Seduced by Innocence Read online

  “I won’t say a word, I promise. I’ll wait for her to pick the moment.”

  He’d followed this up with an excited letter in which he said it all again in greater detail. Terri had read the letter with a frown, wondering just how much her adorable brother was deluding himself.

  And then, suddenly, there was silence. No calls, no letters. When she tried to call the hotel, the line was dead. Her frantic inquiries to the Italian operator produced the suggestion that since the summer was over, the hotel had probably closed. This comforted her but only briefly. If Leo had been forced to move, why hadn’t he called from his new address? She was confronted by a blank. Leo had set off full of hope in the brilliant sunshine of high summer, but now the summer was over, and he’d simply vanished from the face of the earth.

  She’d determined to go in search of him, but the need to finish all her current work had delayed her departure until November. She’d checked into the Midas because it was one of her only three points of reference. The others were the Calvani Art Gallery and the Busoni hotel. Now she was here, and what seemed so simple when she was planning it, suddenly seemed like trying to penetrate a maze. She had little idea what to do next.

  A knock on the door brought her out of her reverie. She opened it to find a young man standing there in the deep gold uniform of the hotel. “Your other suitcases, signorina.”

  “Goodness, I didn’t realize there were any missing. I thought the other porter brought them all up.”

  The young man frowned. “The other porter?”

  “I didn’t catch his name. He was very tall and dark and he wore a white shirt with short sleeves.”

  “Oh that’s not a porter. That’s Signor Maurizio.”

  “Oh, is he the head steward or something?”

  “No, signorina,” the young man said with a wide smile. “Maurizio Vanzani owns the Hotel Midas.” He gave a slight bow and withdrew, leaving Terri with a hand covering her mouth in horror.

  She should have trusted her first instincts about the man who’d greeted her. No hired hand ever wore that air of natural authority. The memory of how she’d forced a tip on him made her feel as if she were blushing all over.

  At that very moment, the phone rang. Something told her that when she answered, she would hear the beautiful bass voice that sent shivers down her spine, but anticipation couldn’t subdue the reaction and she felt herself tingling. His voice was even more marvelous because it hovered on the edge of a laugh. “Please try to forgive me,” Maurizio said. “I never meant to deceive you.”

  “I should apologize to you for insulting you with that tip,” Terri ventured.

  He broke into a full laugh and the sound seemed to go through her. “Believe me, I’ve never been so agreeably insulted in my life. Signorina, two people who’ve met as strangely as we have should get to know each other properly. Tonight you will be my guest for dinner.”

  The abruptness of the command took her breath away and roused her indignation. “I’m not sure that will be possible,” she began to say.

  “You have other plans for tonight?”

  “Well no, but—”

  “Then there’s nothing to stop you dining with me. I’ll call for you at precisely eight o’clock.” He hung up, leaving her slightly cross. He took a lot for granted. It would have pleased her to call him back and tell him she wasn’t at his disposal, but she resisted the temptation. She needed to talk to him about Leo. And besides—unwillingly she recalled the timbre of Maurizio’s voice, the power of his presence and the intent look in his dark eyes, and an unaccustomed excitement quickened inside her. He could be a valuable source of information about Leo, she repeated firmly.

  *

  “I’m warning you, you’re treading on very dangerous ground,” Bruno said. He was a man in late middle age with a much-lived-in face and gentle eyes. He was Maurizio’s uncle, also his bookkeeper, confidant and the only person who dared speak frankly to him. Right now, he was sitting in Maurizio’s room, watching as his nephew attired himself in elegant evening clothes. The stark white of the shirt accentuated his swarthy coloring, and the gleam of his cuff links was pure gold. “Very dangerous.”

  “I’m having dinner with a lady,” Maurizio said lightly. “What can be dangerous about that?”

  “This particular lady is dangerous to you,” Bruno said, “because you have designs on her.”

  “Not those sorts of designs.”

  “I’d be less worried if I thought you were trying to persuade her into your bed. Wanting to sleep with a woman is natural and sincere. What you’re doing is twisted and frightening.”

