Larcenous Lady by Joan Smith Page B

old man.”
    They had reached the door. Belami opened it wide and smiled at her, one of his peculiarly intimate smiles that always disarmed her. She felt as if she were the only woman in the world when Dick looked at her like that. She felt suffocated, and always fell speechless.
    “Therein lies a tale,” he said, and led her outdoors.
    The place was less a garden than a tangle of weeds from which an occasional flower peeped out. At the four corners of the plot, classical statues reared up on pedestals, staring disdainfully at the mess below. The vestige of a curved path led into the small jungle. “Is it safe to take you down the garden path?” Belami asked, glancing at her skirts. Their eyes met briefly. “An ill-chosen phrase.” He smiled.
    “I’ve survived your garden paths till now,” she answered tartly, and followed as Dick pushed aside the weeds and bushes.
    When they were in the center, he stopped and turned to face her. The smile was transformed to a severe, questioning face. “Why did you do it?” he demanded.
    “It was my aunt’s idea to come!”
    “I mean why did you bolt on me in Paris? I waited for ages that night—and then to learn you had left without even sending me a message.”
    “But I did leave you a note!”
    “The hell you did!” he exclaimed angrily.
    “Dick, I did! At least Elvira did,” she added, and explained the nature of their departure.
    “There was no note,” he said simply.
    “It must have gone astray. Elvira doesn’t speak French—perhaps the clerk misunderstood.”
    Dick frowned uncertainly. “It was only your telling me you were coming to Venice that kept me from hating you,” he said. “If you hadn’t come here, I don’t know what I would have done. Elvira told Pronto your destination was Rome.”
    “But it was Elvira who insisted on coming to Venice.”
    “There’s something strange about that woman,” Belami said.
    Deirdre tossed her shoulders. “You’re just annoyed that she doesn’t care for you. The contessa is not so immune to your charms, I think?”
    “Carlotta’s a man-izer. It stands to reason, being married to old Guy.”
    “Why did she marry him?”
    “It’s called making a good match. Guy’s a conte, he owns this heap,” he said, looking around the derelict garden and to the house beyond. “Carlotta was an actress, and his mistress. When the old contessa died, they made it legal. Guy won’t last long, and once he’s gone, the contessa will be in a position to make a really stunning match.”
    “Did she tell you all that?” Deirdre asked.
    “The best stories are contained between the lines.”
    “That’s true,” Deirdre replied enigmatically, and looked away to where the sun was setting in an amethyst sky streaked with amber. Between the lines of Dick’s story, she read that he was carrying on with the man-izing contessa.
    Belami gazed at her profile, her pale face limned against the dark foliage, and felt a wrenching inside. He reached out and turned her to face him. His hands remained on her arms as he gazed at her, and when he spoke, his voice was husky. “Don’t even think it,” he said softly. “You know you’re the only woman I ever loved, Deirdre.”
    He pulled her into his arms and lowered his lips to hers. It seemed an omen of good luck that in this country where songbirds were rare, a nightingale chose that moment to utter its plaintive warble. He crushed her against his chest and the kiss deepened. Deirdre raised her arms to his neck and clung as though her life depended on it. This wasn’t the time to be difficult, when she hoped to lure him away from the palazzo.
    After a lengthy embrace, she pulled away and looked shyly at him. “If you know what I’m thinking, Dick—”
    “I do, but the contessa is just a friend. The Ginnasis are in desperate financial trouble. I’m staying here as a paying guest. There’s nothing between Carlotta and me. Don’t ask me to leave. The contessa is helping