Meet Me in Venice (8 page)

Every dish turned out at Verlaine had to be perfect: perfect ingredients perfectly prepared and most certainly perfectly presented. Which did not mean towering edifices of food; nor mean-spirited small portions disguised as fashionable; nor those slurps of heavy “extra-virgin” olive oil poured over everything, completely destroying the individual carefully cooked flavors.

Anyhow, tonight she meant to outdo herself. Preshy was bringing a boyfriend—well hardly that, she’d only met him last night and the guy was leaving for Shanghai tomorrow. It certainly didn’t sound too promising to Sylvie, but Daria said he was gorgeous and Preshy seemed crazy for him, and she intended to check him out carefully. Shanghai was a long way from Paris. It would be easy for a visiting businessman to have a quick affair and then forget all about it, and Sylvie wasn’t about to let that happen to her friend.

They arrived at eight-thirty, windblown and a little wet from a sudden rainsquall. “Welcome, welcome,” she said, advancing to greet them, smart in her chef ‘s whites. A flushed, smiling Preshy introduced Bennett, who shook her hand firmly. He was smiling, but not too much, Sylvie thought, not as though he wanted to impress her and try to make her his friend.

She put them at a quiet corner table, told them there was no choice and that she was in charge of dinner and she wanted no complaints. She sent over a chilled bottle of Heidsieck Rosé Sauvage Champagne and an
amuse-bouche
of a tiny curried crab cake wrapped in spinach leaves, then went back to her kitchen, where things were quite literally hotting up, since the dining room was now full.

It didn’t faze Sylvie; she was used to the organized chaos of a restaurant kitchen. Her keen eye took in that everyone was in their appointed place, that her sous-chefs were chopping and stirring, cooking and plating. She ran her usual interference then went to the stove and prepared to send Bennett James the meal of his life. She’d see what he had to say to that. Then she would get the true measure of the man.

As she sent out the first course of lobster ravioli, she peeked round the door. They were sitting close together on the banquette, not opposite each other, which was where they had started out.
And
they were holding hands. Humph! This looked serious.

“She’s very cute,” Bennett said later, watching Sylvie moving amongst the tables, chatting to the other diners, on top of everything as always. “Not only that, she’s a fabulous chef. Where did she learn to cook like this?”

“Believe it or not, she really got interested when she went to stay at Daria’s family’s summer place on Cape Cod. We used to hang out there together in the summer and Sylvie got a job at the local lobster house. She’d bring home the leftovers and rehash them the next day into something superb for lunch. Between that and her barbecues we all gained weight, and Sylvie ‘s fate was sealed. A chef was what she wanted to be and she never looked back.”

“Sounds like fun,” Bennett said, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. Their glance smoldered.

“You’re taking my breath away,” Preshy murmured, releasing her hand. “I think I need more wine.”

“Will it bring back your breath?” he asked as he filled her glass with the simple chilled Brouilly Sylvie had recommended to go with the entrée.

Preshy shivered as she sipped her wine, but it wasn’t because of its chill. “I confess, I don’t want it back.” She smiled at him. “I kind of like being ‘breathless.’ “

“Doesn’t it impede your eating ability?”

She threw back her head and laughed. “Nothing ever stops me from eating,” she said, tucking into the moist, tender Bresse chicken that tasted the way no other chicken in the entire world did.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sylvie said, passing by. “Everything all right?” she asked, in French.

“Sylvie, this food is . . .” Bennett seemed stumped for words. “It’s marvelous,” he said. “I’ve never eaten anything so good in all my life.”

“Even in Shanghai? I hear the food is wonderful there, so inventive, so exotic.”

“But this is different. I might have to move to Paris so I can eat at Verlaine more often.”

Sylvie beamed at the compliment. “I’ll welcome you anytime,” she assured him, and then, while they ate a small but perfect salad, followed by a selection of impeccable cheeses, she went back to her kitchen and prepared the simplest and most old-fashioned of
French desserts called floating islands. This was a light egg custard topped with meltingly soft egg whites whipped with sugar, then shaped with a tablespoon into “islands,” that she “floated” on the custard. She finished it with a dusting of crushed pralines. It looked beautiful and perfectly simple but in Sylvie ‘s hands it became a sublime blending of delicate flavors and textures.