  “Twisted?” Maurizio paused in tying his tie and stared at his uncle. “You think that I am twisted?” The level of his voice didn’t change but there was a sudden chill in his eyes that in another era would have presaged a stiletto to the heart. But Bruno merely poured himself another glass of his nephew’s best brandy, unperturbed.

  “I think a man who sets out for revenge is always a little twisted,” he said, “whether he knows it or not. If his soul isn’t twisted at the beginning of his endeavor, it certainly will be by the end. God help you, my boy, if you ever achieve your revenge.”

  “I’ll achieve it,” Maurizio said quietly. “I have the right to it. How can you speak so? Have you forgotten Rufio?”

  At once, both men’s eyes turned to a large photograph on a nearby table. It showed a young man with a marked resemblance to Maurizio except that the boy was still clearly visible in his face, and his smile was carefree. He looked like someone who could brighten the day simply by being there. “Nobody could possibly forget your delightful brother,” Bruno said sadly. “But he’s dead and gone for nearly nine months.”

  “Dead but not gone,” Maurizio said bitterly. “Not while I have breath in my body. I won’t let his murderer go unpunished.”

  “He wasn’t murdered,” Bruno observed quietly. “He committed suicide.”

  “Yes. His life became unendurable to him because of a heartless woman who played with his feelings and threw him over when she grew bored.”

  “I don’t think Elena Calvani is heartless,” Bruno countered. “Naive and silly, but not heartless.”

  Maurizio’s eyes narrowed. “Then tell me what you call a woman whose lover tells her that he’s going to kill himself, and who does nothing—nothing—to stop him. I call her worse than heartless. I call her evil.”

  “Maurizio, you won’t bring Rufio back by avenging him.”

  Maurizio turned on his uncle. “Don’t speak of what you don’t understand,” he said angrily. “I loved him. He was my brother—more like a son to me. When our parents died, I had to raise him alone. It was two of us against the world. For years he was my only family.”

  “Until your disreputable uncle came wandering back from his travels and threw himself on your charity,” Bruno said with a wry smile.

  Maurizio didn’t return the smile. “I’m not a charitable man,” he said curtly. “You keep the books better than anyone else I’ve tried. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Is that why I also have free board and lodging and the key to the wine cellar?”

  “Of course.”

  “At this point, any other man but you would be boasting of his own generosity and family feeling. But you’d deny having either, wouldn’t you?”

  “I admit to the family feeling,” Maurizio said with a shrug. “It would disgrace me to turn my uncle away from my door—especially when he does his job so well.”

  Bruno sighed. “Was ever a man so blind to himself?”

  “On the contrary. I see myself and my path ahead extremely clearly.”

  “And that path leads to revenge at the expense of an innocent young woman.”

  “Don’t be fooled by appearances, Uncle. Teresa Mantini Wainright is no innocent. Elena Calvani’s daughter cannot be innocent.”

  “Maurizio, I beg you to be careful,” Bruno said earnestly. “Since Rufio died, I’ve seen you retreat in
to a cold place where there’s no human pity, and all your energy is concentrated on your revenge against Elena. You see people only as an instrument for your purpose and you shut out awareness of them as human beings. You assume the worst of Teresa Wainright solely because of her mother, when actually you know nothing about her.”

  “Nothing about her?” Maurizio echoed incredulously. “I know everything of importance. I used to listen to Leo telling me about her. I always knew she would follow him to Venice. Last night, I didn’t sleep because she was to arrive today. When I checked that her plane had landed, I was riven with nerves. I went down to the landing stage to wait for her boat. I stood and watched as she drew near and I saw the sun gild her hair exactly as I’ve seen it gild the hair of Elena Calvani.

  “She’s the daughter of my enemy, and through her I shall punish my brother’s murderer. And that is all I need to know.”

