“See? Nothing to it,” Rocco whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
So far, Tony nearly muttered.
While Rocco headed straight for a huddle of young men, Tony edged toward a wall and studied the scene from there. One by one, he scanned every face, dividing the ballroom into quadrants the way the Foreign Legion had trained him to locate snipers or insurgents strapped with bombs.
This is carnival, not a war zone. He rolled his shoulders, trying to relax.
Still, that edgy feeling wouldn’t leave him alone. But his inner radar wasn’t drawn to anything in the ballroom, so he checked one adjoining parlor after another. Each was crowded with dozens of guests and a potpourri of scents. The sweet aroma of flickering candles. The overwhelming fragrance of perfume. The odor of briny water, especially in the rooms overlooking the Grand Canal.
He took another step without looking, and — whoops — bumped into someone.
Quickly, he straightened his mask, stifling a curse. But when his eyes met those of the other person…
He froze, and she did too.
Her eyes were a sea of blue with a hint of green and practically on level with his. She was that tall — basketball-player tall. Sturdy but athletic, with broad shoulders and strong arms. Not the kind of girl a man swept effortlessly into his arms and carried over the threshold on his wedding night. More like one a man could set off into the wilderness with, knowing he could trust her with his life.
His heart thumped harder, and his lion flicked its tail.
“Chiedo scusa,” she murmured, looking as dazed as he felt.
His lips moved, but it was a while before he managed to echo her apology. When he did, his voice sounded a hundred miles away, as did the sounds of the party. Her fresh, earthy scent wound around his body in a sultry dance, making his cheeks heat.
Lion shifter, his inner beast hummed. Just like me.
“I wasn’t looking,” she mumbled in Italian.
“It was my fault,” he whispered. At least, he thought he did. But it was hard to concentrate, what with all those butterflies fluttering inside.
She was fascinating in every way, from the light trace of an accent to the tight curls of reddish-brown hair escaping the bun she’d done it up in. Her carnival mask only covered her eyes, reminding him of a female Zorro. Same swashbuckling energy, same keen eyes. Her dress — golden-brown, a shade lighter than her hair — was modest, almost dull compared to those of other guests. No plunging neckline, no sequins or lace. Just the hint of an athletic figure and the coiled energy of a woman perpetually on the go.
His pulse skipped a few beats, and his hopes fast-forwarded into the near future. He would smile and introduce himself — using his real name, because a man didn’t lie to a woman who made his soul sing. They would get talking. Laughing. Maybe even dancing. Who knew where that might lead?
When she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then lowered her hand, he felt sure she would reach out and introduce herself.
Hello, I’m Zorra, he imagined her saying.
I’m Tony, he would reply. Pleasure to meet you.
It would be more than a pleasure. It would be fantastic. Amazing. Life-changing, perhaps.
But a caterer swept past, offering drinks. And just like that, the spell was broken.
“No, thank you,” she murmured.
The words were aimed at the caterer, but for some reason, Tony took them personally. At the same time, their surroundings swept back into his senses, reminding him where he was. Worse, who he was.
An accused criminal. A wanted man. A guy with no business being there at all.
As if on cue, a nearby man whispered to another, “Who is that?”
Tony whipped his head around, heart pounding. Had he been spotted?
Then he exhaled, because the men were peering out at guests gathered on the canalside deck, not at him.
He looked back at the woman — Zorra — but she had already disappeared into the crowd.
So, find her. Follow her. Don’t miss your chance, a voice in his mind urged.
He frowned, craning his neck. His chance at what?
Destiny, a faint chuckle sounded in his mind. Or was he just imagining something mixed in with the sounds of the festive crowd?
Chapter Three
Tony gave himself a shake and continued down the hall, though his lion fought every step.
Go back. Find her. Talk to her.
Sure. He could take off his mask while he was at it and prove what a fool he was to be here at all.
His lion lashed its tail. But this is our chance.
Right. A chance to blow his cover.
No. A chance to introduce ourselves, his lion insisted. To get talking. Laughing. Maybe even dancing.
A stab of yearning hit him. That would be so nice, but he wasn’t here to talk, laugh, or dance. He was here to discover what was afoot, because that feeling of impending doom still hung in the air.
So, he did an about-face, leaving the intriguing woman behind. His inner lion made him turn back a split second later, but she was gone. And anyway, he couldn’t see past the two men who were intent on the people outside.
“That woman in the silk gown is Julienne de Marbot. Don’t you know? The French countess.” One of the men pointed.
Tony followed the gesture to a woman. Or rather, to the people clustered around a woman seated in a regal pose. Mostly, he caught glimpses of a black dress with red highlights — that and the matching fan she snapped back and forth, more for show than for ventilation. As she did, a magnificent diamond glittered on her finger.
She fit the part of a countess. Of course, there wasn’t much nobility left in France, but it was hard to tell these days. Nobility was the new vogue, even in a land that prided itself on overthrowing its aristocracy two hundred years ago.
“Julienne de Marbot?” The second man seemed impressed. “The new owner of the Beluzzi Palace?”
Tony’s eyebrows jumped up. The Beluzzi Palace was one of the most sumptuous residences on the Grand Canal. Had another of Venice’s treasures fallen into foreign hands?
“I thought that Russian billionaire had an eye on the place. Did she outbid him?” the second man asked.
“From what I heard, she used other powers of persuasion.”
The man’s wolfish tone left no doubt as to what those charms were. The countess was putting them to work on the party guests, judging by the way her admirers fawned over her every move. When she made a lazy gesture, three men scurried to get her a drink.
That created a brief opening, and Tony spotted her face. The lower half, at least — the part not covered by a mask. Her features were fine, her lips full and thick.
The first man sighed. “She’s beautiful.”
“Confident,” the second man added, just as smitten.
Cruel, Tony couldn’t help thinking. She had the eyes of a viper waiting to strike. Just watching them flicker over the crowd made him tense.
Shifter, his lion growled.
A dragon, he guessed. The sheer intensity of that gaze gave her away, even if her scent didn’t. She’d hidden the latter with expensive perfume the way Tony had drowned his with cologne. But that was because he had something to conceal.
So does she, his lion growled.
He frowned. Then what was she doing flaunting her figure, her looks, her fortune?
When the crowd closed in around her again, Tony studied the most obvious shifters among them. Were they not concerned?