HELENA slipped quietly back into the group, relieved that nobody seemed to have noticed her absence. Rico, the guide, was announcing the end of the tour.

‘But before we take you back, you will please honour us by accepting some refreshment. This way please.’

He led them into a room where a long table was laid out with cakes, wine and mineral water, and began to serve them. As he was handing a glass to Helena he looked up suddenly, alerted by someone who’d just come in and was calling him in Venetian.

‘Sorry to trouble you, Rico, but do you know where Emilio is?’

Helena recognised the name. Emilio Ganzi had been Antonio’s trusted manager for years.

‘He’s out,’ Rico said, ‘but I’m expecting him back any moment.’

‘Fine, I’ll wait.’

It was him, the man she’d seen in the office, and now Helena had no doubt that this was Salvatore. She stayed discreetly back, taking the chance to study her enemy unobserved.

He bore all the signs of a worthy opponent, she had to admit that. Antonio had said he was a man who expected never to be challenged, and it was there in the set of his head, in an air of assertiveness so subtle that the unwary might fail to see it.

But she saw it, and knew exactly what Antonio had meant. Salvatore was tall, more than six foot, with black hair and eyes of a dark brown that seemed to swallow light. Helena wondered if he worked out in a gym. Beneath his conventional clothing she sensed hard muscles, proclaiming a dominance of the body as well as the mind.