His Two Hidden Masks: Steamy International Billionaire Romance

Chapter 2

Six Months Later.

It was after midnight, and moonlight filtered through the curtains, bathing my bedroom in a cool blue hue.

My eyelet comforter tucked beneath my chin, eyes wide open with insomnia, I stared at the painted ceiling above my childhood bed. I wished I could time-travel to a time and a place where my life wasn’t ruined.

Overhead, cherubs danced around grapes and olive trees looking so happy I wanted to draw mustaches on their smug faces. My mother paid to have this fresco restored when I was in primary school. We had money for luxury like this when I was younger.

I couldn’t pinpoint when things became harder for my family, but I always believed my life was split into two phases, before Sara and after Sara.

Before Sara, my family hired staff to iron Egyptian cotton sheets and run rosewater baths for my sister and me at bedtime. I had memories of Sara walking me to school. I remembered playing hide-and-seek and aways choosing to hide in her wardrobe. It was the best hiding place in the house.

After Sara, my mother fired almost all the staff. We pretended not to notice the etching and widening cracks on the marble steps of our staircase.

My parents memorialized their grief. They changed the name of our family’s hotel to “Mia Sorella,” my sister, in Italian. Quiet sadness permeated our home, a white noise that never left.

Before the wedding, at Roberto’s suggestion they hung Sara’s portrait in the lobby so all the world could see what my family lost. I was touched by his thoughtfulness and wondered why it had taken years for my family to take her portrait out of storage.

By leaving Roberto at the altar, I created another epoch in my family’s timeline. We now grappled with Before Roberto and After Roberto, except Roberto was still very much alive. I lost far more than a future husband and an heirloom diamond ring.

I was now a runaway bride who had humiliated my family and my ex-fiancé. The only people I counted on for steady eye contact were Auntie Aurora, and of course, Leo. It had been months, and forgiveness had yet to be served at my family dinner table.

Remembering the look in my father’s eyes at home after my sprint from the church made me want to sink deep under the covers and never get out of bed.

Papa had walked through the front door saying nothing, not a word. It was so much worse than yelling. Mama yelled, which wasn’t better, really, but at least I knew where she stood.

“How could you just run?” Mama said, pacing. I sat at the kitchen table my heads in my hands. I couldn’t answer her question.

My father walked across the kitchen and pulled out a chair across from me. Arms crossed, he still wore his tuxedo.

My mother rattled off my sins. “The flowers. The music. The food. The priest. Do you have any idea what this has cost us?”

“I’ll pay back every cent,” I whispered, my body numb.

“You can’t restore our reputation,” Mama said, clutching the bridge of her nose.

“I’m sorry. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t.”

“Bella.” My father finally spoke, his voice quiet. “You don’t marry for love. Love comes later, if you are lucky.” He nodded at my mother. “I didn’t love your mother when we married, but look at our marriage today.”

Looking between the two of them, I wondered if my mother agreed, or did my father’s careless words wound her. My father was always so oblivious to how his quiet and angry moods changed the temperature in the room.

“I’m going to bed,” I said, standing. “I’ll return all the gifts and apologize to Father Dominic.” I walked away from the kitchen table, and we hadn’t discussed the topic since. How had I let things go so far?

I hated these nights of sleeplessness, alone with my guilt. I thought I loved Roberto, and it took me standing in front of him in a church with two-hundred people to realize I couldn’t say those two magic words. What was wrong with me? I had no answers.

I did know that I was not putting any energy into another relationship, not now, maybe not ever. I didn’t trust myself.

Since my un-wedding, I spent almost every day in the kitchen at Andiamo, developing a new line of flavors for caramels that I wanted to brand, sell, and serve across all of our properties. I finalized the flavors and spent the last two weeks building out a healthy inventory of product.

Leo said I was drowning my sorrows in chocolate, but that pain created great art, so he approved. I walked away from Roberto, but that didn’t mean I was abandoning my commitment to helping my family’s business. My line of candies would provide a new revenue stream and a fresh marketing tool for tourists.

I’d worked with Leo on a Carnival launch proposal I planned to present at the next Uzano board meeting. I knew it was rushed, but for the first time in six months, I wanted to act.

The Carnival celebration had just started and would continue for two weeks. At the peak, three million souvenir buying tourists would descend on our city, packing every hotel and restaurant.

