Behind the Mask

by Linda Winstead Jones

  She looked at the rabble around her, wondering if the infamous count was in attendance. She studied the revelers, the men who danced and laughed and drank the night away, and tried to imagine giving herself to any one of them. Impossible.

  Her friend Isabel, dressed beautifully in amber velvet, intercepted the determined red-masked man who’d been marching in her direction, and Audrey breathed a sigh of relief. What a fool she was for standing in the corner, waiting for a veritable stranger to show up. She hated the closeness of the crowd and the noise and the heat of all these bodies crammed into the large room. Even more, she hated the certainty that the drunken jester had recognized her, and soon others would no doubt realize that it was the Black Widow who stood alone in the corner.

  She had to get out! No one would miss her if she slipped from the room and took her gondola back to the Palazzo Celesti, her home in Venice. She pushed past one drunken man and a laughing woman as she headed for the door.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  She spun around at the sound of that familiar voice, and found herself looking up at a tall man dressed all in black. The half-mask he wore was white, with a long nose and slanted eyeholes, but his head was uncovered. Those magnificent dark curls were unmistakable.

  “Signor Valentino?”

  The grin he flashed was heartwarming and unmistakable. “Giovanni.”

  Her distress gone in an instant, she returned his smile. “Giovanni.”

  Without asking, he took her hand and led her into a waltz. The music and laughter were too loud, the crush of people too much, but she lost herself for the moment in this quick, close dance, as they whirled around the dance floor.

  She had waited all evening for Giovanni to appear, and now that he was here he didn’t disappoint her. He smiled and danced, and he whispered in her ear that she was more beautiful than he remembered. Dancing and laughing, she made herself a part of the revelry she’d disdained moments earlier.

  He held her improperly close, so that she could feel his firm body pressing against hers. Giovanni positively cradled her in his arms as they glided across the crowded dance floor. She should be shocked by the familiar way he held her, but instead she felt protected, safe, even daring. With her face practically against Giovanni’s chest, she smiled. She’d been nothing but miserable for the past two years, and one day and one man had made her feel bright again.

  “Is your mistress here?” he asked, placing his mouth close to her ear.

  Audrey allowed her gaze to roam the crowded room. “She’s here somewhere,” she said vaguely.

  “Can you slip away?”

  She looked up into his masked face, and knew that even if she were truly a paid companion she’d risk everything to slip away with Giovanni. “Yes.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he took her hand in his and led her to the door and into the night.

  A thick fog drifted across the canal, turning Venice into a menacing city, a place of shadows and mystery. Elegant palaces loomed all around. Gondolas drifted lazily in and out of the mist. Distant laughter and music from the ball whirled, dreamlike, to her ears.

  Hand in hand, she and Giovanni stepped into a waiting gondola, and Giovanni instructed the boatman in softly spoken Italian that was as much music to her ears as the strains of the stringed instruments they’d left behind. Smiling, the gondolier pushed away from the water steps and began a journey down the misty canal.

  The ride was slow and easy, but chilly. She’d left the ball so quickly she hadn’t thought to collect her wrap, and the cold air easily penetrated her satin gown. She only shivered once before Giovanni put a warm arm around her. A heartbeat later she was no longer cold.

  “It is a beautiful city,” he whispered.

  “Yes, it is.” It seemed somehow right that they whisper, that they keep their voices low and intimate.

  They floated away from the ball, drifting past revelers at many of the palazzos, watching as costumed Venetians and tourists laughed on street corners and danced on balconies and kissed in alleyways. In the fog, everything seemed dreamlike, fantastic. It was as if in this time and this place, the restrictions of society had been suspended. Here it was acceptable to dance on the street, to laugh out loud, to kiss a stranger.

  She looked up at Giovanni. “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere,” he whispered. “I told the gondolier to take us on a long, slow ride through the city. To take us down every canal, to show you what Venice is like by night.”

  “It’s wonderful,” she said, never taking her eyes from his.

