hand in his. She stored his gesture, as she had the previous one. It fell into a chest of treasured memories she would save from the events of this evening to be pulled out, examined, and cherished in leaner times.
Together they dashed through the drizzle and entered a palazzo. Far taller and broader than she, he sheltered her from the wet as best he could. Never in her life had a man offered her the protection of his body. Another gesture to cherish, later.
A door opened and her thick shoes clunked across a fine, marble entry. The sound was masculine and hard. It sought to puncture the bubble of the happy feminine vision of herself she’d temporarily created in her mind. How she wished she could kick them off.
A deferential voice welcomed him. She lifted her gaze, wanting and yet afraid to see how she was being judged here—as a man or a woman.
But there was no confusion in the proprietor’s face regarding her gender. He turned a blind eye to her; obviously assuming she was a courtesan or perhaps a whore. One the man who held her wanted in his bed tonight. A wealthy, handsome man of good family, who was so desperate to have her that he was willing to pay. Even with her short hair, awful shoes, and her voluminous cloak, she felt desirable, feminine. It was exhilarating.
Her lover-to-be kept an arm around her, and she kept her head tucked into him as they mounted a magnificent staircase. Peeking from the hood of her cloak, she viewed the passing paintings and urns of flowers. Gilding glistened on the balustrade. The impression of opulence was definite but fleeting as she was ushered upstairs.
It was humid and still inside his rooms. She craved the wildness of the storm outside to match that in her heart. Without asking his permission, she opened a latch and swung a window wide, letting the sounds and smells of the rain flood the room.
She kicked her offensive shoes into a corner and turned to see him preparing to light the candles.
“No more lights,” she told him. “The torches outside are enough.”
Silver found black through the semidarkness as he hesitated, then blew out the taper. “Take off that blasted mask.”
She shook her head. “My rules tonight, remember?”
He came to tower over her and draw his hands along her upper arms from shoulder to elbow and back. “Keep the mask then. But take off the cloak.”
She wrapped the cloak closer and stepped away. “Not yet.”
He set a hand at one hip. “Perhaps you should explain exactly what these rules of yours are going to entail, so that I may better plot my course with you.”
“First, give me your shirt,” she instructed.
Without quibbling, Raine released his top buttons. Then he crossed his arms, grasping the front tails of his shirt from his trousers and lifting the garment over his head. One by one a flat belly, narrow waist, and wide sculpted chest appeared as the pale linen drew ever higher.
His head was briefly obscured, only to emerge from the shirt when he slipped it off, revealing broad shoulders. Lightning flashed and his well-defined muscles danced in shadow and light as he worked his arms free of the shirt and tossed it away.
He ran fingers through his rain-dampened hair, combing it into dark furrows. Jordan took his shirt from where it had landed on the bed and turned her back to him.
Beneath Salerno’s cloak, she managed with some difficulty to work his shirt over her. Her head popped from its neck and her arms slipped through the sleeves to emerge from the cuffs, which she rolled to her elbows. Tugging, she pulled the tails low, until they fell just short of her knees.
In contrast to the sodden cloak that smelled of her nemesis, the linen shirt was white, crisp, and clean. And it smelled of him—sexy-warm and masculine.
Dropping the offensive cloak to the floor, Jordan noted the stains on it where she’d used it to wipe her chin and cheek free of his spill in the gondola. She wondered if semen would irrevocably stain
Together they dashed through the drizzle and entered a palazzo. Far taller and broader than she, he sheltered her from the wet as best he could. Never in her life had a man offered her the protection of his body. Another gesture to cherish, later.
A door opened and her thick shoes clunked across a fine, marble entry. The sound was masculine and hard. It sought to puncture the bubble of the happy feminine vision of herself she’d temporarily created in her mind. How she wished she could kick them off.
A deferential voice welcomed him. She lifted her gaze, wanting and yet afraid to see how she was being judged here—as a man or a woman.
But there was no confusion in the proprietor’s face regarding her gender. He turned a blind eye to her; obviously assuming she was a courtesan or perhaps a whore. One the man who held her wanted in his bed tonight. A wealthy, handsome man of good family, who was so desperate to have her that he was willing to pay. Even with her short hair, awful shoes, and her voluminous cloak, she felt desirable, feminine. It was exhilarating.
Her lover-to-be kept an arm around her, and she kept her head tucked into him as they mounted a magnificent staircase. Peeking from the hood of her cloak, she viewed the passing paintings and urns of flowers. Gilding glistened on the balustrade. The impression of opulence was definite but fleeting as she was ushered upstairs.
It was humid and still inside his rooms. She craved the wildness of the storm outside to match that in her heart. Without asking his permission, she opened a latch and swung a window wide, letting the sounds and smells of the rain flood the room.
She kicked her offensive shoes into a corner and turned to see him preparing to light the candles.
“No more lights,” she told him. “The torches outside are enough.”
Silver found black through the semidarkness as he hesitated, then blew out the taper. “Take off that blasted mask.”
She shook her head. “My rules tonight, remember?”
He came to tower over her and draw his hands along her upper arms from shoulder to elbow and back. “Keep the mask then. But take off the cloak.”
She wrapped the cloak closer and stepped away. “Not yet.”
He set a hand at one hip. “Perhaps you should explain exactly what these rules of yours are going to entail, so that I may better plot my course with you.”
“First, give me your shirt,” she instructed.
Without quibbling, Raine released his top buttons. Then he crossed his arms, grasping the front tails of his shirt from his trousers and lifting the garment over his head. One by one a flat belly, narrow waist, and wide sculpted chest appeared as the pale linen drew ever higher.
His head was briefly obscured, only to emerge from the shirt when he slipped it off, revealing broad shoulders. Lightning flashed and his well-defined muscles danced in shadow and light as he worked his arms free of the shirt and tossed it away.
He ran fingers through his rain-dampened hair, combing it into dark furrows. Jordan took his shirt from where it had landed on the bed and turned her back to him.
Beneath Salerno’s cloak, she managed with some difficulty to work his shirt over her. Her head popped from its neck and her arms slipped through the sleeves to emerge from the cuffs, which she rolled to her elbows. Tugging, she pulled the tails low, until they fell just short of her knees.
In contrast to the sodden cloak that smelled of her nemesis, the linen shirt was white, crisp, and clean. And it smelled of him—sexy-warm and masculine.
Dropping the offensive cloak to the floor, Jordan noted the stains on it where she’d used it to wipe her chin and cheek free of his spill in the gondola. She wondered if semen would irrevocably stain
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