Rising Fire Read online

  “It doesn’t mean you’re right, either.”

  The song came to an end. The dancers paused and applauded lightly, and some shuffling of partners went on. Denny supposed she would dance with Louis again, but before the music resumed, a man’s voice said from behind her, “Please, signorina, you must help me. My life is in danger!”

  Denny turned quickly. An elegantly attired, dark-haired young man a few years older than her stood there with a smile on his handsome face. He was well built but not overly tall. His gray eyes and Denny’s blue ones were almost on the same level.

  Denny cocked her head a little to the side, frowned, and said, “It doesn’t look to me like your life is in any danger. You look perfectly healthy to me.”

  “Ah, but that is because you cannot see my heart, signorina. There is no way for you to know that it will break completely in two if I do not have this dance, and all the other dances this evening, with you.”

  Denny glanced at Louis, who shrugged as if to say, I told you so. Then she turned back to the stranger.

  “Does that approach actually work?” she asked him. “Don’t women laugh in your face when you say such things?”

  “My face, it is strong enough to withstand a beautiful woman’s laughter, because when she laughs, she also smiles, and a smile from a beautiful woman is worth any risk. Especially a woman as lovely as you, signorina.”

  Denny studied him for a moment, then said, “Whatever I say, you’re going to have an answer for it, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “I speak only the truth, as any nobleman must.” He took her hand and bowed low over it. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Giovanni Malatesta, from the beautiful island of Sicily.”

  Even though Denny hadn’t grown up in the American West, the courtesy of the frontier ran in her veins, along with the blood of the Jensens. She said, “I’m Denise Jensen. This is my brother Louis.”

  Count Malatesta pressed his lips to the back of Denny’s hand, then murmured, “It is a great pleasure to meet you, Signorina Jensen. Denise . . . a lovely name for a lovely girl.”

  He straightened, held on to Denny’s hand for a second longer, then let go of it and forthrightly stuck out his own hand to Louis. “And an honor to meet you, my friend.” He looked back and forth between them. “Such a distinct resemblance. You are perhaps twins?”

  “We are,” Louis acknowledged as he shook hands with the count.

  “And Americans, of that there is no doubt.”

  “Why?” Denny asked. “Because you think we’re bumpkins, as so many Europeans do?”

  Malatesta pressed his right hand to his chest and shook his head. “Never! No Italian would ever be so ungracious as to think such a thing. Now, a German might hold such an opinion, perhaps . . . a Frenchman, most definitely! But not me or any of my countrymen.”

  The first notes of the next song came from the musicians. Malatesta held out his hand.

  “Please, signorina. Have mercy on my poor heart. Do not let it break in two.”

  Denny couldn’t help but smile. She put her hand in Malatesta’s and said, “Oh, all right. We’re guests in your country, after all.”

  “And very welcome guests, I assure you.”

  “But this one dance is all I’ll promise you.”

  “I will cast my fate to the winds of fortune and the mercy of a beautiful woman,” Malatesta said.

  He clasped her left hand with his right, put his other arm around her waist as she rested her right hand on his shoulder, and led her into a waltz. He was a very skilled dancer, moving perfectly in time to the music and making certain that she did, too. He didn’t pull her too close, instead maintaining a proper distance, but even so there was an undeniable intimacy in what they shared.

  After a few minutes, he asked quietly, “You are enjoying yourself?”

  “I am,” Denny admitted. “You dance very well.”

  “I do a great many things very well.”

  “Including boasting?” she asked.

  “It is not boasting if one can accomplish the things he claims,” Malatesta said.

  “In other words, as they say where I come from, no brag, just fact.”

  “That is one way of putting it. And where, exactly, is it that you come from, Signorina Jensen? America is your homeland, I know, but it is a vast country.”

  “Quite vast,” Denny agreed. “Actually, I was born in Boston and have spent a great deal of time in England. I’ve picked up some of the accent.”

