Behind the Mask

by Linda Winstead Jones

  What if it was more terrible than she remembered? If Giovanni grabbed her roughly, if he turned in an instant from a tender, gentle man to a grasping, desperate lecher, she would surely die. She didn’t want to offer herself up so willingly for that kind of abuse.

  She closed her eyes and chased away the fears, remembering how he’d touched her, how he’d kissed her. Surely she had nothing to fear from this man.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “This is what I want.”

  This is what I want, too. Audrey opened her eyes slowly, to watch Giovanni return to his chair.

  “Sit on the sofa again,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Lie back, I think.”

  She hesitated. He wasn’t going to make love to her. He really did want to paint her portrait. Nude. After a moment of stunned stillness she resumed her seat, both disappointed and a little relieved. Surely this turn of events was for the best. Perhaps she wasn’t yet ready for what she must do. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands in her lap, her hair falling over her breasts.

  Perched on his chair, Giovanni sighed, a soft lament. “Lean back,” he instructed. “Relax.”

  She tried, she really, truly tried.

  “Stretch out,” he said. “Put your legs up on the sofa and draw them in... like that,” he said as she quickly complied. He sketched her that way, his hands moving quickly, his eyes flitting from her to the paper in his lap. When he was finished he studied the sketch, wrinkled his nose, and asked her to stand.

  At least when she was sitting she could draw up her legs and find a little modesty. Standing before him, there was none. Still, she did as he asked.

  “Throw your hair over your shoulder,” he whispered.

  She did so, lifting her hair and tossing the strands so they fell down her back. Giovanni stared at her, studying, scrutinizing.

  How on earth had she ended up standing completely naked before this man? She was, at this moment, completely and insanely vulnerable. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” she said. Too late. Far too late!

  “It’s a wonderful idea.”

  “If nothing else, I’m cold.”

  His gaze settled pointedly on her breasts. “I know,” he muttered.

  Audrey looked down to see that her nipples had pebbled, jutting out hard and prominent. “Oh,” she cried softly, instinctively raising her hands to cover the revealing response of her body. “How dare you?” she whispered, setting her eyes on a calm, maddening Giovanni.

  “How dare I what?” he asked.

  She didn’t have an answer, so she pursed her lips and glared.

  “That’s it,” he said. “Don’t move.” He left his sketches and went directly to an easel. Moving the apparatus until it was in the position he desired, he placed a prepared canvas in the space where a half-finished portrait of a child had been earlier.

  She stood there, bare as the day she was born, her hair flowing down her back, her hands covering her breasts, one knee cocked in to instinctively protect the most intimate, vulnerable part of herself.

  And Giovanni began. There were no heartfelt smiles, no longing glances as he worked. It was as if he went to a different place, as if he were miles away while his hands flew. At times his gaze settled on her so hard she could feel it, and a moment later his attention would be completely on the easel before him as he fashioned, in black watercolor, the pose he wanted on his canvas.

  Audrey relaxed, as best she could, and suppressed a smile. What would Isabel think if she knew what was happening this afternoon? Even outrageously impetuous Isabel would be shocked. What would the gentry who had shunned her think? For once she didn’t care.

  This was her own secret. No one would ever know how she’d passed the days of her Venetian holiday. The portrait would hang or stand in this small room, among the others Giovanni had painted. It would be a treasured remembrance, perhaps, a reminder of the days they’d spent together. She wanted him to remember her fondly, to look at the painting and know that she’d trusted him above all others.

  After a while his frantic movements slowed. She could see the energy leave him, see the way he returned to earth to be in the same room with her once again. She knew he was back when he put down his paintbrush and smiled at her. For a few minutes he stared at the canvas, cocking his head this way and that, looking at her and then at his rendition once again.

  From his table of supplies, he grabbed a wide brush and a jar of brown paint, and as she watched he began to completely cover what he’d done so far.

  “That bad?” Audrey asked, still afraid to move from her pose.

  He grinned. “Not at all. The pose I want is outlined beneath, and I will be able to see it well even after the undercoat dries.”

  “I see.”

  He finished this step quickly. “You were magnificent,” he said as he stepped away from the easel.

  “All I did was stand here,” she answered. “You did all the work.”

  “It never feels like work,” he admitted. His eyes settled on her, and for a moment it was as if he saw her for the first time. His eyes glinted, his entire body tensed. “You should get dressed now.”

  He turned his back to her, fiddling unnecessarily with one thing and then another while she gathered her clothes. Audrey began to dress herself, moving as quickly as possible. She could manage it all alone, except the buttons up her back.

  “I need you to fasten my buttons,” she said softly. Immediately, he spun about and came to her, and she turned her back to meet him. He buttoned her gown much faster than he’d unbuttoned it, and for some reason his hands became awkward long before he finished. Once she was almost certain she felt those skilled hands tremble, just a little.

  She sat on the sofa to braid her hair. “Giovanni?” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ll be attending a masquerade tonight at the Palazzo Piola. Will you be there?” On arriving in Venice she’d easily made the decision to forgo the many balls that would be thrown during the days of Carnival. But now... if Giovanni would stay with her, and maybe even kiss her again, she’d gladly dance till dawn in all the days that remained.