  Giovanni removed his mask and set it aside, and then he set about removing her satin mask. His hands were easy, his fingers barely brushing her cheeks as he unfastened the mask and drew it from her face.

  He smiled at her as he leaned closer, drifting to her as surely and smoothly as the gondola drifted down the Grand Canal. Had she been cold a few moments earlier? Her entire body glowed with warmth as her heart pumped fiery blood into her veins. Giovanni’s body protected her from the slight breeze that made the fog dance on the water, and he came closer and closer until his face was so near to hers she could feel his own heat, his breath on her lips.

  “I’ve never been kissed before,” she whispered.

  He hesitated, his lips hovering close to hers. “Never?”

  “Never.” She held her breath.

  He muttered a few undecipherable words in Italian, and then he laid his mouth over hers and kissed her.

  She’d never known a sensation like it, had never known such sensations existed. Her eyes drifted closed as Giovanni moved his mouth over hers, as he tasted and teased with his gentle lips. A strong arm encircled her waist, catching her securely to his chest, and she found the strength to answer the kiss with a tender exploration of her own, raking her mouth against his and inhaling gently, taking as much of Giovanni Valentino into her mouth as possible. His scent, his taste, his heat. Something in her chest tightened and released, sending ripples of warmth through her body.

  Giovanni pulled his mouth from hers. His chest heaved, his breath came heavily. “Now you have been kissed,” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she breathed, and he answered by kissing her again as they drifted down the canal. The fog masked their journey, so that she felt as if they drifted in their own world. Just the two of them, alone. Sheltered. Sheltering one another. This was a closeness she had never known. She trembled, and Giovanni removed his cloak and wrapped her in it. His hands, as he settled the cloak over her shoulders, warmed her most of all.

  She leaned against his shoulder and he held her, as the gondola drifted away from the hub of activity and into a section of the city that was silent and dark.

  Giovanni turned to her and settled his large, warm, capable hands on her face. He looked down at her as if he knew her, as if he knew why she was here and what she wanted, as if he knew that no one had ever held her tenderly before.

  She could feel his eyes on her as surely as she felt his hands, as warmly as she still felt his mouth on hers. The connection she felt, the urge to lean forward and kiss Giovanni again, the knowledge that if she behaved so boldly he would not only accept but would embrace her, was strangely thrilling. It came to her, as she considered brazenly leaning toward him to capture his lips once again, that if she was going to give herself to a stranger, it might as well be one who made her heart sing and her blood dance, one who looked at her with such tenderness and longing.

  “I want very much,” he began, and Audrey’s heart leapt again, with anticipation and a paltry touch of fear, “to paint you.”

  “To paint me?” she repeated.

  Even in the near dark she could see him smile. “Yes. A mere sketch is not enough. I want to paint you. I want to paint a portrait worthy of such a beautiful woman.” Still holding her face in his hands, he kissed her again. “I want to capture every sparkle in your eyes, the tilt of your mouth, and the shape of your lovely neck. The warmth of your skin and the light of your soul.”


  “You can do this?” she asked, leaning closer to his warmth, unafraid to place herself in this stranger’s hands.

  “Yes,” he breathed. “If you will pose for me. Finishing such a task will take several days, so I must have your promise that you will come to me every day until the portrait is complete.”

  She gave him a smile of her own. Every day. She could think of worse ways to spend her time in Venice. “You have it.”

  3

  Audrey searched the square, looking past smiling tourists and locals as she searched for one very familiar face. Giovanni had said last night that he would meet her here, by the red marble lions.

  All morning she’d wondered and worried over what she should wear to have her portrait painted. She’d finally settled on a simple pale green high-waisted gown and darker green velvet spencer. Her hair had been intricately braided and twisted up, and a fashionable hat that matched her spencer was perched atop the pale gold strands.