  “Not much,” Malatesta said. “You still sound like an American to me.”

  “But my parents live in the West, in a state called Colorado, and since that’s my heritage and I’ve visited there enough, I consider myself a western girl.”

  “Colorado,” Malatesta repeated. “I believe I have heard of it. A place full of murderous desperadoes and wild, bloodthirsty Indians, is it not?”

  “Only in dime novels. Oh, there are still desperadoes, I suppose. There have always been men on the wrong side of the law and there always will be.”

  “Certainly quite probable.”

  “But the threat from the Indians is over, except in widely scattered places,” she said as they continued turning and swooping gracefully in time to the music. “The country is civilized now, or so they say.” She sighed.

  Malatesta frowned slightly and said, “You sound almost disappointed that it is so.”

  “Well, my father and mother had such exciting adventures when they were young and just married, and quite a few since then, too. It just seems hard to believe that so little time has actually passed since then. Only a few decades.”

  “History moves slowly when one studies it in books, but speeds along swiftly indeed when one is busy living it.”

  She looked squarely at him and said, “That’s a pretty profound thing to say.”

  “Forgive me,” he replied hastily. “The last thing I feel like being this evening is profound. And most people of my acquaintance would laugh at the very idea of me saying anything that might make a person think.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m enjoying dancing with you . . . and talking with you.”

  “Then my evening is already a spectacular success and will only get better from here, I think!”

  * * *

  Denny didn’t dance every dance with Count Giovanni Malatesta at that ball, despite his pleading, but she found herself in his arms quite often even though she tried to spread her attention around to some of the other single men in attendance.

  He was insistent, though, and eventually she gave up the battle, telling Louis, “I think it’ll be easier dancing with him than trying to avoid him.”

  “He does seem very determined,” Louis said.

  Denny looked over at her brother and asked, “What do you think of him?”

  “The count? He’s a charmer, no doubt about that. How genuine it is, I couldn’t tell you.” Louis paused. “He also seems to have a very high opinion of himself. Perhaps it’s deserved. After all, he is young, rich, handsome, and a nobleman. I’m sure a lot of the ladies here would love to be dancing with him.”

  Denny made a dismissive sound. “He thinks he can just come along and sweep me off my feet. This isn’t some Henry James novel. He’s not some sophisticated European taking advantage of the crass, crude Americans.”

  But despite her wariness, Denny said yes the next time the count asked her to dance, and after that they spent most of the rest of the evening together.

  When the hour grew late and the ball began to break up, Malatesta took hold of both of Denny’s hands and asked, “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you back to your hotel?”

  “I came here tonight with my brother.”

  “And I’ve spent enough time talking with Louis to know that he’s an intelligent, enterprising young man. I have no doubt he can find his own way back without your assistance.”

  Denny shook her head. “I’m sorry, but no, Count.”

  “Please,
after all the time we’ve spent together this evening, you should call me Giovanni.” A smile lit up his face. “Or perhaps even Johnny. That is how you Americans would say my name, is it not?”

  “Let’s just leave it at Count Malatesta, shall we?” Denny replied coolly.

  “As you wish.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I should not move so fast, I know. It’s just that my resistance is always so weak in the presence of such a beautiful woman.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to be strong. Louis and I are going back to the hotel in the same carriage that brought us here.”

  “Of course.” He took hold of her hand and bent to kiss the back of it again. “But you and I, we will see each other again. It is written in the stars, cara mia.”

  She and Louis were in the carriage, on their way back to the Hotel Metropole, before she said, “What does cara mia mean in Italian?” Louis had always had a better flare for languages than she did.

  “I believe it translates to ‘my beloved,’ or something very close to that. Why?”

  “I heard someone say it tonight.”

  Louis looked over at her in the shadows of the coach. “Count Malatesta?”

  “Never mind.” Denny rolled her eyes. “The whole thing is ridiculous.”

  But as she gazed out the carriage’s window at the cobblestone street rolling past, she realized she had a smile on her lips.

