by Day Leclaire
Perfect? Hanna suppressed a sigh. Not likely. She’d be happy if she could find someone who found her interesting for herself, instead of who she was and what she could do for him. “Thank you, Shayne. I’ll try.”
Unable to help herself, Hanna glanced once more in the direction of her mystery man. To her disappointment, he’d gone. The pang his disappearance stirred caught her by surprise. It also worried her. Emotions had no part in what would transpire this evening. That would be a mistake. Let this particular man take his irresistible smile elsewhere. The partner she chose would attract her intellectually, not sexually. His emotions and thoughts would be as precise and controlled as possible.
She glanced at her watch and frowned. It was eight-thirty already. She’d wasted a lot of time mooning over a man totally wrong for her purposes. If she didn’t get a move on, she’d lose the opportunity to find the best possible man. She needed every minute of the next few hours to make sure the man she selected met her list of requirements.
Her mood took an upward swing. Perhaps it wouldn’t prove as difficult as she’d anticipated. After all, he’d be a companion, not a lover, a man of academic rather than emotional inclination. That was what she wanted, right? By utilizing a bit of logic and a standard process of elimination, it would be a snap.
She gave an emphatic nod that loosened a few more disobedient curls. One intellectual man, heavy on brainpower and light on love, coming up.
Matteo Salvatore stood on a balcony high above the ballroom, his shoulder propped against a snow-white pillar. He felt as though he hung above a fairyland, white twinkling lights and greenery adding to the otherworldly impression. For a while, the swirl of color and movement dazzled the eye.
Eventually, he found his gaze returning again and again to a petite redhead dressed in ivory, the woman who’d caught his eye in the reception line.
Her hair was a deep auburn, the rich strands several shades paler around her face, like a perfect sunset reflecting on a pure sea of snow. She’d confined the heavy curls in some sort of golden net, as though in an attempt to tame their exuberance. To his amusement, the little ringlets escaped her mastery and danced around her huge feathered mask.
More feathers decorated her costume, accenting an enchanting confection of lace and silk that made him think she’d come as a swan princess. Except for the minuscule straps holding her dress together, her shoulders remained bare and glittered with gold dust.
Her dress caught the light, as well, sequins or tiny glass diamonds splintering into rainbows with her every movement. Not that she moved often. Her stillness in the center of a storm of activity had been part of what attracted his attention. The few times her body escaped the tight control she exerted, she became a miniature whirlwind of physical expression.
She had an appealing elegance, her body slender and shapely with legs that were beyond breathtaking. If circumstances had been different, he’d have swept down, removed her from her circle of admirers, and taken her off somewhere private in order to follow up on those glances they’d exchanged in the reception line.
If circumstances had been different.
A soft rustle of skirts sounded behind him and he caught a distinctive whiff of perfume. “Hello, Shayne,” he said without turning around.
“Clever man,” she teased. “Or is it that you can sense any time a woman’s around?”
He reluctantly switched his attention from the redhead. “What can I say?” he confessed with a shrug. “It’s a Salvatore trail.”
“And we poor women don’t stand a chance?”
He fought to suppress a grin. “Consider yourself warned.”
“Why aren’t you downstairs enjoying the festivities?”
“I’m content to watch from here. Besides, I’m not looking for a wife.” He gave Rafe’s sister his full regard, as captivated by her beauty tonight as he’d been at their first meeting. She wore her honey-blond hair in a formal twist at the nape of her neck, a constrained style that belied the passion inherent in her vivid dark eyes. “Nor am I dressed appropriately.”
“That’s not a problem. I have something you can use.” She drew her hands from behind her back, dangling a sheathed sword and belt in front of him. “I brought this for you in case you wanted to play.”
He tilted his head to one side and regarded her with amused suspicion. “Were you the one who sent the ticket?”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “And if I was?”
“Are you trying to tempt me?”
“Yes.” She smiled, enhancing her natural allure. Not that she appeared aware of it.
Shayne seemed uniquely oblivious to her own attraction. He’d have done something to change that except he wasn’t in the market for either a lover or a bride, despite how he’d teased his brothers. With Shayne, he didn’t doubt, it would have to be the latter. She struck him as an all-or-nothing type of woman.
Added to that minor inconvenience, Rafe had put out clear signals. His little sister was off-limits, and Matteo had too much respect for Rafe to take advantage of his hospitality.
Of course, one more thing stopped him dead in his tracks. He didn’t feel so much as a spark of romantic interest. Protective. Fondness. Appreciation. Even affection. But it fell within the “sisterly” spectrum of affection.
“I appreciate the thought.” Matteo gestured toward the sword. “But it wouldn’t be fair to play since I have no intention of paying the ultimate price. The women attending the Cinderella Ball want marriage.”
“True.” She regarded him curiously. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want it, too, if you found the right woman downstairs?”
The right woman. For some reason his thoughts turned to the redhead and he sighed in regret. “Tempting. But, no.”
“Are you certain?” Shayne set the sword against the pillar next to him. “You wouldn’t like to go downstairs for a little while and see if Cupid strikes?”
