CHAPTER TWO
HELENA slipped quietly back into the group, relieved that nobody seemed to have noticed her absence. Rico, the guide, was announcing the end of the tour.
‘But before we take you back, you will please honour us by accepting some refreshment. This way please.’
He led them into a room where a long table was laid out with cakes, wine and mineral water, and began to serve them. As he was handing a glass to Helena he looked up suddenly, alerted by someone who’d just come in and was calling him in Venetian.
‘Sorry to trouble you, Rico, but do you know where Emilio is?’
Helena recognised the name. Emilio Ganzi had been Antonio’s trusted manager for years.
‘He’s out,’ Rico said, ‘but I’m expecting him back any moment.’
‘Fine, I’ll wait.’
It was him, the man she’d seen in the office, and now Helena had no doubt that this was Salvatore. She stayed discreetly back, taking the chance to study her enemy unobserved.
He bore all the signs of a worthy opponent, she had to admit that. Antonio had said he was a man who expected never to be challenged, and it was there in the set of his head, in an air of assertiveness so subtle that the unwary might fail to see it.
But she saw it, and knew exactly what Antonio had meant. Salvatore was tall, more than six foot, with black hair and eyes of a dark brown that seemed to swallow light. Helena wondered if he worked out in a gym. Beneath his conventional clothing she sensed hard muscles, proclaiming a dominance of the body as well as the mind.
His face told two different stories; one of sensuality just below the surface, one of stern self-control. He would yield nothing except for reasons of his own. Remembering the angry frustration in his voice so recently, and comparing it to the civilised ease of his manner now, she guessed that the control was in full force.
Yet, despite being masked, the sensuality asserted itself in the slight curve of his mouth, the way his lips moved against each other. There was an instinctive harmony in his whole being, a sense of power held in reserve, ready to be unleashed at any moment.
He was moving among the group, discovering that they were English and switching easily to that language, asking politely why they had wanted to visit a glass factory, and why this one in particular. His manner was friendly, his smile apparently warm. Under other circumstances Helena would have found him charming.
When he noticed her he grew still for a brief moment, which was what men always did, noticing her beauty, only half believing it. For a moment she contemplated her next move.
Why not have some fun?
Driven by an imp of wickedness, she gave him an enticing smile.
‘Can I get you a glass of wine?’ he asked, approaching her.
‘Thank you.’
He produced it, took one himself, and walked aside with her, enquiring politely, ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’
She preserved a straight face. He had no idea that she was the enemy that he was so confident of defeating. As a model she’d often needed acting skills. She used them now, assuming a note of naive enthusiasm.
‘Oh, yes, I really am. I’m fascinated by places like this. It’s wonderful being able to see how things work.’
She gave him the full value of her eyes, which were large and deep blue, and had been known to make strong men weep. He rewarded her with a wry half-smile, clearly saying that he liked her looks, he wasn’t fooled by her methods, but he didn’t mind passing the time this way, as long as she didn’t overdo it.
Cheek! she thought. He was appraising her like a potential investment, to see if it was worth his time and trouble.
Helena was as free from conceit as an accredited beauty could well be, but this was insulting. After the remarks she’d overheard it was practically a declaration of war.
But she had also declared war, although he didn’t know it. Now it was time to discover the lie of the land.
‘It’s just a pity that the tours of this place are so short,’ she sighed. ‘No time to see all I wanted to.’
‘Why don’t I show you a little more?’ he asked easily.
‘That would be delightful.’
Envious looks followed her, the woman who’d captured the most attractive man in the room in two and a half minutes flat. As they departed a voice floated behind them.
‘We could all do that if we had her legs.’
She gave a soft choke of laughter, and he smiled.
‘I guess you’re used to it,’ he murmured.
He didn’t add, ‘A woman who looks like you.’ He didn’t have to.
The trip was fascinating. He was an excellent guide with a gift for explaining things simply but thoroughly.
‘How do they get that wonderful ruby-red?’ she marvelled.
‘They use a gold solution as a colouring agent,’ he told her.
Another marvel was the row of furnaces, three of them. The first contained the molten glass into which the tip of the blowpipe was dipped. When the glass had been worked on and cooled a little it was reheated in the second furnace through a hole in the door, known as the Glory Hole. This happened again and again, keeping the glass up to the ideal temperature for moulding. When the perfect shape had been achieved it went into the third furnace to be cooled slowly.
‘I’m afraid you may find it uncomfortably hot in here,’ Salvatore observed.
But she shook her head. True, the heat was fierce, but far from being uncomfortable it seemed to bathe her in its glow. She stood as close as she dared to the red-white light streaming from the Glory Hole, feeling as though her whole self was opening up to its fierce radiance.
‘Get back,’ Salvatore said, taking hold of her.
Reluctantly she let him draw her away. The heat was making her blood pound through her veins and she felt mysteriously exalted.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, keeping his hands on her shoulders and looking down into her flushed face.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she murmured.
He gave her a little shake. ‘Wake up.’
‘I don’t want to.’
He nodded. ‘I know the feeling. This place is hypnotic, but you have to be careful. Come over here.’
He led her to where a man was blowing glass through a pipe, turning it slowly so that it didn’t sag and lose shape. Watching him, she felt reality return.
‘It’s incredible that it’s still done that way,’ she marvelled. ‘You’d think it would be easier to use a machine.’
‘It is,’ he said. ‘There are machines that will do some kind of job, and if “some kind of job” is what you want, that’s fine. But if you want a perfect job, lovingly sculpted by a glass worker who’s put his soul into his art, then come to Murano.’
Something in his voice made her look at him quickly. Until now their conversation had been a light-hearted dance, but his sudden fervour made the music pause.
‘There’s nothing like it,’ he said simply. ‘In a world where things are increasingly mechanised, there’s still one place that’s fighting off the machines.’
Then he gave a brief, self-conscious laugh.
‘We Venetians are always a little crazy about Venice. To the outside world most of what we say sounds like nonsense.’
‘I don’t think it’s-’
‘There’s something else that might interest you,’ he said as though he hadn’t heard her. ‘Shall we go this way?’
She followed him, intrigued, not by whatever he had to show her, but by the brief glimpse behind his eyes that he discouraged so swiftly.
‘The glass isn’t all blown,’ he said, leading into the next room. ‘Figurines and jewellery take just as much art of a different kind.’