“Floating islands,” Bennett exclaimed when she presented it. “It almost sounds Chinese. I think I might have to abduct you, Sylvie, get you to open a restaurant in Shanghai.”

They laughed, and glancing at Preshy who was gazing admiringly at Bennett, Sylvie was glad to see her so happy. And besides, the man couldn’t take his eyes off her. Sylvie was surprised the two of them had even had time to eat the floating islands, they were so absorbed in each other.

Later she went and sat with them as they lingered over coffee, reminiscing with Preshy about their summers with Daria on Cape Cod.

“I have to take you there sometime,” Preshy said eagerly to Bennett. Then, realizing what she had said, she quickly backtracked. “Of course you’re much too busy for anything like that.”

“I could make time,” Bennett replied, giving her that long look that Sylvie noted reduced her friend to a simmering silence.

He glanced regretfully at his watch—expensive, Sylvie observed, thankful that at least Preshy hadn’t been hit on by a hard-up struggling artist, something that had happened before in her friend’s search for “love.” Not only was Bennett James handsome, he seemed respectable and rich.

He said they had to go and they left in a flurry of good-night
kisses and promises from Bennett to return. As soon as they’d gone Sylvie was on the phone to Daria.

“Well?” Daria said.

“It’s too late, she’s sunk.”

“Is it that bad?”

“He seems too good to be true. The only flaw is the Shanghai bit. Six thousand miles is a long way.”

“Yeah, but they could always find a way around that,” Daria said, then she laughed. “Listen to us, talking like a pair of old matchmakers and Preshy’s only known him twenty-four hours.”

“Maybe it’s enough,” Sylvie said, remembering how they had looked at each other.

D
ID
you really enjoy it?” Preshy asked as she and Bennett strolled hand in hand back through the maze of little side streets that led down to the rue Jacob.

“I thought it was wonderful.” Bennett was looking at her. Raindrops misted her hair and her eyes had an underwater aquamarine quality. “But I was happy just to be with you,” he added.

She squeezed his hand, smiling. “Me too,” she said shyly.

Ignoring the rain, they stopped to look in the illuminated shop windows, criticizing the paintings in the many galleries and admiring the antiques and clothing boutiques. When they finally found themselves back in the courtyard, this time Preshy asked if he would like to come up. “For a nightcap,” she added with a giggle
because it sounded like such a ploy, which of course it was. She wasn’t about to let him get away tonight.

Bennett followed her in, looking around at the pleasant place she had made home. He helped her off with her wet jacket, removed his own, then took her in his arms.

“No nightcaps,” he murmured, pushing her wet curls behind her ears. “It’s just us, Preshy . . . you and me . . .” She twined her arms around his neck, waiting for his kiss. “Is this what you truly want, darling Preshy?” he said quietly. “I don’t want to hurry you.”

She shook her head, sending raindrops flying from her still damp hair. “You’re not hurrying me.” Her lips were a mere breath away from his.

She closed her eyes as they kissed. Her knees had turned to jelly and she was melting into him, into the scent of him, the feel of his mouth on hers, his body against hers. She had never felt this wondrous emotion before, never known that wanting someone could be like this, where all you wanted to do was give yourself and to take and receive pleasure from your man. The real world was locked out as Bennett picked her up and carried her into the bedroom for what Preshy knew was to be the defining moment of her life.

AS DAWN BROK E S HE FEEL
into an exhausted slumber. She did not hear Bennett get up, shower, put on his clothes and walk into the living room. He stood for a few minutes looking out the window, a frown on his face as he thought how to play this game out.

He turned and scanned the array of family photographs on the shelves by the fireplace. He picked up one he guessed was the rich aunt who Lily had said would leave Preshy her money, resplendent in scarlet chiffon at the Monte Carlo Red Cross Gala. He studied her face for a few minutes, then his eye was taken by the wedding picture of Grandfather Hennessy and his bride in her traditional Austrian dirndl.
And a jeweled necklace with a single giant pearl
He looked at it for a long time. So Mary-Lou was right about the necklace after all. And Lily really did have it. A glimmer of an idea entered his mind. There might be a way he could achieve both objectives—the heiress and the necklace. He put the photo in his pocket and went back into the bedroom.

