She shrugged, and preceded Lynn and Anna Maria into the shop.
Jared liked to take public transportation in Venice, slipping onto the vaporettos with crowds of tourists and natives, studying the islands of Venice as the boat came to stop after stop. He knew how to get around the city, and loved the architecture of it.
Today, however, he took a private launch. Arriving at the palazzo, he was greeted by the contessa’s aide, a tall, skeletal woman with iron-gray hair and a forbiddingly gaunt face. Her disapproval of him was obvious today, though she was always cold and silent.
He was led to the contessa’s palatial bedchamber, a room as large as many a full house. There was something exquisitely Renaissance about her decor, from the carvings on the great draped and canopied bed to the scenes on the lush Persian rugs. A sitting area flanked the fireplace; the mantel was marble carved in detail with two grinning gargoyles on either side, as if the pair guarded the flames which might be a gateway straight to hell.
The contessa, dressed in an elegant white silk robe, was seated in a crimson daybed before the fire. A tea service was before her; she had been reading the morning paper. She was one of those women who awoke beautifully: her hair was brushed out, long and sleek; her ageless face showed no signs of slept-in makeup, crinkles at the eyes, or the least of shadows beneath them. She glared at Jared with cool, controlled anger as he entered.
“Contessa ...” he began softly.
“I have done everything for you,” she countered. A small taunting smile curved her lips. “Everything. And you could not keep that silly girl with you at my party?”
“I don’t know how she wandered?”
“That is not acceptable.”
The contessa had not asked him to sit. Jared stood awkwardly for a moment, then came closer to where her impossibly graceful form was arrayed on the day-bed. Her eyes met his; he lowered himself to a knee, humbly lowering his head. It occurred to him that he was behaving like a sycophant, but here, with the contessa, it was to be expected. She had that kind of power, and she didn’t expect humbling reverence, she demanded it.
“I beg your pardon. Truly, I beg your pardon.”
She thrust the local paper toward him. The front page. A reporter had gotten wind of the trouble; the details were sketchy, the story was slanted in favor of the contessa, and written with a touch of humor.
But though the contessa was mentioned by name, Jordan was cited as the naive American tourist.
“I am so sorry,” he said.
“You will see that she ceases this nonsense,” the contessa said.
“I’ve spoken with her firmly.”
The contessa broke into laughter. “You’ve spoken to her firmly.” Her laughter rose shrilly. The sound of it caused a shiver deep in his heart. “Caro mio, you’ve spoken firmly? Well, we shall see. If I am forced to take matters into my own hands ...”
“I can control Jordan.”
“See that you do.”
“You told me to bring her!”
“But I expected you to control her!”
He remained on his knee, his head down.
“You come here, you thrive here ... you have everything, because of me.” He nodded. Something left of his pride twitched in his throat. He swallowed.
“You’re in disgrace.”
“I’ll .. . I’ll leave you now.”
She touched his hair, her movement little more than a whisper against him. Somehow repellent. Still ...
seductively entrapping.
“No,” she said after a moment. “You may stay. You may stay awhile because I am bored this morning. I will let you have . . . tea with me. You would like that, wouldn’t you?” He looked up at last. Her eyes were on his.
“I would die to have tea with you, Contessa,” he said.
At last she smiled with a shrug. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?” The contessa rose. With a single shimmering drift of white silk, she stood in smooth perfection before the fire.
“Yes, dear boy, you would die for me.”
“See? You wear it so!” Raphael Gambi placed the beaded hat atop his head. It fell over his forehead in a perfect swirl. He posed; body swayed in a seductive arch, lips in a pout, thumb and forefinger upon his chin. Jordan laughed. Raphael’s antics had managed to make her almost completely forget the contessa and the ball. Costume was his life. He knew fabrics and styles, the traditional and the totally off-the-wall.
Before she tried on any costume, hat or mask, he had told her about how it was worn, the period when it had been worn, and who had been the fashion plate of that particular day. As he showed her what he considered the proper way to wear the cap for a colorful jester’s costume, he proceeded to move about dramatically, slipping a mask from a stand to cover his eyes and pirouette before her.
