The Shadowed Heart. Nina Beaumont

he tore his gaze away from her eyes to allow it to drift over her, he felt an absurd pleasure in her lack of artifice.

      Her curls fell beyond her shoulders in a tangled black mass and had obviously never seen the creams and lotions Venetian women used to bleach their hair to a fashionable blond color. Her lips, the color of strawberries, needed no rouge. Her golden skin was untouched by powder and, instead of a beauty patch, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

      He felt his body tighten with that first, pure, sweet rush of arousal, untainted by skillful tricks or stimulants. His gaze returned to her eyes.

      They were still trained on him, but they were strangely unfocused now as if she were looking far beyond his face. Baffled by the sudden change, he found his interest piqued still further. This was definitely a puzzle he wanted to solve.

      

      It was him. Chiara stared over the lady’s shoulder, not quite believing what she was seeing. That hair the color of ripe wheat, unpowdered and uncurled in defiance of fashion, merely tied back carelessly with a dark ribbon. That chiseled, perfect profile.

      No, she thought, shaking her head to clear it. She must be mistaken. She could not possibly have the good fortune to stumble across the man she hated so fiercely. Perhaps even more than she hated her father.

      Then he turned to face her and she knew that she had not been mistaken. There could not be another mouth like that in the whole world, its sensuality promising both pleasure and cruelty. This is what Lucifer must have looked like, she thought. The fallen angel who had chosen to rule in hell rather than serve in heaven.

      She watched him rise and come toward her and, despite her hatred, which was so real its bitter taste lay on her tongue, she found herself much too aware of the man’s beauty.

      He stood in front of her, close enough that she could have reached out and touched him. Beneath the cover of her shawl, her hand moved to the dagger hidden in the folds of her clothes and touched the hilt. This dagger had spilled his blood once before and it would spill his blood again.

      She drew her hand away from the metal with an effort. Not today, she told herself. She would have her revenge, she swore, but not today.

      As she stared at him, the hatred inside her was suddenly pushed aside as if by an invisible hand and she heard a voice within her. The voice of the spirit that sometimes called to her, telling her to dip down to that shadowy region of impressions and images and look inside the man who stood before her.

      She saw light. A clear, pure light like the rays of the rising sun. She searched for the darkness, for the evil that she was certain would be there. But all she saw was the light. Surely this was some kind of trick, a clever ruse to blind her. It was then that she saw it.

      Behind the figure wreathed in light, she saw the dark apparition. She recognized his perfect features, his fine form. Recognized, too, the evil aura that surrounded the dark figure. The aura that was almost palpable.

      So he was versed in the secrets of the occult, she thought. He had wanted to blind her with his light so that she would not see his darkness. But he would not succeed, she thought triumphantly, for she had seen the evil.

      She pulled herself back to reality and saw that he was still looking at her. There was more than curiosity in his eyes. He was looking at her in the way that men looked at women.

      But it was not the devilish, naked lust that she had seen that night in the Gypsy camp on the outskirts of a small town in Tuscany. The lust that had been glittering in his dark eyes even after he had slaked it on the unwilling body of her sister.

      This time it appeared in a different guise. It was a desire that was far more subtle and seductive. For a fraction of a moment it reached out to touch her before she was able to draw back and protect herself against it

      

      “Well, get on with it”

      Giulietta’s sharp voice intruded into Luca’s sensual reverie. He watched the odd glow fade from the young Gypsy’s eyes. For a fraction of a moment before the hatred returned, he saw a softening, as if he had touched a string within her that had resonated with a harmonious sound.

      “But get rid of that ugly black shawl of hers.”

      The petulant tone of his mistress’s voice had Luca looking at her with irritation. It occurred to him that this was the strongest emotion that he had felt toward her in days. Perhaps it really was time to finally give her the ruby necklace and send her on her way.

      “And you really could have cleaned her up a bit, Manelli.” The ivory sticks of her fan of fine painted parchment clattered as she waved it in front of Chiara’s face. “But I suppose some might find that wild, crude look appealing.” She shrugged. “Oh, well, just make sure my guests are well pleased, Manelli. I’m counting on you.”

      Obediently Manelli plucked the shawl from Chiara’s shoulders and pulled her toward the first group of guests, who were already tittering expectantly.

      Giulietta hooked her hand through Luca’s arm to take him away from the clutch of people who had drawn close together to hear what the young Gypsy had to say, but he resisted.

      “You seem inordinately interested in her, caro.” Her rouged mouth pursed in a pout and she leaned close, inviting his caress.

      “Wasn’t that what you wanted?” Luca raised an eyebrow. “To pique your guests’ interest?”

      “But you’re not a guest, you are—”

      He lifted a finger to her mouth to silence her and, extracting his arm from her grasp, shifted so that he could watch the young Gypsy’s face.

      The guests crowded around her, thrusting their palms toward her, their voices raised in a babble of questions.

      “I do not read palms.”

      Luca straightened at the sound of her voice. It was low and husky for a girl so young. A voice that would go well with Gypsy fires.

      “I cannot look at your whole life. You can ask me a question and if I am allowed to see the answer, I can tell you.”

      Murmurs greeted her statement, which had been made in a clear voice that carried no apology.

      “What a sham,” Giulietta hissed. “Manelli will not see a lira from me.”

      Absently Luca shushed her as someone wearing a bautta, a kind of domino that was the simplest and most popular carnival disguise, stepped forward. The molded white mask covered the upper two thirds of the face and a black lace hood fell to the shoulders, making it impossible to say if the person beneath the disguise was a man or a woman.

      The figure brieny lifted the black tricorn hat in a mocking salute and sketched a bow, revealing the dark silk breeches beneath the floor-length black cloak.

      “Tell me, will the woman I love finally surrender?” The question was asked in a scratchy whisper.

      Luca watched the young Gypsy’s eyes again grow unfocused, glassy. She went so completely still that she did not even seem to be breathing.

      Minutes passed. Then Luca saw her chest move with a deep breath, saw her eyes lose that odd, empty expression.

      “The woman you love will surrender many times,” she said. “But she will never surrender her heart.”

      “Why not?” The scratchy whisper asked.

      “Because her heart belongs only to herself.”

      The figure made a gesture of disbelief with a gloved hand.

      Chiara looked directly into the eyes visible through the slits of the mask. “No man will ever love you better than you love yourself, signora.”

      Gasps of surprise and flustered giggles greeted her words.

      Manelli gripped her arm and leaned close to her ear. “In Venice, the mask is to be respected above all things.”

      Chiara