It was hard to tell the shape of his mouth because it changed constantly, smiling, grimacing, always reflecting his mood, which wasn't always amiable. There was a touch of pride there, and more than a touch of defensiveness.
No, it wasn't features, she decided, but something else, an indescribable mixture of charm, bitter comedy and arrogance, something unmistakably Italian. It was there in his dark, slightly sunken eyes, with their gleam that was so hard to read. A woman could drive herself distracted trying to fathom that gleam, and doubtless many women had. There was a time when she herself might have been intrigued.
But the next moment, as if to tell her to be honest with herself, she was assailed by the memory of lying beneath him on the attic floor, so that the hot, sweet sensation began to rise up in her from the pit of her stomach, threatening to overcome her completely.
She drew a long, ragged breath against the threat, refusing to give in. She was stronger than that.
Piero provided a kind of distraction, rejoicing in the champagne, pronouncing it excellent.
'Only the best,' Vincenzo said.
'Yes, it is,' she agreed, for the sake of something to say.
Vincenzo nodded. 'I thought you'd know about that.'
She pulled herself together, refusing to let him overcome her, even though he had no idea that he was doing so.
'Maybe I don't know,' she parried. 'Maybe I only said "Yes" to sound knowledgeable. Anyone can do that.'
'True. But not everyone would know about Correggio and Veronese.'
'I was guessing.'
'No, you weren't,' he said quietly.
She was getting her second wind and was able to say, 'Well, it's not your concern, and who are you to lecture me about people concealing their identity?'
'Can't you two go five minutes without bickering?' Piero asked plaintively.
'I'm not bickering,' Vincenzo said. 'She's bickering.'
'I'm not.'
'You are.'
'Stop it, the pair of you,' Piero commanded.
As one they turned on him.
'Why?' Julia asked. 'What's wrong with bickering? It's as good a way of communicating as any other.'
'That's what I always say,' Vincenzo agreed at once.
He met her eyes and she found herself reluctantly discovering that she was wrong. There was a better way of communicating. The look he was giving her was wicked, and it contained the kind of shared understanding she knew she would be wiser to avoid.
Piero raised his glass.
'I foresee a very interesting evening,' he said with relish.
'Can we eat the first course before we have to fight another round?' Vincenzo asked.
It was her first experience of Venetian cuisine, with its intriguing variety. A dish described simply as 'rice and peas' turned out also to contain onions, veal, butter and broth.
They drank Prosecco from hand-blown pink, opalescent glasses.
'They come from home,' Vincenzo said. 'There were some things I was damned if I was going to sell.'
'They're beautiful,' she said, turning a glass between her fingers. 'I can understand you wanting to keep them.'
'My father gave me the first wine I ever tasted in one of these,' he remembered. 'I was only a boy, and I felt like such a big man, sitting there with him.'
You idolised him, she thought, remembering Piero's words. And he betrayed you.
'Isn't it risky using them in a restaurant?' she asked.
'These aren't for the ordinary customers. I keep them for special friends. Let's drink a toast.'
They solemnly raised their glasses. Somewhere inside her she could feel a knot of tension begin to unravel. There were still good times to be had.
'Are you warm enough out here?' Vincenzo asked her. 'Would you prefer a table inside?'
'No, this is nice.'
'We have the odd fine night, even in December. It's after Christmas that it gets really bad.'
When the rice and peas had been cleared away she saw Vincenzo look up and meet the eye of a very pretty waitress, who returned a questioning smile, to which he responded with a wink and a nod of the head., to
'Do you mind doing your flirting elsewhere?' Piero asked severely.
'I'm not flirting,' Vincenzo defended himself. 'I was signalling to Celia to bring in the next course.'
'And you had to do that with a wink?' Julia enquired humorously.
'I'm trying to appeal to her. She's going to vanish next week, just when I'm going to need her most.'
'But I thought you didn't need too many staff at this time of year,' Julia said.
'It's true the summer rush is over, but in the run-up to Christmas there's a mini-rush. I shed staff in October and increase them in December. In January I shed them again, then increase them in February just before the Carnival. A lot of workers like it that way-a few weeks on, a few weeks off. But Celia's going off just when I need her on. I've begged and pleaded-'
'You've winked and smiled-' Julia supplied.
'Right. And all to no avail.'
'You mean that this young female is immune to your charm?' Piero asked, shocked.
'His what?' Julia asked.
'His charm. Chaa-aarm. You must have heard of it?'
'Yes, but nobody told me Vincenzo was supposed to have any.'
'Very funny, the pair of you,' Vincenzo said, eyeing them both balefully.
Celia appeared at the table bearing a large terracotta pot, in which was an eel, cooked in bay leaves.
'This is a speciality of Murano, the island where the glass-blowing is centred,' Vincenzo explained. 'It was once cooked over hot coals actually in the glass furnaces. I can't compete with that. I have to use modern ovens, but I think it'll taste all right.'
When Celia had finished serving the eel he took her hand, gazing up into her eyes, pleading. His words were in Venetian but Julia got the gist of them without trouble, and even managed to decipher, 'My love, I implore you.'
Even if it was all play-acting, she thought, it had a kind of magic that a woman would do well to beware. Celia seemed in no danger. She giggled and departed.
'I guess I can't persuade Celia.' He sighed. 'Tonight's her last night. She's about to get married and go on her honeymoon. That's her fiance over there. Ciao, Enrico.'
A burly man grinned at him from another table. Vincenzo grinned back in good fellowship. Julia concentrated on her food, trying not to be glad that Celia had a fiance.
As they ate the eel, washed down with Soave, her feeling of well-being increased. She had forgotten many things about the real world: good food, fine wines, a man who had dark, intense eyes, and turned them on her, inviting her to understand their meaning.
She was too wise to accept that invitation, but the understanding was there, whether she wanted it or not. It tingled in her senses, it ached in her heart, so long starved of the joyous emotions. It told her that she must risk just this one evening.
After the eel came wild duck. While it was being served she turned to look out over the canal.
'Have you ever been to Venice before?' Vincenzo asked.
'No. I always meant to, but somehow it never happened.'
'Not even when you were studying art? Please, Julia,' he added quickly as she looked up, 'let's not pretend about that, at least. You recognised a Correggio and a Veronese at the first glance, and you can't turn the clock back to before it happened. You're an artist.'
'An art restorer,' she conceded reluctantly. 'At one time I fancied myself as a great painter, but my only talent turned out to be for imitating other people's styles.'
'You must have studied in Italy. That's how you know the language, right?'
'I studied in Rome and Florence,' she agreed.
'Then I'll enjoy showing you the whole house, although it's only a ghost of itself now. I wish you could have seen it in its glory days.'
'You've lost everything, haven't you?' she said gently.
'Just about.' He glanced at Piero and lowered his voice. 'Do I have any secrets left?'
'Not many.'
'Good, then I needn't bore you with the whole story. Now let's eat. With duck we drink Amarone.'