Masks by Karen Chance

was draped in some kind of shimmering silk, but it was so diaphanous it might have been merely a glittering cloud, caressing full breasts, dark nipples, a small waist, and long, shapely legs.
    And a couple of glittering, jewel-like bands that slid over her body, under the robe, twining around a supple arm, or draping over a taut thigh.
    In the low light of the ballroom, Mircea could almost convince himself they were merely oddly-made jewelry. Until bright eyes gleamed at him like dark diamonds, and a small ribbon of a tongue licked out, tasting the air. Scenting him.
    His throat went strangely dry.
    By Venetian standards, the woman seated on the daybed nearest to hers was far more attractive, with the high forehead, blond tresses, and milk white complexion so coveted by the local ladies. So, for that matter, were several of the other women—attendants, he assumed—who were scattered about the room on chairs and chaises, all of them lovely, all of them finely dressed. And none of them holding his attention for more than a few seconds.
    It was impossible to look anywhere else when the senator was in the room.
    Mircea didn’t know why, just as he didn’t know what he was doing here. This was an assignment for Paulo. Or for Danieli, Paulo’s swarthier counterpart. Someone else, in any case.
    And yet he’d been sent instead.
    It seemed like damned poor judgment on someone’s part.
    And then her chin went up expectantly.
    Mircea waited, but she didn’t get up. He assumed they would go somewhere, to the bedroom he’d yet to see or a private boudoir. Or at the very least that everyone else would be sent away.
    But nobody moved.
    The silence stretched for a long moment.
    He glanced around. Servants came and went, refilling wineglasses, stoking up the fire in a huge marble fireplace, renewing the oil in lamps that swung here and there on thin golden chains, giving an exotic touch to the otherwise standard Venetian ballroom. Add in the cluster of female attendants or friends that were lounging on divans and nearby chaises and there had to be twenty people in here.
    Some were ignoring him, talking among themselves or sewing or reading, but a number were not. In fact, a few of the women were openly staring. She couldn’t expect . . .
    But clearly, she did.
    His jaw tightened.
    And then his hand went to the lacings on his doublet.
    Coming from a culture in which even the men were expected to stay decently covered up, Mircea had never acclimatized to the casual Venetian attitude toward nudity. He reminded himself that the workmen here often stripped down in summer, completely if they could get away with it, in order to save their few clothes from wear. He’d seen some shortly after he arrived repairing the façade of a church, yet wearing so little he’d been surprised that the carved stone effigies beneath them hadn’t been gaping in shock.
    But Mircea had.
    And while he had somewhat accustomed himself to seeing workmen in such ways, even while women walked about underneath the scaffolding, or sold bread or baked apples to those same men on their breaks, he had never gotten used to it.
    It was even worse now that it was him on display.
    By the time he was down to those infernal hosen, he was sweating, his body reacting to stress the way Jerome’s had to the idea of no air. It was reacting in other ways, too. One of which sprang loose from the damned hosen already half hard, even before he finished stripping them down his legs.
    Face burning, he tried to control his body’s response, but it didn’t help. He didn’t feel any power being exerted on him the way that Martina had. But then, there was no need. The large space with him at the center, the ring of watching women and a few men, the fact that he was the only one nude in the room—it made him feel as awkward as a boy.
    And like when he was a boy, concentrating on the problem only made it grow worse.
    He finally accepted the truth, jerked the last of the delicate