herself sick of him—if she had not so eagerly listened to every scrap of gossip.
Yes, that was all it was, a fantasy, built of sleepless nights and the growing excitement of Carnival. He was merely a man, as any other.
“Buona sera, signor,” she said, stepping out of the shadows. “Welcome back to our shop.”
He spun towards her, his thoughtful frown lightening into the charming smile she remembered. His eyes seemed somehow darker today, blue-green as deep seawater, not as turquoise. He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips for a quick salute. Quick—yet not unaffecting. Gentlemen usually merely brushed the air above a lady’s knuckles, yet he actually touched his mouth to the skin of her fingers, soft as a cloud, warm as summer. His breath, sharply indrawn, swept across her wrist, then he released her, stepping away with a suddenly solemn expression etched on his face.
Julietta stepped away, startled. “I—your perfume is ready, signor. I bottled it in purple Murano glass, the colour of violets.” She ducked behind the counter to retrieve the vial, taking a bit longer than was necessary to fetch it in order to find her serene centre again. She had felt something when he touched her hand so intimately. Not merely sexual attraction, though, of course, that was there, but something more. A quick swirl of something dark, hidden and vast.
It had been such a long time since her mother’s gift visited her. Could it be coming back now, of all times and with this man? What could it mean?
Julietta rose from behind the counter, holding the bottle carefully in hands that longed to tremble. She wanted to run from the shop, to flee into the fresh, cold air and keep going until she left Venice altogether and found herself all alone in a country field. Yet she could not. Not yet. Not now.
He moved to the other side of the counter, his head bent to examine the gift. His hair fell forward in a shining curtain, hiding his face from her view for a moment, and she felt so very foolish. Had she not just told herself that he was merely a man? There was surely no magic here, no hidden darkness waiting to suck her down to its depths.
“It is beautiful,” he said quietly.
Julietta turned the glass, the light from the windows catching at its perfect facets. It was beautiful, one of the finest pieces from her favourite Murano glass blower. It was the deepest of purples, set with tiny amethysts and stoppered in gold filigree. A fitting tribute for a hero. “I hope your mother will like it.”
“She will love it, just as she would love all of Venice, if I could but show it to her.”
“The city does, indeed, have many beauties, especially at this time of year,” Julietta said. “The Piazza San Marco, the Doge’s Palace, the glorious bridges…”
“The beautiful women?”
Julietta gave a startled laugh. “Those, too. The ladies of Venice are well known for their beauty and grace.”
His gaze moved from the bottle to her face, watching her steadily with blue-green intensity. “One in particular, I would say. Lovely beyond any other.”
The words were flirtatious, yet no light grin touched his lips. What lady could he mean? Julietta wondered with a sharp pang. “Ah, signor, have you now found a lady to accept your tokens of affection, as you said you had not when we first met?”
“Not yet,” he answered, leaning against the counter with a smooth, catlike grace. She saw so clearly where he had earned his pseudonym. He was like a lion, indeed, sleek, beautiful, dangerous. “But soon, I hope.”
“If you seek gifts for her…”
“I would, if I knew how to best please her.” In one quick, gentle movement he caught her hand in his, running the rough pad of his thumb over the simple silver ring she wore. “She does not appear to care for jewels.” His gaze slid over the plain black cloak hung on a hook by the store-room door. “Or rich furs.”
Her? He meant to impress her? When every woman in the city vied to strew flowers beneath his feet, join him in his bed? Julietta nearly laughed with disbelief, but his gaze remained steady, serious, never wavering from her face.
What was happening here? Surely she was no gullible girl to believe he desired her, no matter what guilty, secret hopes lurked deep in her heart. She remembered that brief swirl of darkness she had felt when he touched her hand. Something was happening between them, something she wanted so desperately to explain, to know.
Julietta drew her hand from beneath his, but leaned closer, until she could smell the clean ocean scent of him. “Carnival is a special time. Some say it is even—magic,” she whispered. “Masks can set people free, can make them see the truth behind the disguises we all bear. Desire can come to reality then. Perhaps you will find what you seek in the nights of secrets, signor. Perhaps you can find what you always wanted.”
They stared at each other in charged silence, not touching, yet close, so very close. Julietta did not know where her words came from. Her mother had always said that Julietta held herself inside too much, always thinking, planning. Sometimes, my daughter, she had told her, you must simply say what is in your heart.
Easier said than done, of course. And look where speaking her heart had got Julietta’s mother. Yet Julietta knew that what she said was true. Carnival was a time out of time, a time when the truths of her life—the hidden room, Count Ermano, her past in Milan, everything—could vanish for a night. Behind a mask, anything was possible.
“Do you verily speak truth, madonna?” Marc said roughly.
Julietta nodded. Follow what is in your heart, a voice whispered in her mind.
“Then will you do me the honour of accompanying me to a ball in the Piazza San Marco tomorrow night, after the Marriage of the Sea?” He watched her very closely, his gaze unreadable.
Your heart! “Yes, signor. I will go with you to the ball.”
Chapter Six
The crowds were thick on the fondamento along the Grand Canal, a living, pulsing mass of flesh, breath, velvet and linen, jewels, masks. The scents of perfumes and people blended with the strange, sick sweetness that always seemed to rise from the canals, twisting, twining with the sounds of laughter and chatter and music to form a golden net that hung heavy over all of Venice. It was the day of the Feast of the Ascension, the day the ancient ritual called the Marriage of the Sea would be enacted. No one wanted to miss that.
Not even Julietta. She pushed her way through a knot of people, using her unusual height to advantage in seeking a fine spot to view the procession before it moved into the lagoon and out of sight. Bianca followed closely behind, clutching at Julietta’s sleeve so they would not be separated in the crush. At last they found a few empty inches at the edge of the canal, where they could watch and observe.
Julietta reached out to wrap her hand around a striped pole that would usually tether a gondola, but could today hold her in place, firm against the surgings of the crowd at her back and pressing on both sides. To her left stood a courtesan, henna-haired and perfectly rounded in her silver-spangled crimson gown, surrounded by a throng of admirers. The heavy perfumes of gardenia and bergamot rose from them, along with a copious amount of pungent wine. At Julietta’s other side stood a young couple and their two small children, obviously artisans to judge by their simple garments
