was indebted to both brother and sister for more hours of pleasure than he could remember, not to mention a large number of the ducats he lost at the gaming tables.
When he was fully dressed, he went and stood before them. “Don’t forget, angelo mio , the more you bring me, the more grateful I will be,” the woman admonished, throwing her head back and parting her lips to accept his kiss.
“I will be back soon to collect my reward,” he assured her huskily. Then he bowed to his patron and, pulling a black mask over his face, disappeared into the shadows.
Chapter Seven
Ian was running, his heart pounding. He was in a vast hall, the only light coming from a fire at the front of it. A woman lay on a gold fur rug, naked, beckoning to him. As he got closer, he could make out her oval face, wavy light brown hair, her brown eyes glowing gold with passion. He took in her full lips and her slim body, breasts like two of the small hard peaches that grew in Crispin’s greenhouse. She reached out toward him and he tried to go to her, running as fast as he could, but she kept drawing back, just out of reach. His body painfully aroused, he leapt to grab her and heard a horrible familiar laugh in his ears. “Coward.” The laughter turned into a voice. “Heartless coward. You will never have her. Never. Not even in your dreams.”
Ian sat up in bed. He was drenched in sweat. His heart was racing. And his body was indeed painfully aroused. “Damn these women!” he said into the dark night. How could they have such an effect on him? He was familiar with nightmares that featured Mora’s harsh words as their background, but this dream was unique. What made it so unsettling was Bianca. Dreaming about a potential murderer naked had to be a sign of some nervous disorder, he told himself. And not just dreaming about her either, but being aroused by her. Very aroused. This had to stop.
He stepped naked from his bed and left his room to wander through the house. As he traced the familiar path, the cool air of the rainy night calmed the arousal of his body. He went and stood at the windows facing onto the Grand Canal. The rain had stopped, for the first time that week, and the dark water below him was lit by the shimmering light of the full moon. How many times had he stood here like this, naked, with his head pressed against the cool glass panes of the window, watching the darkness recede into dawn? He had once stopped during the day to see if the floor was worn down in this one spot, to see if there was any external manifestation of the deep anguish that pained him within. But the stones yielded up no evidence of his secret midnight vigils. Taking his cue from them, he tried not to either.
He watched a gondola glide on the canal toward him, anonymously cloaked in black. In the palazzo facing his across the water, a window was still lit and he could see the French ambassador actively wooing his chambermaid. Ian tried to see if it was the same woman it had been last month, decided it was, and lost interest. The French ambassador had once confided to him that he behaved that way out of duty to his country, not out of shameless animal lust. He was convinced that the chambermaids were spies of other governments and that bedding them was the only way to ensure their loyalty. Ian admired the vigor with which he fulfilled his patriotic duty, thinking that his own performance as a member of the Senate and overseer of his sestiere was uninspired by comparison. Perhaps bedding a murder suspect…?
His disturbing train of thought was halted by a noise. Ian was familiar with the night noises of his house, and the squeak of a hinge was not one of them. He moved stealthily toward the staircase at the end of the room, glad he had not brought a candle with him. Unsure whether the noise had come from the courtyard below or one of the floors above, he stood stock-still and waited. Nothing. Then came another sound, like the scraping of wood on metal,
When he was fully dressed, he went and stood before them. “Don’t forget, angelo mio , the more you bring me, the more grateful I will be,” the woman admonished, throwing her head back and parting her lips to accept his kiss.
“I will be back soon to collect my reward,” he assured her huskily. Then he bowed to his patron and, pulling a black mask over his face, disappeared into the shadows.
Chapter Seven
Ian was running, his heart pounding. He was in a vast hall, the only light coming from a fire at the front of it. A woman lay on a gold fur rug, naked, beckoning to him. As he got closer, he could make out her oval face, wavy light brown hair, her brown eyes glowing gold with passion. He took in her full lips and her slim body, breasts like two of the small hard peaches that grew in Crispin’s greenhouse. She reached out toward him and he tried to go to her, running as fast as he could, but she kept drawing back, just out of reach. His body painfully aroused, he leapt to grab her and heard a horrible familiar laugh in his ears. “Coward.” The laughter turned into a voice. “Heartless coward. You will never have her. Never. Not even in your dreams.”
Ian sat up in bed. He was drenched in sweat. His heart was racing. And his body was indeed painfully aroused. “Damn these women!” he said into the dark night. How could they have such an effect on him? He was familiar with nightmares that featured Mora’s harsh words as their background, but this dream was unique. What made it so unsettling was Bianca. Dreaming about a potential murderer naked had to be a sign of some nervous disorder, he told himself. And not just dreaming about her either, but being aroused by her. Very aroused. This had to stop.
He stepped naked from his bed and left his room to wander through the house. As he traced the familiar path, the cool air of the rainy night calmed the arousal of his body. He went and stood at the windows facing onto the Grand Canal. The rain had stopped, for the first time that week, and the dark water below him was lit by the shimmering light of the full moon. How many times had he stood here like this, naked, with his head pressed against the cool glass panes of the window, watching the darkness recede into dawn? He had once stopped during the day to see if the floor was worn down in this one spot, to see if there was any external manifestation of the deep anguish that pained him within. But the stones yielded up no evidence of his secret midnight vigils. Taking his cue from them, he tried not to either.
He watched a gondola glide on the canal toward him, anonymously cloaked in black. In the palazzo facing his across the water, a window was still lit and he could see the French ambassador actively wooing his chambermaid. Ian tried to see if it was the same woman it had been last month, decided it was, and lost interest. The French ambassador had once confided to him that he behaved that way out of duty to his country, not out of shameless animal lust. He was convinced that the chambermaids were spies of other governments and that bedding them was the only way to ensure their loyalty. Ian admired the vigor with which he fulfilled his patriotic duty, thinking that his own performance as a member of the Senate and overseer of his sestiere was uninspired by comparison. Perhaps bedding a murder suspect…?
His disturbing train of thought was halted by a noise. Ian was familiar with the night noises of his house, and the squeak of a hinge was not one of them. He moved stealthily toward the staircase at the end of the room, glad he had not brought a candle with him. Unsure whether the noise had come from the courtyard below or one of the floors above, he stood stock-still and waited. Nothing. Then came another sound, like the scraping of wood on metal,
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