  Two months ago she’d burned every piece of black clothing she owned. Day dresses and fine evening gowns, boots and shoes, gloves, bags, cloaks... everything. She was sick to death of mourning a man she’d never loved, of pretending to feel sorrow. She was tired, too, of the whispers and the accusations, of the unfair label that had been assigned to her. Ridding herself of every reminder had made her feel better, for a while.

  In her first act of outright defiance she’d filled her wardrobe with bright and pale colors, white and ecru. Everything but black and gray.

  “Audrey, amore mia, you look magnificent.”

  She spun around to see that Giovanni stood on the other side of the marble lion, a gentle smile on his face. Amore mia. He said the words so simply and casually, she wondered if he realized that no one had ever called her my love before. Of course he knew. Somehow he looked at her and saw everything.

  Giovanni rounded the lion and came quickly down the steps, taking her hand as he reached her. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and immediately led her away from the crowds of St. Mark’s Square.

  What kind of woman allowed a strange man to guide her through alleyways and courtyards, over foot bridges that spanned minor canals and led them into other, narrower alleys where, at times, the buildings were so close together two bodies couldn’t possibly walk side by side? Not a sensible woman like Audrey Graystone, surely. In minutes she was completely, totally lost. Disoriented. Turned about so that she would likely never find her way back to St. Mark’s Square on her own. But she suffered not a moment’s worry.

  Giovanni led her into a different world, where there were no tourists, no palazzos, no cathedrals. The buildings were ancient and tall, plain and close.

  At last he opened a door off a narrow alley, and pulled her inside. Hand in hand they climbed a dimly lit stairway to the fourth floor, and Giovanni opened a door to a single large room.

  A fire burned low, and occupied easels were set up by both of the large, open windows. The room was furnished simply, with a large bed in one corner, a single hard-backed chair, and a faded red velvet sofa beside one of the wide windows. A battered dresser sat by the bed, and a long table was littered with art supplies. Watercolors, charcoal, and everything needed to mix the oil paints, along with gesso, paint brushes of all sizes, and linseed oil. A number of canvases, stretched and primed with gesso, leaned against one table leg.

  The studio was an odd mixture of bareness here and clutter there, but it was also warm with soft sunlight and with the presence of color and radiance from the paintings that lined the walls.

  They stepped into the room and Giovanni closed the door behind them. She smiled as she surveyed his “faces.” Against the walls were paintings, some finished and some in progress, and almost all of them were of people. Young and old, beautiful and plain, he had managed to capture the heart of these Venetians.

  She experienced her first moment of misgiving. If Giovanni Valentino captured her heart on canvas, what would he see? Heaven help her, she couldn’t be sure.

  “Sit,” he said, obviously anxious to get started as he led her to the sofa. “I’ll do a few sketches first, and then decide what pose will be best.”

  She sat primly on the edge of the seat, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her chin high. Giovanni sat back and looked at her. His smile faded.

  “No, no,” he said, putting down his paper and pencil to come to her again. “If I want to paint marble, I can find statues throughout the city.” He grinned to take the edge off the insult. “Relax. Take a deep breath.”

  She did, and so did he.

  He looked her up and down critically. “Take off the gloves,” he ordered as he turned around.

  Audrey tugged on the fingers of her kid gloves and, while Giovanni watched, she drew them off and placed them on the sofa beside her.

  He gave her a smile for her effort, sat in the hard-backed chair with his sketchbook, and began to draw. She returned his smile without even trying.

  “Is this the same dismal lady I found in the Piazza San Marco just yesterday?” he asked as he sketched.

  She didn’t answer, and a moment later he put his sketchbook aside and rose from his chair to come to her again, looking her over critically. “I do not like that hat,” he said with a wrinkle of his finely shaped nose. “Take it off.”

  She complied. “I rather like this hat,” she said prissily as she placed it beside her gloves.

  Giovanni reached out and touched her tightly wound braids. “Why do you hide this beautiful hair under such a hideous monstrosity?”

  “My new hat is not hideous,” she said haughtily.

