And no couple was more fantastic than the winged lion and golden Venus slowly circling the room
Diane, who rarely noticed people, who loved art and architecture more than society, stared, fascinated. Enthralled. How beautiful the two of them were together.
They were a stunning pair, perfectly matched, gilded by the candlelight.
Venus’ mask barely concealed her exquisite face, but it was he, the winged lion, symbol of St. Mark, Venice’s patron saint, who captivated her.
He was a work of art, in the softest golden leather pants which had been fitted to powerful legs. A red and gold robe fell from his broad shoulders, leaving his muscular chest and hard, flat carved torso tantalizingly bare. His arms were thickly muscled and bare, too, while his face was hidden by a gold lion mask that nearly covered his face completely, beginning at the brow, extending over his nose, skirting his upper lip and then dipping low to follow his jaw. A thick gold mane covered his hair and wings—enormous gold wings—sprang from his back as if he were an archangel about to take flight.
It was more than a costume. It was a fantasy. He was man and beast. Fierce. Regal. Seductive. Lethal.
Diane’s throat closed and her heart ached. For a heartbreaking moment she thought of Domenico, even as the candlelight illuminated him, shadowing his face and outlining his size.
He was tall, even taller than Domenico, and broader through the shoulders, and yet he made her long for the life she’d lost. Love, pleasure, possession.
Sex. Seduction.
God, it had been years since she’d been with anyone—years since she’d been touched, loved, held. She hadn’t wanted to be touched, held, but this beautiful, impossible fantasy made her crave and hunger and dream.
Dream.
Maybe someday. Maybe one day. If she was lucky.
And then the mythic winged lion turned his head, thick gold mane brushing his shoulders, to look her way, to look at her, and her heart skittered to a stop.
So like Dom. Those eyes. That expression.
Her heart squeezed even tighter and her head spun. She leaned on her shepherdess staff, her bad leg about to collapse. So much of him reminded her of Domenico. The height, the shape of his broad chest, the muscular, tapering torso, the narrow hips above long strong legs. It was almost as if the Coducci palazzo was playing tricks on her imagination. Ghost, angel, beast.
It’s not Dom, she told herself. Can’t be. Domenico’s dead.
And yet this beautiful winged lion, this symbol of the city, looked at her as if he could see beneath her mask, beneath her costume. He looked as if he could see straight through her. Right to her heart.
Just like Dom had.
Her hand trembled violently on the staff. The winged lion was approaching.
“Ti senti bene? Are you all right?” Conte Domenico Coducci asked the tiny shepherdess in the white tulle gown, having watched her for the better part of an hour. She’d arrived alone and had remained alone, and he’d noticed how her hand shook on her shepherdess staff.
She took a nervous step back, eyes wide behind the sleek white mask molded to her face. The mask hid everything but her eyes, and her blue-green gaze stared up at him transfixed. He’d never seen any eyes quite so sad, and for a moment her sorrow touched him. Strange, because nothing touched him. Nothing could. On the inside he was dead, and yet…and yet…something stirred inside him now. A fragment of memory. A whisper of hunger followed by a slash of pain.
But, no, it couldn’t be, and just like that he steeled himself against the memory and the emotion. “Can I get you something to drink?” he added, putting a hand out to her elbow as she swayed on her feet.
“No. I’m fine. Sto bene.” She stumbled back another step and tears shimmered in her eyes.
The tears cracked the armor around his heart. Don’t cry, he wanted to tell her, don’t be so sad. Which was even more perplexing as he wasn’t a tender man. Didn’t comfort. Didn’t love.
He shouldn’t even be here. There was no point. She wasn’t his responsibility. He had a houseful of wealthy, influential guests. A Christmas gala to host. And a beautiful fiancée waiting for him across the room. But this little shepherdess… She reminded him of someone he’d desperately loved and lost. Not that he wanted to remember. He was done remembering, done living in the past.
