Prince's Virgin In Venice

She filed the information away for future reference. The words had been said in jest, but she wondered if there wasn’t an element of truth in them. ‘So, tell me,’ she said, ‘what is this Princess hiding from?’

‘That’s easy,’ he said. ‘An evil serpent. But don’t worry. Vittorio will protect you. There’s not a serpent in the land that’s a match for Vittorio.’

Something passed between the two men’s eyes. A look. An understanding.

‘What am I missing?’ she asked, her eyes darting from one to the other.

‘The fun,’ Marcello said, pulling his mask back on. ‘Everyone is upstairs on the second piano nobile. Come.’

Marcello was warm and welcoming, and nobody seemed to have any issues with the way she was dressed. Rosa began to relax. She’d been worrying about nothing.

Together they ascended the staircase to the piano nobile, where the principal reception rooms of the palazzo were housed one level above the waters of the canal. With its soaring ceilings, and rock crystal chandelier, Rosa could see that this level was even more breath-taking, more opulent, than the last. And the pièce de résistance was the impossibly ornate windows that spread generously across one wall.

‘Is there a view?’ she asked, tempted to look anyway. ‘I mean, when it isn’t foggy?’

‘You’ll have to come back,’ Marcello said, ignoring the crowded reception rooms either side, filled with partygoers, and the music of Vivaldi coming from the string quartet, and walking to the windows before them. ‘On a clear day you can see the Rialto Bridge to the right.’

Rosa peered through the fog, trying to make sense of the smudges of light. But if the Rialto Bridge was to the right... ‘You’re on the Grand Canal!’

Marcello shrugged and smiled. ‘Not that you can tell today. But Venice wearing its shroud of fog is still a sight to behold, so enjoy. And now please excuse me while I find you some drinks.’

‘We’re in San Polo,’ she said to Vittorio.

The hotel where she worked was in the Dorsoduro sestiere, the ball she was supposed to be attending was in the northern district of Cannaregio. Somehow she’d ended up lost between them and within a whisker of the sinuous Grand Canal, which would have hinted at her location if only she’d found it.

A smudge of light passed slowly by—a vaporetto or a motorboat carefully navigating the fog-shrouded waterway—and Rosa’s thoughts chugged with it. Vittorio had been kind, asking her to accompany him, but strictly speaking she wasn’t lost any more.

She turned to him. ‘I know where I am now.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘I mean, I’m not lost. At least, I can find my way home from here.’

He turned to her, putting his big hands on her shoulders as he looked down at her. ‘Are you looking for yet another reason to escape?’

A wry smile kicked up one side of his mouth. He was laughing at her again, and she found she didn’t mind—not when seeing his smile made her feel as if she was capturing something rare and true.

‘I’m not—’

He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Why are you so desperate to run away from me?’

He was wrong. She wasn’t desperate to run away from him. Oh, sure, there’d been that moment when she’d panicked, at the end of the path outside the side gate, but she knew better now. Vittorio was no warrior or warlord, no demon or monster. He was a man, warm and real and powerful...a man who made her blood zing.

Except the warm weight of his hands on her shoulders and the probing questions in his eyes vanquished reasoned argument. There was only strength and heat and fear that it would be Vittorio who might change his mind. And then he’d take his hands away. And then she’d miss that contact and the heat and the zing and the pure exhilaration of being in his company.

A tiny worm of a thought squeezed its way through the connections in her brain. Wasn’t that reason enough to run?

She was out of her depth with a man like him—a man who was clearly older and more worldly-wise, who moved in circles with people who owned entire palazzos and whose ancestors were amongst the doges of Venice. A man who made her feel stirrings in her belly, fizzing in her blood—things she wasn’t used to feeling.

Nothing in the village—not a teenage crush on her maths teacher nor a dalliance with Antonio from the next village, who’d worked a few months in her father’s workshop, had prepared her for meeting someone like Vittorio. She felt inadequate. Underdone.

She was dressed as a courtesan, a seductress, a temptress. But that was such a lie. She swallowed. She could hardly admit that, though.

‘You invited me to this party tonight because I was lost and you felt sorry for me, because I was upset and was going to miss my own party.’

He snorted. ‘I don’t do things because I feel sorry for people. I do things because I want to. I invited you to this party because I wanted to. And because I wanted you to be with me.’ His hands squeezed her shoulders. ‘So now, instead of trying to find all the reasons you shouldn’t be here, how about you enjoy all the reasons you should?’

What could she say to that? ‘In that case, it very much seems that I am stuck with you.’

‘You are,’ he said, with a smile that warmed her to her bones. ‘At least for as long as this night lasts.’

‘A toast.’ Marcello said, arriving back with three glasses of Aperol spritz. He handed them each a glass. ‘To Carnevale,’ he said, raising his glass in a toast.

‘To Carnevale,’ said Rosa.

