as he willed the surging crowd to part. Catching a glance of a dark waterfall of wavy hair over one shoulder when the crowd obliged, he saw the woman turn her masked face up to the bridge, moving her head frantically with every passing costume, scanning, searching through the short veil of black lace that masked the top half of her face.
She looked lost. Alone. A tourist, most likely, fallen victim to Venice’s tangle of streets and canals.
He looked away. It wasn’t his problem. He had somewhere to be, after all. And yet still his eyes scoured the square. Nobody looked as if they had lost someone and were searching for her. Nobody looked anywhere close to claiming her.
He glanced back, seeking her between richly decorated masks topped with elaborate wigs and feathers, their wearers resplendent in costumes that spoke of centuries long past, when men wore fitted breeches and women wore gowns with tight bodices spilling their plump white breasts. For a moment he couldn’t find her, and thought her gone, until a group of Harlequins with jester hats ringing with bells passed. And then he saw her raise one hand to her painted mouth before seeming to sag before him.
He watched as she thumbed off the mask and shook her hair back on a sigh—the long hair that curled over one shoulder. She swept it back with one hand, and her cloak slipped down to reveal one bare shoulder and a satin gown riding low over one breast, before she shivered and hurriedly tucked herself back under the cover of the cloak.
She was lost.
Alone.
With the kind of innocent beauty and vulnerability that tugged at him.
And suddenly Vittorio didn’t feel so bored any more.
LOST IN VENICE. Panic pumped loud and hard through Rosa Ciavarro’s veins as she squeezed herself out of the flow of costumed crowds pouring over the bridge and found a rare patch of space by the side of the canal, trying to catch her breath and calm her racing heart. But nothing could calm her desperate eyes.
She peered through the lace of her veil, searching for a sign that would tell her where she was, but when she managed to make out the name of the square it meant nothing and offered no clue as to where she was. Scanning the passing crowds for any hint of recognition proved just as useless. It was pointless. Impossible to tell who was who when everyone was in costume.
Meanwhile the crowds continued to surge over the bridge: Harlequins and Columbinas, vampires and zombies. And why not zombies, when in the space of a few minutes her highly anticipated night had teetered over the edge from magical into nightmarish?
Panic settled into glum resignation as she turned her head up to the inky sky swirling with fog and clutched her own arms, sighing out a long breath of frustration that merely added more mist to the swirling fog. It was futile, and it was time she gave up searching and faced the truth.
She’d crossed too many bridges and turned too many corners in a vain attempt to catch up with her friends, and there was no chance they’d ever find each other now.
It was the last night of Carnevale, and the only party she’d been able to afford to go to, and instead she was lost and alone at the base of a fog-bound bridge somewhere in Venice.
Pointless.
Rosa pulled her thin cloak more tightly around her shoulders. Dio, it was cold. She stamped her feet against the stones of the pavement to warm her legs, wishing she’d had the sense to make herself something warmer than this flimsy gown with its bare shoulders and high-low hem. Something that better suited the season. Preferably something worn over thermals and lined with fur.
‘You’ll be dancing all night,’ Chiara had protested when Rosa had suggested she dress for the winter weather. ‘Take it from me, you’ll roast if you wear anything more.’
But Rosa wasn’t roasting now. The damp air wound cold fingers around her ankles and up her shins, seeking and sucking out what body warmth it could find. She was so very cold! And for the first time in too many years to remember she felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes.
She sniffed. She wasn’t the type to cry. She’d grown up with three older brothers who would mercilessly tease her if she did. As a child, she’d stoically endured any number of bumps and scratches, skinned knees and grazed elbows when she’d insisted on accompanying them on their adventures.
She hadn’t cried when her brothers had taught her to ride a bike that was too large for her, letting her go fast on a rocky road until she’d crashed into an ancient fig tree. She hadn’t cried when they’d helped her climb that same tree and then all clambered down and run away, leaving her to pick her own tentative way down. She’d fallen the last few feet to the dusty ground, collecting more scratches and bumps. All wounds she’d endured without a whimper.
But she’d never before been separated from her friends and lost in the labyrinthine calles of Venice on the biggest party night of the year, without her ticket or any way to contact them. Surely even her brothers would understand if she shed a tear or two of frustration now?
Especially if they knew the hideous amount she’d spent on her ticket!
She closed her eyes and pulled her cloak tighter around her, feeling the icy bite of winter working its way into her bones as resignation gave way to remorse. She’d had such high hopes for tonight. A rare night off in the midst of Carnevale. A chance to pretend she wasn’t just another hotel worker, cleaning up after the holidaymakers who poured into the city. A chance to be part of the celebrations instead of merely watching from the sidelines.
But so much money!
Such a waste!
Laughter rang out from the bridge, echoing in the foggy air above the lapping canal—laughter that could well be directed at her. Because there was nobody to blame for being in this predicament but herself.
It had seemed such a good idea when Chiara had offered to carry her phone and her ticket. After all, they were going to the same party. And it had been a good idea—right up until a host of angels sprouting ridiculously fat white wings had surged towards them across a narrow bridge and she’d been separated from her friends and forced backwards. By the time she’d managed to shoulder her way between the feathered wings and get back to the bridge Chiara and her friends had been swallowed up in the fog and the crowds and were nowhere in sight.
She’d raced across the bridge and along the crowded paths as best she could, trying to catch up, colliding with people wearing headdresses constructed from shells, or jester hats strung with bells, or ball gowns nearly the width of the narrow streets. But she was relatively new to Venice, and unsure of the way, and she’d crossed so many bridges—too many—that even if Chiara turned back how would she even know where to find her? She could have taken any number of wrong turns.
Useless.
She might as well go home to the tiny basement apartment she shared with Chiara—wherever that was. Surely even if it took her all night she would stumble across it eventually. With a final sigh, she reefed the mask from her face. She didn’t need a lace veil over her eyes to make her job any more difficult. She didn’t need a mask tonight, period. There would be no party for her tonight.
Her cloak slipped as she pushed her hair back, inadvertently exposing
