sable lining, rich and soft. The bars of light from the windows fell across him, illuminating him like a stained-glass saint as he swept off his cap and lightly brushed aside the waves of his hair.
Julietta’s lips, so dry, turned numb at the sight of his eyes. They were blue—nay, not blue, turquoise, like the waters of the Mediterranean, pure and bright, startling in that sun-browned skin. Piercing. All-seeing.
A sorcerer, indeed.
Il diavolo.
Her fingers tightened on the scented sticks still in her hand, and she felt splinters pierce the skin. With a soft cry, she turned to fling them into the brazier. Turned away from those eyes.
“That is what I have heard, madonna,” the man said. She sensed him leaning lightly against the counter, watching her closely.
“Heard?” she muttered stupidly. Sì—she was behaving stupidly all round. She was a grown woman, a widow, a shop owner. She should not be unsettled by anyone.
Nay! I am not afraid, she thought fiercely. She swung around to face him fully, her head high.
A small smile played about his lips, lips as finely formed as the rest of him, full and sensual. He was younger than she would have thought; only the faintest of lines creased the edges of those sorcerer’s eyes, lined his slightly crooked nose. Who was she to be made so nervous by such a young man, no matter how rich, no matter how fine?
“I had heard that this is the finest perfumerie in Venice,” he said easily, “and that I must pay a call here.”
“I am flattered, signor.” Julietta moved slowly to the very edge of the counter, resting her hands flat on the cool marble surface, near the soft velvet of his sleeve. His body emanated warmth, and again she had that odd sense of unseen fingers reaching out to wrap around her, entice her. Yet she did not move away. “And what is it I may assist you with today? A gift for some lovely lady? No woman can resist a sweet scent blended only for her. In a jewelled bottle, perhaps? A pretty token of admiration.”
His smile widened, and he leaned his elbows on the counter until he looked up into her face, beguiling and gorgeous. “Alas, I am a newcomer to Venice, and have not yet found the lovely lady who would accept my tokens of admiration. But I do seek a gift, for a very special woman, indeed.”
Julietta felt her brow wrinkle in puzzlement. “A woman not of Venice?”
“Nay, a lady of Seville. I try to find her fine trinkets wherever I go, so she may know I am thinking of her.”
The frown broke as Julietta’s brows arched in a sudden stab of emotion hitherto unknown to her—jealousy. “Your wife, signor?”
He laughed then, a rough, musical sound, warm like a summer’s day. The faint lines around his eyes deepened, crinkled in a mirth that seemed to demand an answer. Julietta pressed her lips tightly together to hold in a chuckle, even though she knew not what the joke could be.
“Nay, madonna,” he said. “I am a seafarer, and have no wife. I seek a gift for my mother.”
His mother! Madre de dio, but she did seem doomed to foolishness this day. “You seek a gift for your mother?”
“Sì, one, as you said, blended only for her. She is very special, you see.”
“Very beautiful?” She would have to be, with such a son as this.
“Yes, and very sweet, very devout. Innocent as the morning. What would you suggest, madonna?”
Ah—here was something she could understand, rationally and coolly. The blending of the perfect scent. Julietta retrieved a tray from beneath the counter, a slotted ivory container holding vials of many precious oils, neatly labelled. Her fingertips danced over their cork stoppers. “Roses, of course,” she murmured. “And—perhaps violets? Violets from Spain. What do you think, signor?”
She held out the vial, and he leaned close, inhaling deeply. Too deeply; he choked and sputtered.
Julietta laughed softly. “Not so much! This is pure essence of violet, very strong. Here, like this.” She shook a small drop on to her wrist, drawing the lace frill back from her skin. She held the bare flesh out, the drop of oil shimmering.
He reached out in turn, balancing her wrist in his fingers, and Julietta caught a ragged, sharp breath in her throat. His fingers were long, warm, callused, bisected by tiny white scars. A gold ring set with a gleaming ruby flashed on his smallest finger. He held her delicately, but there was leashed power in his touch. His gaze was focused downwards on her wrist, his breath warm on her skin. Slowly, oh, so slowly, he bent towards the beckoning drop of oil, his lips moving closer…
“Signora, have you seen the lotion for Signora Lac—” Bianca’s voice, familiar, prosaic—and shocked—burst whatever spell Julietta was under, whatever web the turquoise-eyed sorcerer wound about her. Julietta snatched away her hand and stepped back, shaking the lace back down over her wrist.
“I did not realize you had a customer,” Bianca said slowly, stepping up to Julietta’s side. Her quick, dark eyes were sharp and curious as she regarded her employer. “How do you do, signor? I hope you have found—Oh!” Bianca broke off on a breathless exclamation. She dropped the jar of lotion, which miraculously did not break, but went rolling away beneath the counter as her hand flew to her mouth. “Il leone,” she whispered.
“Bianca, whatever are you talking about?” Julietta asked irritably, leaning down to retrieve the jar. She felt suddenly bereft, chilled to be deprived of the sorcerer’s touch—and angry at herself for feeling so!
As she straightened, jar in hand, Bianca moved away around the corner, gliding like someone under a spell.
A spell such as the one Julietta herself had fallen under.
“You are, aren’t you?” Bianca breathed. “You are Il leone? I saw you last week when you arrived in the city. It was glorious! You are a hero. Il leone.”
Perhaps it was Julietta’s imagination, but she fancied she saw a blush, of all things, a faint stain of dull red spread across his sun-browned cheekbones. Il leone, truly? The fierce sea warrior who drove away the plague of pirates? A muscle ticked along his square jaw. Embarrassment over his great fame—or anger?
“Ah, signorina,” he said, reaching out to take Bianca’s hand and bestow a light kiss on her wrist. “You are too kind. I merely did what any concerned citizen would do. Pirates are such a nuisance.”
“Oh, no!” Bianca cried. “You fought the pirate captain single-handedly, with only a dagger. You destroyed his fleet with your guns and lost no men of your own. You are—Il leone.”
“I prefer to be called by my own name, Marc Antonio Velazquez. And whom might I have the honour of addressing?”
Bianca stared up at him, enthralled. “I am Bianca, Signor Velazquez. And this is my employer, Signora Julietta Bassano, of course. We are honoured that you have come to our shop.”
“Honoured, indeed,” Julietta echoed. “I had no idea such a hero has graced us with his custom. You must allow me to give you the perfume as a gift, signor.”
