Behind the Mask

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “Take off your clothes,” he said softly.

  “Oh,” she said, reaching up to unfasten the buttons at the front of her bodice. “We never had that lesson.”

  He turned his back on her while she undressed, busying himself with brushes and paints. His shoulders were tense, his neck corded. Audrey watched him while she removed her gown and let her hair down, while she stepped out of her shoes and removed her chemise and petticoat and hose.

  As always, Giovanni wore a pair of dark breeches and a loose shirt of natural linen. The simple clothing suited him, allowing freedom of movement and accentuating his finer points: the width of his shoulders and the fine shape of his long legs. His dark hair, as careless as his clothing, touched his shoulders in a way that was unfashionable and carefree and as savage as the spark in his eyes. Yes, he was a fine figure of a man.

  “I’m ready,” she whispered, standing before the red sofa with her hair falling over her shoulders and her hands covering her breasts.

  Giovanni turned around, a paint brush in one hand and a palette of black, umber, and white in the other. He looked at her once, shook his head, and placed the implements on his chair. “No, no,” he said, clearly exasperated.

  When he stood before her he took a deep breath and reached out to straighten her hair, to pull one wavy strand forward. His fingers brushed her bare arm. “Relax,” he ordered.

  “That’s easy for you to say.” She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m the one who’s naked.”

  “I know,” he grumbled, taking her wrists and repositioning her arms. His fingers raked across the globes of her breasts, barely touching her flesh. That simple, unexpected contact sent sparks shooting through her body. Surprisingly intense sparks. He felt it, too, she could tell. She watched the fire ignite in his eyes.

  Those hands fluttered downward, lightly skimming over her arms and the curve of her hips, repositioning her left leg slightly with an easy manipulation of his long fingers. Audrey licked her lips, and a deep quiver rippled through her body as his fingers lingered on her thigh. Giovanni saw the tremor, or felt it, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “No one’s ever touched me there before.”

  He spun away from her and positioned himself before the easel. As he had the day before, he alternately stared at her and at the canvas, engrossed in his work, lost as if in another time and place.

  Standing perfectly still, she watched him. He was fascinating; because he was beautiful, because he was so lost in his art, because he was willing to sacrifice what he wanted to capture what he saw on canvas. She found an unexpected peace in watching him, a deep, warm contentment.

  His hands moved quickly and then slowly. He stepped back and studied the entire canvas, then leaned close to squint at a detail he wasn’t quite happy with. Finally, he stopped. She could tell he was finished even before he set his eyes upon hers. His shoulders and the intense set of his face softened a little, and the hands he used so well now relaxed.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  “A little.” She didn’t drop her arms.

  He stalked to his dresser and opened a drawer, withdrawing a length of white silk he tossed in her direction. “Put this on,” he said as she caught it, unfolding what turned out to be a long wrapper. Gratefully, she covered herself. There was no sash, so she had to hold the oversized garment closed at her waist with one hand.

  “Hmm,” she said suspiciously as she walked toward him. “This doesn’t look like an item of clothing you’d wear.”

  “Of course not.” He poured two glasses of wine and unwrapped a long loaf of bread. “I have painted other women before, you know.”

  She felt a stab of what could only be jealousy in her heart. “Oh, really?”

  He glanced up and flashed a wicked smile at her. “Don’t look at me so, tesoro mio. I did not make love to any of them either.”

  She took the glass of wine he offered. “None of them?”

  “None. They were just...” He shrugged as he led her to the couch. “Models. They were necessary for my work.”

  “Like I’m necessary now?”

  He sat on the couch and drew her down beside him. “No one has ever been as necessary as you,” he said reluctantly.

  Truth or not, it satisfied her. They drank wine and ate bread from the same loaf, breaking off pieces and nibbling. The wine and the presence of the man beside her warmed Audrey until she felt as if she positively glowed, golden from the inside out.

  She studied some of the paintings that leaned against the wall of his studio. The canvases, rich with color and character, caught the afternoon light. “You’re quite talented,” she mused. “Maybe one day you’ll be as famous as Michelangelo.”

