‘I know. I’ve posed for a few pictures but to raise that much I’m going to have to accept some serious assignments. But that will mean going back to England, at least for a while.’

‘And you don’t want to leave Venice,’ Emilio said knowingly.

‘I guess I don’t,’ she sighed. ‘But neither do I want to give in. I’m still fighting him-in one way.’

‘Even if not in another?’ Emilio said, grinning.

‘Well-just keep that to yourself. I’m not going to confuse the personal and professional.’

It was easy to say that now. What was between herself and Salvatore was something she couldn’t name, but it brought her happiness, and it was easy to believe that things would work out somehow.

That was before she picked up the newspaper, and everything changed.

She stared a long time at the huge colour picture, trying to understand its meaning, but resisting it too because the real meaning was terrible.

The paper had gone to town featuring the new lines of the glass factories. Today it was Perroni’s turn, and the spotlight was on a glass figure. It was beautiful, the most glorious piece Perroni had ever made, everyone said.

There was no detail, but the outlines were sculpted so skilfully that little was left to the imagination. The naked woman, created from glass that was almost clear but for a faint pearly tinge, stretched languorously back, her arms above her head so that the swell of her breasts was emphasised. Her face was featureless, but her hair flowed gloriously over her shoulders, and almost down to her waist.

Somehow the artist had caught her true nature, enticing, fiercely sexual, outrageously tempting, knowing her own allure, enjoying it.

The photographer had taken her from several angles, and every picture was there in the newspaper. Underneath the headline read, Helen of Troy.

The paper had made the most of the story, strongly hinting that it was no coincidence that Salvatore’s factory had produced this piece so closely following his association with the woman known as Helen of Troy.

The first Helen of Troy came down to us from history as the face that launched a thousand ships,

the writer burbled.

And the people of Venice have recently seen this very thing for themselves at the Festa della Sensa.

Advance orders for this daring work of art are said to top anything in Perroni’s previous collections, meaning that the factory’s fortunes are riding high again this year.

Helena read the piece through several times in dead silence. Then she took a long breath.

‘Fool!’ she breathed at last. ‘Is there a bigger fool in the world than me? So easy, so obvious, and I fell for it. All the time he’s been laughing-jeering at me-’

Now she too was laughing, shaken with bitter mirth that grew more violent until her whole body ached.

At last she calmed down and made her way slowly to a chair by the window, overlooking the water. She almost collapsed into it as though the strength had drained from her, and leaned back, her face stony.

Certain things came back to her, things that had been puzzling at the time but whose meaning was now brilliantly, horribly clear. Only the day before she’d bumped into Carla, apparently by chance, except that there’d been a mysterious significance in Carla’s manner. While babbling innocently she’d studied Helena’s face, as if searching for something. And her questions had been double-edged-did Helena know when Salvatore was returning to Venice? Had she heard about his line in glassware?

‘She was trying to find out if I knew,’ Helena mused. ‘She must have known-everyone must have known-and they’ve been watching me to see the moment when I realised.’

This was what Salvatore had done to her; not only used her for profit, but also made her the laughing stock of Venice.

When she was sure she had herself under perfect control she returned to the newspaper and read the story through from the start. It was cleverly written, suggesting only that Salvatore had been romantically inspired by her. There was no hint of the cold-blooded calculation that actually lay behind it.

‘They wouldn’t dare,’ she thought. ‘They might think it, but only I will say it, because I know it’s true.’

Cold-blooded. The words created a strange sensation in her, calling back the times when he’d been anything but cold, when the heat of his touch had inspired an even more fervent heat inside her, so that she had found a passion she’d never before known existed.

After years of being a figure of ice she’d discovered herself to be a deeply sexual woman, and all because a deceitful man had played her for a sucker. He’d warned her, but she’d refused to believe him, because at the same time something had been flowering in her that had nothing to do with the body, and everything to do with the heart.

Love. She hadn’t dared give it a name but now it seemed to dance mockingly before her. The warmth and tenderness that had been growing in her, the moment when she had instinctively defended him to Carla, she’d thought this was love.