“Quite certain, thank you.” He caught her chin in the crook of his index finger and lifted her face to his. “What about you? You’ve gone out of your way to find me a bride. Are you interested in finding a husband?”
For a brief instant, her lips trembled before firming. “I did that once,” she confessed in a low voice. “There won’t be a second time.”
Regret filled him. “My apologies,” he said, releasing her. He wasn’t often so clumsy with women. Nor would he deliberately cause such distress. “That was careless of me.”
She shrugged, turning to stare out at the dancers twirling across the floor, the costumes creating a kaleidoscope of vibrant color. “You weren’t to know.”
“If it makes you feel any better, losing a woman like you makes him a fool,” Matteo offered gently.
“He didn’t lose me.” The yearning in her voice was painful to hear. If he didn’t sense it would be a mistake, he’d take her in his arms and offer the only comfort he could in a situation such as this. “I was young and foolish. We never had a chance to discover whether or not it would have worked.”
“Perhaps sometime in the future you’ll have another chance with him.”
“It’s unlikely.” She bowed her head. “A few years ago, perhaps. But not any longer. I’m not the woman I was.”
“There’s not a man on this planet who wouldn’t want the woman you’ve become. Shayne . . .” He waited until she glanced over her shoulder at him. Waited until she’d accepted the sincerity in his eyes. “What you need to decide is whether or not he’s worth having in your life again.”
“And if he is?”
“Follow him to the ends of the earth,” Matteo advised. “Show him what he lost when your relationship ended. Make him fight to take you back.”
“Is that what you’d do?”
It didn’t require any thought. “If I found that sort of love, I’d never allow anyone or anything to get in my way. I’d fight for her, protect and cherish her. And I’d love her every day I drew breath. She’d never know a moment’s doubt about how I feel.
” He smiled to lighten the mood. “What can I say? It’s how my parents raised me.”
“May I tell you something, Matteo?” She linked arms with him, her smile restored. “The woman you marry will be very lucky.”
He returned his attention to the festivities far below and to a certain striking redhead surrounded by a group of eager admirers. “No, my sweet. Finding such a love would make me a very lucky man.”
Hanna smiled into yet another friendly face, but her enthusiasm flagged. She’d met so many men and enjoyed talking to each of them, even though she found it exhausting. Out of fairness, she’d opened up and been herself, slipping cautiously from beneath the tight yoke of control that so often governed her actions. It allowed a more natural vivaciousness to take hold. Unfortunately, it worked too well. She had her pick of men—young, old, smart, less-than-brilliant. She only had to select one that met her lengthy list of criteria and she’d have what she’d always wanted. A husband to come home to when the days were long and the nights unbearably lonely.
Only one thing stopped her.
The process seemed so cold. Despite telling herself she didn’t want emotion intruding on a companionable relationship, she also couldn’t see any of the men she’d met so far sitting in her living room, let alone tucked up in her bed. In fact, the idea of any of them touching her in an intimate manner filled her with such nervous dread, she struggled to string two coherent words together.
All around her the party glittered, the laughter bright and merry, while behind her mask, an inescapable pain and longing took hold. Pru had meant well. But clearly, it wasn’t meant to be. Hanna wasn’t Cinderella destined to find her prince. At least, not this night.
“Excuse me,” she finally murmured to the men surrounding her. “I’ll return in a few minutes.” Before anyone could stop her, she darted through a narrow opening in her circle of admirers and escaped into the crowd.
Somewhere nearby the clock struck midnight and Hanna couldn’t suppress a smile at the irony. She felt like Cinderella fleeing the ball, turning from a beautiful princess back into a common cinder girl. Or in her case, from a mysterious swan princess into a simple duckling.
She left the ballroom and headed downstairs. One of the rooms offered a huge banquet with every conceivable delicacy available, but she wasn’t in the least hungry. Beyond a set of French doors the gardens beckoned, offering peace and quiet and a welcoming solitude. She followed the pathways until she found a bench beneath a large tree, one mercifully absent of fairy lights. Taking a seat, she tucked her knees close against her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.
“This was a big mistake,” she announced to the world at large. Then to her horror, she did something she couldn’t remember ever doing before.
She burst into tears.
Matteo watched his pretty redhead flee her circle of admirers. They might not realize she was running away, but he knew it with a bone-deep certainty. He didn’t hesitate. Snatching up the belt and sword Shayne had provided, he secured it to his waist. He took the stairs leading from the balcony to the ballroom floor, arriving in time to see his swan princess dart down the next flight of stairs leading toward the dining area. A woman dressed in a stunning black gown blocked his path. He couldn’t quite place which romantic figure she represented, but it didn’t matter. She had something he needed.
For the first time, he blessed his father for the Italian lessons Dom had insisted were a vital part of his sons’ education. “Signorina,” he said, executing a graceful bow. “I believe your costume is the most beautiful I’ve seen so far tonight.”
The accent worked like a charm. She blushed, deep dimples flickering to life in her cheeks. “If I hadn’t already found the perfect man, I’d ask you to dance.”
“A shame. For if I had not found the perfect woman, I’d have happily accepted.” He hesitated. “May I make one small suggestion in regard to your dress?”
