wrong man, who had betrayed it and left her with a smashed life to endure.
She sat up, careful not to awaken Vincenzo, who slept silently and heavily, as though exhausted. It was a tight fit in the narrow bed, especially as he stretched out in abandon.
He'd made love like that, she thought, with an abandon that had startled her, so different was it from the controlled surface he presented to the world.
She hadn't meant to take him to bed, so she told her-self. Either that or she had meant it from the first moment. One of the two. Did it matter which?
Their aggressive encounter in the attic had awoken in her a physical hunger, long suppressed, and satisfying it had become urgent.
I didn't think I was like that, she thought wryly. But I suppose after so long…
He moved in his sleep and stretched out a hand, seeking until he encountered her skin. Then it stopped, lying gently against her as though nothing else in the world mattered.
Strangely, it was that gesture that alarmed her. If he'd grasped her robustly she would have cheerfully returned to the fray. But the touch against her body was tender. It spoke of emotion, and she knew that emotion must be kept out of this. Only that way could she feel safe.
After a moment she moved his hand away.
Vincenzo stirred and stretched, almost pushing her out of the tiny bed. She laughed, clinging on for dear life, and he awoke to find her looking down at him. He grinned, remembering the night they had passed together.
Her passion had astounded him. More accustomed to her mental and emotional defensiveness, he'd been taken aback by her sensual abandon. She'd given everything with fierce generosity and demanded everything with an equally fierce appetite. When he had been satiated she had been ready to start again.
Now she looked fresh, light-hearted and mysteriously younger. There was even a teasing look in her eyes that had never been there before.
'That was fun,' she said.
The words brought him back down to earth. 'Fun' described a race through the canals, a brilliant costume for
Carnival. It bore no relation to the experience that had just shaken him to his roots.
But he answered her in kind, speaking lightly.
'I'm glad you feel the night wasn't wasted.'
She was silent, but shook her head, teasing.
He reached out so that she could take his hand, then he would draw her closer for a kiss. But instead she laughed and got to her feet, looking around for something to throw over her nakedness. Finding his shirt on the floor, she seized that.
'Spoilsport,' he sighed.
She chuckled and left the room, heading for the kitchen. He followed at once, catching up, putting his arms about her from behind, and nuzzling her hair.
'All right?' he asked softly.
'Of course,' she said brightly. 'Everything's fine.'
He partly withdrew his hands, just as far as her shoulders. 'That's good,' he said quietly.
'Do you know how I make coffee in this kitchen?' she asked with a laugh.
'I'll make it.'
'Lovely. Then we'll go down and see if Piero's awake yet. He and I should be going soon.'
He dropped his hands.
'Whatever you say.'
She turned suddenly. 'There's something you should know. Don't expect too much from me just now. I'm not used to being in the land of the living. I've forgotten how things are done there.'
He frowned, alerted by a new note in her voice, but not understanding it. 'The land of the living? I don't understand.'
'For the last six years I've been in prison.'
Julia had told Vincenzo that kicking the door in had been one of the great healing experiences of life, and it was true. With that one blow she had put her lethargy behind her, and was ready for the task that had brought her here.
Walking home with Piero that morning, she bought a map, and studied it as soon as they were inside.
'Can I help?' he asked.
'I want to go to the island of Murano.'
'Take the waterbus. It's about a twenty-minute journey. I'll show you the exact place. Are you going to look at some of the glass-blowing factories?'
'No, I'm looking for a man. His name is Bruce Haydon. He has relatives there and they'll know where he is now.'
'Is he Italian?'
'No, he's English. He had some Italian family on his mother's side, but he's lived mostly in England.'
She knew he was hoping to hear more, and she was foolish to keep silent. She should simply say that Bruce Haydon had once been her husband; that he had betrayed her vilely and condemned her to hell. But just now she wasn't ready to say the words.
When she'd changed back into her jeans he led her to the San Zaccaria landing stage, and waited with her while the boat arrived. Passengers poured off, more passengers poured on. As she was about to turn away Piero tightened his grip on her arm.
'Come back safely,' he said.
'Yes, I will,' she promised him in a gentle voice.
As the boat drew away from the landing stage she looked back and saw Piero standing where she had left him. He remained motionless, growing smaller until she could no longer see him.
At last the boat reached the landing stage at Murano.
It was a small island, constructed, like Venice, of canals and bridges, famous for its glass-blowing, but without the glamour of the main city.
With the aid of the map she was able to discover a row of houses beside a canal, and began to make her way along, searching for one front door.
Then it was there before her, the front door with a brass plaque proclaiming that here lived Signor and Signora Montressi, the name of Bruce's Italian relatives. Luck was with her.
She rang the bell and waited. But there was no reply.
She told herself she must be patient.
She found a cafe and ordered coffee and sandwiches. From her bag, she took a small photo album in which she kept pictures to show people who might have seen him. It wasn't very up to date. None of the photographs was less than six years old.
The first one was a wedding picture, showing a handsome man, grinning with delight. There was no sign of his bride. Julia had cut her out of the picture.
He had dark hair and eyes, but, although his Italian ancestry was visible, his face was slightly too fleshy for the kind of dramatic looks that Vincenzo had. He lacked Vincenzo's intensity too, parading instead an air of self- satisfaction.
She stopped and gave an exclamation of annoyance at herself. Forget Vincenzo! Comparing every other man with him was futile. For many reasons.
But there was no way to forget Vincenzo. Piero had said, 'He's an all or nothing person. When he gives it's everything.'
After last night she knew that it was true.
But Piero had also said Vincenzo had too many women, 'all meaningless'.
So he was like herself, she thought. Nature had shaped him one way, and hard lessons had shaped him differently.
In that hot, dark night he'd become his true self again, giving generously, endlessly, revealing himself to her with no defences, nothing held back.
And it shamed her that she'd only half responded, revelling in the physical pleasure that he gave so expertly,