  He answered with a soft, carefree laugh.

  “I’m serious. You’re very good.” She sipped her wine and studied the paintings. “I studied art, briefly. You use color like Titian, but your form is better. More realistic, better defined. You use light very well, unusually well. Your style seems to be influenced by Tintoretto.”

  Giovanni lifted his eyebrows in obvious amusement. “Tintoretto was a hack.”

  It took a split second for Audrey to realize that he was teasing her, and when she smiled in response he broke into a wide, irresistible grin. They talked, about Carnival and painting and the Venetian weather, and she actually forgot that she sat next to Giovanni practically naked, with nothing but an open wrapper to cover her body.

  “You speak excellent English,” she said as she took her last bite of bread.

  “I should,” he said, and without warning he grabbed her legs and tossed them over his lap. She revolved slowly and leaned back against the arm of the plush sofa, her legs draped across his hard thighs, her white silk wrapper threatening to fall open. “I spent three years in London.”

  Her heart skipped a beat, more in fear than in desire as Giovanni placed his hand on her thigh. “Three years? When?”

  He thought for a minute, and as he contemplated her question his hand moved, ever so slightly, against the silk at her thigh. “I left Venice ten years ago for London. I was seventeen, defiant, determined to make my way as an artist after my father disowned me.”

  Ten years ago she’d been in the country at Miss Greenaway’s Seminary. She was safe, still. “Your father disowned you?”

  “Yes.” He looked at her, hard. “He expected me to be a merchant, as he is. To put aside my silly dream of painting to join him in his business.”

  “Perhaps he felt he needed you.”

  Giovanni smiled. “I have seven brothers, and all of them have joined my father in his business. No, he was being stubborn, as always.”

  “Did he ever forgive you for defying him?” She thought of her own father, who had no forgiveness or mercy in his heart.

  “Of course,” he said softly. “But he never lets me forget that I am his most defiant son.”

  With his quick smile and easy manner, defiant was not a word she’d have ever chosen to describe Giovanni. “Does your family live in Venice?”

  His hand rocked comfortably at her thigh. “Let’s not talk about my father. The subject always distresses me.”

  “All right,” she agreed quickly. “Tell me what you did in London.”

  He settled unwavering blue-green eyes on her face. “It was not all I’d dreamed of.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I did manage to paint a few portraits, lovely ladies and children who refused to sit still, old men who wanted to leave behind a tribute to their dignity and wealth.”

  “You must’ve made a fortune.” She glanced at the pictures lining the studio, at one and then another. “You’re so talented,” she said sincerely. “I’ll bet the lords and ladies were lining up to have their portraits painted by the magnificent Giovanni Valentino.”

  He reached out to touch her, to lay a single finger in the valley between her breasts. The wrapper fell slightly open, revealing
the full curves of her bosom, covering her nipples and draping downward to conceal part of her body, molding to and revealing slopes and valleys.

  “No,” he said, his eyes on his hand and the way it moved gently over her skin. “I did not always paint what they wanted to see. I painted what I saw, no matter how unflattering, no matter how revealing.”

  “And they did not like that at all, did they?” she asked with a smile.

  “No.” He locked his eyes to hers.

  “Is that why you left London and returned to Venice?”

  He shook his head and trailed his finger downward, parting the white silk as he went. “No. You do not want to know...”

  “I do,” she insisted breathlessly.

  He touched her lazily, almost absently, before continuing. “A rich, elderly man hired me to paint a portrait of his young, beautiful wife. I was happy to oblige, of course. We went to their country house for an extended stay. You see, the lady decided she wanted art lessons, as well as a portrait.”

  Audrey’s heart skipped a beat. The tale seemed too much like her own sad story. An old rich man, a young wife, chosen for her pretty face and a strong body capable of carrying son after son...

  “The lady was...” He hesitated, perhaps not ready to reveal too much. “She was beautiful. She had a bright smile and a ready laugh, and when I spoke to her she listened faithfully, as if my hopes and dreams were her own. When she came to my room one night and crawled into bed with me, I was immediately and wholly in love with her.”

