A Dangerous Arrangement Read online

  Marina smiled at the viola player, the joker of the group. Yesterday he’d swapped instruments with his identical twin brother, Eli, the second violinist. To their amusement, she’d spent all day calling the young Americans by the wrong name. She didn’t mind. Their fooling around made her feel welcome, eased her anxiety a touch.

  She was packing up when she sensed Vlad’s bulky frame beside her.

  ‘How is it?’ His voice was low, his back to the twins so they didn’t overhear the exchange.

  Marina rotated her wrist. Two rehearsals down, and she couldn’t feel a twinge. She released a slow breath and looked up into Vlad’s concerned face.

  ‘It’s okay. It might get sore later on though. Hard to tell.’

  ‘RSI’s a snobby bitch. Only strikes the prodigious.’

  Marina closed the snaps on her case. ‘If I were prodigious, it wouldn’t have happened.’

  Vlad gave a shake of his head. ‘When are you going to believe it, Marina? You’re twice as talented as anyone I know.’

  Heat rose in Marina’s face until her cheeks burned. ‘According to the critics there are more deserving violinists.’

  ‘The critics are a bunch of pricks.’

  Marina shook her head, unconvinced, then smiled a little as Vlad gave a dramatic sigh and hung his head.

  This is what she did to people. Exasperated them. At least with Vlad it didn’t matter. He knew her well from their student days and would suspect the RSI had been caused by overpractising.

  He looked up. ‘What are your plans for tonight?’

  Marina hitched her tote bag onto her shoulder and picked up her case. ‘I think I’ll just have dinner, and stay in.’

  ‘Have you even been on a gondola yet?’

  Marina frowned. ‘You know I hate the water.’

  He gave a loud laugh and rolled his eyes. ‘Come on Rina, you can’t come to Venice and not go on a gondola. They’re right across the canal from your hotel. It will lift your spirits, I promise.’

  Marina’s shoulders slumped. Vlad had been his usual upbeat self from the moment she’d arrived, convinced the five-day gig on the cruise ship would ease her into playing again. How could she say that her body felt as cold as the gel pack she applied to her wrist three times a day? How could she tell him every pleasurable emotion had been erased the moment the specialist diagnosed repetitive strain injury? Vlad had gone to so much trouble to organise this gig for her, she couldn’t admit the last thing she felt like doing was playing tourist.

  With a deep breath, she nodded. ‘You’re right. I’ll go, I promise.’ She shot him a glance as they walked together towards the main doors, pleased at the satisfied expression on his face. ‘And I’ll do my best to get my happy on for the cruise.’

  He frowned at that. ‘You don’t have to pretend with me, Rina.’

  ‘I know.’

  They lingered for a while longer, discussing sections of the score that needed work, and then Vlad opened the heavy door for her. ‘Go back to the hotel and do your rehab. We’re as prepared as we can be.’

  Marina stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his bearded cheek. ‘I may not sound it, but you know how grateful I am.’

  A pale pink blush stained the big Russian’s cheeks. ‘Hey, it’s not every day the first violinist from the Sydney Symphony joins my string quartet. You’ll lend us some class, even if we’re playing to a bunch of inebriated tourists.’

  ‘Say hello to that beautiful wife of yours when you call to say goodnight.’ Marina smiled, thinking of Elena who’d only been too happy to sit this cruise out and stay home with their children.

  ‘I will.’ Vlad pointed an index finger at her. ‘Tomorrow. Pier three. Don’t be late.’

  With a wave, Marina stepped outside and looked around the piazza. It was less crowded than when she’d arrived three hours earlier. Then, hordes of camera-toting tourists and street vendors had vied for space, while restauranteurs shouted down their opposition in an effort to coax the passing crowd inside. Now, only a handful of people gathered around the central fountain, droplets glistening in the afternoon sun as water sprayed from tridents and the mouths of fish.

  Using the obelisk as a landmark she set off across the square, heading for the narrow street that would lead her back to the Rialto Bridge. Pigeons cooed from every ledge and windowsill, while the stench of diesel fume hung over the city from the thousands of watercraft using the canals.

