‘We fought,’ Laura admitted, amused by his disbelief. ‘I scratched her face and punched her.’ Bertelli’s expression made her laugh aloud. ‘I did! I looked at her and thought. She tried to kill me! She really tried to kill me! It made me very angry. She wasn’t getting away with it twice. I hit her, and it made me feel good, let me tell you. But then she deliberately went for my shoulder. It was agonising. I screamed. Sebastian was on the landing-stage, he heard me and jumped down into the cabin and pull
ed her off.’
Now Bertelli was as alert as a cat at a mousehole. ‘Then what did he do?’
‘He picked me up and carried me out of the boat.’
‘What about Signorina Hyde? What did he do to her? Say to her?’
She frowned. ‘I don’t remember him saying anything to her. I told you, he pulled her off me and pushed her away. She fell over on the steps of the boat, then she … well, she just vanished. I guess she went into the palazzo.’
He looked disappointed, thought for a minute, then asked, ‘What do you remember about her jumping out of the window?’
Sickness welled up in her stomach. She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Do I have to? It was horrible. I don’t like remembering.’
He insisted, ‘I’m sorry, but we have to get the facts straight.’
Laura sighed, and gave him a sketchy description of what had happened, not dwelling on what she had seen when Valerie landed.
‘After that I don’t remember much until I came to in this room.’ She stared into the leaping flames. ‘She must have been mad, poor woman. I didn’t like her, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her.’
Bertelli stood up. ‘Thank you for seeing me. We would be grateful if you would come to the station to make a formal statement, as soon as you are fit enough. Please do not leave Venice until after the inquest on Signorina Hyde.’ A human smile came into his eyes. ‘I am glad you are recovering. Being attacked again must have been a terrible shock to you, on top of everything else that has happened.’
‘Yes.’ That was the understatement of the year, but it was not what Valerie had done to her that made her feel ill. It was what Valerie had done to herself.
When he had gone, she stared into the fire, chilly in spite of its heat. Valerie had loved Sebastian. Clea had loved him. Loving Sebastian was dangerous. She shut her eyes. Stop thinking. Let your mind go blank, she told herself, and slowly fell into a light sleep, exhausted by the interview with Bertelli. She didn’t want to dream, but dreams came.
Her mind buzzed like a wasp’s nest, images stinging her, until she woke up with a gasp and found Niccolo there.
She was glad to see him sitting on the rug in front of the fire, his long legs bent up, balancing a sketch-pad on his knees, a pencil in his hand now. It moved so quickly, soundless, flowing, as if it grew from the end of his fingers.
He must have heard the alteration in her breathing because he looked up and smiled into her open eyes. ‘Hi, how are you now?’
‘You’re always here,’ she said, not complaining, just commenting.
‘I wish I was.’ His lashes drooped, and he looked through them wickedly at her.
‘You’re a flirt,’ she told him, and he grinned.
‘You look so sad all the time. I’m trying to cheer you up. Should you be sitting so near the fire? Would you like me to move your chair back a little?’
‘It’s fine. If it’s too far back I catch the draught from the window or the door. Sebastian and I experimented to find the perfect spot.’
He dropped his pad and pencil and lay back on the rug, his hands laced at the nape of his neck, gazing up at her. ‘Ah, yes, Sebastian. Always Sebastian.’
‘He is my director.’
‘And your lover.’
She didn’t answer.
‘Every time I see you, you’re more beautiful,’ Niccolo said softly.
She frowned. ‘Don’t. Please.’
‘You don’t like compliments?’
‘Not much. After all, I’m not responsible for the way I look. I just grew like this. When I was in my teens everyone told me I was ugly, clumsy, awkward, my arms and legs too long, my body too thin. Then suddenly men started telling me I was beautiful – but I hadn’t changed. I looked in the mirror and saw the same girl. I got very confused. And one day I’ll be old and men won’t rush up to tell me how beautiful I am, they’ll look away, thinking, What an ugly old hag, and how will I feel then?’