by Michele Hauf
WICKED SEDUCTION by Michele Hauf
Copyright © 2017 by Michele Hauf
With permission by Tina Folsom, creator of the Venice Vampyr Series (Volumes 1 - 4) — Copyright © 2011 - 2017 Tina Folsom.
Cover design by Michele Hauf. Title art template created by Pickyme.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments or events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This digital edition published by Swell Cat Press, LLC.
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WICKED SEDUCTION
Venice Vampyr #5
Chapter 1
Marcello Sebastiani stomped over the rain-drizzled cobblestone streets of Venice alongside his friend and fellow vampire, Carlo Bianchi. He'd met Carlo near the San Marco plaza, and now they were headed to the villa that Carlo had purchased two days earlier. It was located a few houses to the east of Marcello's palazzo. He and his friend wanted to ensure that the new purchase had been cleared out and prepared for Carlo to move in.
But Marcello was in a mood this misty, Autumn evening. Just coming from his solicitor’s home, Marcello had learned that there was an issue with his own property. Seemed the Venice city auditor could find no records that Marcello had legal ownership of the palazzo. Or, in fact, that Marcello Sebastiani even existed. No birth records to be found. And the auditor wanted Marcello to explain that, or risk losing his home.
It was a ridiculous play by the city, an attempt to take over the home he'd owned outright for—well, centuries. But, indeed, the paperwork was vague at best.
How did a man whose family records had all been lost, prove he was who he was? Especially when that man had lived for five centuries and had assumed the name of his own grandfather over the decades to keep control of the home and property originally bought in the thirteenth century?
His man of law should have had this under control. False records should have been created. But something had gone wrong. Now, questions had arisen that Marcello could not answer if he wished to maintain his secrecy. He must figure a way around this.
"Do you think the Guardians could have something to do with your troubles?" Carlo asked.
The Guardians of the Holy Waters were a group of vampire hunters intent on extinguishing every last vamp in Venice. His friends had had recent run-ins with them. One must always maintain vigilance.
"That would mean they suspect I am vampire. And that they've ties to city officials. No, I don't believe so." Because it just didn't feel right to Marcello.
"Tell them the birth record was destroyed in a fire," Carlo suggested. "It's worked for more than a few of our friends."
Vampires were a small population in Venice. Marcello knew most of them. He had an abiding and deep friendship with at least half. And he and a group of his closest friends were currently securing property in a common area along one of the smaller canals to establish a safe haven. All houses would be attached by covered walkways to shield from their most devastating enemy, the sun. Together, they would construct a citadel against their enemies, the Guardians.
"I thought you trusted your solicitor?"
"I did. But he died two years ago. His son has taken over my legal work. I was assured he had been trained well and could be trusted. And I do trust him. But he slipped up. I'll deal with it. I always do. "
Carlo stopped beside Marcello across the street from the property. It was smaller than Marcello's home; only three stories high, and the stone mouldings around the windows and doorway were broken and covered with soot—badly in need of revitalization.
"Looks like the front door was left open." Marcello sniffed the air. It was second nature to keep a keen eye out for anyone suspicious. And during the night hours, as it was nearing nine in the evening now, an extra careful eye out for the Guardians.
"Probably moving out furniture," Carlo said and crossed the street.
"If that were so"—Marcello passed up his friend—"there would be a loaded cart out front. Yes? Be cautious, Carlo."
The twosome paused before the open front door. Both touched the door and stone wall as they listened. Their heightened senses could have picked up a mouse skittering in the attic. But, instead, they heard…sobbing.
Marcello charged through the front door, prepared to defend himself and his friend against whoever lurked inside when he spied two women. And a pianoforte, upon which sparkled a lit candelabra. One of the women stood beside the elaborately gilded instrument, straightening with surprise as he and Carlo charged in. The other was half-sprawled across the top of the pianoforte, sobbing.
Yet the distraught woman looked up at him, sniffed back some tears, and then stood straight, adjusting herself appropriately.
"What is this?" Carlo asked.
The woman who had been standing curtsied. "Signori." The brunette wore her hair tightly bound at the top of her head. A tight coat covered her rotund figure and plain, brown dress.
The other woman brushed away a pale curl from her tear-wetted cheek and tilted a curious look upon them. Dressed in aquamarine festooned with ribbons down the bodice, and not wearing a coat, her sudden elevated mood may have been what colored her cheeks so beautifully, or it could be her natural color. No matter, Marcello thought her gorgeous.
If also an intruder.
"Are you Signore Ricci's friends? Perhaps his solicitor?" the blonde woman asked them. "We've only just found out about his death. The man died a few days ago. Alas…" She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead.
Marcello had seen such a move only on the stage. And he wasn't much for plays and theatrics. "We are the new owners," he said. "Who are you, and why are you in this home?"
"The new owners?" The woman stepped around the pianoforte bench and took them both in with a curious look that bordered on appraising. With blatant admiration. So much so that Carlo and Marcello exchanged looks and lifted brows. Never had Marcello been quite so visually undressed by a seemingly civilized woman.
