The Shadowed Heart

The man laughed, the sound echoing a little between the high buildings. “You don’t have to be all-knowing, little one.”

In fact, he thought, it was better for her that she was not. He leaned down toward her, his movement distracting her from the hand that snaked out from beneath his voluminous black cloak to curl tightly around her arm.

“All you have to do is tell a few fortunes like you did in the piazza this afternoon.” She had wrapped a shabby black shawl tightly around her, but an expanse of pale skin remained visible above the small gathered ruffle of her blouse and his gaze skimmed approvingly over her. “And be pleasant to Signora Giulietta’s guests.”

The door opened with a creak and Chiara turned to see a footman in costly green-and-gold livery holding a large candelabra.

“You are late, Manelli. Signora Giulietta is getting impatient.” The footman turned sharply and moved toward the narrow staircase.

Her fingers on the hilt of her dagger, Chiara allowed herself to be pulled into the small entry.

A small table with curved legs, chairs upholstered in rich, wine red velvet and expensive candles in gilt sconces on the walls gave some small reassurance that this house was indeed that of a great lady. Laughter and the sound of a mandolin drifted down the stairs, together with the scent of coffee, perfume and warm candle wax.

She thought of the coins she had earned today and tucked into the shabby purse she wore around her waist. She thought of the coins she had been promised for the evening’s work and how they would enable her to pay for her sister’s care at the small farm she had found near Padua. But, most of all, she thought of how it brought her one step closer to finding her father and getting the revenge that had been the focus of her life for more than two years.

She lifted her eyes to the florid face of the man the footman had called Manelli. “Let go of my arm,” she said softly.

As Manelli looked into the girl’s eyes, they lost all expression until they became as blank as glass.

She sensed greed and an almost casual brutishness, but the anxiety she sensed was stronger than either one so she looked at that more closely. An image rose of a young woman lying in a bed. She saw the woman sit up and hold out her hand. “Babbo, ” the woman said and smiled.

Chiara blinked and focused on Manelli’s face. He had grown a little pale beneath the ruddiness and she gave a satisfied little nod.

Manelli watched the strange light fade from the girl’s eyes. He felt an icy chill along his back and told himself that it was only the October wind blowing in from the still-open door. “Don’t worry. Your daughter will be healthy again.” Manelli was staring at her. Then she saw a desperate hope seep into his eyes and she smiled. “It is so,” she said. “I have seen it.”

Turning, she moved to follow the footman up the stairs toward the blazing lights.

Irritated by Giulietta’s inane chatter, Luca Zeani turned away and slung one leg carelessly over the arm of his chair. Picking up a mandolin, he plucked its strings absently. He heard the tinkle of coins in the next room and briefly considered joining one of the games. Perhaps a few hands of faraone at high stakes would speed his pulse a bit and burn off the indolence that had crept into his blood since his return to Venice.

But the languor that seemed to infect all of Venice kept him in his chair, his long, slender fingers idly strumming the mandolin. His half-open eyes were fixed on a gilded stucco border near the ceiling, but what he saw was the sunlit blue of the open sea.

The ache of longing for the sharp, clean air of the sea drifted through him, but even that did not rouse him from the languidness. It was so easy to give oneself to pleasure in this city where no one seemed to think of anything else.

The atmosphere of temptation and sensuality gripped you like a fever, he mused, making the pleasures offered the only reality. More real than the fact that he was in Venice to speak to the Great Council in the name of Admiral Angelo Emo, demanding more men and ships to fight the Barbary pirates. More real than the masked man who had approached him to speak seductively of freedom and renewed vigor for the sickly Venetian Republic.

Luca saw Giulietta rise from her seat beside him, and he gave a small sigh of relief. She was very beautiful and in bed she was as accomplished as a high-priced courtesan, but she was a tiresome woman. The showy necklace of rubies and diamonds that he had thought to give her as a parting gift had been in a cabinet in his apartments for weeks, but somehow it always seemed simpler to allow things to go on as they were.

When he felt the touch on his shoulder, Luca looked up in surprise, not having heard anyone approach him. But there was no one beside him.

Sitting up straight, he looked around him to see who could have touched him. Across from him, an elderly man dozed in his chair and, on his other side, a masked couple was engaged in such fervid flirtation that they seemed in imminent danger of forgetting that they were in public.

He looked across the room to where Giulietta stood speaking to a heavyset man and a tall young woman who was wearing a multicolored skirt that molded her hips—and again felt a touch. But this time he would have sworn that he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his skin just above his heart.

Putting the mandolin aside, he leaned forward, his hands propped on his ivory-colored silk breeches. Deliberately he met the young woman’s gaze. She was staring at him with such undisguised animosity that he stiffened, his own eyes narrowing.

Intrigued, he rose and sauntered to where Giulietta stood, cupping his hand around her neck more by habit than desire.