  She faltered as her phone vibrated in her pocket, then remembered no-one knew she was in Venice. With a deep breath, she continued on and let the call go through to message bank. At home she’d been careful to keep the diagnosis quiet, resting her arm during the symphony’s three-month break. But with the new season due to begin in six weeks, she needed to be certain her wrist would stand up to the rigours of performance. And if she broke down, she’d rather it happen on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean than at the Sydney Opera House.

  Within minutes the stone portico of the Rialto Bridge came into view. Packed with tourists the architectural icon spanned the Grand Canal, and beside it stood the dusky pink facade of the Hotel Mercurial.

  Marina sighed with relief. The breeze was hair dryer hot, but that was okay, she could handle hot. Not so wading through knee-deep water should the notorious tide decide to flood the water city.

  The porter swung the door open and she stepped inside, welcoming the cooler temperature in the art deco lobby. On her approach the front desk supervisor looked up and smiled.

  ‘Ah, the Stradivarius.’ He straightened the cuff of his white jacket. ‘Would you like me to put it in the safe again tonight, signora?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ Marina handed over the instrument, watching as he ran his hand over the smooth surface of the slim high-tech case.

  She waited at the curved wooden counter while the man opened a steel door and disappeared into the walk-in safe. On his return, he took a leather-covered journal from beneath the counter and entered in the item plus the date and time.

  ‘Thank you.’ Marina took the pen he offered and signed her name next to the entry. ‘It’s insured of course, but I won’t take any chances with it.’

  ‘Certainly, signora.’ The man spoke quietly as he closed the book and stowed it beneath the desk, the epitome of professionalism and discretion.

  In her room on the third floor, Marina swallowed two anti-inflammatory tablets and fetched the gel pack from the bar fridge. The Louis chair by the window afforded an uninterrupted view of the bridge, and she sat down, yawning as she rolled up her sleeve and wrapped the pack around her left wrist. The coldness burned her skin and she thought about getting up and wrapping it in a towel, but decided against it. The long-haul flight from Sydney a few days ago was still messing with her body clock.

  Taking a deep breath, she began her routine of circular breathing, using the technique a trumpet player had shown her years before. Back then he’d insisted it would help her with stage fright. Now, it was a part of her daily routine.

  Before long her eyelids began to droop and she snuggled deeper into the chair, surrendering to the wonderful drifting feeling that often precedes sleep.

  She sat straight, violin tucked beneath her chin, bow poised, eyes riveted on the conductor. Heat, as powerful as the Australian sun, beat down on her from the suspended stage lights. In her peripheral vision Marina could see the pale faces of the silent audience seated in the first few rows. Then the conductor cast one final look over the orchestra, and raised his baton…

  Marina’s phone blurted an alert, startling her from her slumber. Blinking against the beam of sunlight slanting through the window, she dug the device from her pocket and squinted at the screen.

  With a sigh, she called her voicemail.

  Did she really believe she’d get away with keeping this trip a secret?

  ‘Hi, it’s Michelle.’

  Marina leaned forward. Her sister never phoned for a sisterly chat, only when she needed money, over and above what Ma
rina already provided.

  ‘Dad needs eye surgery.’ Her sister’s voice was so clear she could have been in the next room, not halfway across the world in Boston. ‘He has cataracts, on both eyes. Anyway, call me. You know what it costs to have surgery in this country.’

  Cataracts. Not life threatening but invasive enough to send a person blind if they weren’t attended to.

  Marina breathed a sigh of relief and keyed in a text to her sister. ‘I’m on tour, Michelle. I’ll call in the next day or so. Go ahead and organise the op. Don’t worry about the money.’

  Don’t worry about the money!

  Marina put a hand to her forehead. She could afford it, provided she kept her tenure with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra.

  And if she didn’t?

  There was no way she could afford to keep Michelle at home caring for their father with only a teacher’s wage to rely on.

  Marina dropped the phone in her lap and turned to gaze at the gondolas bobbing up and down on the water. Vlad was right. She should get out and do something. Sitting around the hotel room would achieve nothing. She had to stay positive. Her performance career wasn’t over yet.