It was the most lucrative season for every business owner in Venice, and it culminated with a masked ball at Doge”s Palace. The theme this year was “Eros Crossing.” Appropriate, I thought, since love definitely had passed me by.

I had one more day to review my pitch to the board. Roberto wasn’t speaking to me directly, but he had answered my email and confirmed he’d added me to the agenda.

Our engagement was over, but the Bianco family hadn’t stepped away from their role as financial advisors. In fact, Roberto seemed invigorated. He leaned into his role as my father’s successor and right hand. I just hoped that my family and Roberto would listen to my ideas with open minds.

I feared that change came to the Uzano family like water dripping on a stone. Roberto knew it took me two years of badgering both my parents to add a vegan option to the menu at Andiamo.

It wasn’t an extraordinary change, but you would have thought I was trying to get them to serve American fried chicken or German schnitzel.

I wanted to focus on areas of my life that I could control. I hand-dipped every chocolate in every box stored in the walk-in refrigerator of Andiamo. I needed a small investment for marketing and approval from the board to use our company logo.

Unlike my failed engagement, my caramels were made with a love that I never doubted.

I looked up at the cherubs dancing overhead. It was one a.m. Insomnia had won once again. It was time to go for a moonlight walk.

I slipped out of bed and walked to the peaked windows in my room. Standing in my linen night dress, I looked out at the empty campo. The full moon bathed the world in soft, blue light. Frost sparkled on the edge of the stone fountain, which had been turned off for the winter. The canals were quiet this time of night.

The world outside glittered, luminous and magical. I wondered if the moon might have the power to heal me with her light. I ran my hands across my night dress, feeling the peak of my nipples through the fabric, the softness of my belly, curve of my hips.

I lifted my night dress over my head, dropping it to the floor, and stood naked in the moonlight, and for the first time in months, I missed the touch of a lover.

I craved touch. I wanted to feel the release of pleasure. My desire surprised me. I thought of nothing but my business for six months, and now I wondered what it would be like to feel my naked body press against someone else’s. I wanted to feel a heat that started between my legs and rippled through my core.

I almost climbed back into bed with my vibrator, but I was never comfortable using that device in my parents’ home. Considering I lived at home, like most Venetian women my age, this was a serious hindrance to my nonexistent sex life. I really needed to move. Looking out my window into the campo, I froze.

A man stood alone by the frost-covered fountain. Tall with broad shoulders and dark hair, he stood in profile with his hands in both pockets. His eyes looked skyward as if locked on the moon. He turned toward my window. I jumped back, heart pounding, and jerked the curtains closed.

My arms wrapped around my naked breasts. I was breathless. Had I just exposed myself to a voyeur? I knew from walking the campo at night that it was possible to see into my bedroom window. Roberto pointed it out to me one evening and told me to keep my curtains closed, because anyone could be watching.

Once I was charmed by his desire to protect me, but now his words chilled me. I missed the days when I only worried about passing my confectionary exam or saving enough money to take a summer trip with Leo to Spain. I needed to calm myself. I slowly breathed in and out.

I was home. I was safe. And I hadn’t turned on a light. Actually, I was the voyeur. I laughed at this thought. I was the one watching a stranger in the night. I was also naked and now officially wide awake.

Lights still off, I navigated the moonlight in my bedroom and opened my painted armoire. I selected a long, dark skirt, stockings, a heavy black sweater, and boots. I pulled my wavy, black hair back into a low knot and wrapped my favorite emerald green pashmina around my shoulders. I patted the pocket of my skirt, my leather gloves at the ready.

I walked to my window and boldly pulled back the curtain. Campo Polo was empty. “Well, my stranger, perhaps another night,” I said.

Tourists flooded the streets of Venice during the day, but something magical happened at night, even during Carnival. The people vanished, especially in the winter. Cobblestones sparkled with frost, and it was quiet enough to hear the waves of the lagoon, lap up onto the shore.

This is when I liked to walk the most. When I couldn’t sleep, I would wander, dream and plan how to help my family. It was how I found my peace, and tonight was no exception.

I slipped down the hall of the palazzo, walking on my toes to make no noise. I passed Sara’s old bedroom next door to mine. As long as I could remember, my parents kept the door to her room locked.