‘To Carnevale,’ echoed Vittorio, lifting his glass in Rosa’s direction, ‘And to the Venetian fog that delivered us Rosa.’

And if the words he uttered in his deep voice were not enough, the way Vittorio’s piercing blue eyes looked at her above his glass made her blush all the way down to her toes. In that moment Rosa knew that this night would never last long enough, and that whatever else happened she would remember this night for ever.

* * *

She was skittish—so skittish. She was like a colt, untrained and unrehearsed, or a kitten, jumping at shadows and imaginary enemies. And it wasn’t an act. He was good at spotting an ingénue, a pretender. He was used to women who played games and who made themselves out to be something they were not.

Just for a moment Vittorio wondered if he was doing the right thing, pitting her against Sirena. Maybe he should release her from her obvious unease and awkwardness and let her go back to her own world, if that was what she really wanted, back to what was, no doubt, the drudgery of her work and the worry of losing the paltry sum of one hundred euros.

Except Vittorio was selfish enough not to want to let her go.

He saw the way her eyes widened at every new discovery, at every exquisite Murano glass lamp, every frescoed wall or gilded mirror that stretched almost to the ceiling.

She was like a breath of fresh air in Vittorio’s life. Unsophisticated and not pretending otherwise. She was a refreshing change when he had been feeling so jaded.

And she was a beautiful woman in a gown that fitted like a glove and make him ache to peel it off.

Why should he let her go?

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WASN’T A party or even a ball. It was like being part of a fairy-tale.

Rosa ascended the wide staircase to the second level above the water—yet another floor with soaring ceilings and exquisite antiques and furnishings. The music from the string quartet was louder here, richer, its sweet notes filling the gaps between the sound of laughter and high-spirited conversation coming from the party rooms either side of the staircase.

And the costumes! A brightly coloured peacock strutted by as they reached the top, all feathers and flashes of brilliant colour, and Rosa couldn’t help but laugh in sheer wonderment as a couple with ice-white masks wearing elaborate gowns and suits of the deepest purple nodded regally as they strolled past arm in arm.

Rosa felt herself swept away into a different world of riches and costumes—a sumptuous world of fantasy—and only half wished that the man who had rescued her from the foggy calles wasn’t quite so popular, because then she could keep him all to herself.

Everyone seemed to recognise Vittorio and to want to throw out an exchange or a greeting. He was like a magnet to both men and women alike, but he always introduced her to them, including her in the conversation.

And, while her presence at his side wasn’t questioned, she wondered what she might see if everyone wasn’t wearing masks. Would the women’s eyes be following Vittorio’s every move because he was so compelling? Would they be looking at her in envy?

If she were in their place she would.

And suddenly the music and the costumes and the amazing sumptuousness of the palazzo bled into a heady mix that made her head spin. She was part of a Venice she’d never seen and had only ever imagined.

Suddenly there was a shriek of delight from the other wing, and a commotion as someone made their way through the crowds into the room.

‘Vittorio!’ a woman cried, bursting through the partygoers. ‘I just heard you were here. Where have you been hiding all this time?’

But not just any woman.

Cleopatra.

Her sleek black bob was adorned with golden beads, the circlet at her forehead topped with an asp. Like Vittorio, she hadn’t bothered with a mask. Her eyes were kohled, their lids painted turquoise-blue, and her dress was simply amazing. Cut low—really low—over the smooth globes of her breasts, it was constructed entirely of beads in gold and bronze and silver, its short skirt just strings of the shiny beads that shifted and flashed skin with her every movement.

It wasn’t so much a dress, Rosa thought as she took a step back to make room for the woman to reach up and kiss Vittorio on both cheeks, as an invitation. It showed the wearer’s body off to perfection.

Cleopatra left her face close to his. ‘Everyone has been waiting hours for you,’ she chided, before she stood back to take in what he was wearing.

Or maybe to give him another chance to see her spectacular costume.

She held her hands out wide. ‘But must you always look so dramatic? It’s supposed to be a costume party.’

‘I’m wearing a costume.’

‘If you say so—but can’t you for once dress out of character?’

‘Sirena,’ he said, ignoring her question as he reached for Rosa’s hand, pulling her back into his orbit. ‘I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. Rosa, this is Sirena, the daughter of one of my father’s oldest friends.’

‘Oh,’ she said, with a knowing laugh, ‘I’m far more than that.’

And then, for the first time, Sirena seemed to notice that there was someone standing next to Vittorio. She turned her head and looked Rosa up and down, letting her eyes tell Rosa what she thought about his ‘friend’.

‘Ciao,’ she said, her voice deadpan, and Rosa couldn’t be certain that she was saying hello as opposed to giving her a dismissal.

She immediately turned back to Vittorio, angling her back towards Rosa.

Definitely a dismissal.

