it met hers was a jolt to the senses. How unusual to encounter an Italian with eyes the color of blue mirrors. Heavily fringed with dark lashes, they reflected what he observed, giving away nothing.
Skin of golden olive marked him as a man of Italian blood. His strong brow, sculpted chin, and jutting blade of a nose marked him as obstinent.
Taken altogether, his features combined into a striking, if haughty, aristocratic face that sat atop a muscular frame. His height was commanding and surely reached to six and a half feet. Blessed with such a surfeit of good looks, he appeared a god among mortals.
“Leaving?” he inquired, noting her uncertain pose.
Jane faltered and then simply stared into those strange eyes. She stood frozen in indecision, knowing she looked the idiot. But she couldn’t seem to help it.
At her continued silence, the man’s brow rose in question. He’d politely seated his lady, fetched an additional chair for himself from somewhere outside the tent, and now stood patiently waiting for her to be seated. Perhaps he was accustomed to striking women dumb at first sight.
“I hope my gold will prevail upon you to tarry?” he asked gently.
The pipe slid from Jane’s slack jaw. She barely caught it before it bounced on the table. The mishap had the effect of pulling her eyes from his, thus breaking the spell. Her legs wobbled, forcing her to sit.
Embarrassed, she gathered her wits and straightened to find him seated, studying her.
Hoping to divert his attention, she began to caress the crystal ball before her. Though she didn’t really employ it in her trade, it helped foster the illusion in people’s minds that she was a gypsy fortuneteller.
“What are you called, mystic?” Nick asked. His Italian was shaded with a slight accent, she’d noted. But the language sounded comfortable on his tongue and was most likely his native one. His English was fluent but less certain. She guessed he’d been schooled in England or by an English tutor, at any rate. The commanding timbre of his voice indicated he was a man accustomed to having his demands met, which implied he was wealthy.
“Jane,” she replied.
He settled back in his seat with a smugly amused expression. “Jane the mystic?”
Signorina Rossini looked puzzled. “I thought your name was Madame Fibbioni.”
“Jane be me given name,” Jane lied, lapsing into the fractured cockney-Italian blend she’d developed for such occasions.
“Well, Madame Jane Fibbioni,” said Nick, “what is your usual fee for reading palms?”
The signorina answered for her.
“I tell me fortunes singly,” Jane announced, belatedly remembering to disguise her voice as a throaty cackle.
“Oh!” said Signorina Rossini. “In that case, I should withdraw.”
Jane drew in a breath of alarm. She couldn’t take him alone! The idea was horrifying.
A masculine hand over the signorina’s stopped her from rising. “Hold a moment. Would triple your fee convince you to make an exception?” he inquired of Jane. He lay the money on the table atop the beaded scarf she’d draped over it.
Jane stared at his coin in indecision.
“Is business so robust you can turn down such an offering?” he cajoled.
No, it wasn’t. With a sweep of her hand, she raked the money into the coin purse in her lap.
“Yer takin’ a chance lettin’ yer lady hear yer future,” she warned. “But if it’s yer wish, then oiyl see if the spirits be willin’.”
“Grazie. We shall await our fortunes at the spirits’ leisure, dear mystic,” he said.
“I make no claim to the title of mystic,” she told him with a shake of her head. “I be a simple teller of fortunes.”
“Do let her tell yours first,” encouraged Signorina Rossini. “It’s very exciting.”
Nick smiled down at her.
The pretty signorina hardly struck Jane as the type who would appeal to an earthy male such as this. However, he appeared to be truly under the spell of her attractions. His look when set upon her was hungry enough to make her own skin tingle under its indirect impact. No wonder the signorina had fallen for his honeyed words.
From the distance came the eerie sound of water being pressured through the pipes of the grand Water Organ in the garden for the guests’ amusement. Jane fiddled with the strings of the coin purse in her lap, loathe to begin what must be begun.
“Begin by placing your hand in hers,” the signorina prompted to Nick.
“As you command.”
His hand settled onto the scarf within Jane’s vision, palm upward. Something about the shape of those long, blunt fingers both repelled and compelled her. The blue pulse at the inside of his wrist throbbed warm and strong, his life force vibrant.
Beneath the table, she tugged the lacy gloves low. Nothing but her fingers must be bared on him.
Then she sat forward, touching. The tips of his fingers curled in response, brushing sparks over the tender underside of her wrist through the lace.
Desperately she traced the terrain of his palm, willing the images to come. His fate line ran unbroken through the valley of his palm—a man of exceptional self-control. His heart line showed him to be shrewd. The padded Venus mount at the base of his thumb was plump. A man of vitality, health, and stamina.
Her abilities as a fortune-teller weren’t a total ruse. She could learn something of a person through touch. At least, enough to satisfy the average customer.
But the remarkable abilities that had come to her with the onset of puberty had recently begun shifting. They were slowly draining away in some areas while increasing in others. Her ability to read Humans became less reliable with each passing of the moon. She prayed it wouldn’t fail her now.
A sigh of relief left her lips when the mind mist enveloped her, calming her with its familiarity. Her eyes drifted shut, and she drew her fingers over him, occasionally following a crease or dusting over a mount. Just the barest, minute mixing of skin oils was all it took for a simple telling of fortunes. It was important to avoid melding. If she bonded further, parting sometimes caused her pain.
“I see a forest,” she began. “An ancient forest. It surrounds a flourishing garden covering many hillsides. I see three brothers, three splendid homes.”
She opened her eyes and pondered him curiously. Only Nick noticed how refined her accent had become.
“Lord Satyr owns a large estate in Tuscany, along with his two younger brothers,” supplied Signorina Rossini. Her voice trembled with excitement that Jane had guessed correctly.
Jane smiled at her. Now she had his name and residence. People were so free with information. Really, it made her efforts quite simple at times.
Nick eyed her
