'All the better,' he said.
The towel fell at her feet.
When Damon Cornadoro-the man who had introduced himself as Michael Berio-returned to the Hotel d'Oro's dock, marked out with striped poles in gold and blue, it was deserted. But his motoscafo wasn't. Inside, Camille sat smoking, her long, bare, shapely legs crossed at the knee. She lounged, one elbow cocked back, on the white leather bench seat that lined the bulkheads on either side of the cabin.
'Are your charges tucked in safe and sound?' she said when he came down to her.
'So far as I can tell.' He went to the bar, poured himself a drink without asking if she wanted one. 'You didn't tell me the woman was so attractive.'
Camille took a long drag of her cigarette, her eyes glittering. 'Excited already?'
He swallowed half his drink. 'That one could get a rise out of a corpse.'
She got up, then, and walked over to him, placed her cupped hand between his legs. 'Let's see, hmmm.' Her eyebrows raised in mock surprise. 'I do believe you're right.'
He dropped his glass and as it shattered onto the deck crushed her in his arms so that she gave a little moan. Then he scooped one arm beneath her knees and, lifting her, set her down at the bow end of the cabin. It was their favorite spot, the seats curving in on themselves, forming an erotic V.
Camille, sitting on the leather, spread herself until one leg was on either seat. Then she hiked up her skirt, but so slowly the movement transfixed him. When her lower belly appeared in the light of the gently swinging brass lamps the breath caught in his throat, and a moment later he was on his knees in front of her.
He let her take a handful of his thick, curling hair, tilt his head back, exposing his throat. 'How easy it would be.'
He didn't ask her what she meant; he knew.
She took from the bodice of her blouse a small folding knife. It flicked open with the touch of her thumb to reveal a thin, wicked-looking stainless-steel blade. She handled it like an expert.
Leaning forward from the waist, she put the flat of the blade onto his shoulder. 'Is it the sight of blood, or the copper taste of it that makes people faint, do you think?'
'I wouldn't know,' Cornadoro said. 'For myself, I was brought up on it. Blood is mother's milk to me.'
She laughed and with a practiced flick reversed her grip on the knife, holding it against his bare flesh as his hands came up to grasp her. She gave a little cry. Of course, she would never use the blade on him, not really. A nick here and there to draw blood to the surface for its scent and feel was all part of their erotic scenario.
The boat rocked back and forth, whether from a passing vessel or from their rhythmic movements it was impossible to say. The lust built as it always did. He was panting to enter her.
'Tomorrow morning, when you go to the hotel,' she said, 'don't go in, and don't let them see you.'
He paused, taken off guard. 'But Signore Muhlmann said-'
'It is not your place to remind me what Signore Muhlmann said.'
'He was very specific.'
'So am I.' She twisted her wrist and her fingers spiraled around him. 'What will you do now? You are confronted with a dilemma. You can only follow one set of orders, you can have only one master.' She brought him forward, and then to a complete stop. 'To whom will you give your loyalty?'
Tiny spasms had begun in his hips as he strived to control himself. 'Tell me now, quickly,' he panted. His eyes closed, and he bit his lower lip until he broke the skin. 'Who will win this war?'
'Is it a war you see, Damon?' Camille smiled. 'Ah, that is the Roman in you. Romans have war in their blood, yes, they do, it comes all the way from the time of the Caesars, when you ruled the world.' Gripping him all the harder, she tilted her head, regarding him with no little curiosity. 'You have to ask yourself, how can I win this war? I am only a woman.' She said the last word as if it were a slap in the face.
He looked at her, sweat running into his eyes, burning them. 'You know what you are,' he said in a voice made ragged by desire full to bursting, 'and I know what you are.'
'So.' Her voice was serious, almost grave. 'You have made your choice, have you?'
'To victory,' he said.
'To the bitter end,' she replied.
His bowed forehead pressed into the fragrant valley between her breasts. All at once, she released him and, with a great shiver, he lost control, ramming all the way into her. While he erupted, she tenderly caressed the back of his neck as if he were a child.
The empty wine bottle stood on its silver tray along with the equally empty glasses. The lights had been extinguished in the room, but the curtains hadn't been drawn and spangles of light roamed the walls and ceiling. The lapping of the water could be clearly heard, as if they were at sea. Then the throaty sound of a boat's engine briefly intruded, Italian spoken as provisions for the hotel's restaurant were off-loaded. Some time later, the lapping returned.
Bravo and Jenny lay in bed, side by side, naked, but not touching. They breathed out the fumes of wine and memories.
All at once, Jenny giggled.
'What?'
'I liked that you were jealous.'
'I wasn't jealous,' he said shortly.
'No, of course not.' She couldn't help herself and another giddy sound escaped her lips.
There ensued a small silence, the nighttime sounds of Venice stealing in again, somehow making them feel safe and protected, as if they were a long way from the rest of the world.
'Why did you like it?' he asked, then.
'Guess.'
'I feel like I'm fifteen years old,' he said.
Her hand moved, fingers curling around his wrist. 'I'm frightened,' she said into the darkness.
'Of what?' Her changes of mood were mercurial.
'Of what I feel when I'm near you.' She bit her lip; it was unthinkable that she should tell him the origin of that fear.
'It's all right,' he said. 'I understand.'
The problem, Jenny thought, was that he understood only what she had arranged for him to understand. Not that her being sent away by her mother-and why-was a lie. Not at all. It was simply that by telling him that story, she had deliberately led him astray-her fear stemmed from another quarter entirely.
Bravo was comforted, taking her silence as agreement, and this led him to let down his guard. 'That photo you saw,' he said at length.
'The one of you that your father kept with him. I wondered why-'
'It's not of me.' He reached over, plucked the Zippo off the night table, opened it. He held the photo up; the child's face was barely discernable in the night-glimmer, as if the image was not really there or had already become indistinct. But perhaps that was because it was a black and white snap that had been hand colored. 'It's of my brother, Junior.'
'I didn't know.'
'You wouldn't,' he said. 'Junior's dead.'
'Bravo, I'm so sorry.'
'It happened a long time ago, when I was fifteen, in fact.' He put the case back on the Zippo, returned it to the night table. 'One winter we were out ice skating. Junior was only twelve then. A group of older boys and girls skated onto the ice and I spotted a girl I had seen a couple of times before. I liked her, but had never had the courage to go up to her. You know how that is.'
'Yes,' she whispered. 'I do.'
'I saw her glance over at me and at once I started to go into a couple of double axels. Of course, I was showing off, but I thought I might never get the chance again, and ice skating was one of the things I did really well. While I was performing for her, Junior must have gotten bored-anyway, he skated off. He went farther than he should have and fell through a thin patch of ice.' There had been an eerie, evil report, the flat sound of a rifle shot or the sky cracked open. It pierced the clear dry air, pierced, too, his eardrums, a terrible noise he could neither forget nor speak about. At that moment he had realized that life was as thin as an eggshell. 'He never
