Free Urban Venus by Sara Downing Page B

me, dear maiden, that you feel it too?’ And clenching both hands to his heart he continues, ‘There is something in here that draws me to you. I have never felt this before; please tell me you feel it too?’
    So that is what I saw in his deep, penetrating eyes, when I first saw him downstairs. Have we both been struck with the bolt of lightening that is love? I know I felt something when he first looked at me, a connection, a feeling deep down inside of my being, as though I knew him, or had met him before in another life. But love? I do not know how love should feel! How could I? The only love I remember was that which I had for my parents, and that is many moons ago and oh, so very different from this.
    ‘ I do feel something for you sir, but I know not what it is. But this is my place is of work, I have nowhere else to go, no family to care for me. How could I possibly leave here?’
    ‘ I will come for you,’ he says. ‘Soon.’ And the look on his face tells me that this is no idle promise. But what awaits me beyond these walls? I do not remember much about my childhood, the only time I have not spent here, and it now seems so distant. This place has been my home for so long that it will be strange, and somewhat frightening, to leave it. And to go to what? I do not know this man, and although I recognise that he feels something for me, as I do for him, what guarantee have I that he will actually keep to his promise and come back for me? He is but a stranger.
    I am torn between the need to throw myself back into my life as it was before this moment, should he not return and my heart be broken for ever, and the desire to hold these moments dear, in the hope that he will be true to his word. Only time and fate will tell what Our Lord has in store for me.
    He kisses me gently on the cheek, touches his finger to my lips and with one last glance at me, leaves the room. It is only as he closes the door behind him that I realise I do not even know his name.

Eight
     
    ‘ La Signorina Irvine, benvenuta! ’ Finally getting to grips with my name, Vincenzo welcomes me flamboyantly to his exhibition, with kisses on both cheeks. I manage to accept his greeting swiftly and sweep by, clutching my catalogue to my chest and leaving him to encircle himself once more with an adoring posse of admirers and groupie-type girls, queuing up to butter his ego.
    In this huge salon on the third floor of the gallery, I’m momentarily too bowled over to hang around and chat to him just yet. It’s not the paintings themselves which have produced such a reaction in the first instance, although I’m sure they’re brilliant and I will have a look in a minute – I don’t want to appear too keen, do I? But the setting itself is stunning, with its hugely high ceilings and vast windows, and an amazing feeling of light and space, despite the age of the building. Lucky man, securing an exhibition slot here; what better place to showcase your work and hopefully earn a few commissions? There’s something to aspire to; I can’t see my own paintings ever being good enough to command an exhibition room like this, but there you go.
    I spy Vincenzo over my shoulder, making an attempt to break away from the group but being besieged once more, and I start to focus on his work at last, looking up the first piece in the catalogue as I do so. Look busy and engrossed, I say to myself, then perhaps he’ll leave you to browse in peace. Although why I don’t want him hanging around me whilst I’m looking at his paintings, I’m not really quite sure.
    Despite my initial misgivings about him, Vincenzo has proved to be worth his weight in gold in the past few weeks. For his assistance in settling me into the course, helping me find the most useful lectures to attend, and generally keeping me on an even keel he has been brilliant. But there’s still this nagging feeling in the back of my head that there’s something about him I find really unsettling, even