Pregnant by Morning. Kat Cantrell

      And there was no doubt Matt had a couple of his own scars.

      With a light laugh, she blinked at him coquettishly. “What are you proposing?”

      “A continuation. No exes. No crowds. No rules. Just me and you and whatever feels right.”

      Oh. That might be okay. “What if I wanted to keep our masks on? What would you say?”

      “No rules. For anything.”

      Her insides shuddered deliciously. “That’s a little open-ended. How do I know you aren’t into some very naughty things?”

      “You don’t. We’re both taking a leap of faith.”

      The wicked gleam in his eye didn’t reassure her, but it certainly piqued her interest. “I might be into naughty things.”

      “I’m counting on it.” He tugged her hand as the music switched to another electronic number. The crowd went crazy, pressing in on them from all sides. “Come on.”

      To her left, she glimpsed Sara Lear posing for a picture with two men in drag. Rory was nowhere in sight, but he might pop up again at any moment. That decided it. The last thing she wanted was to be at this party alone, constantly reminded of how she wasn’t Sara.

      Matt was clearly lonely, too. She’d head in his direction and see where it led.

      “Let’s go. Right now.”

      He kept her hand in his and led her out of Vincenzo’s palazzo via a side entrance. They crossed a moonlit courtyard and climbed an ornate outer staircase to the second floor. Matt held the door for her to enter ahead of him. Lights flashed.

      “Welcome to Palazzo D’Inverno,” he said.

      Evangeline’s breath stalled in her throat. Relief frescos lined the walls and extended to the ceiling, where the colors exploded into Renaissance-style art of unparalleled beauty. Modern terrazzo floors studded with chips of marble and granite spread underneath her feet and met three sets of glassed French-doors leading to what appeared to be a marble balcony overlooking the Grand Canal.

      Three long leather sofas in sea-foam green formed a U in the center of the living room, and all three afforded an amazing view of Venice, lit for Carnevale with breathtaking splendor.

      “This is unbelievable.” There were no other words. Vincenzo’s palazzo had been in his family since the time of the Medici but it couldn’t hold a candle to this one. “I had no idea anything like this still existed in Venice.”

      Matt’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Keeps the rain out.”

      “Whoever owns this place hit the jackpot. You’re lucky they agreed to rent it out. It’s amazing.”

      He shot her a quizzical look. “I’ll be sure to pass on the compliment.”

      “Do you have all three floors, or just the piano nobile?”

      “Top two. The bottom floor isn’t restored. The bedrooms are upstairs. Would you like to see them?”

      “Was that a line?” She grinned at his chagrined expression. He was endearing in a way that shouldn’t be possible in conjunction with his forceful, compelling personality. “If so, I must say it worked extraordinarily well. I not only want to see the rest of the house, purely for aesthetic reasons of course, but I want to get out of this dress in the worst way.”

      She took a step toward the twisting staircase, but he tugged her back and pierced her with his beautiful crystalline eyes, capturing her gaze with his and refusing to let her go.

      “Angie, I didn’t invite you here solely to get you naked. When I said no rules, I meant no expectations. If nothing happens, that’s all right. I don’t mind if we talk until dawn. Whatever feels right. Remember that.”

      “Matt—” The rest froze in her throat.

      He was nothing like the people in her world. He carried a hint of vulnerability, a depth that pulled at her. And his restraint—that she couldn’t fathom. All the men she knew took what they wanted, when they wanted it.

      Not this one. He was very clearly telling her she still had choices, regardless of how brazenly she’d thrown herself at him all night. He didn’t just see her as an outlet to slake his thirst but as a valued companion. That was powerful. And seductive.

      She whispered his name again. “I don’t mind if we talk, either.”

      She never talked. Talking sucked, especially when the sound of her own voice made her cringe. But they both deserved to have choices.

      “Is that what you want?”

      She craved the attention of this man, who seemed to understand exactly what she needed, when she needed it. To understand the weight of loss and the pain of being adrift, desperate for an anchor.

      Something momentous swelled in her chest. “I just want to be with you.”

      “You’ve got me. For however long you’d like. I’m not going anywhere.” As if to prove it, he lowered the lights, creating a romantic ambience instantly. He sat on the couch and spread his hands. “Think of me as a smorgasbord.”

      She laughed, and it blew away all the thick implications of the moment.

      “Now that’s something I’ve never had before. By the way, I wasn’t kidding about getting out of this dress. I can hardly breathe, and it’s heavy.”

      “Would you like a T-shirt?”

      “Um, not really. What I’d really like is your help.” She stepped out of her heels, crossed the room and sat on the couch facing away from him. “The laces in the back are too hard to reach.”

      “What would you have done if we hadn’t connected? Slept in it?”

      Connected. That hit her in all the soft, warm places again. This was a connection, a greater one than she’d been looking for, or had expected, and far more precious—thanks to the custom of wearing masks for Carnevale. She’d never have let her guard down otherwise.

      “I would have figured out something,” she murmured as he gently lifted her curls and swept them up over her shoulder. Her skin prickled as she felt his gaze on the bare expanse from her hairline to the strapless bodice.

      His hands skimmed down her back on either side of the wings, stoking the fire he’d built on the balcony, which hadn’t extinguished at all. Those strong fingers pulled on the threads, unknotting them and drawing them through the grommets with deliberate, aching leisure.

      She kept expecting to feel his lips on her shoulder, on the column of her neck, or at the place where fabric met her skin. But the longer he held back, and the longer her skin burned for his touch, the crazier it drove her.

      Yes, he was a master at this anticipation game. Among other things. When she finally got him naked and under her, she’d show him a thing or two.

      Except she still wasn’t sure they were headed for the bedroom. It was disorienting to have her temporary, surface-level liaison morph into something undefinable. Something so much more than a quick fix for loneliness.

      So what was it?

      Finally, after an eternity, the laces pulled free from the bodice, loosening the corset and spilling her breasts partially over the neckline of the dress, and he still hadn’t made a move.

      “It, uh, has to come over my head,” she said without turning around. She raised her arms. “Can you...?”

      He grasped the bodice but she was sitting on the skirt, so she wiggled and he pulled, until the yards and yards of lace tulle eased past her waist. The mask popped up onto her forehead, but she repositioned it before the skirt fully came off.

      Then she was naked except for her thong. And the mask. What would he do first? The way he’d answered that question back on the balcony had been maddeningly