Prelude To Enchantment. Anne Mather

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      Sancha listened to him, enthralled in spite of herself. Then she realised he had stopped speaking and was regarding her with those disturbing eyes again and she sought refuge in the scribbled lines on her pad.

      Wetting her dry lips, she went on. ‘You write poetry, signore?’ without looking up.

      ‘Very little, signorina,’ he confessed softly. ‘The poems I am collating are the work of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century poets who regrettably were never recognised or published. Some are anonymous, some have the names of their authors, but all are quite beautiful.'

      The tenor of his voice changed as he spoke of these things he admired so much and Sancha realised that this was where his real enthusiasm lay. And because he was enthusiastic he had the power to fill her with enthusiasm, too.

      ‘Will you have some more wine, signorina?’ he asked suddenly, getting to his feet and crossing to where Paolo, had left the tray. ‘It is a hot afternoon. No doubt you are thirsty.'

      ‘Oh, no, no, thank you.’ Sancha shook her head vigorously. Already the heat of the room and the heady quality of the wine she had already drunk were combining to make her feel slightly drowsy. It was so quiet here, so peaceful after the hectic activity of the magazine offices.

      The Count poured himself more wine and then came to lean against the mantel again, one foot upraised to rest upon the polished brass fender before it. Sancha from her position could see the polished boot on his foot and the tautness of the dark trousers against the muscles of his legs. He was altogether too close for comfort and she slid back in her seat as surreptitiously as she could.

      ‘Is that all?’ he enquired now.

      ‘I—I think so.’ Sancha closed her book with a snap.

      ‘Good.’ He swallowed some of the wine and holding up his glass to the light examined the remainder of its contents with intent appraisal. ‘And now perhaps you will tell me something about yourself.'

      Sancha glanced jerkily towards the door, willing Tony to appear. This was the moment she had been dreading and now that it was upon her she was unprepared for it.

      ‘There's very little to know about me, signore,’ she replied, with what she hoped was casual nonchalance.

      ‘I am sure you are not serious, signorina,’ the Count persisted, turning his gaze to her once more. ‘For instance, what is an English girl like you doing working in Italy?'

      ‘How can you be sure I am English?’ Sancha was curious.

      The Count half smiled. ‘Your companion informed me that your Italian counterpart could not take the interview because of illness. Your name is Forrest, which you will admit is an English name, and besides, you forget, I heard you talking together in the gallery. It was inconceivable that you should be anything else. Besides, few Italian women have your excessive fairness.'

      Sancha bent her head. ‘I see.'

      ‘So now—you have not answered my question. Why are you working in Italy?'

      Sancha shrugged her slim shoulders, wishing he would move away, go and sit elsewhere, anything!

      ‘My uncle is the editor here,’ she explained. ‘I was working in the London office when he suggested I might like to spend a year working in Venice.'

      ‘Eduardo Tessile, he is your uncle?'

      ‘Yes, signore. His wife is my mother's sister.'

      ‘Ah so,’ the Count nodded. ‘And do you like it here?'

      ‘Very much.’ Sancha managed a slight smile. ‘Venice is a very beautiful city.'

      ‘You think so? You do not find the odorous scents of the canals offensive?'

      ‘No, signore.’ Sancha made an expressive gesture. ‘Do—do you?'

      ‘Me?’ The Count's eyes narrowed. ‘No, signorina. But you see Venice is as much a part of me as I am of it. It is my city, my home. The churches—the squares—the bridges; they represent so much more to me than mere architecture.'

      Sancha smoothed the cover of her notebook. ‘The Piazza San Marco is very impressive,’ she volunteered awkwardly.

      The Count finished his wine. ‘Yes, very impressive,’ he agreed dryly. ‘But then it is designed to be. However, myself I prefer the less—shall we say tourist-inhabited places of the city.'

      Sancha accepted his words silently. She couldn't think of any constructive comment to make. Although she had been in Venice six months she had in fact see little of the lesser-known areas of the city. She worked all week and at weekends her uncle and aunt seemed to think it was incumbent upon them to provide entertainment for her. They had no children of their own and consequently they went out of their way to show Sancha how much they enjoyed her company. In consequence she had done little sightseeing.

      ‘Tell me, signorina, how long have you been in Venice?’ The Count had poured himself more wine, and was now regarding her searchingly.

      ‘Oh—er—about six months,’ she replied quickly, wondering whether he was capable of reading her thoughts as well as disconcerting her as he did.

      ‘And of course you are staying with your uncle and aunt?'

      ‘Actually, no.’ Sancha shook her head. ‘My uncle's house is outside the city and although he commutes to his office every day he suggested I should share the flat of two other girls who work for Parita.’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I—I spend weekends with them.'

      ‘I see.’ The Count inclined his head. ‘You must forgive me if I am excessively curious, signorina, but in Italy a girl such as yourself would not be permitted such freedom.'

      Sancha shrugged. ‘Oh, we are quite-emancipated,’ she said, uncomfortably aware of the sardonic gleam in his eyes. She rose quickly to her feet and crossed the wide room to the tall windows which overlooked the canal, staring out with assumed interest. Opposite, the high wall of a building cast shadows on the water and beyond could be seen the gilded campaniles of the city. It was late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, but the scene was unbelievably beautiful.

      The Count flicked his lighter and the sound caused her to turn and glance quickly behind her. He was lighting another cheroot and the flame of the lighter illuminated the tanned length of his fingers. The only effeminate thing about him was the inordinate length and thickness of his lashes and these flickered upwards now as his eyes encountered hers. For a moment he held her gaze and then she looked quickly away tremblingly, aware that his eyes had been assessing her with an almost clinical detachment. But why? What reason could he have? …

      The opening of a door relieved her mortification and she swung round eagerly to see Tony entering the room with Paolo just behind him.

      The Count's reactions in comparison were smooth and unconcerned. ‘You have completed your pictures, Mr. Braithwaite?’ he enquired.

      Tony smiled politely. ‘I would like a couple of shots in here, if I may, signore,’ he replied, ‘but otherwise, yes, I'm very happy with what I've taken.'

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