  Curling her fingers into a fist, she prayed the rest time had been long enough.

  Her hands were her livelihood.

  Without them, she was nothing.

  Chapter Three

  At six in the evening the Mercurial Hotel was a busy place. Porters manoeuvring trolleys threaded their way through the crowded lobby. Tourists, mostly families, formed an untidy queue outside the Canal Ristorante in the hope of securing a table for the early sitting.

  From his spot on a comfortable sofa, Dean watched the steady procession of guests from behind his newspaper. Progress reports continued to flow in from Sydney, relayed via Rask who’d stayed on the yacht to coordinate the investigation. According to the itinerary, Marina Wentworth was staying at this hotel prior to boarding a cruise ship in the morning.

  Dean glanced down at his silent phone. He had no idea what she looked like, but if he wanted to find Victor Yu, he needed to locate Marina Wentworth before she embarked on that ship.

  Eyes gritty from lack of sleep, Dean looked towards the concierge desk where a woman with an American accent, New Yorker maybe, was booking a water taxi for tomorrow morning. No prizes for guessing the reason for the concierge’s overattentive manner. The woman was striking. There was no other word for her. She wore a blue silky top and tight white jeans, a silver belt draped over her hips and sandals with a blue stone in the centre. Long, dark hair fell in loose waves to just above her waist.

  As if she sensed someone watching, the woman turned and scanned the people in the lobby. For a full second her eyes locked on his, and while Dean’s heart might have stopped, another organ lower down stood up and took notice. Every facial feature was a fraction overemphasised, from the arched brows to the large vivid eyes, from the cut-glass cheekbones to the slightly wide mouth and full lips.

  He smiled instinctively, but the woman had already turned back to the concierge.

  Dean looked away. It had been a long time since a woman had evoked such an immediate physical response, especially when she’d barely glanced at him. And now wasn’t the time to be distracted by a beautiful woman. He was here to find the teacher who’d leased out her second bedroom to Victor Yu, a week before he’d started work at the office.

  The Taiwanese citizen had proved elusive, while the woman had been easier to trace. Her car had been left at Sydney airport, though a neighbour charged with the job of caring for Wentworth’s cat insisted Marina was travelling throughout northern Australia.

  So, the violin teacher was a liar, as well as a possible accomplice.

  It was enough to set Dean’s teeth on edge.

  He lowered his newspaper as a flash of blue appeared in his peripheral vision. The American woman was walking towards the hotel entrance, shoulders straight, dark hair a striking contrast with her white jeans.

  And then the bellhop, who’d jumped at Dean’s inducement to point her out, opened the door with a flourish and looked directly at Dean.

  ‘Enjoy your evening, Ms Wentworth.’

  Dean froze, though his heart kicked against his ribs so hard it almost robbed him of breath.

  No way!

  There had to be some mistake.

  He stood, flung aside the newspaper and with his eye on the bellhop, strode towards the entrance.

  With a faint nod the young man opened the door, and then Dean was on the street, punching in Rask’s speed-dial number.

  Rask had a theory: Yu and Wentworth had become lovers, the hacker had spent six months working his way through every security protocol in the office, and six months working his way into his landlady’s pants. Together, they’d formed an image of a lonely, middle-aged woman, maybe coerced into breaking the law by a lover she didn’t want to lose. But if this woman was Yu’s accomplice, he and Rask had failed miserably in their profiling. This woman could have any man she desired.

  Rask picked up after the fourth ring. ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Where’s the photograph of Marina Wentworth?’ Dean spoke in a low voice, dodging around strolling tourists, eyes fixed on the woman up ahead.

  ‘They’re still searching. Apart from the itinerary, there was nothing on the desktop computer except orchestral music. Why?’

  ‘I might have found her, and she’s nothing like we imagined. She’s American. A looker, a serious looker.’

  He sidestepped a queue of people waiting for the water taxis. ‘It doesn’t add up, Rask. If Yu’s seduced this girl, he’s punching above his weight. Or he’s offered her money.’