He drew a swift, rough breath. There was no past. Only the future. And his future was with Valeria. Valeria and his son. “If you’re sure you’re fine,” he said coolly, moving back a step, determined to put space between them. Mistakes were made when one let emotions cloud reality.
She nodded once, and that was all he needed. He’d done his duty. Displayed proper hospitality for a guest in his home. With a curt goodnight he walked swiftly away, his sumptuous robe swinging from his shoulders, powerful hands clenched at his side.
The past, he reminded himself harshly, was dead.
Diane shuddered as he walked away.
His voice. Dom’s voice. He’d sounded just like Dom. Spoken like Dom. Touched her like Dom.
But Domenico was dead. Dead. Gone. Buried in the family vault. And this, the beautifully restored palazzo, belonged to Dom’s sister, who had graciously donated the use of the waterfront palace to the charity Foundation for their fundraiser.
She knew this. Knew the facts. But facts right now didn’t explain anything. The facts somehow were wrong.
Diane watched the tall winged lion join the magnificent Venus. Their heads tipped together and Diane’s heart ached. Jealous. Jealous. Crazy as it was, she felt as if she was watching her beloved with another woman.
It made her ill. Her stomach heaved. Time to leave, she told herself. You’re losing your mind. Confusing reality and fantasy. Letting the costumes and masks distort your mind and cloud your memory.
In the antechamber a uniformed maid emerged with Diane’s dark wool cloak. Pietra, Diane thought, recognizing the maid who’d just started working for the Coduccis when she and Dom had honeymooned here seven years ago. “Thank you, Pietra,” Diane said softly from behind her mask.
The maid smiled. “You know me?”
“Of course.” Feeling lost, and needing to connect, Diane lifted her mask, revealing her face. “It’s Diane. Diane Mayer-Coducci—”
The rest of Diane’s words were drowned out by Pietra’s shriek. “Madre Maria, protegger mi dal fantasma!”
Diane, fluent in Italian, had no problem translating the maid’s strangled cry. Mother Mary, protect me from the ghost!
“Pietra,” Diane choked, embarrassed by Pietra’s theatrics. “It’s me. Diane. Domenico’s wife—”
Pietra screamed again, louder than before.
Diane’s flagging confidence deserted her and, clutching her cloak to her breast, she limped out as quickly as her bad leg would allow her.
Such a mistake coming tonight. How could she have thought that it would invite anything other than more pain and suffering? So stupid to want a peek at the life she’d lost.
Shivering, Diane struggled with her cloak and mask and shepherdess staff. It was freezing cold and the Venetian fog had settled in, veiling the Grand Canal, making the gondolas at the water’s edge appear to float in the air. Just go home, she told herself, get out of here and go home.
Diane was but steps from the bobbing gondolas when a firm hand descended on her shoulder, stopping her.
“What game is this?” The deep, rough male voice gritted, even as a warm palm bore down on her thin bare shoulder, forcibly turning her around.
A shiver raced through her. That voice again. A voice she’d thought she’d never hear again. Could it be?
Was it possible?
With her mask dangling in her fingers, she turned toward him, lifting her face to the light.
He hissed a breath as his gaze searched her face.
“What?” she whispered, her mouth drying.
Fury darkened his eyes. “My lady, you’ve taken the masquerade too far.”
“I don’t know what you
mean.”
“You do.”
She shook her head, denying his accusation. “Take off your mask.” Her voice was raspy, her mouth dry as sand. “Please.”
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice as sharp as cut glass.
“Let me see you,” she begged.
He looked at her for the longest moment before reaching up to lift the lion’s mask from his face.
The impressions hit her fast, furious—the forehead, the eyes, the cheekbones, the strong patrician nose.
Domenico.
Diane bit ruthlessly into her lip, biting back the pain.
Trickery—the moon, the light, the December night.
Trickery—this Venetian fog.
How cruel the night to conjure beautiful, dark, sensual Domenico.
Her heart ached. Her body grew feverishly warm. He looked so much like her Domenico that desire licked her veins.
Cruel night.
Cruel city of masks and balls and dreams.
Cruel city floating on pillars in the sea.