  His fingers slipped innocently beneath her wrapper, to caress cool, unexplored flesh. If any other man had dared to be so bold she would’ve flinched in horror, but Giovanni’s hands were gentle, his movements slow and easy.

  “Of course, I was as innocent then as you are now,” he said with a wry smile, “and to my mind what she offered was love. Yes, it must be love. Why else would she risk coming to my bed while her husband slept down the hall? Why else would she...” He stopped, apparently deciding he’d revealed enough of his sordid encounter. “But of course, I was just a bit of fun for her. A young Venetian lover was a novelty, a prize her wealthy, bored friends did not possess.”

  “That’s...” She took a deep breath as his lazy, mindless fingers stroked her skin. “That wasn’t very nice. Did she break your heart?”

  “For a while.” Giovanni leaned over until he towered above her. “But she also did me a great favor. I left England, wounded and disenchanted, and I went to Florence to study. It was for the best.”

  “But...” Audrey began, incensed that anyone would treat Giovanni so shabbily.

  His hand settled quite comfortably and familiarly at her bare waist, and he came down, and down, and down, until his lips hovered just above hers. “It was a long time ago. I have recovered,” he whispered as he kissed her, a long, slow kiss that made her think that maybe, just maybe, he was going to forget about the painting on the easel.

  She had never known that the meeting of two mouths could be so heavenly, that a mere kiss could fill her with bliss and heat and longing. Ah, this was no mere kiss. It was a joining, a pleasure, a promise.

  Too soon Giovanni left her, rising up slowly and taking his hand from her skin, peeling his body from hers until he stood before her and offered his hand. “Back to work.”

  She laid her hand in his, stood, and slipped the white silk from her shoulders.

  “Giovanni,” she said as he returned to his station at the easel.

  Brush in hand, poised to begin again, he looked at her.

  She covered her breasts with her hands and cocked her leg slightly, shaking her head once to send her hair into a soft dance. She locked her eyes to his. “Remember what I said last night. Paint fast.”

  6

  Seated at a small round table situated cozily in a nook by the window overlooking the garden, Audrey sipped hot, sweet tea and nibbled at a piece of toast lightly smeared with strawberry jam. The palazzo’s downstairs maid, Claudina, had served breakfast with a shy smile, and now hovered nearby, patiently awaiting a request for more tea or the substantial meal she’d suggested when Audrey had asked for tea and toast.

  Audrey barely gave a thought to the food on her plate. She thought instead of the day ahead, and how uncommonly anxious she was to see Giovanni again. She was so lost in her pleasant musings, she was startled when Isabel burst into the room.

  They’d both been so busy in the past few days, it seemed they’d done little more than pass in the hallway.

  “Good morning,” Isabel said brightly. A tad too brightly perhaps. Claudina scurried from the room to collect Isabel’s customary coffee and biscotti.

  Isabel took the seat across the small, round table from Audrey. Her hazel eyes twinkled.

  “You’re up to something,” Audrey said suspiciously. Isabel grinned, a wide, unrestrained smile.

  “Is this about your trip to the island?” Audrey couldn’t help but return her friend’s smile. “You’re much too romantic for your own good,” she said sensibly.

  “And you’re not nearly romantic enough,” Isabel countered. “Why, here you are in the most exciting city in the world, and how do you pass your days? Sightseeing, like a sour old dowager.”

  Audrey just tilted her head and smiled.

  “Don’t deny it,” Isabel continued. “The other afternoon I asked Sophia where you were, and she said you’d gone to St. Mark’s Square again. Alone. It’s a lovely place, Audrey, but I know you too well. You haven’t climbed the bell tower once, have you? You’ve found yourself a corner or a nook to hide in, and you sit there and watch everyone else...” She stopped speaking suddenly, and her inquisitive eyes lit on Audrey’s face. “Oh, my. You’re up to something,” she said softly.

  Audrey raised her eyebrows slightly. “Me? The sour old sightseeing dowager? What could I possibly be up to?”