  Chapter Two

  Terri had brought her best clothes with her, dresses and accessories that she’d worn to parties in England, and that she thought of as elegant. But the Midas Hotel made them look dowdy. This was a place of money and glamour and her clothes were all too restrained. There was nothing figure hugging, nothing with an outrageously short skirt, nothing daring at all, and suddenly she felt like a little brown mouse. It briefly flitted across her mind that it was a pity Maurizio should think her dull, but she smothered the thought instantly. The instinct to withdraw from men’s eyes was deeply ingrained in her by now.

  At last she settled on a simple blue dress with a modest neckline that she adorned with a pearl pendant and pearl earrings. They were good pearls and would normally have been out of her price range, but Leo had made the set for her as a birthday gift. Slipping the jewelry on, she felt closer to him now.

  Maurizio had promised to call for her at precisely eight o’clock. As the time approached, she grew nervous. So much depended on this meeting. From a distance, she heard the deep, heavy sound of a bell beginning to toll the hour. One—two—three—

  Exactly on the eighth stroke there was a knock on her door. Opening it, she found Maurizio there, dressed in a white dinner jacket that set off his tanned skin. His dark eyes were brilliant and he grinned in amusement when he saw her. “Good evening, signorina,” he said. “Do you have any bags to be carried?”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” she pleaded, also smiling, but blushing a little. “I feel awful about the mix-up.”

  “But why should you? The blame was mine. If you’re ready, we can go straight down to where our table is waiting.”

  As they went downstairs, he said, “I have a private dining room where I sometimes entertain, but I thought you’d prefer to eat in the main restaurant and take a good look at the Midas. Some of the customers are extremely interesting.”

  Maurizio was a gambler, a man born to play poker, with a face that could confront disaster and reveal nothing. He’d assumed that blank face at Rufio’s funeral, refusing to reveal his private agony to a curious world. The word had gone around Venice that he’d bid farewell to the young brother who’d been like a son to him without so much as a flicker of an eyelid or a tremor of the features. Those who had cause to fear him had become a little more afraid; the others merely wondered.

  That perfect facial control prevented him from showing any surprise at the restrained appearance of Elena Calvani’s daughter, but inwardly he was taken aback. The simple dress with its demure neckline stood out in the decadent opulence of the Midas, making her look like a nun in contrast.

  The headwaiter greeted them at the entrance to the restaurant, gave a little bow and led them to a table by the window overlooking the Grand Canal. Maurizio handed her to her seat, touching her only briefly, but it was enough to give her the same impression of controlled power she’d had before. If anything, the sensation was more intense, like stepping too close to a caged tiger, watching him prowl patiently as he awaited his moment, knowing that the bars that checked him were fragile. The thought flashed across her mind: This man is dangerous.

  Startled, she looked up at him and for a brief instant thought she saw something in his eyes that had nothing to do with the affability of the perfect host—something watchful, calculating….

  But it was gone so fast that she might have imagined it. Instead, there was a charming smile as he made sure she was settled comfortably, then he seated himself opposite her. “Is this your first visit to Venice?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Then we won’t talk for a few minutes while you watch the Grand Canal.”

  Entranced, Terri gazed out of the tall window at the great canal winding its way past. Darkness had fallen early, for winter was near, and along the banks gleamed a string of lights that were echoed and reechoed by the dancing ripples of the canal. Gondolas glided on their way, the gondoliers dipping and rising smoothly, the oars sinking into water that seemed to be made of black satin, studded with gold.

  “It’s always breathtaking,” Maurizio said in answer to her silent thought, “but never more so than the first time.”

  “Breathtaking,” she agreed. For a moment the sheer beauty of her surroundings had driven everything else from her mind.

  “What are you thinking?” Maurizio asked, watching her closely. He’d seen her frown slightly and lean forward.

  “I was wondering about those little cabins that some but not all of the gondolas have,” she replied.

  “It’s called a feltz,” Maurizio told her. “And it’s a very insubstantial ‘cabin,’ just a roof with four struts clamped to the side of the gondola. The ‘walls’ are only curtains. You don’t see many of them these days because most of the people who take gondolas are tourists who want to look around them. But at one time the feltz was very useful for concealing lovers.”