"How exquisite to meet the two of you. I am Jane Emery." She offered her hand, which he and Carlo continued to stare at. With a flip of teasing fingers, she gestured over her shoulder. "And this is my ladies’ maid, Prudence. We've traveled overseas from London. Once we hit land, our conveyance was a horrible caravan of ill-sprung carriages that did try my nerves. And now, we have only just arrived. Signore Ricci was to be my patron, you see. I play the pianoforte." She turned and plunked out a few notes on the instrument then spun and announced grandly, "I do love Handel, don't you?"
Marcello had no words.
"We had no idea her patron had passed," Prudence provided somberly. "It's such a tragedy."
"More so for me," Jane added quickly, and a bit too gaily considering the loss. "I have nowhere to go now." She gestured to a pile of red leather portmanteaus stacked by the door. "I had intended to stay with Signore Ricci while he engaged the finest teachers to advance my studies. I sold my home and my things. And when we arrived on the Venetian shores… Oh!" She sat with a grand plop on the bench before the pianoforte and caught her head in her palms.
"We were robbed," the solemn Prudence provided. She stepped forward and spoke closely to Marcello. "Forgive her. My mistress has a tendency toward dramatics."
"I can see that." He winced, unsure how to hand
le a frantic woman. Nor was he willing.
Jane suddenly perked. "I didn't catch your names."
"Carlo Bianchi," Carlo offered, "and this is Signore Marcello Sebastiani."
"Enchanted, signori."
Carlo beamed, taken by the woman's effusive charm.
Marcello was not so quick to bait. "The two of you cannot stay here. The house is being emptied of the furniture. I'm sure this"—he gestured to the pianoforte—"is most likely on its way out to the nearest bonfire. And besides, the home belongs to us—er, Signore Bianchi now."
"Us? The two of you are…?" Jane looked from one of them to the other. What was she implying?
"Absolutely not," Carlo provided. "My wife waits at home for me. Marcello and I are friends. Now, do you have a place to stay while you are here in Venice?"
"We were robbed!" Jane stood and splayed her hands wide. "We've nothing! Nothing but my musical talent, that is."
Marcello caught Prudence's roll of eyes from behind her mistress's shoulder.
"I have no idea what I'll do now," Jane continued. "I cannot return to London."
"Why not?" Marcello asked. "Surely your family—"
"Expects me to stay while I am advancing my studies. Returning to London is out of the question, Signore Sebastiani. What shall I do? Oh!" She clasped her hands and eyed him with a coy flutter of lashes. "You said you live close by?"
"I, uh…" He had not. Had he? "Oh…, no."
"Yes," Carlo said, with a nudge to Marcello's elbow. "You've a large house, my friend. Why not invite the ladies to stay while they seek more permanent boarding elsewhere?"
"Because I do not operate an inn," he reported gruffly.
And besides, he had a thing about the English. They were nosey and snooty and plain intolerable. Despite the woman's beauty, and her flirtatious flutter of golden lashes, he would not have her in his home. He had enough to worry about, what with the issue about his birth records and that damned coded list of the Guardians' names he was trying to crack.
"Carlo and I shall escort you to an inn, if you ladies will allow."
"Did you not hear me?" Jane slammed her fisted hands down by her thighs. A silly move, and ineffectual, but also strangely adorable. She was so tiny and unfortunate. "We were robbed. I must now rely on the kindness of strangers. Apparently, signore, you are not kind. Come, Prudence. We'll go panhandle at the docks. I'm sure we can gather enough for a night’s stay at an inn."
"But, mistress!"
"What is it, Prudence?"
The maid glanced pleadingly to Carlo and Marcello. And Marcello had the feeling expert manipulators were directing him. The women could go panhandle at the docks. One or both of them would have to lift her skirts, though, to make any amount of money. Neither appeared as though she'd have any clue how to handle that.
And yet, those fluttery lashes drew his attention to eyes the color of her pale blue dress. He did love blue eyes. They reminded him of the sky he could never admire because the sun threatened his very life.
Flutter, flutter.
Ah, hell.
"One night," he said gruffly. "You may stay at my home."
* * *
The entrance into Signore Sebastiani's home was expansive and ornate. Yet Jane judged its distinct lack of hominess as she crossed the white marble floor, following behind the man whose shoulders she doubted she'd ever see over, even if she were to stand on tiptoes. A thin male servant in gray livery and ill-groomed hair greeted the signore and took his fine, black damask coat.
After a few words, the signore turned to Jane and Prudence. He was a force, and a beautiful one at that. Tall, with dark hair spilling past his shoulders. And his eyes were brown like the rich, verdant earth. In need of a shave, dark stubble enhanced his square jaw. He wasn't pretty, though. Rather rugged with the wide shoulders and imposing muscles that, while his shirtsleeves beneath his damask waistcoat were loose, they did stretch at the seams and biceps.
A man who would surely be out of place in an overheated ballroom filled with simpering gentlemen stinking of lavender water and vying for a lady's dance card. The signore was darkly intriguing.
