Borgia Fever by Michelle Kelly

Chapter One
    When Bella stepped into the ornate ballroom her breath
was momentarily stolen by the splendour that greeted her. The walls and ceiling
under the marble arches were adorned with frescoes featuring an intriguing mix
of blessed saints and erotic pagan images, and a water feature specifically made
for this event took pride of place in the centre of the room, the water
cascading from the jug of a bare-breasted nymph over the chest of a stone
Adonis. But as captivating as the scene was, her eyes were soon scanning the
room for the one man she simultaneously longed to see, yet knew she dare not
approach.
    Marco Corelli. Le assassini
birbante . The Rogue Assassin. When she had first set eyes on him two
weeks ago, upon arriving in Rome, the sight of him had been a like a lightning
bolt to her heart—and other, more secret places. With his dark, almost
blue-black hair, deep grey eyes and the strong muscular build of a soldier
poured into tight black leggings and tunic, he was quite simply the most
desirable man she had ever seen. Not that that was particularly difficult, as
she had spent the best part of her twenty-four years in Montagne, a little
village outside Rome where her uncle once did a good trade as an apothecary,
chemist and herbalist, before passing the business on to her. Such was his
reputation, and subsequently hers, that she had ended up here. Marvelling at the
splendour of the Borgia papal court and longing for a glimpse of the Rogue. So
called because no one knew quite who he was or even what he was—assassin, spy or
simply trusted manservant to the notorious Cesare Borgia, son of the Pope—and
perhaps also because of his sensual yet thoroughly masculine looks.
    Not that she had heard any rumours about his conduct with
women, far from it. By all accounts the Rogue kept to himself, a secretive and
dangerous man. Someone she should certainly keep away from. She was in enough
danger simply by having come to the attention of the notorious Borgia family.
Bella was no fool, and well aware that when she had accomplished the task she
had been set, her life might very well be forfeit. Her time would be better
spent planning her escape than swooning over a gorgeous yet inscrutable man like
the Rogue.
    Yet every time she had come across him she had hoped for a
smile, a glance, some acknowledgment at least, but there had been nothing. Bella
didn’t count vanity among her sins, but she knew that men found her desirable;
she had spent the last fortnight fighting off the advances of nearly every man
in the palace, who no doubt found her status as a single and independent woman
both provocative and infuriating. But from him, nothing, not even a sideways
glance. Then two days later, as she had been tending the herb garden, she had
felt eyes upon her, and looked up to see him watching her from the shadows,
blending in so perfectly that for a moment she wondered if she was seeing
things. He had dropped his gaze and turned away, but not before she had seen the
flash of heat in his eyes and the way they roamed her body, lingering for a
second on the curve of her breasts where they swelled above her simple gown.
Then he had been gone, his movements swift and lithe, like a hunter pursuing his
prey, leaving her staring at the spot where he had stood.
    Now her eyes found him again, leaning against a pillar,
watching the festivities around him with a cool eye. Though the other revellers
made much of the masquerade, the Pope himself currently dancing with a
blushing—and very married—lady-in-waiting, the Rogue merely observed, his
expression unreadable. Did he never relax? Bella wondered. Must he always be at
his post, alert for any sign of danger or intrigue? She thought it must be a
lonely way to live, always in the shadows, always apart from the crowd. For her
own part she had had quite enough of the decadent and dangerous Borgia court as
it was, and could only hope she would soon find the secrets she had