I tip-toed down the marble staircase to the main floor. Behind me was the kitchen, my favorite room in the house. Down the hall from the kitchen were rooms for Paolo and Lissa, the only staff who still lived here.

Paolo was in his fifties and worked at the front desk of the Mia Sorella. Lissa joined the staff about ten years ago. If Sara had lived, they would have been close to the same age. Lissa worked closely with my father and essentially ran the household with my mother. She was also the closest thing to a sister I had in my life.

I opened the front door slowly to keep the hinge from squeaking and stepped into the courtyard. A freezing rain earlier in the day had washed the air. Everything smelled crisp and clean. My breath froze before me in white puffs.

Remembering my leather gloves, I slipped them on and opened the metal gate to the campo. Wrapping my arms around my body, I walked and replayed my pitch in my head. I ran through my intro, the benefits of expanding my Bella Baci line, and my financial ask of the board. The meeting was one day away.

My thoughts felt clearer at night. Walking alone was also relief. There was little chance of running into someone who had heard, or even worse, witnessed first-hand my run from San Polo Church.

The handful of Venetians who lived full-time in the city were asleep, resting before the next day’s tourists who arrived by train, by bus, and by sea.

I knew every turn, every crevice and every sinking stone on the streets of Venice as well as I knew my own face. As I walked toward San Marco Square, my body intuitively turned left and right and back around.

Tourists were known to break down in tears if unable to find their way back to open spaces. It was so easy for a stranger to feel lost in my beautiful city.

Venice, the city of canals, was built on more than one hundred interconnected islands. Giacomo Casanova, the world’s most famous lover, was born in Venice. He was jailed in Doge”s Palace for seducing noblewomen and scamming elderly statesmen. Venice was built on blood, deception, love, and sex.

Thinking of Casanova wandering the streets, seducing women and carousing with prostitutes, I turned a blind corner and crashed into someone standing in the middle of the narrow walkway.

“Scusi,” I said, as the bitter scent of espresso assaulted me. There was a clattering noise, and I looked down to see a man pick up a silver flask from the cobblestones.

“Mi dispiaci,” I said, moving to help him.

“I don’t speak Italian,” he said, his back toward me. He stood in the shadows, just out of the moonlight’s reach.

“Sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“Obviously,” he said. “Do you always walk so fucking fast?”

“I’m sorry. Do you always stand like a fucking statue in the dark?” I said, immediately triggered by his condescending tone.

He laughed, his voice deep, booming, and unapologetic. “And I was being a dick,” he said. “I just paid an outrageous amount of money from a surly barista to get a double espresso.”

“It’s one a.m.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No one sells espresso that late. Was the barista surly because you woke them up?”

“Maybe,” he said. “She was rather pissed off.”

Clearly, this rude and arrogant tourist didn’t care whom he inconvenienced.

“I would offer to replace your espresso, but I don’t know any cafe that would serve us this late, and I’m Venetian.” I crossed my arms and tried to make out his face in the dark. He seemed to be brushing off droplets of coffee from his long winter coat.

“I’m not that big of a dick,” he said. “You do not need to replace my spilled coffee, and I should apologize to you for -- what did you say again?”

“Standing like a fucking statue,” I said.

“Ah, yes,” he said, laughing again. “I apologize for standing like a fucking statue in the dark.”

The clouds parted, and he stood before me bathed in the moonlight. Seeing the face of this stranger, my breath caught. Holy shit, this man was beautiful. Annoying beautiful.

Tall and muscular, his dark hair fell across his forehead, framing his brown eyes. A shadow of stubble covered his strong jaw. He wore a light grey turtleneck under a long, camel hair, winter coat.

He gave me a warm, sexy smile. Strike that. He gave me an arrogant, sexy smile with utterly kissable lips.

He looked like a Cheshire Cat who knew his secret power was bringing women to their knees with one lick of his tongue. At the thought of his tongue licking me anywhere, my knees threatened to buckle.

“No need to apologize,” I said, hoping he couldn’t see the flush in my cheeks or sense that my sex was now dripping wet. I had wondered if my sex drive was gone after six months, and with a single glance from this arrogant stranger, I was back in gear, no question about it.

“It’s late,” he said. “Do all beautiful Venetian women roam the streets of this city alone, or is that just your thing?” His eyes moved up and down my body.

