Bartering Her Innocence Read online

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t say anything. This is hard for me and you have to listen. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better mother to you. I’m sorry I got you involved in all my mess. But please don’t begrudge me this slice of happiness. It’s been so long since I felt this way about a man.’

  ‘I’m happy for you, Lily, truly I am. But please be careful. You’ve only just met the man, surely?’

  Her mother smiled and shrugged, looking into the middle distance as if she was seeing something that Tina couldn’t. ‘Sometimes that’s all it takes. Little more than a heartbeat and you know that he’s the one.’

  ‘Is that how you felt with Dad, then? And Eduardo and Hans and Henri-Claude?’

  Lily dropped her head and sighed. ‘No. I’m ashamed to say it’s not. I’m not proud of my track record, but this time it’s the real thing, Valentina. I know it. And what I want for you is to know this same happiness. Is there no chance that you and Luca—’

  Tina stood, unable to sit, needing to move. ‘No. None.’

  ‘Are you sure? Has he said nothing about staying?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure, and no he hasn’t. Because he won’t. He’s not a man to change his mind, Lily, and I don’t want him to. In fact, I can’t wait for this month to be over. I can’t wait to get home and see Dad again.’

  ‘Oh. I see. It’s a shame, though. Especially after what you’ve been through, losing his baby and everything. Surely he realises he risks putting you through all that again.’

  ‘He doesn’t know!’ she said, wishing to God she’d never told her mother about her baby. ‘And he won’t know. There’s no point in him knowing. It’s...history.’

  ‘But surely it’s his history too.’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ she said, running her hands through her hair and pulling her ponytail tight, pulling her fraying thoughts tight with it and plastering a smile on her face that touched nowhere near her heart. ‘Now, where do we start today?’

  * * *

  ‘You didn’t have to blackmail me to get my mother out of the palazzo, you know.’

  Luca and Tina had made love long into the night and now they lay spooned together in that dreamy place between sex and sleep while their bodies hummed down from the heights of passion.

  He pulled her closer and pressed his lips to her shoulder. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All you had to do was wave that gallery owner, Antonio Brunelli in front of her nose and she would have done anything you wanted in a heartbeat.’

  He stilled alongside her. ‘Lily and Antonio Brunelli? Is that so?’

  ‘I suspect she already believes herself in love with him. So you see, you could have saved yourself all this trouble if you’d just introduced her to Antonio in the first place.’

  He breathed out on a sigh, warm air fanning her skin. ‘I never realised it would be that easy or maybe I would have.’

  It irked her that she felt deflated. She shouldn’t feel deflated. She hadn’t wanted to be here after all. ‘So maybe you should have.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said softly, cupping one breast so tenderly in his warm hand, ‘but then I wouldn’t have you.’

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to sort out the tangle of her thoughts. He meant he wouldn’t have her for sex, he meant. Nothing more.

  It was ridiculous to imagine he meant any more than that when his intentions had always been so clear from the start.

  All the same, she wished she hadn’t pushed him. She wished she’d left him saying maybe he wouldn’t have bothered. She wished she didn’t secretly yearn for things to be different.

  And she wished to hell she understood why she wanted them to be so.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TINA checked her watch and pulled her new computer onto her lap. As much as she’d protested when Luca had given it to her, she loved what it could do. Talking face to face with her father for one. It would be around eight p.m. at home now and Mitch would be finished work and hanging around the study waiting for her call. It was good to hear how everything was going on the farm. It grounded her, and made her realise how much a fantasy her life in Venice was.

  They talked of the now completed shearing, which had gone better than anticipated and Tina was already calculating what the bales of wool would bring in when she heard it in the background—a female voice.

  ‘Who’s there with you, Dad? I didn’t know you had company or I wouldn’t have called.’

  ‘Oh, it’s just Deidre, love. By the way, when are you coming home?’

  ‘Deidre? Deidre Turner, you mean? But surely the shearing’s finished. Why’s she still there?’

  ‘She’s...er...she’s helping out with the cooking, just while you’re away. Now, when are you coming home?’

  ‘Oh Dad,’ she said, distracted by thoughts of Deidre Turner and what might really be going on at home while she was away. Deidre was a widow, she knew, her childhood sweetheart husband of twenty years killed in a tractor accident a few years back. She’d never so much as looked at another man. Or so Tina had thought. But maybe she was looking now.

  She smiled as she framed her next question. ‘Are you sure you really want me home?’ adding before he could answer, ‘Don’t worry, Dad. There’s ages yet. I’ll let you know when I’ve booked.’

  ‘Tina, you’ve already been away three weeks. If you don’t book a flight soon, you won’t get one.’

  Shock sizzled down her spine.

  Three weeks?

  That couldn’t be right, could it? No. Surely it was more like two?

  But when she looked at the calendar she saw he was right. Eight days she had left.

  Eight nights.

  And then she would be free to leave, her end of the bargain satisfied.

  ‘Tina? You okay?’