  CHAPTER 5

  It wasn’t exactly a whirlwind courtship, but once it got started, it moved along pretty fast.

  Count Malatesta sent flowers to Denny at the hotel the next day, and the day after that, but he didn’t come to call until the third day. Denny had considered suggesting to Louis that they go ahead and leave Venice, but she found herself strangely unwilling to do so.

  Her reluctance to go couldn’t have anything to do with the way Giovanni Malatesta was attempting to woo her so determinedly, she told herself. It was just that Venice was such a beautiful city, and she and Louis hadn’t yet seen everything there was to see. That was why they couldn’t leave yet.

  She knew Louis would have scoffed at that reasoning—and in the back of her mind, she did, too.

  When Malatesta showed up at the hotel and asked her to go with him to the Piazza San Marco and St. Mark’s Basilica, Denny couldn’t come up with a good reason to refuse the invitation, especially after Malatesta asked Louis to come along, too. That proved the Italian nobleman didn’t have any improper intentions, or if he did, he was being sly about them.

  “I don’t need a chaperone,” Denny said to her brother as they were getting ready to leave the hotel. Malatesta had gone back downstairs after telling them he would meet them in the lobby.

  “Good, because I wouldn’t amount to much as one, even if there was any trouble,” Louis said.

  Denny looked over at him. Louis wasn’t frail, exactly, but he wasn’t the picture of health, either. He had been born with a flaw in his heart that often left him pale, weak, and struggling for breath. In times of trouble, Denny was more likely to be the one taking the bull by its proverbial horns.

  She hated that he thought less of himself because of his condition. It was no fault of his own, and as far as she was concerned, no girl had ever had a better brother.

  She put her arms around him, hugged him, and said, “Don’t you ever think anything like that. You don’t know how much I depend on you, Louis.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a rueful smile. “I just hope I don’t ever let you down.”

  “You won’t,” she assured him.

  They went downstairs, where Malatesta greeted them in his jovial, booming voice as if they were old friends he hadn’t seen for years, instead of having left them at the door of their hotel room less than a quarter of an hour earlier. He ushered them toward the entrance doors of the vast, elaborately furnished lobby with its golden mosaics, jeweled tapestries, and gleaming marble floor.

  The Hotel Metropole was a square, four-story building with its name emblazed on a large sign that ran across the front, above the entrance. Steps on the other side of the small plaza in front of it led down to the Grand Canal, where gondolas and other boats waited to carry passengers along the watery thoroughfares of this ancient city. To the left as Denny, Louis, and Giovanni Malatesta walked toward the Grand Canal was one of the many graceful arched bridges to be found in Venice, this one crossing a smaller canal that ran alongside the hotel.

  Malatesta led the two Americans to a waiting gondola manned by a stocky, swarthy gondolier in the traditional outfit of tight white trousers, loose colorful shirt, and flat-crowned straw hat adorned by a small ribbon. The count took Denny’s hand and helped her step into the boat, then started to assist Louis as well, only to have him say, “Thanks, but I can manage.”

  “Of course, my friend.” Malatesta boarded with the grace of a large cat and took Denny’s hand again as they sat on one of the sumptuously padded benches. Louis sat opposite them, facing backward.

  The gondolier pushed off with the long pole that was the tool of his trade and sent the gondola gliding smoothly through the water. With expert skill, he guided the boat into the traffic on the Grand Canal.

  “With all the bridges, it is possible to walk from the hotel to St. Mark’s,” Malatesta said as he leaned back against the cushioned seat, “but I did not know if the two of you had ridden in a gondola yet. It is an experience that every visitor to Venezia must have.”

  “It just so happens that we’ve been to Venice before,” Denny said, “and this isn’t our first ride in a gondola. But it’s been a while, and it’s always a nice thing to do.”

