Girl of My Dreams (13 page)

“I’m not that dumb. I can get around fine,” Trudi muttered.

“What about you? Do you need a guide?” Troy asked, turning to Jillian.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll manage,” Jillian said.

She didn’t need Troy hanging over her, spoiling whatever pleasure she might glean from the trip.

“I could use some help from a big, handsome man,” Ms. 44D said in her grating, little girl voice.

“At your service, my little fox,” Troy said.

Jillian almost gagged. She didn’t know whose chest puffed out more, Troy Langley’s or Maxine Moinahan’s. It was probably a draw.

She reached for a cell phone from the table and slipped it into her purse. Blake was a good producer. He thought of everything, even his contestants’ safety.

Well, of course, it wouldn’t do to have his show’s participants disappear at this point, not when everything was falling into place. If he weren’t already, after the end of the series, he’d be a billionaire like Troy. Not that it mattered to her. She’d probably have a better chance with Blake if he were one of the grips.

As Maxine walked arm in arm with Troy, Jillian heard her whine, “How can I possibly pick out anything halfway decent in such a short time?”

“I’ll help you,” came Troy’s reply.

“And I’ll help you later.”

Not too obvious. Jillian turned her amused gaze from the dotty couple. She had sights to see and intended to do so. Okay, where to start?

A few feet away, a lively, brown-haired boy with chocolate colored eyes passed out leaflets. A few
lira
bought her a handy tourist guide. On it was a detailed map, with brief descriptions of famous sights.

Catching her interest was the magnificent edifice of St. Mark’s Basilica. According to the brochure, it was the last resting place of St. Mark the Evangelist. She headed in that direction. A teenager with a tank top displaying her navel ring was quickly turned away at the door. Jillian’s calf-length, long-sleeved dress gained her ready admittance.

Inside, once her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, she was able to appreciate the ancient basilica’s Gothic pillars and marble floors. The edifice held a bygone splendor missing in modern churches. In the back of the altar, at the famous Pala d’Oro, her breath caught at the sight of the screen made up of three thousand precious stones glinting in harmony with gold enameled icons. She’d love to examine it closer, but then she’d miss out on the other sights.

Outside, Jillian joined a tour group forming to visit the Palazzo Ducale, a past bastion of Venetian civilization. The guide brought them upstairs, where Jillian viewed an opulent display of Renaissance paintings, gold leaf molding and other trappings of wealth.

“In this magnificent apartment, the head of Venice’s government, called the
doge
, lived in splendor, while down below him, the prisoners were housed in an entirely different environment. Follow me.” The guide took them down to the dark dungeons, where captives had been shackled to the walls in chains. Jillian grimaced, picturing the poor creatures being tortured. It was not a happy thought. Such unspeakable atrocities had occurred long ago and couldn’t be undone now. Still, the fact they had taken place here made her uneasy. How many captives had actually deserved their fate? Shuddering, she slipped from the group.

Outside, the luminous
loggias
of the
piazza
lifted her spirits. She blocked out the previous gruesome pictures from her mind and decided to follow Ms. 44D’s lead and look for souvenirs.

In front of the palace, at Tokatzian Lace, Jillian discovered two intricately patterned Venetian doilies for herself and Denise. They’d easily fit in her suitcase.

At the venerable Gioielleria Missiaglia, touted as the oldest jewelry shop in Venice, the breathtakingly gorgeous display pieces were well out of Jillian’s price range. The brochure stated that well-known Venetian families, as well as international jet-setters, comprised the shop’s chief clientele. Jillian was not surprised to see Barbara Branton’s name listed as one of the shop’s frequent customers. Here was another reminder of Blake. Wherever she went she couldn’t escape him. What the actress or a certain member of her family did was no concern of Jillian’s. Their lives were far removed from hers. She had to remember that.

Still, the pain cut swift and sharp. With each reminder, the dagger sank deeper. Her heart fought a losing battle. She couldn’t have Blake. She had to accept that, no matter how much she wished it were otherwise.

Lost in thought, Jillian walked briskly, not paying attention to where she was headed. Swallowing a lump in her throat, she watched a gondola pull away with a young couple inside. From the shelter of the young man’s arms, the girl gazed at her lover in undisguised admiration. Venice could be so romantic with the right person. Jillian blinked back a film of tears as the couple disappeared into the horizon.

Consulting the guide book, she crossed a bridge and walked down the street adjoining the canal, which was called a
riva
. She turned again then meandered further away from the canal and down another street. The guidebook called it a
calle
, since it didn’t run along the canal. Interesting.

Thoughts of Romeo and Juliet came to mind as she admired the intricate wrought iron balconies and porticoes.           

Her explorations drew her further into the labyrinth of streets. She was traveling into another time and place, far removed from everyday life.

When she reached a dead end, it was a sign to turn around. She’d have just enough time to make it back for the publicity shots.

Jillian turned in the direction from which she’d come and proceeded, then stopped in puzzlement. Everything looked the same, yet she’d reached another dead end. Not only that, why was the canal in the way?       

“I don’t believe this. I can’t be lost.” Jillian turned, then rushed in the other direction. Wasn’t that where she’d come from?

Darn, another dead end. Where was the bridge she’d crossed earlier? Something so big couldn’t disappear, could it? Picking up her pace, she headed the other way. The winding street looked familiar, yet led her no nearer her goal. Wandering further, she became more mired.

Running almost at a trot, she couldn’t catch her breath. Unless she got out of here fast, she’d be late for the shoot and dinner.

