In the silent, strange, cloudy streets Cristine felt lost and very much alone, and that increased the sense of panic which swept into her.
If they had spoken it would not have been so scary. It was their silence which made their effect so hard for her to treat casually. They were no more than sixteen, she thought, but they were acting peculiar simultaneously as though they had worked out what they would do before they came up with her. Had they been following her? Or had they done this before?
One of them ran his hand down her hip and Cristine's temper flared. She swung round towards him, pushing him away, heat running into her face, then began to run, only to be trapped by them again, her arms held tightly. She screamed, and the sound of her voice echoed all around in the mist. One of them put a hand over her mouth, but from somewhere in the dark, dripping silence came another voice.
"What's wrong?" It was a male and it was English, deep and surpeised.
The boys didn't move and Cristine could not utter a sound, the hand over her mouth suffocated her. She made muffled, angry gasped instead.
"Where are you?"
There were footsteps and they were coming towards them. She could not see the two boys now. They stood, tense and listening, hesitant to end their game but not wishing to get caught. Suddenly they push her away and ran silently, the faint scratch of rubber on the stone the only evidence that they had ever been there. The fog swallowed them.
Cristine was shaking, swearing under her breath. She put out her hand and leaned on the wall. Her legs felt weak and there was a damp sweat that made her blouse stick to her back.
The fig broken up and a man came through it, the solid weight of his body displacing it. Breathing roughly, Cristine stared at him.
"Was that you screaming? Why the hell didn't you answer? What was wrong? Are you lost?"
Cristine couldn't find a word to say. She could hear her heart beating like a drum.
"Are you alright?" He looked as if he wanted to hit her. He had an impatience. She felt he was going somewhere and in a hurry and displeased because she had delayed him. He wanted to deal with the problem of her and get away. "Say something can't you?" he added moving closer.
"Some boys jumped me." she said and saw his eyebrows rise.
He looked around. "Boys?"
"They ran when you shouted back."
He did not look as if he believed what she's saying. "I see." he said considering her. "You aren't hurt?"
She shook her head. Now that she was safe and her heart was beginning to slow down she was embarrased by what happened. She was flushed and irritable.
"I'm sorry you were troubled." she said.
He looked amazed at the phrase. "I wasn't troubled." he said. "I thought you were someone lost in the fog."
"Yes I am." she said. "Where am I?"
"I thought you were lost." he said and she could tell he believe she had invented the story about the boys because she didn't want to admit she was lost and afraid. "This is Loretsi canal. Where are you going?"
"I want the Loretsi Hotel."
"It's a few hundred yards aways that's all." He began to smile and that annoyed her. "So you weren't lost, you just thought you were. You shouldn't have come out in this foggy weather."
Cristine was in no mood to take apparently kind but betraying advice from any man.
"Thank you" she flung like an insult at him turning to walk away.
"I'll walk with you." he told her falling into step without a hurry, his long legs keeping up with her easily. "In case you meet any more dangerous boys." The mockery was out in the open with that dig, his sideways look teasing her.
She didn't bother to insist on the reality of her attackers. She didn't care whether he believed her or not. The whole incident had left her shaken, the silent, hostile, terrify presence of those boys still lingered somewhere inside her.
She shivered and the man gave her a quick look. "You should have worn something warmer than that jacket." he told her. "It's October, remember. It can be quite chilly in Venice in the autumn."
The lights of the hotel cut through the fog. They halted outside it and Cristine began a polite sentence of thanks which was cut short by his smile and dismissive wave.
"Not at all. Glad to help. Are you staying here?"
"Yes."
"It's a good hotel, quiet and well run. The food's excellent."
"You know it well?"She wondered if he lived in Venice. He didn't somehow look like a tourist and he sounded as though he knew Venice intimately.
In the light from the hotel Cristine was able to see him properly for the first time. He was a good head taller than herself, his shoulders wide and powerful, his body lean and tapering, the physique of an athlete. His face was striking without being handsome, those brows set over dark blue eyes which wanted her with faint amusement, his nose faintly arrogant in cast, his mouth relaxed and warm.
"I've stayed here." he admitted. "When did you arrive?"
"An hour or two ago."
He laughed, "And rushed out to explore at once? Not very wise in this weather."
"No." She was bristling again and from the way he watched her she sensed he knew it and was amused by it. She had the impression that he was a man often amused. His skin was slightly bronzed. Had he just come back from some sunny holiday?
"Well, thank you again." she said moving.
The hall porter was already opening the door. Cristine caught the look he gave the other man, the ready polite smile but did not look back. She passed into the hotel with waves of white mist and the door closed behind her. The foyer was very warm, centrally heated. Her body gratefully noted the warmth. She was shivering and the porter said with concern, "A bad evening, miss. We get these mists at this time of year."
She smiled and nodded, "I'm hungry." she told him.
There was a faint smell of food floating from the dining room and her stomach began to roar at the scent. "I'll go uo and wash first."
She ate local dishes, the famous Venetian liver with onions, which disguised the strong flavour of liver with cream and herbs, and zabaglione, a light, frothy sweet made with wine and eggs and cream. There were only a few guest, a mere sprinkling of people at the other tables, and they all stared curiously at her when she entered, as though new guests were a matter of great interest to them.
Her waiter was very attentive, watching for every movement, so that she had barely finished one course before he was hovering to remove her plate.
He liked her hair. Italians always noticed blondes. They were attracted by the Nordic coloring. The waiter's dark eyes strayed over her all the time, smiling. Cristine found it irritating. Once she might have been flattered, amused. She would have enjoyed all the masculine admiration. But at this present moment she felt only one thing towards men, hostility. She found male admiration almost insulting tonight. Stop staring, she wanted to snap at him, and her green eyes said something of the sort when she looked up once to find those soulful eyes fixed on her.
~To be continued..
