Part 8 (1/2)

'I'll need it.' He stroked his beard. His hands were strong and blunt-fingered. 'Sophie would like to live in London and be near me; that's why she tried to sell the brooch.'

'Was that at your suggestion?'

The blue eyes looked at her for so long that Erica felt her cheeks redden and wished she had left the question unsaid. 'That was an uncalled-for remark,' she apologized.

'It shows you have doubts about me,' he said matter-of-factly. 'I can understand that.' He folded his hands on the table and then began to rub the third finger of his right one. 'I'm getting a b.u.mp on the end. I suppose I should learn to use a typewriter?'

'I thought you were an engineer?'

'I write too.'

'You seem to do many things.'

'We are all capable of doing many things. It's a matter of learning to use one's energy. Most people fritter too much away in jealousy and fruitless ambition.'

'That sounds like a good tract. You should write it down!'

'I have. One day I'll send you a copy.' He stood up and with a soft good-bye, walked away.

It was easy to see why the Conte did not like him. In outlook they appeared to be diametrically opposed. The trappings of wealth and possessions meant nothing to David Gould and she was not at all sure how much meditation and philosophy meant to Filippo Rosetti. He seemed too confident to need any philosophy other than a belief in his own invincibility. It was a pity he had allowed himself to be put off by David Gould's unusual appearance. The young Englishman was far nicer than she had expected and was possessed of a sincerity she could not doubt The Conte might see his easy manner as indolent, but she saw it as something much stronger and richer.

Sighing, she too left the table and wandered into the square. Alone in Venice on a Sunday afternoon. It was not the most pleasurable of happenings, and she vowed that next Sunday she would accept Johnny's invitation to spend it with him.

CHAPTER SIX.

On Monday morning it rained. The cobbled streets were treacherously slippery underfoot and the grey clouds lowered ominously over the gilded dome of St. Mark's. But it was oppressively warm and even in her light raincoat Erica was uncomfortably hot by the time she reached the shop.

As usual she opened it and as usual busied herself returning the more valuable pieces to the window. What was not usual was her mood of depression: it was as heavy and gloomy as the atmosphere and seemed far less likely to lift than the bad day. It would take more than a stiff breeze to blow away her black clouds!

In the event it only took a telephone call. Picking up the receiver in answer to its ring, she heard Filippo Rosetti's voice and nearly dropped it back on its cradle.

'Buon giorno, Erica,' he said calmly. 'I hope you enjoyed your evening?'

'I watched television and went to bed early.'

'Then you should be all set for a late night tonight.'

Disembodied, his voice sounded deep and more foreign. It also had a strange huskiness which, had she not known better, would have made her think he was nervous. Filippo Rosetti nervous because he was talking to an English shop a.s.sistant? The thought was too ludicrous to consider.

'You refused to come out with me last night because you believed my invitation only arose from our chance meeting,' he went on. 'But even you cannot say that my call this morning is an accidental one.'

'That remark of mine seems to have upset you,' she said.

'It has. I do not like to have my word or my intentions doubted; and you made it very clear that you doubted mine. Now then,' he said crisply, 'about tonight. If you are genuinely not free, I can make myself available tomorrow night instead. After that I will be in Rome for a week. Well, Erica, will you have dinner with me?'

'You make it impossible for me to refuse,' she said breathlessly.

'I will collect you at eight. Give me your address.'

She did so, and he repeated it to make sure he had it correctly, then said a quick good-bye and hung up. For a moment she continued to hold the receiver, not sure if she had dreamed the whole episode.

But at half past seven she was dressed and waiting for him, having already changed twice. Even now she was un- happy with her choice, but knew that no matter what she wore, she would never be wholly satisfied with anything she had in her wardrobe. Always she would see it through his critical eyes.

Nervously she wandered round the sitting room, her long skirts moving sinuously against her. The supple folds of green silk jersey were draped intricately around her b.r.e.a.s.t.s but fell in simple, flowing lines from the waist to her ankles. The bodice was cut lower than any she had yet worn, but the boutique owner from whom she had bought it had refused to alter it by a single inch.

'You have wonderful shoulders and skin, signorim, it would be a crime to cover them up.'

Looking at herself in the mirror, Erica conceded that the woman had been right, though she felt that the bareness called for a baroque necklace rather than the single strand of small pearls that she was wearing. Muttering, she took them off and put them away; it was better to leave her throat bare.

The dampness of the day had played such havoc with her hair that by the time she had arrived home it was hanging limply round her face. Thankful that shops in Italian tourist towns were always open late, she had rushed down to the hairdresser at the end of the alleyway and put herself into Albertina's capable hands, emerging an hour later with her hair gleaming silver-blonde from a herbal shampoo and sculpted round her face in a long, s.h.i.+ning bob. Excitement had inexplicably made her paler, and she had applied rouge and lipstick with an unusually heavy hand. But now her own colour had returned, and she rubbed off the pink powder and applied a beige one.

She was trembling and sick from nerves, and hoped she had not made a fool of herself by accepting Conte Rosetti's invitation. For the hundredth time she tried to guess why he had asked her out, and for the hundredth time she came to no definite conclusion. If he wanted a girl to conquer, surely he would look for someone more amenable? Or did he harbour the illusion that she would be an easy conquest?

She peered through the window, but there was no sign of him and she drummed her fingers on the gla.s.s, her nervousness growing. Seeing her reflection in the window-pane, tall and slender as a votive candle, she wondered if he perhaps wanted a change from Claudia Medina's dark voluptuousness. Again she felt an upsurge of fear for what she might be letting herself in for, but before it could envelop her she saw his tall figure coming down the cobbled lane. Her heart pounded in her throat and she hurriedly looked round for handbag and mohair cape. She wanted to run downstairs and prevent him from coming up, but pride kept her where she was: she was not going to let him think she was ashamed of where she lived.

The bell chimed and she went to the door, forcing herself to walk slowly. She opened it and saw him on the threshold. All composure vanished and she shook as though with fever. What was there about this man that made her act like a schoolgirl with a crush instead of a moderately sophisticated young woman? It was more than his looks - though these were devastating enough to turn any woman's head - nor was it his sharp mind and astringent personality; rather it was an amalgam of all three plus a dash of some unknown magnetism. She searched for the right word, but the only one that came to mind was s.e.x appeal. She inwardly smiled as she imagined his annoyance at being compared with a Hollywood film star. The Conte Filippo Rosetti considered himself far above that.

'You are ready?' he asked.

She nodded and, clutching her stole, followed him down the stone staircase, their steps echoing around them, and thence to the street where the night air was cooler but still damp.

'It is evenings like this that make me regret living in Venice,' he murmured. Seeing her puzzlement, he added: 'I would have liked to collect you in a covered car and deposit you in a restaurant instead of having to walk you through wet streets and protect you from dripping eaves.'

As he spoke he gave a flourish and produced a long black umbrella. Unable to stop herself, she giggled and he flashed her a smile in return.

'It is comical, is it not, to be Collected by a man with an umbrella?'

'Not any man with an umbrella,' she laughed. 'But you are so definitely not the type to have one!'

'I agree with you.' He propelled her along the streets. 'Normally I leave my home by launch and make sure I only go to a restaurant that is a few paces from the Ca.n.a.l.'

'Don't you find this rather limiting?'

'I would if I lived here all the year round,'

'I thought you did.'

'I spend half the year in Rome.'

'In another palace?'

'Yes.' He saw no sarcasm in her question. 'But unlike my palazzo here, I do not occupy all of it: only the top floor which I have turned into a penthouse.'

'What's happened to the other part?'

'It is occupied by our insurance company and bank.'