‘Vittorio, come with me—all our friends are in the other room.’

‘I’m here with Rosa.’

‘With who? Oh...’

She gave Rosa another look up and down, her eyes evaluating her as if she was a rival for Vittorio’s affections. Ridiculous. She’d only just met the man tonight. But she wasn’t mistaken. There was clear animosity in the woman’s eyes.

‘And what do you think of Vittorio’s outfit...? What was your name again?’

‘Rosa,’ Vittorio growled. ‘Her name is Rosa. It’s not that difficult.’

‘Of course it’s not.’ Sirena gave a lilting laugh as she turned to the woman whose name she couldn’t remember and smiled. ‘What do you think of Vittorio’s outfit? Don’t you think it’s a bit over the top?’

‘I like it,’ she said. ‘I like the blue of the leather. It matches his eyes.’

‘It’s not just blue, though, is it?’ Sirena said dismissively. ‘It’s more like royal blue—isn’t it, Vittorio?’

‘That’s enough, Sirena.’

‘Well, I would have said it was royal blue.’

‘Enough, I said.’

The woman pouted and stretched herself catlike along the brocade chaise longue behind her, the beads of her skirt falling in a liquid slide to reveal the tops of her long, slender legs—legs that ended in sandals with straps that wound their way enticingly around her ankles.

The woman made an exquisite Cleopatra. But then, she was so exquisitely beautiful the real Cleopatra would no doubt have wanted to scratch out her eyes.

‘It’s all right, Vittorio, despite our difference in opinion Rosa and I are going to be good friends.’ She smiled regally at Rosa. ‘I like your costume,’ she said.

For the space of one millisecond Rosa thought the woman was warming to her, wanted so much to believe she meant what she’d said. Rosa had spent many midnight hours perched over her mother’s old sewing machine, battling with the slippery material and trying to get the seams and the fit just right. But then she saw the snigger barely contained beneath the smile and realised the woman hadn’t been handing out a compliment.

‘Rosa made it herself—didn’t you, Rosa?’

‘I did.’

Cleopatra’s perfectly threaded eyebrows shot up. ‘How...enterprising.’

Vittorio’s presence beside her lent Rosa a strength she hadn’t known she had, reminding her of what her brothers had always told her—not to be cowed by bullies but to stand up to them.

Her brothers were right, but it was a lot easier to take their advice when she had a man like Vittorio standing beside her.

Rosa simply smiled, not wanting to show what she really thought. ‘Thank you. Your costume is lovely too. Did you make it yourself?’

The other woman stared at her as if she had three heads. ‘Of course I didn’t make it myself.’

‘A shame,’ Rosa said. ‘If you had you might have noticed that there’s a loose thread...’

She reached a hand out to the imaginary thread and the woman bolted upright and onto her sandalled feet, a whole lot less elegantly than she had reclined, no doubt imagining one tug of Rosa’s hand unleashing a waterfall of glass beads across the Persian carpet.

‘This gown is an Emilio Ferraro creation. Of course there’s no loose thread.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I must have been mistaken.’

Sirena sniffed, jerked her eyes from Rosa’s and placed a possessive hand on Vittorio’s chest. ‘Come and see our friends when you’re free. You won’t believe what they’re wearing. I’ll be waiting for you.’

And with a swish of her beaded hair and skirt she was gone.

‘That,’ said Vittorio, ‘was Sirena.’

‘Cyclone Sirena, you mean,’ Rosa said, watching the woman spinning out of the room as quickly as she’d come in, leaving a trail of devastation in her wake.

She heard a snort and looked up to see Vittorio smiling down at her. It was a real smile that warmed her bone-deep, so different from one of Sirena’s ice-cold glares.

‘You handled that very well.’

‘And you thought I wouldn’t?’ she said. ‘My brothers taught me to stand up to bullies.’ She didn’t mention that it was Vittorio’s presence that had given her the courage to heed her brothers’ advice.

‘Good advice,’ he said, nodding. ‘If she finds that thread you saw she’ll bust the balls of her precious Emilio.’

Rosa returned his smile with one of her own. ‘There was no thread.’

And Vittorio laughed—a rich bellow that was laced with approval and that made a tide of happiness well up inside her.

‘Thank you,’ he said, his arm going around her shoulders as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. ‘For the best belly laugh I’ve had in a long time.’

It wasn’t really a kiss. Mouth to cheek...a brush of a whiskered jaw...a momentary meeting of lips and skin—probably the same kind of kiss he might bestow upon a great-aunt. Even his arm was gone from her shoulder in an instant. Yet to Rosa it felt far more momentous.

It was the single most exciting moment in her life since she’d arrived in Venice.

Chiara had told her that magical things could happen at Carnevale. She’d told her a whole lot of things and Rosa hadn’t believed her. She’d suspected it was just part of Chiara’s sales technique, in order to persuade Rosa to part with so much money and go along to the ball with her.