“I can’t speak for all Venetian women,” I said, failing to ignore the word “beautiful.”

“Of course not.”

“And I certainly don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“No, you do not.”

“But if you must know, I like to walk this time of night.”

“You do,” he said.

“Yes, fewer tourists,” I said.

He laughed again. “Smart. Fewer people like me. I’m from New York, the city that never sleeps.”

“Venice sleeps,” I said. “She needs her beauty rest.”

“Well, we all do. I’m just bloody awful at it.”

“You do know a double espresso at one a.m. won’t help.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised what helps me sleep,” he said, his lips curling in a wicked grin. “Drinking espresso isn’t the only activity that calms me at night.”

He took a swig from his silver flask. “Don’t worry, it’s the last of my bootleg coffee. I will apologize to the barista tomorrow with an embarrassingly large tip.”

Why did everything he said sound sexual to me? His smile smug, he looked as if he knew I was drinking him in inch by inch. My body liked everything I was seeing.

No doubt, he was the most attractive man I had ever met. At that thought, the flush in my cheeks moved down my body and took up traitorous residence between my legs.

“So, we meet in the moonlight, both searching for that elusive goddess we call sleep,” he said.

I nodded, swallowing. How was I going to keep my cool when my vagina wanted to open her doors and invite this man to come in and stay a while?

A dry spell of six months, and I was fantasizing about sex with a perfect stranger who looked at me in a way that made me fear he could read my very dirty mind.

“You don’t sound like a New Yorker,” I said. I had met enough tourists to recognize a New York accent. He sounded American, but there was a neutrality to his voice that was different.

“I grew up everywhere. Boarding schools in France, Germany, Dublin, Connecticut. I’m primarily based in New York City, but here I am, lost in Venice with you.” He paused and looked at me. “You don’t sound very Italian.”

“I grew up in Venice, but my father insisted his staff and children only speak English,” I said. “I grew up with a lot of American nannies.”

“That sounds kind of naughty,” he said.

“It wasn’t naughty.”

“Well, were they hot?” he asked.

“Ummm.” For a moment, I thought back to the steady stream of beautiful young women who had rotated through our house when I was younger until my mother fired them all. “Yes, they were hot.”

“Trust me,” Dylan said. “That’s naughty.” He leaned his head to the side as if studying me, a lock of his dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead. His stubbled jaw looked model-ready in the light.

“Well, this has been fun,” I said. Leo was going to lose his mind when I told him about this midnight encounter. He wanted me to be more spontaneous, seize the moment, carpe this, carpe that. He supported my candy business, but said if I spent every night alone in the kitchen, I would become a sugar-coated spinster.

“I’m afraid that I’m a bit of a cliche,” the man said. “I need help.”

“Why, are you looking for cream and sugar for your American coffee?” I said, deadpan.

“No cream and sugar,” he said. “I would like to walk to San Marco Square. I’ve gotten myself all turned around. I was standing here like an asshole, because this is the third or fourth time, I’ve passed this jewelry store.”

I bit my lip and resisted the urge to laugh. He was so close to the square, two turns away really. “You are lost.”

“I promise I will do no harm,” he said, raising his hands in the air. “I am not some weirdo with a coffee fetish, but I suppose that is exactly what a weirdo with a coffee fetish would say.”

“You just said ‘fetish’ twice,” I said.

“I’m not a people person,” he said. “My thoughts usually remain in my head, but I’ve run into you and here we are talking.”

“I see.” I looked into his dark eyes. Breathless, my pulse beat faster and harder than normal.

“I will walk behind you, in front of you,” he said, “whatever makes you the most comfortable.”

“Fine.” I sighed. “I happen to be going to the square myself.”

“You are?” He pointed to the sign overhead. It was for a shop called Serendipity. “Well, isn’t that serendipity.”

It was a joke, but it struck a chord deep inside me. I had believed in serendipity once upon a time myself. “I’ll show you the way.”

“You are a goddess,” he said. He cocked his head to the side and grinned. He reminded me of a wolf, a- hot-as-fuck wolf. I wondered what it would be like to feel his arrogant mouth against my lips, on my nipples, down my belly, buried between my legs.

“Follow me,” I said, clearing my throat to cover for my raging hormones. I pointed over his shoulder. “It’s that way.” He nodded and walked in lock-step beside me.