  “You must tell me,” Isabel said, her voice lowered in case any of the servants stood within hearing.

  Audrey smiled. She couldn’t confide even to Isabel that she was posing nude, but she did want to tell someone about Giovanni.

  Isabel leaned slightly across the table. “Good heavens, this is serious. I’ve never seen you look so... so...” Her eyes widened in what appeared to be shock. “You’re in love.”

  “No, I’m not in love,” Audrey protested. “But I have met a very nice man.”

  Isabel smiled. “You are in love. What’s his name? Where did you meet him? What does he look like? When am I going to get to meet him? What...”

  Audrey laughed, and Isabel stopped her questioning immediately. It had been a long time since she’d laughed so naturally in front of her friends. “One question at a time,” Audrey said softly. “Let’s see. His name is Giovanni. I met him in St. Mark’s Square. He’s...” She searched for the right word. “Beautiful,” she whispered. “Absolutely beautiful. He has the most magnificent blue-green eyes, and dark hair he wears too long, and he has”— she lifted one of her own ordinary hands—“the most extraordinary hands. He’s an artist, and he’s very talented.”

  “This is wonderful,” Isabel whispered, practically breathless. “So, you go to Giovanni in the afternoon and tell Sophia and Fiorello that you’re sightseeing? Audrey, this is so... so impulsive of you. You’re never impulsive.” The expression on her face made it obvious that she approved heartily.

  “He’s painting my portrait,” Audrey explained. “I pose for him during the day, and at night we walk the streets, or ride in a gondola, or dance at a masquerade.”

  “When can I meet him?”

  Some of Audrey’s joy faded. “You can’t. He thinks I’m a lady’s companion. He has no idea who I am.”

  Isabel’s smile faded. “Why not?”

  “If he knew I was Lady Graystone,” Audrey said sensibly, “if he heard the stories...”

  “If this Giovanni loves you he won’t care about those absurd rumors.”

  Love again. The word made her more than a little nervous. Audrey locked
her eyes on her friend. “He doesn’t love me. He likes me, we have fun, he’s painting my portrait. After I leave Venice I’ll never see him again, so why spoil what I have by telling him the truth? What we have now is near perfect. Late every morning I meet him in St. Mark’s Square. Then in the afternoon I come home and change into a costume and meet him in a prearranged place.” She didn’t see the need to tell Isabel that by night they danced too intimately, and kissed, and whispered of their hearts’ most ardent desires. “When we part I have him drop me at the Hotel Danieli. I told him the woman I’m companion to wouldn’t approve of me being seen unchaperoned in the company of a man, so it’s best if he doesn’t escort me home.”

  With an evil gleam in her eye, Isabel leaned forward. “Has he kissed you?”

  Audrey didn’t answer, she didn’t want to share everything, but her face—a twitch of her lips and a hot blush in her cheeks—gave her away.

  Isabel grinned. “He has kissed you, and you liked it. You’re in love, I know it, and Giovanni’s surely in love with you. How could he not be?”

  “You’re much too fanciful for your own good,” Audrey said calmly.

  “You’re much too reasonable,” Isabel countered.

  “Well, I’m certainly reasonable enough to know that there’s a difference between love and... and...” She stammered as she searched for a delicate way to finish her statement.

  “Lust?” Isabel offered.

  “Isabel Penrose, what would Miss Greenaway say?” Audrey asked in mock horror.

  “If she’d ever known what either of those passions were like, she probably wouldn’t be such a crabby old witch.”

  They were both laughing out loud when Claudina entered the room with Isabel’s breakfast on a silver tray, along with a steaming pot of fresh tea.

  The next few days and nights passed too quickly. By day Audrey posed for Giovanni, but he never allowed her to see the painting in progress. He said it was bad luck, and he covered the canvas when he wasn’t working. She no longer felt self-conscious at all, standing before him without a stitch of clothing covering her body. There was no fear or embarrassment, no flinching or twisting away to hide her body from him. He’d already seen it all.