Page 20 of Casanova LLC

Had I longed for any of that?

I thought of what Alessandro had asked me: when do you get made whole?

Before I interrupted my own thinking with yet another inbound airplane of a thought, I turned off the flashlight, and sent a text.

See you in two weeks.

Alessandro

Her connecting flight had been delayed in Paris, so I’d busied myself around the palazzo and gone to the market. I checked her flight and watched the clock and checked her flight again and, still leaving much earlier than necessary, got in the Riva and went to the airport. Idled in the lagoon until I received her text: just landed. No checked bags.

Woman after my own heart. Usually they arrived with the Louis Vuitton equivalent of a covered wagon.

I waved to Leonardo, who backed out of his spot to allow me in. Quickly tied off the line and jumped onto the pier.

I saw her, pulling her bag behind her, walking toward the vaporetto area. She scanned the docks, her pretty raven hair down and swirling in the light breeze coming off the water. I lifted my hand.

Seeing me, she smiled.

Phew.

I returned it and trotted up the dock to meet her.

She was dressed simply and it rendered her younger-looking. Black ballet flats. Black leggings and a long wool tunic that came to mid-thigh. No discernable makeup. She didn’t appear any worse for wear from the journey and that smile did to her face what a lamp did to a room. We came to a natural stop in front of each other and I waited. I wanted to see what she would do, how she’d decided to handle this once she’d made the decision to come. Without hesitation, and without touching me anywhere else, she came up on tiptoe and kissed my left cheek. My right. I followed her lead, but took the opportunity to whisper in her ear, “Welcome to Venice.” I reached for her small roller bag.

“Oh, thank you, but you don’t?—”

“You’re in my world now,” I soothed. “Allow me to be me. Sono al tuo servizio. I am at your service.”

She shrugged off her leather backpack and held it out to me. “In that case.”

On a gentle laugh, we walked toward the slip.

She slowed as we approached the boat, her face—and voice—going awestruck. “Is this yours?”

“Yes.” I left her suitcase on the dock and jumped down into the boat. “For generations now.”

“It’s gorgeous.” She paced back and forth, taking in every line of it, that collector eye of hers seeing it for the work of art that it was.

“It’s a classic. A ‘58 Riva.” I lifted her bags down into it.

“My father wanted one of these, or something like it.” I offered her my hand. Once in the boat, our faces close now, she brought her eyes to mine. “Thanks,” she murmured, then turned away and slipped between the two front seats.

I secured her bag and leather backpack under the tarp that matched the boat’s aquamarine trim, untied the line, and joined her at the front, turning the engine over. “I’ve got jackets and ponchos in case it rains but let me know if you get cold.”

“I’ll be fine.”

I gave a small wave to Leonardo as I backed out, navigated around the waiting vaporettos, and turned toward the open water. As we moved away from the docks, I sensed Claire assessing me. “One more thing.” I reached into my jacket pocket and held up a simple black hair tie.

She took it from me, our fingers brushing. “It’s like you’ve done this before.” As I maneuvered past the buoys, I glanced over and watched her pull her hair back and secure it tightly at the base of her neck. That neck with that sensitive little trigger point.

I pushed the throttle fully forward and we shot out into the lagoon. She gave a gasp that turned into a laugh and I told myself that was promising.

We took our time getting back to the palazzo. Claire was interested in everything. She stood the entire time, pointing, exclaiming, asking questions. When we saw a dolphin, she leaned so far over the side of the boat in glee that I had to grab the back of her sweater to keep her from going overboard. Which momentarily exposed her legging-covered ass.

My response to the female form, at this point in my career, was rarely, if ever, one of lust. Only assessment. Charting. By noting how a woman dressed, which parts she hid and which she flaunted, I built a strategy. A different woman, for instance, with an ass as nice as Claire’s, would have worn leggings with no sweater covering them. But Claire was not so overt. She was classy. Classic. She covered things so that they might, given the right circumstances, be uncovered.

Just as we turned into the Grand Canal, the sky darkened with not only evening, but ponderous clouds I knew all too well. I navigated as agilely and quickly as Venetian laws allowed, but it wasn’t enough. With about a kilometer left to go, the heavens opened.

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