Jane Porter - One Christmas Night in Venice

One Christmas Night in Venice

Jane Porter

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

When Diane returned to Venice for the Christmas masked ball, she was shocked and thrilled to see Domenico, the husband she’d thought dead! But she needs to know that Dom still holds her in his heart before she takes her place in his bed again!

Christmas is a time for joy and love. The shops are packed, children are singing carols; we are all busy buying and wrapping presents, and arranging family feasts. In the midst of all this, take a little time for yourself and enjoy one of our short Christmas treats by some of our favourite authors.

WHAT was she doing here? How could she possibly have thought this was a good idea? Getting resolution was one thing, but this was madness.

Diane Mayer hovered inside the opulent ballroom of fifteenth century Ca’ Coducci, one of Venice’s beloved jewels on the Grand Canal, realizing she’d made a huge mistake coming to the masquerade ball hosted by the noble Coducci family in their palazzo tonight. Tickets were costly for the gala fundraiser, but a friend had passed his on to her and, since she was already in Italy for business, she had impulsively decided to come.

Fool that she was. Closure? How did she expect to get closure coming here? What kind of resolution did she think she’d have?

For God’s sake, she’d honeymooned here in Venice. Ca’ Coducci had been her husband’s home. The noble Coduccis were her husband’s family. But five years ago she’d lost it all in the blink of an eye.

That was all it had been. The blink of an eye. Domenico had taken his eyes off the road for a moment, just long enough to turn, look at her, smile, and then they’d been blinded by light before that horrific bone-shattering impact that had crushed their car to bits.

Sucking in a nervous breath, wishing she was back at her hotel instead of at the party, Diane adjusted her white shepherdess mask as costumed guests swirled past.

Goddesses and nymphs, satyrs and maidens, unicorns, angels, and even fairytale characters laughed and danced through the doorway into the vast ballroom, a room lit entirely by candlelight. Fat ivory candles glowed in sconces, with smaller candles in glass votives on the floor, while the ballroom’s gold ceiling, distinguished by three enormous glass chandeliers, glittered and shone, casting golden light on the fantastical masks and costumes below.

And no couple was more fantastic than the winged lion and golden Venus slowly circling the room

Diane, who rarely noticed people, who loved art and architecture more than society, stared, fascinated. Enthralled. How beautiful the two of them were together.

They were a stunning pair, perfectly matched, gilded by the candlelight.

Venus’ mask barely concealed her exquisite face, but it was he, the winged lion, symbol of St. Mark, Venice’s patron saint, who captivated her.

He was a work of art, in the softest golden leather pants which had been fitted to powerful legs. A red and gold robe fell from his broad shoulders, leaving his muscular chest and hard, flat carved torso tantalizingly bare. His arms were thickly muscled and bare, too, while his face was hidden by a gold lion mask that nearly covered his face completely, beginning at the brow, extending over his nose, skirting his upper lip and then dipping low to follow his jaw. A thick gold mane covered his hair and wings—enormous gold wings—sprang from his back as if he were an archangel about to take flight.

It was more than a costume. It was a fantasy. He was man and beast. Fierce. Regal. Seductive. Lethal.

Diane’s throat closed and her heart ached. For a heartbreaking moment she thought of Domenico, even as the candlelight illuminated him, shadowing his face and outlining his size.

He was tall, even taller than Domenico, and broader through the shoulders, and yet he made her long for the life she’d lost. Love, pleasure, possession.

Sex. Seduction.

God, it had been years since she’d been with anyone—years since she’d been touched, loved, held. She hadn’t wanted to be touched, held, but this beautiful, impossible fantasy made her crave and hunger and dream.

Dream.

Maybe someday. Maybe one day. If she was lucky.

And then the mythic winged lion turned his head, thick gold mane brushing his shoulders, to look her way, to look at her , and her heart skittered to a stop.

So like Dom. Those eyes. That expression.

Her heart squeezed even tighter and her head spun. She leaned on her shepherdess staff, her bad leg about to collapse. So much of him reminded her of Domenico. The height, the shape of his broad chest, the muscular, tapering torso, the narrow hips above long strong legs. It was almost as if the Coducci palazzo was playing tricks on her imagination. Ghost, angel, beast.

It’s not Dom, she told herself. Can’t be. Domenico’s dead.

And yet this beautiful winged lion, this symbol of the city, looked at her as if he could see beneath her mask, beneath her costume. He looked as if he could see straight through her. Right to her heart.

Just like Dom had.

Her hand trembled violently on the staff. The winged lion was approaching.

“Ti senti bene? Are you all right?” Conte Domenico Coducci asked the tiny shepherdess in the white tulle gown, having watched her for the better part of an hour. She’d arrived alone and had remained alone, and he’d noticed how her hand shook on her shepherdess staff.

She took a nervous step back, eyes wide behind the sleek white mask molded to her face. The mask hid everything but her eyes, and her blue-green gaze stared up at him transfixed. He’d never seen any eyes quite so sad, and for a moment her sorrow touched him. Strange, because nothing touched him. Nothing could. On the inside he was dead, and yet … and yet … something stirred inside him now. A fragment of memory. A whisper of hunger followed by a slash of pain.

But, no, it couldn’t be, and just like that he steeled himself against the memory and the emotion. “Can I get you something to drink?” he added, putting a hand out to her elbow as she swayed on her feet.

“No. I’m fine. Sto bene.” She stumbled back another step and tears shimmered in her eyes.

The tears cracked the armor around his heart. Don’t cry, he wanted to tell her, don’t be so sad. Which was even more perplexing as he wasn’t a tender man. Didn’t comfort. Didn’t love.

He shouldn’t even be here. There was no point. She wasn’t his responsibility. He had a houseful of wealthy, influential guests. A Christmas gala to host. And a beautiful fiancée waiting for him across the room. But this little shepherdess … She reminded him of someone he’d desperately loved and lost. Not that he wanted to remember. He was done remembering, done living in the past.

He drew a swift, rough breath. There was no past. Only the future. And his future was with Valeria. Valeria and his son. “If you’re sure you’re fine,” he said coolly, moving back a step, determined to put space between them. Mistakes were made when one let emotions cloud reality.