  There was a short silence, and in his mind’s eye Dean could see Rask’s dour expression as he digested this latest piece of information.

  ‘How did you find her?’

  ‘I paid off the bellhop.’ Dean broke into a jog as the woman turned onto the crowded Rialto Bridge. ‘Look, I understand she’ll have all her identification on her, and her photographs are probably on a laptop or something, but there must a way to get a shot of her. Have you tried the neighbour?’

  ‘I’ll ask Sydney to make it a priority. We’re still trying to establish if Yu’s left the country. The airline confirmed Wentworth paid for two seats, but she was the only one who checked in.’

  Dean slowed to a walk at the top of the arched bridge, keeping his eye on Marina as she joined the queue for the gondolas. ‘Who was the second seat for?’

  ‘We’re trying to find out. We think it was empty.’

  Dean frowned, keeping Marina in his sights as he tried fitting the pieces together. Usually the only people who reserved two seats were the extremely overweight. And people like him, who would ordinarily fly business class but had missed out on a seat because of a late booking. On those rare occasions he’d purchased two seats so he could sleep on the plane. But to his way of thinking, it was unlikely for someone on a teacher’s wage to blow money like that.

  ‘She’s taking a gondola ride.’ Dean stepped around a colourful display of leering Venetian masks. ‘As I said, it doesn’t add up. If she’s part of this, wouldn’t she be holed up somewhere, not flitting around playing tourist? I’m not sure we’re on the right track.’

  ‘We’re on the only track. She left the country the day her flatmate locked up your entire system. We haven’t located him, so we stick with her.’

  A gondola laden with tourists moved away from the dock and into the busy Grand Canal. The moment it moved off, another took its place.

  ‘Any trouble with the paparazzi?’

  The question took Dean by surprise, though it shouldn’t have. Outmanoeuvring the paparazzi was a favourite part of Rask’s job.

  ‘No sign of them yet.’ Dean lifted his sunglasses from where they hung over his camera strap and slipped them over his eyes. The paparazzi hadn’t crossed his mind since he’d piloted the chopper into Cannes and made the connecting flight to Venice. Still, Rask’s reminder was timely
. The last thing he needed was the press on his tail while he was shadowing Marina Wentworth.

  ‘Get me that shot,’ he said into his phone. ‘Gotta go.’

  He disconnected the call before Rask could answer, continuing down the bridge’s steep decline until he was standing on the opposite bank.

  Shouldering his way through the group of tourists, he murmured apologies and pointed up ahead as if someone were keeping him a spot in the queue. A few people frowned but no-one really objected, and moments later he was standing directly behind Marina Wentworth.

  She stood statue straight, the strap of her handbag hanging from one creamy shoulder, a light jacket looped over her left arm. She paid no attention to the people around her, or the activity on the canal for that matter. She just stood there, a light breeze lifting long strands of her hair so he caught the scent of almond and vanilla.

  Dean clenched his hands at his sides. He wanted to take hold of her shoulders, swing her around, look into those beautiful vivid eyes and extract a confession.

  But he couldn’t.

  Not yet.

  If Marina Wentworth became aware of his presence she didn’t let on, and for the first time Dean wondered if she would recognise him. Despite the ‘no camera’ policy in head office, Yu could have snapped him and shown her a photograph. It was unlikely though. She’d looked right at him in the lobby without a flicker of recognition, and his profile didn’t appear on the website, or in any of the company’s documentation. Plus, with Rask close at hand to deal with the paparazzi, he rarely appeared in the gossip magazines.

  Dean shifted his attention to the shouting gondoliers and considered his next move. When Ms Wentworth with the American accent stepped into a gondola, he needed to be right there alongside her.

  ***

  Marina felt the man’s presence close up behind her. Warmth emanated from his tall, broad body, even as it cast a shadow over her.

  Her thoughts shifted to the good-looking man she’d turned to find watching her in the hotel lobby. The one with the brooding brown eyes and stylishly cut hair. The one who’d almost smiled. The one who’d sent heat surging through her body with a single glance.