  She blinked and turned back to her father. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Of course you’re right. I’ll book. I’ll let you know.’

  She ended the call, stunned and bewildered. How could she have so lost track of time? When she’d first arrived in Venice she couldn’t wait to get away. But now—when she could count the days and nights remaining on her fingers—now the thought of leaving ripped open a chasm in her gut and left her feeling empty and bereft.

  One month she’d agreed to and now that month was nearly up and, as much as she looked forward to seeing her father again, the thought of leaving Venice...

  Leaving Luca...

  Oh God, no, she thought, don’t go there. She’d always been going to leave. She’d been the one to set that condition and Luca had agreed. He expected her to go. Clearly she was simply getting used to dressing up in beautiful clothes and living as if she belonged here. But she didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong with Luca. She would book her flight home and think about how good it would be to see her father again. She’d feel better once she’d booked.

  She was sure she would.

  * * *

  ‘I booked my flight home today.’

  Luca stilled at the cabinet where he was pouring them both a glass of sparkling prosecco. The pouring stopped. This wasn’t how he’d planned tonight to go. The trinket in his pocket weighed heavy like the ball in his gut. ‘So when do you go?’

  ‘A week tomorrow. I was lucky enough to get a seat. Flights are pretty fully booked this time of year.’

  Lucky.

  The word stuck in his throat. Was she in such a goddamned hurry to leave? He’d thought she was enjoying their time together. She’d certainly given him that impression in bed.

  And while he’d always planned to dump her, the thought that she might hang around a little longer would have meant putting off the inevitable just that bit longer too.

  But now she’d booked, he’d have to bring his plans forward. A shame when she�
��d provided such a useful distraction from the working day.

  He finished pouring his drink and turned around, handing her a glass. ‘Very fortunate,’ he said, raising his glass to her. ‘In which case I propose a toast—to the time we have left. May we use it wisely.’

  She blinked up at him as she sipped her wine, her amber eyes surprisingly flat, with less sparkle than the wine in her glass, and he wondered at that. Wondered if she’d been hoping he’d changed his mind and might ask her to stay.

  He might have. But not now, not now she’d taken the initiative.

  ‘And we might as well start tonight,’ he said, putting down his glass to reach into his pocket. ‘I have a surprise for you. Tonight I have tickets to the opera, and I want you to wear this...’ From a black velvet box, he extracted the string of amber beads, a large amber pendant in the middle that glinted like gold as he laid it over her hand.

  Her eyes grew wide. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘The colour matches your eyes.’ He turned her gently, securing the gems around her throat, turning her back around to see. He nodded. ‘Perfect. As soon as I saw them, I knew they would be perfect for you. Here, there are earrings too.’

  She cupped them in her hand. ‘I’ll take good care of them.’

  He shrugged, reaching for his wine, wanting to fill this empty hole in his gut with...something. ‘They are yours. Now, we need to leave in half an hour. It’s time to get dressed.’

  * * *

  Luca’s unexpected gift had thrown her off balance, the gems sitting fat and heavy upon her neck, weighing her down, anchoring her to a false reality.

  Nothing in Venice was real, she decided, as she caught a final glimpse of herself in the floor to ceiling gilt-framed mirror. Nothing was as it seemed.

  Least of all her.

  In an emerald-coloured gown, the amber necklace warm and golden at her throat, she looked as if she could have stepped out of a fairy tale, a modern day princess about to be swept off to the ball with the charming prince.

  As for Luca, just one glance at him in his dark Italian designer suit, all lean, powerful masculinity, waiting for her to take his arm, was enough to make her heart pound.

  She’d be gone in a week.

  Returned to the dusty sheep and their wide brown land.

  Gone.

  Why did that thought set her heart to lurch and her stomach to squeeze tight when home was where her heart was? What was happening to her?

  ‘Ready?’ he said, a kernel of concern in his dark eyes, and she smiled up at him tremulously.

  ‘I’ve never been to the opera before,’ she offered by way of explanation. ‘Never to a live performance at a real opera house.’

  ‘You’ve never seen La Traviata then?’

  She shook her head, never more conscious of their different lives and backgrounds. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘And did you never see the film, Moulin Rouge?’

  ‘I saw that, yes.’

  ‘Then you know the story. It was based on the opera.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, remembering, ‘Then it’s a sad story. It seemed so unfair that Satine should find love when it was already too late, when her time was already up.’

  He shrugged, as if it was of no consequence. ‘Life doesn’t always come with happy endings. Come,’ he said, slipping her wrap around her shoulders, ‘let’s go.’

  * * *

  The entrance to the opera house at the Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista was set inside a small square, made smaller this night by the glittering array of people who stood sipping prosecco in the evening air. Heads turned as Luca arrived, heads that took her in almost as an afterthought, heads that nodded as if to say, She’s still here then.