  He answered as she twisted her hair atop her head. “Of course I will be there, if you wish it.”

  “I do wish it. I’ll be easy to find in the crowd,” she said with a smile. “My costume for tonight is red.”

  “Tesoro mio,” he whispered, and she could hear an unexpected hint of anguish in his voice. “I feel quite certain that you are always easy to find in a crowd.”

  4

  The crush of people was even more pressing than it had been on the previous night, but Audrey felt none of last night’s panic. She experienced, instead, a wonderful anticipation.

  She’d never felt this way before. Never. All her life she’d been sedate, well behaved, a perfect lady. She’d been an obedient and diligent student, a dutiful daughter. Her obedience had not served her well. Her good conduct, her need to please her father and everyone else, had led to a short-lived but miserable marriage and the resulting scandal.

  Her father would never approve of Giovanni. He would certainly not approve of her posing for him.

  Her red velvet gown fit her bodice and arms snugly, and then fell in an almost straight, narrow skirt. The low neckline was trimmed in a band of shimmering gold, and a matching red velvet cap adorned with gems and gold sat atop elaborately styled curls. Her half-mask was of the same red velvet, with small gems swirling above her eyes. A Paisley shawl across her shoulders completed the simple but elegant costume.

  She searched the crowd for Giovanni, but unfortunately too many of the male guests wore the long black cloak, the tabarro, and the white mask with a pointy nose, the bauto. Still, her gaze didn’t linger on any masked man for long before she knew he wasn’t Giovanni. They were all either too tall or too short, too thin or too wide. None of them were perfect.

  “Tesoro mio,” he whispered, his voice close to her ear.

  She spun arou
nd, a smile blooming on her face. Again he called her my treasure. Languages did not come easily to her, and she was less than proficient in Italian, but she did know a few important words.

  “Giovanni.”

  She had time to say no more, as he took her in his arms and they began to dance to the lively music. They swayed together and stepped apart, moving in time with the music. This was no austere court dance of measured movements and dignity, but was instead a dance of the people, a vivacious celebration of life. In the moments when they came together, face to face and hand to hand, their eyes locked. She’d never known a glance could be so stirring, so intimate.

  She waited for Giovanni’s easy smile, but tonight it didn’t appear. Instead his mouth was harshly set, and a muscle in his jaw twitched now and again. His entire body was tense, almost rigid.

  His obvious displeasure ate away at her happiness. Was, he tired of her already? After all, they had spent most of the day together. Perhaps he regretted agreeing to meet her tonight. One brave look at the eyes behind the mask answered that concern. They flashed, but not with anger. He wanted her. Audrey’s happiness came rushing back.

  When they had danced until their hearts beat too fast and the room became far too warm, Giovanni took her hand and led her away from the festivities and the crush of revelers. He didn’t take her through the wide front door to the water steps, but along a hallway to the courtyard and the gardens at the rear of the palazzo. There were others in the gardens, catching their breath, enjoying a drink, kissing in the shadows. The sight of one amorous couple made Audrey’s heart beat in expectation. Was this why Giovanni had practically dragged her from the festivities? For another kiss?

  They rounded a corner in the flagstone path and were finally alone, out of sight of the palazzo and the revelers who roamed the well-lit garden. Giovanni stopped, released her hand, and pushed back the hood of his cloak, removing the white mask from his face with a swift, almost angry jerk of his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. Without hesitation she went to him and laid her hand familiarly on his chest. When he didn’t immediately respond she leaned closer and whispered. “Tell me.”

  He muttered in Italian, fast and furious words she had no hope of understanding. She waited until he had expended some of his energy, and then she whispered again. “I speak some Italian, but not nearly enough to translate what you just said. Shall we try again?”

  He took a deep, stilling breath. In the moonlight and the faint light cast from the gardens, she watched his handsome face as he struggled with himself. Finally, he took her face in his hands.

  “Why do you look at me like this?” he whispered huskily.

  “Like what?” she answered innocently.

  His fingers were soft on her cheeks, warm and loving. “Like you want me to kiss you again.”

  She smiled. “Maybe I do want you to kiss me again.”

  He tilted his head and lowered his mouth to hers, for a soft, long, lingering kiss. His fingers left her face to touch the back of her neck as his arms encircled her. In the distance she could hear the faint music from the palazzo, laughter and raised voices, distant sounds of gaiety, but the revelers might as well have been in another world. Nothing else mattered but Giovanni. Nothing else was real.

  He held her more tightly, closer, as the kiss changed. With his tongue he parted her lips and teased her. A jolt of unexpected fire shot through her body. She moaned, low in her throat, as Giovanni twirled her about, danced her down a narrow path, and pressed her back against an ancient stone wall.

  He removed her mask, allowing cool air to brush against her warm face. His fingers touched the skin that had been covered by the velvet half-mask, tracing the shape of her mask, brushing her swollen lips, raking down to caress her throat as he kissed her again, soft and deep. She slipped her arms around his waist and answered with a daring nudge of her own tongue into his mouth.

