Читать книгу One Christmas Night in Venice - Jane Porter - Страница 6

WHAT was she doing here? How could she possibly have thought this was a good idea? Getting resolution was one thing, but this was madness.

Diane Mayer hovered inside the opulent ballroom of fifteenth century Ca’ Coducci, one of Venice’s beloved jewels on the Grand Canal, realizing she’d made a huge mistake coming to the masquerade ball hosted by the noble Coducci family in their palazzo tonight. Tickets were costly for the gala fundraiser, but a friend had passed his on to her and, since she was already in Italy for business, she had impulsively decided to come.

Fool that she was. Closure? How did she expect to get closure coming here? What kind of resolution did she think she’d have?

For God’s sake, she’d honeymooned here in Venice. Ca’ Coducci had been her husband’s home. The noble Coduccis were her husband’s family. But five years ago she’d lost it all in the blink of an eye.

That was all it had been. The blink of an eye. Domenico had taken his eyes off the road for a moment, just long enough to turn, look at her, smile, and then they’d been blinded by light before that horrific bone-shattering impact that had crushed their car to bits.

Sucking in a nervous breath, wishing she was back at her hotel instead of at the party, Diane adjusted her white shepherdess mask as costumed guests swirled past.

Goddesses and nymphs, satyrs and maidens, unicorns, angels, and even fairytale characters laughed and danced through the doorway into the vast ballroom, a room lit entirely by candlelight. Fat ivory candles glowed in sconces, with smaller candles in glass votives on the floor, while the ballroom’s gold ceiling, distinguished by three enormous glass chandeliers, glittered and shone, casting golden light on the fantastical masks and costumes below.

And no couple was more fantastic than the winged lion and golden Venus slowly circling the room

Diane, who rarely noticed people, who loved art and architecture more than society, stared, fascinated. Enthralled. How beautiful the two of them were together.

They were a stunning pair, perfectly matched, gilded by the candlelight.

Venus’ mask barely concealed her exquisite face, but it was he, the winged lion, symbol of St. Mark, Venice’s patron saint, who captivated her.

He was a work of art, in the softest golden leather pants which had been fitted to powerful legs. A red and gold robe fell from his broad shoulders, leaving his muscular chest and hard, flat carved torso tantalizingly bare. His arms were thickly muscled and bare, too, while his face was hidden by a gold lion mask that nearly covered his face completely, beginning at the brow, extending over his nose, skirting his upper lip and then dipping low to follow his jaw. A thick gold mane covered his hair and wings—enormous gold wings—sprang from his back as if he were an archangel about to take flight.

It was more than a costume. It was a fantasy. He was man and beast. Fierce. Regal. Seductive. Lethal.

Diane’s throat closed and her heart ached. For a heartbreaking moment she thought of Domenico, even as the candlelight illuminated him, shadowing his face and outlining his size.

He was tall, even taller than Domenico, and broader through the shoulders, and yet he made her long for the life she’d lost. Love, pleasure, possession.

Sex. Seduction.

God, it had been years since she’d been with anyone—years since she’d been touched, loved, held. She hadn’t wanted to be touched, held, but this beautiful, impossible fantasy made her crave and hunger and dream.

Dream.

Maybe someday. Maybe one day. If she was lucky.

And then the mythic winged lion turned his head, thick gold mane brushing his shoulders, to look her way, to look at her, and her heart skittered to a stop.

So like Dom. Those eyes. That expression.

Her heart squeezed even tighter and her head spun. She leaned on her shepherdess staff, her bad leg about to collapse. So much of him reminded her of Domenico. The height, the shape of his broad chest, the muscular, tapering torso, the narrow hips above long strong legs. It was almost as if the Coducci palazzo was playing tricks on her imagination. Ghost, angel, beast.

It’s not Dom, she told herself. Can’t be. Domenico’s dead.

And yet this beautiful winged lion, this symbol of the city, looked at her as if he could see beneath her mask, beneath her costume. He looked as if he could see straight through her. Right to her heart.

Just like Dom had.

Her hand trembled violently on the staff. The winged lion was approaching.

“Ti senti bene? Are you all right?” Conte Domenico Coducci asked the tiny shepherdess in the white tulle gown, having watched her for the better part of an hour. She’d arrived alone and had remained alone, and he’d noticed how her hand shook on her shepherdess staff.

She took a nervous step back, eyes wide behind the sleek white mask molded to her face. The mask hid everything but her eyes, and her blue-green gaze stared up at him transfixed. He’d never seen any eyes quite so sad, and for a moment her sorrow touched him. Strange, because nothing touched him. Nothing could. On the inside he was dead, and yet … and yet … something stirred inside him now. A fragment of memory. A whisper of hunger followed by a slash of pain.

But, no, it couldn’t be, and just like that he steeled himself against the memory and the emotion. “Can I get you something to drink?” he added, putting a hand out to her elbow as she swayed on her feet.

“No. I’m fine. Sto bene.” She stumbled back another step and tears shimmered 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 his profile and it was him. Beautiful. So beautiful. Tears scalded her eyes. “It is you,” she whispered.

He took her hand from his chest, bent his head to reject her.

The light flickered again, and it was no longer his beautiful face but the face of a stranger. Scarred. Burned. Changed.

Not Domenico at all.

Diane’s weak leg gave out and she collapsed, tumbling at his feet.