’
‘He suggests dinner at the Palazzo Veretti. His boatman will call for you at seven-thirty.’
‘I look forward to it.’
She hung up, and sat still for a moment, caught off-guard by something happening inside her.
The invitation was exactly what she’d wanted, so it was illogical that she was assailed by doubt, but she had the sudden shocking feeling of confusion. It made no sense, she told herself. She had nothing to fear from this man. The power was in her hands, not his.
Hands. The word seemed to leap out at her. His hands on the nape of her neck, caressing fingers touching, retreating, touching again. And herself trying to breathe through the storm that had engulfed her without warning.
Never, never again! She’d promised herself that long ago as a child of sixteen, when the brutal end to her first love had left her hostile to men and frozen to their caresses.
They didn’t know. Stupid as they were, there wasn’t one of them who could see past the façade of sexual availability that had been her trademark, to the bleak, icy truth within. She’d played them off against each other, used them to climb to the pinnacle of her career, made money out of them. And she’d slept alone.
In all those years she’d never again known the dizzying, irresistible desire that had once carried her to disaster. Once or twice a faint whisper of pleasure had troubled her but she’d controlled it, fleeing the man, never letting him suspect. With time, those occasions had grown rarer.
Looking down the vista of her future life, she’d been prepared for loneliness. Instead she’d found Antonio, a man who’d adored her without being able to risk a physical relationship. They had been perfect for each other. And his true legacy wasn’t wealth, but the fact that he’d made her strong, strong enough to face an uncertain future.
‘Hell!’ she thought, exasperated with herself. ‘I’m thirty-two. Next stop, middle-age. I’ve managed so far. I can manage the rest.’
So, the black dress, one of Antonio’s last gifts to her, chosen for its allure. It was silk, tight-fitting, with a neckline that dropped just a little. The hem came to just above her knees, not high enough for immodesty, but high enough to show off her long legs. And after a day in sensible shoes it was a pleasure to don high heels.
She let her luxuriant hair hang loose, not drawn back as during the day, but free-flowing over her shoulders.
Her jewellery was restrained. Apart from her wedding ring she wore only a dainty gold watch, two tiny diamond studs in her ears and Antonio’s glass heart. Unlike the blue shading of Salvatore’s gift, this one was dark red, sometimes lightening to deep pink, but always returning to a hue that was like red roses.
‘Right,’ she told the mirror. ‘Let battle commence.’
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