  He paced impatiently, studying her as if she were an inanimate object, touching her cheeks with easy fingers now and again, making her turn her face this way and that. He walked across the room to the door, and studied her from there for a while before returning to her.

  “I do not like the jacket either,” he said, fingering the luxurious velvet.

  “This is a fine spencer,” she argued.

  “You look like you are...” He waggled his fingers in the air as he searched for the right words. “...all tied up. Restrained. Unable to breathe.”

  “I can breathe very well, thank you.” She should’ve worn the rose gown, or the blue. He was going to find fault with everything about this outfit!

  “Take off the jacket,” he ordered, in a very sweet voice.

  She stood, and he assisted her, sliding the garment easily off her arms. When he took the spencer away, he carried her hat and gloves with him. The despised articles were dropped unceremoniously onto his bed.

  From there, he turned to study her again. Her mouth went dry as she resumed her seat and tried to relax. He reclaimed his seat and with fast-moving hands he drew another sketch. Giovanni, who usually smiled so often, was not smiling now. He took this endeavor very seriously.

  Finally, he set the sketches aside and glared at her. “I do not like that color.”

  “Excuse me?” she asked politely. “This pale green is a perfectly fine and fashionable color, and I’ve been told on several occasions that it suits me.”

  “It steals the blue from your eyes,” he argued. “How can I capture the magnificence of your brilliant blue eyes when beneath them all we see is...” He wrinkled his nose. “Green.”

  Audrey sighed. “Well, I suppose I can come back tomorrow wearing another color. What do you suggest?”

  Giovanni rose from his chair and came to her, studying her all the while, his eyes calculating. He offered her his hand and she took it, laying her fingers on his wide, strong palm. He helped her to her feet, and then proceeded to turn her this way and that, his hands at her back and on her arms, and then, before she knew what he was doing, in her hair.

  With the removal of a few pins, her carefully braided hair came down. “Giovanni!”

  “Hush. I know what is best.”

  He unbraided her hair, separating the strands so that her pale, wavy tresses fell thickly to her waist. He ran his fi
ngers through her hair lifting a handful and letting it fall. “So beautiful. You should always wear it so.”

  “Ridiculous,” she muttered as he continued to rearrange her loosened hair.

  When he was happy with the way her hair fell over her shoulders and down her back, he stopped. He settled his magnificent blue-green eyes on hers so that her heart skipped a beat. “Do you trust me, Audrey?” he whispered, laying his hands on her shoulders.

  She nodded once, certain now that his invitation had nothing to do with painting her portrait. He had planned all along to seduce her. She should be insulted, indignant, mortified, but she found she was only relieved. If any man in Venice, in the world, was going to lie with her, it should be Giovanni.

  “Turn around,” he whispered, and she did.

  He brushed her hair aside, and one by one the tiny buttons at the back of her dress came undone. She could feel the release of each and every button, could feel a hint of cold air slipping into her gown and against her back. He untied the ribbon at her waist, and then slowly, very slowly, pushed the gown from her shoulders and down.

  Audrey’s heart pounded. Her blood rushed. She stood before Giovanni in nothing but a plain chemise and a single petticoat, her white hose and green slippers. When he turned her around to face him she expected a kiss, she craved a kiss, but he was diligent in his work, concentrating on untying and unhooking her underthings.

  Her heart thudded uncertainly as she remembered the one time in her life a man had seen her in a state of partial undress. There was nothing pleasing about her memories, no warm remembrance to cling to. Her husband had leered and poked and pinched until she’d felt like a roasted bird being clumsily tested before consumption.

  She easily dismissed the unpleasant memories. Giovanni wasn’t clumsy, and he didn’t leer or poke or pinch. He simply and very competently undressed her. Surely he must know how his hands barely brushing her skin felt, how his touch excited and overwhelmed her. He didn’t rush his movements, ever, but slowly removed the last of her garments until she stood before him completely naked. He took a step back and looked at her, with admiration and longing in his eyes. Nervous, she licked her lips and clasped her hands before her.