Lucy Gordon: Wedding in Venice

"Can we talk for more than two minutes this time?"

His voice was familiar. Justine opened her eyes to find "Casanova" pulling up a chair beside her – in the form of Riccardo.

No wig or knee breeches. Just black jeans and a black shirt that showed tanned, muscular arms. In these sedate surroundings, his look of having just stepped off the brig of a pirate ship made him riotously out of place.

He hailed a waiter and ordered something for himself and a repeat of her order.

"You shouldn't have done that," she said urgently. "I swore I'd only allow myself one."

"I think you can afford the calories," he said with an admiring look at her tiny waist and long legs.

She was used to that kind of look, but this was different, as though he had taken in everything about her in one instant. She hoped she didn't look self-conscious.

"I'm sorry about my little deception," he said.

She gave a rueful smile.

"You don't expect to find a hotel owner collecting his own vegetables. And you were so convincing as a bargee. You swung me up onto the bank as if I weighed nothing."

He laughed and flexed his biceps theatrically. "No problem. I developed these tossing sacks of potatoes around."

She joined in his laughter, but regarded him wryly.

"I see. Women, potatoes – it's all one, huh?"

His eyes gleamed with pure mischief. "Oh, no! Not at all. Between a sack of potatoes and a woman – well, one is a lot more fun than the other."

She felt a sudden flicker of self-consciousness, and was annoyed at herself. For Pete's sake, she was a woman of the world, not a blushing violet! She'd known where this might lead as soon as their eyes met on the lagoon the first day.

But the word "fun," signposting the way ahead, had almost caught her unaware.

Yes, he would be fun, she thought, considering him. The whipcord strength of that easy, loose-limbed body, the sensual light in his eyes, his air of devilment.

Fun. But also a great deal more.

"It's early days for the hotel," he said, apparently not seeing her turmoil, or choosing not to see it. "I turn my hand to most things. Tomorrow night I shall be serving food at the Calvani party."

He watched as she sipped the sweet drink he had ordered for her.

"You never really answered my question yesterday," he said. "How long do you mean to stay in Venice?"

"You practically answered it yourself."

"Yes, I told you that you should stay forever. I'm afraid I tend to arrange people's lives for them, like a dictator. But only the ones I like."

"I don't know how long I'll be here," she said, not answering this directly.

"Is there nobody waiting for you at home who will object if you stay away too long?"

"No," she said wryly. "There is nobody who will object if I stay away too long."

"There ought to be. Please excuse me – I told you I was a dictator. To me it is so clear that you are a woman who should not live alone -"

"But perhaps it's my choice, and then you really are being a dictator."

" Is it your choice?"

"I'm divorced," she said abruptly.

"Your wish or his?"

"He slept with someone else. I threw him out. End of story."

"Had he been faithless before?"

"If he had, I'd have thrown him out before."

"You didn't want to try to save your marriage?"

"There was nothing to save," she said tensely. "It was over."

"So quickly? So easily? So ruthlessly?"

The last word was like a dagger.

"I really have to go," she said, rising. "Thank you for the coffee."

"Are you offended with me?"

" Yes. You have no right to – Never mind."

She fled without a backward look.

Justine spent the rest of that afternoon in St. Mark's Basilica, judging angles, working hard to put Riccardo out of her mind by sheer force of will.

But when she returned to the Palazzo Calvani, Dulcie was bubbling with the day's events.

"Riccardo came this morning to check things for the party. I was just talking to him when you called."

So their meeting had been no accident. He had known where to find her. The thought gave her a strange feeling.

The palazzo was filling up with guests. On the day of the party several of the count's cousins arrived from distant parts of Italy.

Once, looking out of a window, Justine saw Riccardo arrive in a barge laden with food and two members of his staff. She turned away quickly. She did not want to think about him. He had left her thoughts in turmoil with his casually cruel remarks.

So easily! So ruthlessly!

What did he know?

"You look upset," Dulcie said.

"It's just that I found myself talking about Neil yesterday. Now I wish I hadn't."

"Do you regret divorcing him so fast?"

"Not you, too! I did what had to be done. That was it."

More guests arrived and Dulcie went down to greet them, leaving Justine with her thoughts.

It had been a mistake to marry Neil – she'd known that even on the wedding day. They were in love, but she didn't believe in love – not the lasting kind. How could she when her parents' divorce had left her homeless? Both of them had remarried, and she had been shunted around to a series of aunts, "until things settle down."

But things had never settled down. Eventually she'd realized that there was no place for her in either home. After that she had set her face against the world.

She had an eye for shape and color, which had made her a success as a photographer. As her success grew, so did her social life. She was beautiful. Men wanted her. And that was fine, as long as they didn't ask for her heart as well.

She had locked that up in a safe, bolted, barred and labeled Do Not Touch.

With Neil she'd taken the risk, and it had been a mistake. Luckily they'd both seen the light in time. They'd had a nice, civilized divorce, and in future she would stick to adventures.

Riccardo should have been an adventure. But he wouldn't stay in his right place. A few moments of alarming insight had turned him into a threat.

For dinner she put on a figure-hugging cream dress cunningly contrived to be demure and enticing at once. Around her neck she wore a chain of solid gold. With her dramatic red hair, the effect was striking.

"You'll have them all at your feet," Dulcie had predicted earlier, chuckling.

But the first one at her feet was Riccardo, literally. He was waiting at the foot of the grand staircase as she descended. He was more formally dressed now, in black trousers, snowy shirt and black tie.

As she neared, she waited for his grin of lusty appreciation, but tonight his demeanor was grave and gentle.

"I won't keep you a moment," he said quietly. "I had to tell you that I'm sorry for having distressed you yesterday."

"You're very kind, but I wasn't distressed," she said, trying to sound cool and indifferent.

"Forgive me, but I know that you were, otherwise you would not have run away."

"I did not run away," she said, her temper rising as she began to feel threatened again. "I had work to do. End of story."

"Do you know how often you use that expression?" he asked softly. "Always you try to bring the story to an end at the moment of your choosing. But nobody can do that. The story ends when it ends."

"And do you know how often you lecture me?" she asked, speaking in a furious whisper.

"I'm sorry. Yes, that is a fault of mine."

"Why do you think you have the right?"

"Because you matter," he said simply.

"No, I do not matter to you, and you do not matter to me. Please let me pass."

He stood back and inclined his head politely.

"As the signora pleases."

She stared, shocked. He'd reminded her that tonight he was here as a servant. Perhaps he thought she was a snob who'd cold-shouldered him on that account. But before she could tell him he was wrong, Dulcie called back from the door, "Justine, come and meet somebody."