  To Terri’s annoyance, she felt herself growing warm from head to toe. It was ridiculous that the mere mention of lovers from this vibrantly physical man had the power to make her self-conscious. Horrified, she wondered if she was actually blushing, and drew back, trying to seem indifferent.

  She found a goblet in front of her, full of a pale, cold liquid. “I took the liberty of ordering your first drink,” Maurizio said. “It’s a specialty of the Hotel Midas, and only my head barman knows how it’s made. He won’t even tell me.”

  It was delicious. As she sipped, she glanced around at what she could see of the hotel. Everywhere, the theme of gold was repeated, but discreetly, and with fine taste. The fittings on the glass doors and tables were gold, as was the decoration on the exquisite crystal goblets. Maurizio caught her glance and understood it. “The hotel takes its name from the legendary King Midas, whose story I dare say you know,” he said.

  “He asked the gods to let everything he touched turn to gold,” Terri remembered. “And they granted his wish. He was delighted until he touched his beloved daughter and she, too, turned to gold—beautiful but lifeless. He found himself living in luxury, but without love.” She looked again at her surroundings. “Luxury but no love,” she echoed. “Is that true?”

  “Of the hotel? I imagine it’s true of every place where people attach too much importance to money. Those who come to the casino have their minds fixed on gold and little else.” Maurizio shrugged. “Only they can say whether the price they pay is worth it.”

  The waiter arrived. Terri left the ordering to Maurizio. When they were alone again, he took out the forty-thousand-lire note with which she’d tipped him earlier and pushed it toward her. “I can’t accept this,” he said with a smile.

  Terri returned the smile—and the money. “But I won’t take it back,” she insisted.

  He pushed it firmly in her direction again. “I received it under false pretenses.”

  Just as firmly she returned it. “Nonsense, you earned it. After all, you did carry my bags.”

  For a moment, their eyes met in a duel to see who was the more stubborn. Then they laughed together. “Very well, I’ll keep it,” Maurizio conceded. He took out a
gold pen, scribbled something on the note and showed it to her. He’d written:

  No man should be too proud to carry bags or to be grateful for a tip. This lesson was taught to Maurizio Vanzani by Teresa Mantini Wainright, on the occasion of their first meeting.

  At the end he’d added the date. Terri shrugged, a little embarrassed. “I didn’t mean to teach you a lesson.”

  “Nevertheless, you’ve taught me a most valuable one. As you say, I did carry your bags. If I fall on hard times and lose the Midas, it’s a skill I may need.”

  Again they laughed together and she was aware of a subtle charm beginning to creep over her. He was the most disturbingly attractive man she’d ever met. Just being with him seemed to make the air come alive.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said as their food arrived and they began eating. “How does an Englishwoman come to bear an Italian name, and to speak my language so fluently?”

  Of course, she thought, he’d seen her passport with its telltale middle name. “My father was Italian,” she said casually. She’d already decided not to complicate matters by mentioning the adoption. “Although we lived in England, he raised my brother and me to think of ourselves as Italian as much as English.”

  “But you’re called Wainright.”

  “That was my mother’s doing after he died. She preferred to think of us as English.” In these brief words, she skated over a depth of pain that still had the power to torment her.

  “And how do you think of yourself?” he asked curiously.

  “I don’t really know,” she mused. “I feel very English, I’ve been reared English. It’s just—it’s just that I’ve taken too long coming back to my roots.”

  Astonished, she wondered why she’d said such a thing. The words had come from her mouth as if of their own accord, with no thought to prompt them. It was only after she’d spoken that she discovered the thought was there. And it was true. “Too long,” she repeated softly.

  Maurizio was looking a little surprised, as though her words had touched a spring within him. “You were bound to come,” he said. “Surely you realize that? Whatever your rearing may have been, blood speaks. And Italian blood does more than speak. It sings. Your roots will amaze you with their power to hold.”