“Domenico?” she breathed, heart thumping wildly.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
Her bewildered gaze held his. Was it him? Could it be? “Diane.”
He groaned deep in his chest and took a menacing step toward her. “Do not speak her name. You have no right.”
It was him.
But it couldn’t be.
Dom had died. Dom and the baby had died. Only she had survived the accident outside Rome. Only she, and barely at that.
In agony, Diane dropped her mask. It cracked as it hit the stone pavers, and even as it shattered Diane reached out a trembling hand to lightly touch his bare chest. His chest was hard, taut with sinewy muscle, the skin warm, firm.
“Domenico.”
He took a step closer, looming over her. The lamp flickered yellow light over his profile and it was him. Beautiful. So beautiful. Tears scalded her eyes. “It is you,” she whispered.
He took her hand from his chest, bent his head to reject her.
The light flickered again, and it was no longer his beautiful face but the face of a stranger. Scarred. Burned. Changed.
Not Domenico at all.
Diane’s weak leg gave out and she collapsed, tumbling at his feet.
CHAPTER TWO
DOMENICO caught the fragile shepherdess just before her head slammed against the stone. Her heavy staff clattered to the ground instead, joining her broken mask.
She was small, light—lighter than Diane. Because this wasn’t his Diane. No matter what this woman said. No matter the game she played.
But he couldn’t leave her here. The night was cold and her cloak was nearly as thin as her sheer costume. Effortlessly he swung her up, lifting her high against his chest. It angered him that she felt more like an angel than a woman. So frail. Too frail.
His robe swirled around his legs as he carried her back to the palazzo, and he tried to concentrate on the cold and the fog instead of the woman in his arms.
When she’d touched him he’d burned. That brush of her fingers across his chest had hurt. Not tingled. Burned.
Just like the fire that had consumed the car the night of the accident.
His gaze dropped to the top of her head with its elaborate white wig. How strange that he felt nothing when Valeria touched him, and yet he felt everything when this little impostor touched him.
Jaw hardening, he resolved to get to the bottom of this charade—but it would be in private, away from the guests and the revelry.
A wide-eyed Pietra held the door open for him and, entering the palazzo, he walked past the grand staircase to the back of the house, where another staircase ran upstairs to the family’s personal rooms.
He climbed the stairs in twos to his private suite on the third floor and placed the now silent shepherdess on the sitting room’s antique sofa.
“Well?” he said brusquely, stepping back to have a hard look at her. She was beautiful. Ethereal. Impossibly fragile. “What is this about? Has someone put you up to this? Are you in need of money?”
The shepherdess tilted her head back, white ringlets cascading over her slender shoulders as she stared up at him, her eyes a stunning blue-green, overly brilliant in her pale face. “No.” Her voice shook and he wanted to shake her.
Those eyes…that voice…so like Diane it almost fooled him. Almost, but not quite. Yet the damage was done. He was thinking of her again. Feeling what he’d once felt. Love. Loss. Grief.
Rage.
And the rage hit him anew, fresh fury washing over him, through him, stealing his calm, darkening his mind. He already blamed himself for Diane’s death—he had been at the wheel, after all—but how dared this woman? How dared she mock him? How dared she impersonate his beloved wife?
Domenico stepped closer and lowered himself to his haunches, crouching before her so their eyes were level. “I warn you,” he said softly, dangerously. “I am not a patient man. I will not tolerate this. Tell me why you’re here and what you want or—” He broke off, his hands squeezing, knotting, kneading. He’d break her. Destroy her. Because, God help him, what kind of woman would do this?
He’d never loved anyone as he’d loved Diane. Diane had been his heart. His life. He’d defied everyone to marry her. He’d lost everything to have her. And he hadn’t cared. He’d loved her so completely. With every inch of his heart.
She’d never believed him. Never trusted him. Unable to accept that he’d rather lose his inheritance, his family, than lose her. It hadn’t been just rash promises, either. He’d given it all up on the day he’d married her. His mother, enraged that he’d marry a commoner, and an American at that, had stripped it all from him, though she could never take his title. It was his father who had allowed them to stay at Ca’ Coducci for their honeymoon, but that had been their one and only visit here together.