  Despite the waterways that made it distinctive, in many ways Venice was like most of the other cities in Europe: a striking blend of beauty and squalor, wealth and poverty, and an assault on the senses. Nearly everywhere a person looked were gracious old buildings that were works of art every bit as much as the treasures some of them housed. But underlying the stunning visions that met the eye was the perpetual stink of dead fish. It was impossible to eliminate in a city built on the water. The canals themselves were lovely from a distance, but up close, trash floated in them. No one ever mentioned that. It was as if everyone in Venice, citizens and visitors alike, had agreed to turn a blind eye to the unavoidably ugly parts of life that went on here as they did everywhere else.

  The trip to the vast Piazza San Marco, with its busy shops and museums on three sides and the massive, magnificent edifice, St. Mark’s Basilica, at the far end, didn’t take long. Once they were there, Denny, Louis, and Malatesta joined the throngs of people strolling around the plaza, gazing at the wide variety of beautiful goods on display. They were in no hurry, and considering the crowds, it wouldn’t have done them much good if they had been. It took them more than an hour to reach the huge church, and they spent another hour inside, staring raptly at the statues and icons and tapestries and paintings, masterworks of art from all over Europe, some of them dating back hundreds of years.

  Later, back out in the plaza, Denny sat on one of the benches to rest. Malatesta sat beside her while Louis wandered off to look at the wares in one of the shops.

  Not far away, water bubbled in a fountain adorned by a statue of a naked cherub. Denny didn’t know if the statue was a work of art or just a decoration. She supposed it didn’t matter.

  “Are you enjoying yourself?” Malatesta asked.

  “I am,” she admitted. “It’s getting a little warm, though.” She was grateful for the hat she had worn, with its broad, floppy brim. The shade it provided for her face was welcome.

  “We can go back to the hotel soon,” Malatesta told her. “You will want to rest before I take you to supper tonight.”

  Denny laughed. “Who said I was going to have supper with you?”

  “But you must eat at the Café Top Rosso Elegante.” Malatesta kissed his fingertips and then blew that kiss off them. “The best food in all of Venice. You cannot pass up the chance to dine there.”

&nb
sp; “I don’t believe I’ve heard of that place.”

  Malatesta waved away her comment. “The ones who actually live in a city always know the best places to eat there. The café is, how you say it, off the beaten path. But you will love it, I give you my word.”

  “Is Louis invited to dinner as well?”

  Malatesta smiled slightly. “No offense to your wonderful brother, but it was my fondest hope that perhaps this evening, the two of us could spend some time alone together, cara mia.”

  “Isn’t that rather bold of you, referring to me as your beloved?”

  “Fortune favors the bold,” the count replied. “Isn’t that what they say? But as for me, I care not for fortune. All that matters to me is that Signorina Denise Nicole Jensen favors me. Say that you do, and my heart will leap so high, there is no way of knowing where it will come down.”

  Denny looked at him for a long moment, then finally said, “You’re starting to grow on me a little, I suppose.”

  He exclaimed in Italian as a brilliant smile broke out across his face. “My heart, she soars out of sight,” he added in English.

  “Better hold on to your heart,” Denny advised him drily. “You might need it.”

  He shook his head. “No, because the joy of being in your presence fills my chest instead and beats as warmly and strongly as my heart ever could.”

  “What you’re full of is . . . fancy talk,” Denny said, the smile on her face taking any sting out of the words.

  “So you will have supper with me?” he persisted.

  “I will,” Denny said. His flowery, grandiose proclamations amused her—quite possibly, intentionally on his part—and there was no denying that he was handsome and charming. It wasn’t going to hurt anything to spend more time with him.

  But she wasn’t going to lose her heart to him. She was absolutely certain of that.

  * * *

  Despite her best intentions, Denny spent most of every waking hour with Count Giovanni Malatesta during the next week, and even though she told herself that it was crazy, that she hadn’t come to Venice to have some sort of whirlwind romance with a dashing Italian nobleman, she realized that she was falling in love with Giovanni.