Preshy heard Bennett speak her name. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, looking at her.

“I have to leave you,” he said. “Not because I want to, believe me I don’t, but I have a flight to catch.”

“Of course.” She sat up hurriedly, clutching the sheet over her breasts, though why she was being so modest after what had happened between them she didn’t know.

He took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up to him. “You know I’ll be back,” he said gently.

She nodded, suddenly numb with fear that he might not be.

“Preshy,” he said reassuringly. “I mean it. I’ll be back for you.” He leaned in and kissed her gently on the mouth, then he got up and walked to the door. He turned to look at her one last time, sitting up in bed with the sheet still clutched to her, her eyes round and sad. “Soon,” he said. “I promise.”

And then he was gone. Thousands of miles away, to Shanghai.

CHINA

L
ILY
drove the black SUV slowly along the unpaved road, high over a narrow gorge on the Yangtze River. It was past midnight with that dense almost tangible darkness found only in remote country areas, far from the city’s halogen glow, and it was raining hard. The headlights picked up the bitter, barren landscape, like something from an ancient Chinese brush painting, misty gray and dead white with the stark black silhouettes of trees stripped of their leaves by the perpetual raking wind.

She pushed her hair impatiently from her delicately boned face, peering into the rainy night, searching for her destination.

Next to her, Mary-Lou adjusted her rimless glasses that reflected the headlights, looking out for a landmark, anything that would tell them they were nearing their rendezvous, but her
mind was only half on it. She was worried. She still had not heard from Bennett.

Both women wore knitted watch caps, jeans and black jackets, thickly padded to keep out the icy wind. And in Mary-Lou’s pocket was hidden a snub-nosed black pistol. A Beretta. Of course Lily did not know about the Beretta, but if there was any trouble Mary-Lou wanted to make sure at least
she
came out alive.

The road twisted away from the river, up a steep hill, winding between thin stands of trees bending under the prevailing wind, past watery rice paddies and small fields. In the gloom Lily made out the shapes of the poor wooden houses. She quickly doused her headlights, feeling her way around a sleeping village and down the hill to the burial ground. The directions had been good and she found it without any trouble.

A pair of armed guards raised their rifles as they sighted the truck and Lily gave three short muted blasts of her horn, the signal that she was expected. Ahead, under the wall, she could see a small flatbed truck and a larger van.

She switched off the engine and the two women got out and stood, shivering, waiting for the signal to advance. A man appeared from behind the flatbed, the back of which was protected from the rain with a tarpaulin. He gestured for them to come forward, watching carefully to see there was no one else with them. His was a dangerous business with plenty of competition and he could not be too careful.

He motioned them to the flatbed, lifting the tarp to show the muddy treasures hidden beneath. The tomb he was robbing was very old and the artifacts—vases and vessels, statues and jade
carvings—were prized for their antiquity. He knew their value on the hidden market and he knew what he could expect to get from Lily Song, but first there was bargaining to be done.

The Chinese are masters at the art of bargaining and Lily was no exception. Keen to get a good price, she and Mary-Lou picked out the pieces they wanted then Lily and the man went and sat in the truck to hash out the deal.

Mary-Lou remained behind, keeping a careful eye on the guards. When they finally turned their backs and took shelter from the wind behind the wall for a quick smoke, she walked silently into the cemetery. Hidden in the shadows, she watched a group of men battering down the doors to a second tomb. Glancing quickly round, she saw what she was looking for: a small pile of artifacts waiting to be collected and carried to the truck. Crouching low, she crept closer. In seconds she had picked up a small bowl. It was still covered in dust and dirt, but looking at it, she knew it was of Imperial jade. She also knew its potential value.

Her heart thumping with excitement, she slipped it in her pocket next to the gun, then ran silently back up the path to the pickup. If she were caught these men would have no mercy. She and Lily would both be shot and thrown into the river, but somehow she just knew she was safe.