Prince's Virgin In Venice. Trish Morey

found herself thinking about Chiara and wondering how her night was going. They’d treated themselves to the cheapest tickets to the cheapest Carnevale ball they could find—and that only gave admission to the dancing segment of the evening. They hadn’t been able to afford the price for the dinner and entertainment that came first. But surely even that entertainment would be no match for this.

      And then Vittorio took her hand in his and she stopped thinking about Chiara, because her heart gave a little lurch that switched off her brain.

      She looked sideways up at him to find him watching her, the cobalt of his eyes a shade deeper, his sensual slash of mouth curled up at the ends.

      He gave the slightest squeeze of her hand before he let her go, and she turned her eyes back to the entertainment. But suddenly she wasn’t laughing any more. Her chest felt too tight, her blood was buzzing, and she was imagining all kinds of impossible things.

      Unimaginable things.

      Chiara had said that magical things could happen at Carnevale.

      Rosa had been a fool not to believe her.

      She could feel the magic. It was in the air all around her. It was in the gilded frames and lush silks and crystal chandeliers. It was in the exquisite trompe l’oeils that adorned the walls with views of gardens that had only ever existed in the artist’s eyes. And magic was pulsing alongside her, in leather of blue and gold, in a man with a presence she couldn’t ignore—a man who had the ability to shake the very foundations of her world with just one look from his cobalt blue eyes.

      Chiara had said she might meet the man of her dreams tonight. A man who had the power to tempt her to give up her most cherished possession.

      She hadn’t believed that either.

      It would have to be a special kind of man for her to want to take such a momentous step. A very special kind of man.

       Vittorio?

      Her heart squeezed so tightly that she had to suck in a breath to ease the constriction.

      Impossible. Life didn’t work that way.

      But what if Chiara had been right?

      And what if Vittorio was the one?

      She glanced up to sneak another look at him and found him already gazing down at her, his midnight hair framing the quizzical expression on his strong face.

      His heart-stoppingly beautiful, strong face.

      And she thought it would be madness not to find out.

      * * *

      Sirena either had spies everywhere, or she had a knack for knowing when Rosa had left his side for five minutes. The entertainment was finished but, while the party wouldn’t wind down until dawn, Vittorio had other plans. Plans that didn’t include Sirena, no matter how hard she tried to join in.

      ‘This is supposed to be a party,’ Sirena sulked conspiratorially to Marcello when she cornered him standing at the top of the stairs, where Vittorio was waiting for Rosa so they could say their goodbyes. ‘A party for friends. An exclusive party. But did you see that woman Vittorio dragged along?’

      ‘Her name is Rosa.’

      Sirena took no notice. ‘Did you see what she was wearing, Marcello? It was appalling.’

      ‘Nobody’s listening, Sirena,’ Vittorio said dismissively.

      ‘Rosa seems very nice,’ said Marcello. ‘And I like her costume.’

      Vittorio nodded. ‘She is nice. Very nice.’ He thought about the way she’d pulled that ruse with the loose thread and smiled. ‘Clever, too.’

      Sirena pouted, her hand on Marcello’s arm, pleading. ‘She wasn’t even invited.’

      ‘I invited her.’

      ‘You know what I mean. Someone like her wouldn’t normally be allowed anywhere near here.’

      ‘Sirena, give it up.’ Vittorio turned away, searching for Rosa. The sooner he got her away from here—away from Sirena—the better.

      ‘That’s our Vittorio for you,’ Marcello said, trying to hose down the antagonism between his guests, playing his life-long role of peacemaker to perfection. ‘Always bringing home the strays. Birds fallen from their nests. Abandoned puppies. It made no difference. Vittorio, do you remember that bag of kittens we found snagged on the side of the river that day? Dio, how long ago was that? Twenty years?’