  Tina smiled as Luca made his way through the crowd, stopping here and there for a brief word, always accompanied by a swift and certain appraisal of the woman on his arm. It didn’t bother her any more. She was getting used to the constant appraisals, the flash of cameras going off around them. She was getting used to seeing the pictures of them turning up in the newspapers attending this function or that restaurant.

  What they would say when she was gone didn’t matter. Except there was that tiny squeeze of her stomach again at the thought of leaving.

  She would miss this fantasy lifestyle, the dressing up, being wined and dined in amazing restaurants in one of the most incredible cities in the world.

  But it wasn’t just that.

  She would miss Luca.

  Strange to think that when at first she had been desperate for the month to be over, desperate to get away. But it was true.

  She would miss his dark heated gaze. She would miss the warmth of his body next to hers in bed at night, the tender way he cradled her in his arms while he slept, his breathing slow and deep.

  She would miss his love-making.

  For there was no point pretending it was “just sex” any longer.

  No point pretending it was something she could compartmentalize and lock away in a box and shove under the bed. It was too much a part of her now. It had given her too much.

  ‘Just sex’ could never feel this good.

  He led her inside the building, more than five hundred years old and showing it, the wide marble steps to the first floor concert hall worn with the feet of the centuries, gathering in this place to listen and enjoy and celebrate music and song.

  And art, she realised, looking around her.

  The ceiling soared, the height of another two storeys above them, held up by massive columns of marble, the panels of the walls filled with Renaissance art featuring saints and angels and all manner of heavenly scenes, framed in gold.

  Here and there the floor dipped a little, rose again as they walked; here and there a corner looked not quite square, a column not quite straight.

  Unconsciously she clutched Luca’s arm a little tighter as he led her to her seat, fazed by the sensation of the floor shifting beneath her feet, as if the weight of the marble was pushing the building into the marshy ground beneath.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Luca asked beside her, picking up on her unease.

  ‘It is safe, isn’t it? The building, I mean.’

  He laughed then, a low rumble of pleasure that echoed into her bones. ‘The opera house has been here since the thirteenth century. I’m sure it will manage to remain standing a couple more hours.’ And at the same time she realised he was laughing at her, he squeezed her hand and drew her chin to his mouth for an unexpected press of his lips. ‘Do not be afraid. I assure you it is safe.’

  Was it?

  Breathless and giddy, she let herself be led to their seats.

  Was it simply the ground shifting beneath her feet, or was it something more?

  Please, God, let it be nothing more.

  Heels clicked on marble floors and then stilled, the hum of conversation dimming with the lights until finally it was time.

  The music started, act one of the famous opera, and in the spacious concert hall the music soared into the heavens, giving life to the angels and the cherubs in the delicate stuccoes, taking the audience on a heavenly journey.

  The singers were sublime, their voices filling the air, and it was impossible not to be carried along with the tragic story of Violetta, as she discovered the heroine was called in this original version, and her lovers, warring for the affections of the dying courtesan. And yet, through it all, she had never been more aware of Luca’s heated presence at her side, at the touch of his thigh against hers, to the brush of his shoulder against hers.

  She wanted to drink in that touch while she still could. She wanted to imprint it on her memory so she could take it out and remember it on the long nights ahead, when she was home and Venice and Luca was a distant memory.


  The story built, the young lovers united at last, only to be forced apart by family.

  She seemed more acutely aware of Luca than ever. The score was in Italian and, while she caught only a snatched phrase here and there, she understood the passion, she felt the pain and the torment.

  How ironic, she thought, that he had brought her here tonight, to hear the story of a fallen woman for whom love was painful and hard won and ultimately futile.

  Had he brought her here as some kind of lesson?

  That life, as he had told her before they had left the palazzo, did not always have a happy ending?

  The third act came to an end. Despite bursts of elation, bursts of happiness, Violetta’s death had always been a tragedy waiting to happen.

  She felt tears squeeze from her eyes at the finale, wondering why this story affected her so deeply. It was just a story, she told herself, just fiction. It wasn’t true.

  And yet she felt the tragedy of Violetta’s wasted love to her core.

  Why?

  When in a few days, little more than a week, she would be free to return home.

  Free.

  There was no chance she would end up like Violetta. She wouldn’t let it.

  And yet, increasingly, she felt herself tipping, tripping over uneven ground, trying pointlessly to keep her balance and all the while hurtling towards that very same finale.

  ‘What did you think?’ he asked her as they rose to their feet, the audience wild, celebrating a magnificent performance. ‘Did you understand it?’

  And she sniffed through her tears as she nodded and clapped as hard as anyone.

  More than you will ever know.

  * * *

  That night sleep eluded her. She lay awake listening to the sound of Luca’s steady breathing, the sound of the occasional water craft passing and all overlaid by the tortured ramblings of her own mind.

  In the end she gave up on sleep entirely, slipped on the jade silk gown and resumed her vigil at the windows, feeling strangely forlorn and desolate as she stared out over the wide canal, drinking in a view that would all too soon be nothing more than a fond memory.