in her eyes.
The tears cracked the armor around his heart. Don’t cry, he wanted to tell her, don’t be so sad. Which was even more perplexing as he wasn’t a tender man. Didn’t comfort. Didn’t love.
He shouldn’t even be here. There was no point. She wasn’t his responsibility. He had a houseful of wealthy, influential guests. A Christmas gala to host. And a beautiful fiancée waiting for him across the room. But this little shepherdess … She reminded him of someone he’d desperately loved and lost. Not that he wanted to remember. He was done remembering, done living in the past.
He drew a swift, rough breath. There was no past. Only the future. And his future was with Valeria. Valeria and his son. “If you’re sure you’re fine,” he said coolly, moving back a step, determined to put space between them. Mistakes were made when one let emotions cloud reality.
She nodded once, and that was all he needed. He’d done his duty. Displayed proper hospitality for a guest in his home. With a curt goodnight he walked swiftly away, his sumptuous robe swinging from his shoulders, powerful hands clenched at his side.
The past, he reminded himself harshly, was dead.
Diane shuddered as he walked away.
His voice. Dom’s voice. He’d sounded just like Dom. Spoken like Dom. Touched her like Dom.
But Domenico was dead. Dead. Gone. Buried in the family vault. And this, the beautifully restored palazzo, belonged to Dom’s sister, who had graciously donated the use of the waterfront palace to the charity Foundation for their fundraiser.
She knew this. Knew the facts. But facts right now didn’t explain anything. The facts somehow were wrong.
Diane watched the tall winged lion join the magnificent Venus. Their heads tipped together and Diane’s heart ached. Jealous. Jealous. Crazy as it was, she felt as if she was watching her beloved with another woman.
It made her ill. Her stomach heaved. Time to leave, she told herself. You’re losing your mind. Confusing reality and fantasy. Letting the costumes and masks distort your mind and cloud your memory.
In the antechamber a uniformed maid emerged with Diane’s dark wool cloak. Pietra, Diane thought, recognizing the maid who’d just started working for the Coduccis when she and Dom had honeymooned here seven years ago. “Thank you, Pietra,” Diane said softly from behind her mask.
The maid smiled. “You know me?”
“Of course.” Feeling lost, and needing to connect, Diane lifted her mask, revealing her face. “It’s Diane. Diane Mayer-Coducci—”
The rest of Diane’s words were drowned out by Pietra’s shriek. “Madre Maria, protegger mi dal fantasma!”
Diane, fluent in Italian, had no problem translating the maid’s strangled cry. Mother Mary, protect me from the ghost!
“Pietra,” Diane choked, embarrassed by Pietra’s theatrics. “It’s me. Diane. Domenico’s wife—”
Pietra screamed again, louder than before.
Diane’s flagging confidence deserted her and, clutching her cloak to her breast, she limped out as quickly as her bad leg would allow her.
Such a mistake coming tonight. How could she have thought that it would invite anything other than more pain and suffering? So stupid to want a peek at the life she’d lost.
Shivering, Diane struggled with her cloak and mask and shepherdess staff. It was freezing cold and the Venetian fog had settled in, veiling the Grand Canal, making the gondolas at the water’s edge appear to float in the air. Just go home, she told herself, get out of here and go home.
Diane was but steps from the bobbing gondolas when a firm hand descended on her shoulder, stopping her.
“What game is this?” The deep, rough male voice gritted, even as a warm palm bore down on her thin bare shoulder, forcibly turning her around.
A shiver raced through her. That voice again. A voice she’d thought she’d never hear again. Could it be?
Was it possible?
With her mask dangling in her fingers, she turned toward him, lifting her face to the light.
He hissed a breath as his gaze searched her face.
“What?” she whispered, her mouth drying.
Fury darkened his eyes. “My lady, you’ve taken the masquerade too far.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do.”
She shook her head, denying his accusation. “Take off your mask.” Her voice was raspy, her mouth dry as sand. “Please.”
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice as sharp as cut glass.
“Let me see you,” she begged.
He looked at her for the longest moment before reaching up to lift the lion’s mask from his face.
The impressions hit her fast, furious—the forehead, the eyes, the cheekbones, the strong patrician nose.
Domenico.
Diane bit ruthlessly into her lip, biting back the pain.
Trickery—the moon, the light, the December night.
Trickery—this Venetian fog.
How cruel the night to conjure beautiful, dark, sensual Domenico.
Her heart ached. Her body grew feverishly warm. He looked so much like her Domenico that desire licked her veins.
Cruel night.
Cruel city of masks and balls and dreams.
Cruel city floating on pillars in the sea.
“Domenico?” she breathed, heart thumping wildly.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Her bewildered gaze held his. Was it him? Could it be? “Diane.”
He groaned deep in his chest and took a menacing step toward her. “Do not speak her name. You have no right.”
It was him.
But it couldn’t be.
Dom had died. Dom and the baby had died. Only she had survived the accident outside Rome. Only she, and barely at that.
In agony, Diane dropped her mask. It cracked as it hit the stone pavers, and even as it shattered Diane reached out a trembling hand to lightly touch his bare chest. His chest was hard, taut with sinewy muscle, the skin warm, firm.
“Domenico.”
He took a step closer, looming over her. The lamp flickered yellow light over