  With his hands against the wall behind her, his long arms bracketing her, Giovanni lowered his head to her shoulder and turned to kiss the side of her neck. His lips were warm, demanding, and an unexpected delight as he touched his mouth familiarly to her flesh.

  He lifted his mouth from her neck. “I want you,” he whispered, and a pleasant shiver worked its way through her body.

  Ah, how was she to answer? She could whisper a bold, I want you, too, or a humble protest strictly for appearance’s sake. She said nothing, simply savored the feel of his breath against her neck, the tautness of his body, the way he held himself from her and leaned into her at the same time.

  Reaching up slowly, she took his face in her hands. She forced him to look at her, really look at her, and then she tilted her head to kiss him again. This was a gentle kiss, a heavenly meeting of their mouths to tell him, in a way she never could with words, that she was already his.

  Giovanni drew his mouth from hers, though he stayed close with his forehead resting gently against hers. He took a slow, deep breath, as if gathering his thoughts, as if he had to pull himself back together again. Ah, she knew how he felt. A kiss like the one they’d just shared was staggering enough to shake even the strongest man.

  “But I cannot have you,” he whispered with evident anguish. With a tender hand he brushed aside a loosened strand of her hair. His fingers lingered longingly on her face. It was on her lips to tell him, boldly and audaciously, that he could have her, when he spoke again.

  “You’re my virgin, and if I take you to my bed the portrait will be ruined.”

  It was not the answer she’d expected. “I’m your what?”

  Giovanni lifted his head to look her in the eye. “My virgin. For the past five years I have been working on a collection of the stages of life. Babies, old men and women, children, mothers round with their tenth child, gondoliers, fine ladies... but I have never found the right face, the right woman, to be my virgin.”

  “Is that the reason you approached me in the piazza yesterday?” she asked softly.

  “Yes.” He looked as if he were prepared for anything; her anger, her tears, righteous indignation.

  Audrey smiled and then sighed. For the past two years she’d pretended to be someone she was not, yet this man looked at her and in an instant he saw everything, even her innocence. But this was Carnival, a time for indulgence and decadence, a time to set aside mores and rules. It was a time for her to set aside the obedient child to find the adventurous woman.

  “I doubt my face will change if you make love to me,” she whispered.

  Apparently it was not the answer he’d expected. His body stiffened, and he spoke softly, again in Italian. Finally he focused intense eyes on her face. “It will most definitely change,” he answered softly. “I see you with an artist’s eye. I see more than a beautiful face and a perfect body, I see the woman waiting beneath, a woman waiting to be awakened and loved.”

  She rocked slightly forward. “I don’t suppose you could find yourself another virgin to paint.”

  He actually grinned. There was pain in the expression, and even sorrow, but it was still a heart-stopping smile. “I have looked for five years for the right face, the right woman. A treasure like you will never come along again.”

  He wanted her, she could see it. She could feel it. His desire was in every word he spoke, every nuance, every careful shift of his powerful body. His very breath was strained, and she could see the tension in the rigid set of his shoulders.

  She wanted him, too, in a way she had never expected, had never even imagined, to want any man.

  “Giovanni,” she whispered, coming up on her toes to kiss him lightly once again. “Paint quickly.”

  He moaned, then took her arm, and together they walked down a narrow alley toward the sounds of music and laughter.

  “You know,” she said as the palazzo came into view. “Just because you insist that I remain a virgin, I don’t see why that means we can’t stay out here and kiss a while longer.” She tightened her grip on his arm. Ah, he was warm, and comf
orting, and exciting. Her blood raced at the remembrance of the way he’d touched her. “I could kiss you all night,” she said dreamily.

  He tensed and muttered again, but the only lowly spoken word she could make out was a coarsely whispered vergine.

  5

  After a dazzling night and only a few hours of deep sleep, Audrey had practically charged from her palazzo to meet Giovanni in the square.

  Holding her hand, walking quickly and taking long strides, he led her through the maze of alleyways and courtyards once again. Her step was quick as well, as she did her best to keep up with him. Yesterday she had known a touch of fear, had experienced a moment or two of uncertainty. Today she suffered from neither.

  After a dizzying trip, he led her into the building where his studio was located. He practically ran up the stairs, pulling a willing Audrey with him.

  Today she hadn’t worried much about her choice of dress, choosing a simple muslin gown that would be easy to get herself out of and into, and covering herself against the cold with her dark green hooded cape. Beneath the hood her hair was simply restrained atop her head. No need to bother with braids and curls when she was only going to let her hair down as soon as she arrived in Giovanni’s domain.

  He closed the door behind them and released her hand. “Spogliati,” he said, his eyes fierce as he watched her remove her cloak and toss it on his bed.

  “What?” Breathless from their walk and the quick climb to the fourth floor, she sauntered slowly toward him. His hands clenched and unclenched, and that muscle in his cheek twitched again. “Miss Greenaway did manage to teach me a smattering of Italian, but that word is not familiar to me.”