A tiny frown puckered her brow. “Sure, I guess.”
He caught the end of the black scarf encircling her neck and gently pulled the strip of silk. It slipped along her throat like a lover’s caress. “This is an unnecessary distraction. You should not hide such a neck and shoulders.”
She swallowed. “Do you really think so?”
“Senza dubbio. Without doubt.” Actually, it was the absolute truth, or he’d never have said such a thing. “Would you mind if I kept your scarf?” He shrugged. “I’d claim I wanted it for a memento, but the truth is, I wish to use it as a mask for the ball.”
She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Did you forget yours?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Take it. I’m happy to help.” She turned to go, then hesitated. “Oh! And good luck with your lady.”
Matteo smiled. “And you with your man.”
He didn’t waste any more time, but darted down the steps to the banquet room. A quick scan of the crowd confirmed that his little redhead wasn’t among the diners. Selecting a steak knife from one of the tables, he swiftly slit holes in the scarf and tied it around his head. Simple, but effective, he decided. Between the mask and the sword Shayne had provided, he could pass as Zorro or some similar type romantic swashbuckler.
Now to find his swan princess.
It had gotten late enough that the gardens were fairly deserted. He roamed the paths with swift efficiency, finally slipping up on a splash of white silk and feathers on a bench tucked well beneath a large sycamore tree. She was crying, he realized in alarm. Nothing bothered him quite as much as a woman in distress and for some odd reason this woman’s distress disturbed him more than normal. No doubt it had something to do with his attraction for her. He sensed this wasn’t a woman easily reduced to tears. Not giving himself time to think, he slipped to the far side of the tree, grasped the lowest branch and swung himself upward.
Easing the sword from its scabbard, he grasped one of the trailing ends of his black scarf and sliced off a square. To his amusement, he noticed that a bit of dainty lace decorated the end. Perfect. Skewering the improvised handkerchief on the tip of the sword, he slowly lowered it toward his weeping princess.
“For you, Signorina,” he said quietly, hoping he wouldn’t startle her too badly.
Her head jerked up and her breath hitched in surprise. “Who’s there?” she demanded.
“No one of importance,” he said with a shrug, flavoring his words with the gentlest of Italian accents. “Just a man sitting in a tree watching a beautiful swan leak tears all over her feathers.”
A smile trembled on her lips and she reached for the scrap of silk and lace. “Thank you, but I’m not crying,” she lied with a blatancy that defied argument. “I never cry.”
She fell silent for a minute, no doubt struggling to regain her composure and control her nonexistent tears. He didn’t mind. He was a patient man, one of the few Salvatores who could claim such a virtue. A good thing. He sensed he’d stumbled across a woman who found control a vital component when confronting those entering her world.
“Why are you sitting in that tree?” she finally asked.
He’d been right. Gone was the vulnerable woman of moments before and in her place sat a woman of strength and determination. It made for an interesting contrast. “I quite like trees,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. “I always have. They make excellent places from which to swoop.”
A smile flirted with her mouth again. “Swoop?”
“Yes, swoop. Shall I demonstrate?”
Securing his sword, he grasped one of the larger branches and swung high over her bench. At the last instant, he released his grasp and executed a quick midair somersault, dropping lightly in a crouch beside her. The maneuver would have done Errol Flynn proud. He’d also broken his arm attempting to perfect it at the great age of ten.
She looked appropriately impressed. “You like how I swoop?” he asked, keeping his Italian accent intact.
“Very impressive.”
He continued to crouch
beside her, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. “So tell me what has made you cry, Signorina. Perhaps I can help.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do for me.”
“You must have thought a husband and marriage would help or you wouldn’t be here,” he argued logically. “Now, why would someone as beautiful as you need to come to a Cinderella Ball to find a husband? I would think you’d have men lined up at your door.”
Apparently, he’d said the wrong thing. She withdrew into herself, her back stiff, her chin elevated, her eyes behind the feathered mask flashing a warning even the darkness couldn’t conceal. “What makes you think I’m beautiful?”
“You may wish you were not, carissima, but you can’t hide it.” Ever so gently he reached out and plucked the flamboyant mask from her face. “Not even with this.”
She was as lovely as he remembered. It was almost too dark now to see the exact shade of her eyes, but he recalled they were an intriguing combination of green and gold and glittered with intelligence and character. The clean, strong lines of her face also gave expression to her character. She possessed a straight nose with a firm jaw and high, broad cheekbones. In the absence of light, her ivory dress and pale skin shone with a translucent glow, like the rich texture of a black-and-white movie, her hair and lips glimmering with the only hint of color, a vibrant red that even the darkness couldn’t subdue.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she informed him in a steely voice.
Did she think he’d find her tone intimidating? She had a lot to learn. But she would. He’d see to it. Personally. “Why not? It’s after midnight.” He fixed her with a steady regard. “I suspect the time for fun and games is past. Don’t you?”
“I was never very good at games.” She shrugged. “At least, not the kind men and women play.”
“Why don’t we dispense with the games?” He dropped his accent, a fact she acknowledged with an uplifted eyebrow. Straddling the bench, he asked, “Why are you here?”
“To find a husband.”