“It’s lovely?lovely on you. I’m not sure if it’s me,” Jordan told him regretfully. Raphael was of medium height with bright blue eyes that continually glittered as he smiled, full of mischief even when the overload of tourists in the shop caused him a few moments of disgruntlement. Everyone at the Arte della Anna Maria shop had a specific job and Raphael headed the costume department. With his absolute flair for high style and his love of clothing, he was a natural, but today, while they were still in the midst of a round of parties, he was also under a great deal of pressure. When Anna Maria had come to him, saying they must try everything in the world on Jordan, he had not sighed under another workload, but eyed Jordan up and down, noting her good qualities?and the fact that she was so tiny. He’d gone through a rapid exchange in Italian with Anna Maria, then proceeded to sail through the rows of costumes with astonishing speed, providing Jordan with a wealth of choices that barely fit into the dressing room with her. She had tried on vinyl futuristic?supplied by one of their favorite contemporary English designers?Roman, Egyptian, Renaissance, Edwardian, Victorian, and more. Through it all, she had heard customers come and go; she had crashed into others while coming out to survey the costumes in the large full-length mirror, and even heard Raphael sigh with regret when he could not please a very beautiful Israeli woman. Despite the busyness of the shop, Raphael had managed to fully assess her in each of the various styles; he moved with the speed of light, always acting out the proper way of handling a parasol, a mask, a bustle, or whatever accessory or affectation might go with each mode of dress. Throughout it all, Anna Maria and Lynn found time to survey her in costume, as had others in the shop, among them a pretty young girl called Angelina, a native Venetian creator of masks, and Gina, an Austrian native who had made Venice her home for the last decade, and who could slip into any one of seven languages fluently to help whomever might come into the shop. “Allora! Well, it’s true,” Raphael said, stepping back. “Though it is petite, you are wasted in the clothing of the harlequin, the jester! Puff here, puff there?
personally, I like the vinyl! Sexy, eh? Voila, follows your little form with seductive precision!”
“The vinyl?” Jordan murmured. She’d never worn vinyl before?she didn’t even own anything in leather, other than shoes or bags. Such form-fitting clothing always seemed right on blondes with long legs and lithe figures. “On me?”
“Ooh, si, si!” Raphael said. He placed a hand on his hip, sweeping off the jester’s cap. “Not for our ball. No, no, no, you must be far more elegante for that! But for the artist’s ball tonight? Yes, yes.
Outrageous, daring, bold, sassy?brash! You will stand out entirely!”
“I’m not so sure I want to stand out,” Jordan murmured.
“After last night!” Raphael said sorrowfully. “Allora, I have heard. That dreadful woman!” Jordan arched a brow. Raphael shrugged. “She is too good for our shop! She thinks she is queen of Venice, eh, while Anna Maria was working hard for the city long before she came home and decided that she would rule! Ah, well. She makes this dreadful dance of death, and you are so frightened, and she is distraught that her party might be ruined.” He let out a snort entirely out of character for his usual grace in speech and manner. Blue eyes sparkled with evil intent. “Trust me, in vinyl, you will outdo her. And you will wear the sci-fi boots by Justine, our French friend you will meet later, and you will be taller, and it will be perfect. Don’t forget?you’ll have a mask.”
“I don’t know; I’ll think about the vinyl,” Jordan said. “Now, as for the Arte shop ball...”
“No question. The fairy tale fantasy gown,” Raphael said with firm determination.
The costume to which he referred was white, silver and gold. The style was somewhere between Renaissance and Revolution, managing to cinch in the waist and expose plenty of cleavage. The accompanying headdress was a tiara with a feather and silk drape to fall behind.
“You think?” Jordan said.
“I know,” Raphael assured her.
Anna Maria appeared at the top of the curving staircase that led to the dressing rooms. “I’m so sorry.
Roberto Capo is here. He says you arranged something for him for this evening?”
“Si, si, allora, si!” Raphael clapped his hands. He grinned. “A friend?he and I went to school together?a man who works most of Carnevale, but has found out he has tonight off. He loves the artist’s ball. I’ll be but a few minutes.”
“Please, please, Rafael,” Jordan told him. “Go ahead, and take good care of your friend. I’ve taken up way too much of your time.”
“Come for an espresso with Lynn and me,” Anna Maria said. “Then come back and make your choices.”
“Her choices are made,” Raphael said flippantly. “But you must come back and admit that I am right.
And the vinyl... you should take that now. It is such a zoo here, it may take time to get the costumes to your hotel.”
Raphael hurried down the stairs. “You’ll come for an espresso, cappuccino?” Anna Maria said.
“I should go back. I rather ran out on my cousin-in-law this morning.” Anna Maria shrugged philosophically. “Cindy is a dear. I will call her; tell her you’re here, getting costumes.”