“What have we here?” he asked, never taking his gaze away from the girl’s eyes, which were the color of the Adriatic when the midday sun was upon it. Eyes that held hatred, more relentless and cold than he had ever encountered.

“A Gypsy fortune-teller. She will look into our guests’ future and then—” she paused and gave a malicious little laugh “—entertain them. An amusing little diversion, don’t you think, caro?” She looked up at Luca, leaning back to press her neck still more firmly against his fingers.

Giulietta’s words passed Luca by unheard as he stared into the girl’s eyes. He had made his share of enemies in his twenty-seven years, but he had never seen such loathing, not even over the point of a sword.

For the first time in weeks he felt the prickle of real excitement. A riddle to solve, he thought. A riddle involving a woman whose face would have done justice to one of Titian’s portraits. As he tore his gaze away from her eyes to allow it to drift over her, he felt an absurd pleasure in her lack of artifice.

Her curls fell beyond her shoulders in a tangled black mass and had obviously never seen the creams and lotions Venetian women used to bleach their hair to a fashionable blond color. Her lips, the color of strawberries, needed no rouge. Her golden skin was untouched by powder and, instead of a beauty patch, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

He felt his body tighten with that first, pure, sweet rush of arousal, untainted by skillful tricks or stimulants. His gaze returned to her eyes.

They were still trained on him, but they were strangely unfocused now as if she were looking far beyond his face. Baffled by the sudden change, he found his interest piqued still further. This was definitely a puzzle he wanted to solve.

It was him. Chiara stared over the lady’s shoulder, not quite believing what she was seeing. That hair the color of ripe wheat, unpowdered and uncurled in defiance of fashion, merely tied back carelessly with a dark ribbon. That chiseled, perfect profile.

No, she thought, shaking her head to clear it. She must be mistaken. She could not possibly have the good fortune to stumble across the man she hated so fiercely. Perhaps even more than she hated her father.

Then he turned to face her and she knew that she had not been mistaken. There could not be another mouth like that in the whole world, its sensuality promising both pleasure and cruelty. This is what Lucifer must have looked like, she thought. The fallen angel who had chosen to rule in hell rather than serve in heaven.

She watched him rise and come toward her and, despite her hatred, which was so real its bitter taste lay on her tongue, she found herself much too aware of the man’s beauty.

He stood in front of her, close enough that she could have reached out and touched him. Beneath the cover of her shawl, her hand moved to the dagger hidden in the folds of her clothes and touched the hilt. This dagger had spilled his blood once before and it would spill his blood again.

She drew her hand away from the metal with an effort. Not today, she told herself. She would have her revenge, she swore, but not today.

As she stared at him, the hatred inside her was suddenly pushed aside as if by an invisible hand and she heard a voice within her. The voice of the spirit that sometimes called to her, telling her to dip down to that shadowy region of impressions and images and look inside the man who stood before her.

She saw light. A clear, pure light like the rays of the rising sun. She searched for the darkness, for the evil that she was certain would be there. But all she saw was the light. Surely this was some kind of trick, a clever ruse to blind her. It was then that she saw it.

Behind the figure wreathed in light, she saw the dark apparition. She recognized his perfect features, his fine form. Recognized, too, the evil aura that surrounded the dark figure. The aura that was almost palpable.

So he was versed in the secrets of the occult, she thought. He had wanted to blind her with his light so that she would not see his darkness. But he would not succeed, she thought triumphantly, for she had seen the evil.

She pulled herself back to reality and saw that he was still looking at her. There was more than curiosity in his eyes. He was looking at her in the way that men looked at women.

But it was not the devilish, naked lust that she had seen that night in the Gypsy camp on the outskirts of a small town in Tuscany. The lust that had been glittering in his dark eyes even after he had slaked it on the unwilling body of her sister.

This time it appeared in a different guise. It was a desire that was far more subtle and seductive. For a fraction of a moment it reached out to touch her before she was able to draw back and protect herself against it

“Well, get on with it”

Giulietta’s sharp voice intruded into Luca’s sensual reverie. He watched the odd glow fade from the young Gypsy’s eyes. For a fraction of a moment before the hatred returned, he saw a softening, as if he had touched a string within her that had resonated with a harmonious sound.

“But get rid of that ugly black shawl of hers.”

The petulant tone of his mistress’s voice had Luca looking at her with irritation. It occurred to him that this was the strongest emotion that he had felt toward her in days. Perhaps it really was time to finally give her the ruby necklace and send her on her way.

“And you really could have cleaned her up a bit, Manelli.” The ivory sticks of her fan of fine painted parchment clattered as she waved it in front of Chiara’s face. “But I suppose some might find that wild, crude look appealing.” She shrugged. “Oh, well, just make sure my guests are well pleased, Manelli. I’m counting on you.”

Obediently Manelli plucked the shawl from Chiara’s shoulders and pulled her toward the first group of guests, who were already tittering expectantly.