He hadn’t cared, though. He’d had his own business in Rome, and an apartment, and a beautiful wife he’d adored.
It was all he’d needed. Work, love, life.
But then Diane had died, and miraculously he’d been returned to the family bosom. Restored just like the prodigal son.
Only he hadn’t wanted to be returned to the family bosom. He’d wanted Diane.
And this woman, this shepherdess, presumed to be his love, his life.
God help her, she was in trouble now.
“Or what? What would you do?” she flashed, eyes blazing back at him, expression defiant. “Throttle me? Hit me? What would you do that could create greater pain than has already been given to me?”
He was close enough to see the flecks of turquoise in her irises, and the faintest of lines at the edge of her eyes. A small dimple—no, a scar—winked at her throat.
Trachea, he thought, heart slowing, stomach cramping. A tracheotomy scar.
Someone had cut her trachea, opening her air tube so she could breathe. Throat squeezing closed, ice water filling his veins, he staggered to his feet, moved blindly away, his robe swirling.
Impossible.
Couldn’t be.
Diane was dead. Dead. And the dead did not come back to life. Not even in magical Venice. Yes, in the first year after the accident he’d dreamed of her night after night—dreamed she was still alive, dreamed they were together still—but he hadn’t dreamed of her in over a year now, and finally he was free to move on. Knew he had to move on, whether or not his heart was ready. Because his son needed him to move on. His son needed a mother, a family.
But this woman…so very much like Diane.
He turned his head slowly, slowly, and she was still there, sitting still, regal, defiant on his sofa.
“Do you abuse women now, Dom?” she choked, her cheeks suffused with color. “Is that what death has done to you?”
Diane would have never spoken to him this way.
Domenico ground his teeth together to keep from shouting. He didn’t shout. He didn’t care. He didn’t feel. But right now he was wild on
the inside. Wild, bewildered, stunned.
He’d died when they’d told him Diane was gone. He’d gone into cardiac arrest. And he’d been glad he was dying, had known he was dying. Wanted it.
But they’d brought him back after three minutes. Brought him back to the living. Only he wasn’t the same. Part of him was gone forever.
Even now, thinking maybe, maybe, it was her, he couldn’t feel. Couldn’t hope. Couldn’t dream.
He’d loved her too much. And losing her had almost killed him. He would never love anyone—not even his Diane—again.
“I do not hurt women,” he said, drawing a slow, deep breath. “And I would never hurt you.” He paused. “If it is you.”
“It is me. And you know it’s me. Ask me any thing.”
“What was the painting I was standing in front of that day we met at the university library?”
The smallest of smiles played at her mouth. “Jacopo Tintoretto’s The Finding of the Body of St. Mark. It was on loan from Brera in Milan.” The smile disappeared. “We talked about your Venetian family, and how St. Mark was your favorite apostle.” She looked up at him, her head shaking in disbelief. “How, Dom? How is it possible? You’re supposed to be dead.”
And I am, he thought, gazing down at her, even as it struck him that his wedding was exactly three weeks from tonight.
Dio buono. Good God.
Valeria.
He glanced at the door, thinking Valeria should be here. Knowing that Valeria, his future wife, was not going to react well to hearing that his wife was still alive.
Eyes narrowed, he stared at Diane’s oval face, with its bright pink spots of color, and remembered the way her hand had felt against his bare chest.
Warm, so warm. It had cut right to the heart of him. It had been both pleasure and pain—maybe even more pain than pleasure. And it hit him like a thunderbolt—Diane, only his Diane, would make him hurt like that. Only his Diane could make him feel so much. Only Diane…
As if on cue, the future Countess Coducci entered the sitting room, her tall, statuesque body nearly naked and gleaming in gold. She lifted off her mask as she moved toward him, freeing her long blond hair and sending it tumbling down her back.
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