Daggers and Men's Smiles by Jill Downie Page A

my bike. Come on.”
    The Ducati stood where Giulia had left it, with a small group of admirers around it — English and American crew members, and some Italian macchinisti , brought in to handle the equipment rented from Rome.
    â€œHey boys — don’t touch!”
    â€œThe bike you mean, Signorina?”
    Puzzled, Sydney watched Giulia Vannoni explode. Most Italian women she knew enjoyed such remarks, or dismissed them with a shrug or a humorous comment. But this Amazon turned on the man with a burst of such rapid Italian that Sydney missed most of the meaning, although the language was pungent enough to make the joker flinch. The crowd quietly withdrew.
    â€œMy new baby. Superbike eleven ninety-eight, special edition. Beautiful lines, great control.” Giulia was smiling again.
    â€œI like the logo.”
    â€œPretty, isn’t it? It is the emblem of many of my friends in Florence.” Giulia’s smile grew wider. “Like a ride?”
    Sydney indicated the intricately painted gold and black helmet with its dark visor hanging on the curved handlebar. “I don’t have one of those,” she said.
    â€œWe’ll find one. Come.”
    Sydney found herself following Giulia and the Ducati around the side of the manor, along the path that had led to what she now thought of as her point of no return. One thing was certain: wherever the path and Giulia Vannoni were now taking her could be no more disturbing than the scene of violent death on the terrace. The shock of seeing Toni Albarosa with a dagger in his chest — a dagger that looked distressingly like the one that had landed on the hotel patio at Gil’s feet — seemed to have deprived her of rational thought, and she was content to have this complete stranger decide what she should do next.
    In an area to one side of the main courtyard, which was principally used for vehicles in the movie, were parked the hired limousines and the various cars, bikes, and motorbikes that belonged to the crew. Giulia propped up the Ducati and made for a line of motorbikes, sorting through any helmets that had been left as if she were in a store.
    â€œNo, troppo grande — mmm, no, brutto — si !” Triumphantly she held up a neat metallic black helmet with bronze highlights. “ Bello, perfetto — from Roberto Stavrini, like mine. It will go with your hair.”
    â€œBut I can’t —”
    But she could. The helmet was placed on her head, the strap fastened beneath her chin.
    â€œEh — Cosimo!”
    Giulia called out to a tall bearded man crossing the courtyard, and Sydney recognized the art director, Cosimo Del Grano, who was on his way to the building where the costumes were stored. “Lend us your jacket.”
    â€œDarling, but why?” he protested, as Giulia started to remove his heavy denim jacket, kissing him profusely as she did so.
    â€œBecause, because, caro — I’ll get it back to you.”
    As the two talked and laughed, Sydney began to put together the pieces of the past few minutes: the jibe by the crew member and Giulia’s reaction, the way Cosimo spoke to this woman, even the emblem on the Ducati. Could it be —?
    The jacket was huge on her. Sydney rolled up the sleeves and hauled it across her body. She could feel her heartbeat quieting, the delicious irony of the situation easing her sense of desolation. It looked as if the whirligig of time was bringing in a revenge far sweeter than she herself could possibly have dreamed up, in her wildest and cruellest imaginings.
    â€œCome on, Sydney,” said Giulia Vannoni. “Let’s go.”
    * * *
    And go they did. Heart in mouth at first, Sydney felt every muscle in her body stiffen as they roared away, the wind blowing through her completely inadequate sandals, the Ducati accelerating rapidly as Giulia put it through its paces, winding along the lanes to the south of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, smooth