One Christmas Night in Venice

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.

CHAPTER TWO

DOMENICO caught the fragile shepherdess just before her head slammed against the stone. Her heavy staff clattered to the ground instead, joining her broken mask.

She was small, light—lighter than Diane. Because this wasn’t his Diane. No matter what this woman said. No matter the game she played.

But he couldn’t leave her here. The night was cold and her cloak was nearly as thin as her sheer costume. Effortlessly he swung her up, lifting her high against his chest. It angered him that she felt more like an angel than a woman. So frail. Too frail.

His robe swirled around his legs as he carried her back to the palazzo, and he tried to concentrate on the cold and the fog instead of the woman in his arms.