The buildings became dilapidated. A man suggested something in Italian which, from the expression on his face, had to be lewd. She didn’t like this at all. Jillian hurried on. It was getting dark. She saw other strange men muttering what had to be obscenities and rushed past them. She didn’t want to be here. She had to get back, if she only knew how.

It was time to accept the inevitable. She hated to do this, but had no choice. Ducking into a doorway, she grabbed the cell phone and punched “1.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BLAKE STRETCHED and turned to the editor. “With tonight’s clip, we’ll be set,” he said.

With the program to air the following evening, he was ahead of the game. It was good to get a little breathing room.

His cell phone rang. Jillian’s name flashed with the number. Now what?

“I’m lost,” she said.

How could the competent Jillian slip up again? Wasn’t it enough she’d thrown everything into a tailspin by entering the contest in the first place?

She couldn’t be too far. He’d get her away from wherever she was and back to the hotel in no time.

“Okay, Jillian, go to the nearest street corner and read me the names on the sign.”

“I’m at one now. It says Maria and Josephina.”

Of all places for her to land. He’d been to this city often enough to catch the vibes of certain areas and those jumped off the list.

“How the hell did you end up there?” Damn, she’d landed in another mess. No time to send someone else. He had to get over to her pronto.

“Never mind. Listen, whatever you do, don’t move. Stay put under the street lamp and be on guard. It can get pretty dicey around there. I’ll be right over.”

As he swung the revolving door of the hotel, the wind blew his hair over his eyes. When he pushed it back, he noticed a bank of ominous clouds approaching. A storm was brewing. Double damn. He had to snatch Jillian out of that hellhole fast. If anything happened to her, he’d never live with himself.

He raced to the canal.

“
Andiamo
,” he said, slipping into a waiting speed boat. An angry bellow, a bright streak, the storm grew closer.

“
Signor
, are you sure you want to go out there?” the driver asked.

“I’ve got to. I’ll give you extra,” Blake said. Would the man refuse because of the weather?

His heart raced as he thought of Jillian standing alone, unprotected, unsure of where to go. He had to reach her.

At the promise of extra
lira
, the man’s eyes lit up. “At your service,
signor
.”

Blake climbed in, grateful the promise of enticement of money had worked.

It seemed to take forever to get where he needed to go. Blake bit his lip to keep from yelling another
andiamo
. It wouldn’t do to antagonize the man.

Then it started. Buckets of water crashed down from the heavens, into the boat. The driver swore, striving to maintain control.

Blake echoed his sentiments, and for the first time doubted the wisdom of his actions. Was it right to put the man’s life in danger? They were in between landings, so it was too late to go back. They may as well forge ahead.

The storm intensified. He couldn’t risk calling Jillian on the cell. It probably wouldn’t go through anyway. He only hoped she’d stay put as he’d instructed and not duck into a doorway or portico. In that area, she had better odds against a lightning strike than being alone in the dark.

A sharp crackle and a downward streak made Blake almost jump from his seat into the canal. That was close.

Blake squinted through the watery film. Thank goodness, they were approaching the landing. From there, he’d have to hoof it.

Before docking, he reached into his pocket. As soon as they stopped, he threw the
lira
in the driver’s hands and dashed away.  

Through the winding streets he ran, with the wind fighting him at every step. Out of breath, he searched the street signs. If memory served him correctly, the intersection Jillian had mentioned should be right at the next corner. He glanced forward. Jillian was not in sight. Something was deadly wrong. Had she been swallowed up by the monster of the storm?  Would he ever see her again?

In the coldness, sweat broke on his brow. Nausea twisted his gut. She had to be here. He’d talked to her only a few minutes ago. She couldn’t be gone in the snap of a finger.

He peered at the street signs, then sighed with relief. The corner he wanted was further ahead. There was still hope.

It was dark, the rain distorted his view, yet the moment he saw the forlorn, bedraggled figure waiting obediently under the street sign, he knew it was her.

Time stood still as he took in the marvelously drenched sight of Jillian Baker. He couldn’t move. A rush of joy coursed through him as fierce as if he’d gotten up too fast. She was alive.

“I owe you one, God,” he said, tears of relief springing from his eyes and blending with the rain. “Jillian, I’m here,” he said, his voice coming out ragged.

Almost on cue, the rain stopped. He heard a rustling sound. Two swarthy figures slunk back into a nearby doorway. He’d arrived not a moment too soon. God knows what those creatures had had in mind.

“I’m so glad to see you,” Jillian said, her jade eyes shining with relief.

Blake grabbed her arm. “Let’s get out of here and fast.”

He propelled her up a
calle
and down the next
riva
. He set a fast pace, but she kept up with him. He didn’t slow down until they neared the
vaporetti
stop.

“That was too close for comfort. You have no idea what almost happened back there. Men a lot stronger than I have been stabbed and dumped into the canal. Women have been kidnapped and sold to brothels. Need I go on?” he said.

Her eyes turned round. Her shivering intensified. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s why you should listen when someone says don’t go off the beaten path.”

She had no reply to that, as well she shouldn’t. What the hell had gotten into her?     

He helped her climb into the boat.

“Are you all right?” he whispered, as she settled in.

“I’mmm fine,” she said, teeth chattering.

“No, you’re not. There’s no heat in these things. We’ll have to go about it the old-fashioned way.” He put his arm around her.

If only he had a jacket, anything to throw across her shoulders and keep the heat in. Hell, he’d strip the shirt off his back, but it wouldn’t do any good. It was as sodden as the flimsy silk creation plastered to her skin. At one time the dress had provided cover, but now its purpose was to cling to her every curve. Man, she was built.