Page 83 of Vengeance in Venice
“Who knows? They’re obviously still poking about the murder scene.”
“Where were you?”
“At the dormitory window.”
“Did they see you?”
“Shedid,” Pellini said with a satisfied grin. “Looked white as a sheet—petrified.”
“Did she.” It wasn’t even a question. Lampl didn’t believe him. “What didhedo?”
“Nothing. Told the boatman to row on.”
Lampl sat back in his chair, his eyes oddly chilling. In rare moments of honesty, Pellini admitted that this cold, correct gentleman, who never lifted a finger—physically—against a soul, scared him far more than the large servant with the fighter’s poise.
“Wait,” the Austrian said at last. “I might have instructions for you…”
*
In the circumstances,it was not surprising that Solomon dreamed of his wife’s warm, soft body, of her hair falling against his chest as her lips traced sensuous patterns on his skin, andher hands swept delicately across his hips. He almost purred with pleasure. And when, smiling, he opened his eyes and wrapped his arms around her to hold her closer, her weight was suddenly real and fiercely arousing.
“Solomon,” she whispered, raising her head, though only to move and kiss his mouth. “Love me now,” she whispered against his lips, and gave him no choice.
He might not have been able to hold back the storm, but at least he kept some kind of rein on his starving desires, holding on to tenderness until the final, shattering conclusion.
Afterward, sprawled across him, she murmured lethargically, “Positively the best start to the morning.”
Solomon could not disagree, though he gently, half anxiously, pushed her hair off her face to see if he had hurt her or tired her unbearably.
She was smiling with contentment, the shadows beneath her eyes faint now, and her eyes themselves brilliant and happy. “I’m better,” she said.
He stroked her hair. “I believe you are. I am all the better for that myself.”
It meant that when they rose and dressed and went sedately downstairs for breakfast, he felt capable of anything. He even felt optimistic about bringing Lampl down.
Beyond the dining room window, the sky was cloudy yet did not remind him of home.
“When do you suppose Foscolo will come?” Constance asked when the servants had left them alone. She was risking a cup of coffee for the first time since she was poisoned. Solomon noticed but did not comment.
“I don’t think he will. If there are spies everywhere…”
She set down her coffee. “Then why not in a house rented to foreigners?” she finished for him. “I don’t believe I like that idea.”
Solomon, having been through the same thought process himself, said, “Look on them as gossips. They are not really there to control us but the local population. The Austrians got a huge fright in 1848. They are not about to let it happen again if they can avoid it. And local people are poor enough and desperate to enough to take payment for harmless information.”
“Like the Venetian policeman calling on us?” She frowned. “Who do you think—”
“Don’t,” he said. “Not if you want to stay sane and enjoy our time here.”
She stared at him, then a smile began to form. “I never realized you were quite so pragmatic. And wise.”
Or stupid.
“So we should just go out and hope he comes upon us by accident?” she said.
“If you are up to it.”
Her eyes were suddenly wicked. “Oh, I am up to anything now.”