"I'll have Adamo show you to a room. For the night," he said. "Have you booked journey home to England?"
"I purchased a one-way ticket," Jane said as she flounced by Marcello and slid her gaze along the staircase that wound up to the second floor. "I was to live with my patron, as I've already explained to you. I'll need some time to make arrangements."
She noticed the man's wince. Served him well enough. He should have asked how long she intended to stay before taking her in. La! She'd stumbled on good fortune in a time of desperate need. Now to play things correctly so she did not lose grasp of such luck.
"I'll have my solicitor hasten the arrangements for your departure," Marcello offered. "Now, I've some business to attend to." He turned, intent on leaving the women standing in the foyer.
"It is rather late for business," Jane called.
He paused and returned his attention to her. "I keep odd hours, Miss Emery."
"I see. What about the pianoforte?" Jane asked as she took a few steps up the white marble stairs. "You did say you'd have it brought over so I could practice on it."
"I did?" He met gazes with his servant who shrugged. "I doubt very much I would agree to that if you are only staying—"
Jane exhaled a tremendous sigh. And for added effect, she let her head fall into a tilt.
Signore Sebastiani, open-mouthed, considered her.
She cast him the big, innocent stare that her sisters had always hated because that meant she would get her way. At least until one of them started to sing or display her cross-stitching or recited Shakespeare. Always a competition in her family.
The man's hand tightened into a fist, then his fingers flexed out. Obviously struggling inwardly. But she could play this game too well.
"The pianoforte," he said tightly. "Adamo?"
His servant bowed curtly. "I'll see that it's taken care of immediately, signore."
"Very good. Ladies, you are on your own for the remainder of the evening. I'm sure you are tired from your journey. Adamo will see that a servant delivers something to eat and drink to your room. I am off." And with that, he exited swiftly.
Adamo rushed around Jane on the staircase, gesturing she follow him. The large room at the end of a long hallway on the second floor was elaborately decorated with red damask from walls to draperies, and gold tassels hung on the tester bed canopy. Adamo opened the curtains to allow in the spare moonlight, then left Jane and Prudence, promising to return with a light meal and their luggage.
Jane spun to face Prudence, who stood by the door with both hands on her generous hips. The woman's face was pulled into a constant frown, and even her rare smiles were a bit dreary.
"Don't chastise me so," Jane said. "I found us a place to stay. You should be thankful."
"The signore is not pleased to have us here."
"He would not have invited us if he was not, at the very least, mildly gratified. Sit, Prudence. You've been on your feet since we arrived in Venice. Relax."
"How can I relax when we've nowhere to go after tonight?"
"Why do you say that?"
She shrugged. "Did you not hear the man? He's to have his solicitor secure us tickets home."
"I'll never return to England. I can't. You know that."
Prudence sighed and plopped onto a lush, tufted ottoman situated at the base of the massive bed.
Jane tugged off her gloves and laid them carefully on the coverlet. "We'll be staying here for as long as I can manage it. In fact, I rather think Signore Sebastiani might make an excellent patron."
Prudence lifted her head.
"I can make it happen," Jane promised. "I do have some wiles."
"Oh, heavens."
Chapter 2
Marcello sat up in bed. He looked to the candle he'd lit as a gauge for time, and it had melted down three hours. Which meant it was around s
even o’clock in the morning. Not his normal rising time.
But something had woken him. Some…racket. And it continued. Plunking. Pounding. Attempting to create a melody that was better left for evenings, ballrooms, and parties—and failing. What was that awful noise?
Sliding out of bed, clad in only his silk sleep trousers, he wandered out of the bedchamber and followed the noise. He flew down the stairs to the empty ballroom on the first floor where his servants had set up the pianoforte because they hadn't known where else to place it.
Inside, Jane Emery attacked the keys with a vicious verve, while a strangely peaceful look captured her delicate features. Eyelids closed, her lips were softly parted. Almost as if in ecstasy. Seeing a woman's face in that expression generally meant he was above her, thrusting his wanting cock into her sweetness until she sang in joy. He smiled at the lascivious thought.
Until the next few notes clanked out.
"That is horrible," he muttered, not realizing that he'd said it out loud until she stopped and turned a look on him. Or rather, a pout. Marcello winced. "I thought you said your patron was supporting your musical studies?"
"He had intended to."
"Has he heard you play?"
Crossing her arms with a huff, she turned on the bench to face him. Her hair was pulled up in floaty tendrils, and some tickled her cheeks and framed her pink mouth. It was a kissable mouth. He'd not noticed that last evening. Those lips deserved a punishing kiss that would color them red. And then they'd most certainly form that look of joy that he most wanted to see on a woman's face.
It was too early for this kind of thinking. Hell, it was too early for consciousness.
"The reason my patron agreed to take me under his wing was to enhance my musical studies," the Englishwoman said pertinently. Her gaze traveled down from his eyes to his chest—where they lingered with a twinkle—and then with a lift of her chin, she redirected her look back to his face. "I feel I'm coming along with the Beethoven."