And all the time he’d been standing back, studying her to discover the best way to make use of her. Something caught in her throat when she remembered waking up to find him watching her, tenderly, as she’d thought; but actually calculating how much money he could make from putting her on the market.

How fiercely he’d seemed to worship her body! And all the time he’d been taking notes, for profit.

Antonio’s photograph was looking at her from the bedside table, his face kind and cynical.

‘You warned me what he was like,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t listen. But those days are over.’

She rose to her feet, her expression grim.

‘Now I know what to do.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THERE was another day to wait until Salvatore returned. He called her at once.

‘I’d like us to meet immediately,’ he said. ‘There’s something we need to talk about.’

‘I agree. I’m on my way-’

‘I’d rather-’

But the line was dead. Helena had hung up.

A brief, hurried walk brought her to the palazzo.

‘Signor Veretti is in his study,’ the maid said.

Salvatore opened his door as she approached and closed it behind them. The newspaper lay open on his desk.

‘I know what you’re thinking-’ he began.

‘If you really knew what I thought of you, you’d shrivel and die,’ she informed him.

‘I don’t blame you for being angry. Since I saw that thing in the paper I’ve been trying to think how to explain to you-’

‘But why bother? We both know how things stand. I’m really glad to have been useful to you.’

‘Helena, I swear that piece was designed weeks ago, before I knew you.’

‘Just an unfortunate coincidence! Please, Salvatore, don’t insult my intelligence.’

Anger flashed in his eyes.

‘I’m telling you the truth. You own a glass works yourself, you know how long these things take to produce.’

‘I know I produced the devil’s head in two days, and you also produced a head in two days.’

‘Of course, it can be done in exceptional circumstances, but that was a one off. This-’he indicated the pictures in the paper ‘-was part of the line, created weeks before I met you. There’s no connection.’

‘And the name-Helen of Troy?’

‘That didn’t come from me. Some stupid journalist tacked it on, thinking he was being clever. After that everyone took it up. It was inevitable after we’d been seen together, but it wasn’t my doing. It was just a malign trick of fate.’

‘Malign? I don’t think so. Since when were profits malign? It is true, isn’t it, that this is outselling everything else?’

‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s true. But I didn’t arrange it that way. I ask you to believe me, Helena. Please.’

She gazed at him, wondering if she’d really heard him say please.

‘I’m begging you,’ he said quietly.

Suddenly she knew she was at a crossroads, seeing two directions. She could take the road of believing him, loving him, taking him on trust with the terrible risk of a betrayal that would destroy her. Or she could take the other direction, call him a liar to his face, walk away, safe forever from his machinations.

Safe and dead.

What had happened to her in his arms was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, offering joy as nothing else could ever do. If she left now she would never be hurt again, but there would be no joy, only a frozen desert. All she needed was the courage to take the risk.

‘How can I believe you?’ she asked in agony. ‘You’ve always boasted that you’ll stop at nothing to get the better of me, and you seem to have done so very thoroughly. If I believe in your innocence after this-well, you’ll have got the better of me again, won’t you?’

She faced him. He was very pale.

‘You could think that,’ he said slowly, ‘or you could remember some of the things that-recently-well-we each remember what we want to.’

‘I don’t want to,’ she cried. ‘But I don’t have any choice. You did this, it happened-’

‘But other things happened too,’ he said harshly. ‘We both know that. Did they matter less?’

‘I don’t know. But I can’t believe something just because I want to. Perhaps it’s better to stick to what I can bear to remember. You said it wasn’t safe to cross you, and I’d find that out. Well, I did, didn’t I? And once a lesson is learned, it’s learned. I can’t unlearn it. I wish I could, but I can’t.’

‘Do you know what you’re saying?’ he said quietly.

‘I’m saying that I understand what you’ve been trying to make me understand from the start. And I accept it. I don’t want to, but I must.’

His eyes kindled.

‘And when I tell you this was an unlucky accident-you won’t even try to trust me?’