But maybe her friend had been right. Rosa had been kissed by a man. She couldn’t wait to tell her friend.

‘You’re blushing,’ said Vittorio, his head at an angle as he looked down at her.

She felt her blush deepen and dropped her head. ‘Yes, it’s silly, I know.’

He put his hand to her chin and lifted her face to his. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s delightful. It’s been a long time since I saw a woman blush.’

She blinked up at him, her skin tingling where his fingers lingered.

Oh, boy.

Talk about a distraction... She’d wanted to ask him more about Sirena, but the woman had faded into insignificance. Now all she could think about was Vittorio and the way he made her feel.

‘Come, come!’ said Marcello, clapping his hands as he walked into the room to gather everyone. ‘The entertainment downstairs is about to begin. You don’t want to miss it.’

Downstairs, the entire level of the piano nobile had been divided into performance areas, with stages and dramatic velvet drapes, and they spent the next hour wandering between the rooms to see the spectacle of gymnasts and jugglers and opera singers, and aerobatic performers who spun on ropes in the air. Then it was the turn of the clowns, and Rosa was soon almost doubled up with laughter at their antics.

She found herself thinking about Chiara and wondering how her night was going. They’d treated themselves to the cheapest tickets to the cheapest Carnevale ball they could find—and that only gave admission to the dancing segment of the evening. They hadn’t been able to afford the price for the dinner and entertainment that came first. But surely even that entertainment would be no match for this.

And then Vittorio took her hand in his and she stopped thinking about Chiara, because her heart gave a little lurch that switched off her brain.

She looked sideways up at him to find him watching her, the cobalt of his eyes a shade deeper, his sensual slash of mouth curled up at the ends.

He gave the slightest squeeze of her hand before he let her go, and she turned her eyes back to the entertainment. But suddenly she wasn’t laughing any more. Her chest felt too tight, her blood was buzzing, and she was imagining all kinds of impossible things.

Unimaginable things.

Chiara had said that magical things could happen at Carnevale.

Rosa had been a fool not to believe her.

She could feel the magic. It was in the air all around her. It was in the gilded frames and lush silks and crystal chandeliers. It was in the exquisite trompe l’oeils that adorned the walls with views of gardens that had only ever existed in the artist’s eyes. And magic was pulsing alongside her, in leather of blue and gold, in a man with a presence she couldn’t ignore—a man who had the ability to shake the very foundations of her world with just one look from his cobalt blue eyes.

Chiara had said she might meet the man of her dreams tonight. A man who had the power to tempt her to give up her most cherished possession.

She hadn’t believed that either.

It would have to be a special kind of man for her to want to take such a momentous step. A very special kind of man.

Vittorio?

Her heart squeezed so tightly that she had to suck in a breath to ease the constriction.

Impossible. Life didn’t work that way.

But what if Chiara had been right?

And what if Vittorio was the one?

She glanced up to sneak another look at him and found him already gazing down at her, his midnight hair framing the quizzical expression on his strong face.

His heart-stoppingly beautiful, strong face.

And she thought it would be madness not to find out.

* * *

Sirena either had spies everywhere, or she had a knack for knowing when Rosa had left his side for five minutes. The entertainment was finished but, while the party wouldn’t wind down until dawn, Vittorio had other plans. Plans that didn’t include Sirena, no matter how hard she tried to join in.

‘This is supposed to be a party,’ Sirena sulked conspiratorially to Marcello when she cornered him standing at the top of the stairs, where Vittorio was waiting for Rosa so they could say their goodbyes. ‘A party for friends. An exclusive party. But did you see that woman Vittorio dragged along?’

‘Her name is Rosa.’

Sirena took no notice. ‘Did you see what she was wearing, Marcello? It was appalling.’

‘Nobody’s listening, Sirena,’ Vittorio said dismissively.

‘Rosa seems very nice,’ said Marcello. ‘And I like her costume.’

Vittorio nodded. ‘She is nice. Very nice.’ He thought about the way she’d pulled that ruse with the loose thread and smiled. ‘Clever, too.’

Sirena pouted, her hand on Marcello’s arm, pleading. ‘She wasn’t even invited.’

‘I invited her.’

‘You know what I mean. Someone like her wouldn’t normally be allowed anywhere near here.’

‘Sirena, give it up.’ Vittorio turned away, searching for Rosa. The sooner he got her away from here—away from Sirena—the better.

‘That’s our Vittorio for you,’ Marcello said, trying to hose down the antagonism between his guests, playing his life-long role of peacemaker to perfection. ‘Always bringing home the strays. Birds fallen from their nests. Abandoned puppies. It made no difference. Vittorio, do you remember that bag of kittens we found snagged on the side of the river that day? Dio, how long ago was that? Twenty years?’

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