The Shadowed Heart

There was an answering heat within her, but she told herself that it was the heat of hatred. Desperate, she tried to hold on to that, but the heat merged and melded with the light, blinding her as if she were standing in the full sunlight.

His taste filled her. In a reflexive curiosity, she touched her tongue to his.

Luca felt that first tentative touch of her tongue go through him as if it were a bolt of lightning. Grasping her head, he gave in to the consuming need to plunder.

As he plunged into her mouth, possessing her with all the fever of a virile man’s passion, Chiara jolted, as if shaken awake from a dream. Rational thought returned, reminding her of just who this man was. She began to struggle to free herself from his voracious kiss, just as she struggled against that unfamiliar ache in her belly.

Luca felt her move against him. Pleased, he slid his hands into her hair and delved more deeply into the pleasures of her mouth. Only gradually did he realize that her movements had nothing to do with passion.

Luca pulled back, trying to ignore the desire that was making his blood race, his body throb. The moment he freed her mouth, she went still.

Realizing that he had twisted his hands in her hair, Luca loosened his fingers and began to rub her scalp lightly.

“I did not mean to hurt you.” He let his hands drift down slowly, caressingly until they lay on her shoulders. He brushed his mouth against hers and felt her stiffen.

“What’s the matter?” Leaving his hands on her shoulders, he took a step away.

She waited for the malevolence to come into his eyes, but it did not. Traces of passion were there and questions, but none of the evil she had been waiting to see there ever since she had first laid eyes on him an hour ago. How long could he pretend? How long could he keep up this facade? Where did he get his power? Why could she not see? It was the last question that frightened her most of all.

“Did I frighten you?” He slid his thumbs beyond the neckline of her coarse linen blouse to stroke her skin. “Was I too rough?”

“I am not easily frightened.” She swallowed and fought—unsuccessfully—to suppress the involuntary shiver of pleasure.

“Perhaps not.” He smiled at both her evasive answer and the shudder of response that went through her. “Have you ever lain with a man before?”

His words reminded her of who he was. Reminded her of what she needed to do.

“What difference does it make to you?” As she spoke, her hand crept upward, then across her middle. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger, and she slid it out of the sheath.

Strike! Strike! The command thundered through her head, but her hand remained still, as if she could not force it to do her bidding.

“None.” He laughed softly. “None at all.” His fingers continued to stroke her skin. “I want you. That is all that matters.”

The soft, lightly mocking laughter struck a chord in her memory and she lifted her hand and plunged it down toward his heart.

Ensnared in his arousal, Luca did not give heed to her movement. By the time the realization hit him that what she held was a weapon and he had flung his hand upward to ward off the blow, the momentum of her downward stroke was too strong, too fast to stop completely.

He felt—and ignored—the hot flash of pain as the tip of the dagger pierced his skin and sliced through his flesh a moment before he struck her hand.

The dagger clattered to the floor. His hands captured hers. For a moment, they remained still, as if frozen in a dance of violent beauty.

Luca’s fury exploded like a volcano spewing forth hot lava. His fingers tightened around her wrists and he bore her back so brutally that her head hit the wall with a sharp crack.

“Damn you. I have killed men for less.”

“I’m not afraid to die.”

“Perhaps not.” He ground his hips against hers. “But you are afraid of this.”

Chiara could feel the cry growing in her throat, but she battled the weakness, clamping her mouth shut until her teeth ground against each other.

Luca saw her fear, saw how she fought it, saw how she still defied him. And her desperate courage seemed to feed his fury.

“Why did you try to kill me?” he demanded. “Is it such a terrible fate to lie with me?” He gave a short laugh. “Some women might even envy you.”

Chiara thought of her sister’s blank eyes. She thought of the pitiful whimpering sounds Donata sometimes made in her sleep, and felt the fear recede before the hatred of this man.

“I hate you. And I despise you.”

“Why?”

“I told you. If you do not know it, you should.”

“My patience with your riddles is at an end,” he snarled. “Tell me.”

For a moment Chiara was tempted to tell him who she was. But only for a moment. He would find a way to use that knowledge against her. The less he knew about her the better it was. She would bide her time and someday she would tell him, right before she killed him.

She shook her head.

“Tell me.” He tightened his grip on her wrist.

“No,” she whispered.

“Do you know how easy it is to make someone talk?” The wildness was roiling within him like a storm-swept sea. He grappled for control, but it slipped away like water. “With just a small movement I could snap your wrist.”

She could feel his hot breath on her face. “What good would a slave with a broken wrist be?”

His mouth curved in a hard smile. “You don’t need your hands for what I want from you.”

“And you will take what you want no matter what I do or say.”

“Perhaps.” He shifted his fingers a fraction of an inch to increase the pressure on her wrist. “Try me.”

Chiara understood then that she had exhausted all her possibilities.

“You are a Venetian patrician,” she said, trying desperately to keep her voice steady. “That is why I hate you.”

It was surprise more than anything else that had him easing his hold on her wrist. The wildness within him eased as well, as if it had been a seizure that was now passing.

“Why?”

She hesitated, but feeling his hand tighten again, she decided to give him part of the truth. “Because my father is one.”

“Your father?” His eyes narrowed, but he did not dismiss her words. “What is his name?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “I came to Venice to find out.”

Luca caught the tiny flicker in her eyes that told him she was lying, but he kept the knowledge to himself.