“Is it far?” he asked, glancing down at me. We turned right.

“Very,” I whispered, giving him a smile. I was enjoying this. We turned left.

“Really?” He looked annoyed. “I thought I was so close.”

“You were.” I couldn’t help but laugh as the narrow walkway opened up into San Marco Square.

We stood in the corner of the piazza, facing St. Mark’s Basilica and the bell tower. Lights illuminated the colonnades that covered the sides of the square and the entrances to high-priced cafes where tourists flocked during the day. The waters of the lagoon rose and flooded this space at least twice a year.

“Fuck, it’s beautiful,” he said, standing beside me.

The square was almost empty. Clusters of cafe tables that normally spilled out across the cobblestones were nestled behind ropes for the night.

In the center of the square, a violinist played beside his amplifier, filling the air with slow languid notes. A handful of people walked arm-in-arm, lovers and tourists who knew that the true magic of Venice sparked when the sun went down.

“I see why you like it here at night,” he said, turning in a circle, his arms wide as if he were bathing in the open air. “I could disappear here.”

“You like disappearing?” I asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?” He smiled at me, his face gorgeous in the moonlight.

“Sometimes,” I said, remembering the horrible days after the wedding when I couldn’t go anywhere without hearing whispers. I had wanted to vanish, but I hid in my bedroom and kitchen for six months instead.

“Is that why you haven’t asked my name?” I asked. “Anonymity?”

“Is that why you haven’t asked me mine?”

We faced each other and something shifted in the air between us. It was as if an invisible string now connected us, and if one of us strummed it, we would both feel the vibration.

“I understand wanting to stay anonymous,” I said, not breaking eye contact.

“As do I. I suppose we could do first names. I’m James,” he said and held out his hand.

“Ciao, James,” I said. “I’m Isabella. Bella, for short.”

“And Bella means, beautiful. How fitting.”

“And you have mastered Italian.”

“I just like to acknowledge real beauty when I see it,” he said, unfurling his hand with dramatic flair. “Thank you, Bella, for escorting me to this gorgeous piazza.”

“My pleasure.” I did a mock curtsy.

“It’s late,” he said, “but would you consider walking with me a bit longer? Perhaps I can find another ornery barista.”

“No hope. All the cafes are closed.”

He sighed and glanced up and down the square. “You know, this never happens in New York.”

“I have an idea.” I motioned for James to follow as I walked toward Cafe Florian.

I lifted the rope and pulled one of the cafe tables out of the cluster, dragging it across the cobblestones. The cold metal bit through the leather of my gloves, but adrenaline warmed my body. What was I doing? I took a seat on one of the padded metal chairs facing the Basilica. James sat beside me.

I could not wait to tell Leo about the most gorgeous man in the world, and how I’d spontaneously walked with him and brazenly sat with him at a Cafe Florian table in the middle of the night.

“I’m not sure if you drink coffee in the daylight, but if you do, you must return here to Cafe Florian tomorrow,” I said, waving my hand at the carved wooden and glass doors behind us like a tour guide. “Established more than three hundred years ago, Cafe Florian is the oldest cafe in Venice, maybe all of Europe.”

James nodded his head appreciatively, an amused smile on his beautiful face.

“You should sit outside like this, but make sure you go inside to see the gilded painted walls. It’s beautiful. Lord Byron, Shelley, Wagner, and Proust all came here when they traveled to Venice. Can you imagine it?”

“I can,” he said, his dark eyes focused on me. “Can I assume a single cup of coffee is ridiculously expensive?”

“You assume right,” I said. “You should sit here for hours, get your money’s worth, demand buckets of ice in your water even when it’s cold outside.”

“You are officially the best Venetian tour guide I have ever met,” James said, smiling at me.

“Can I assume I am the only Venetian tour guide you have ever met?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, grinning. “You could not pay me enough money to follow one of those yellow umbrella-toting guides, or walk around with a headset. I would rather walk around like a madman after midnight and have the good fortune to run into a beautiful woman like you.” His brown eyes lingered on mine a beat longer than necessary, and the invisible string I imagined between us grew taut.

“I’m here on family business, boring as fuck. Let’s not talk about it. Do you work in the city?”

“Family business,” I said, “boring as fuck. Let’s not talk about it.”

He laughed, and I realized we had just brokered a deeper agreement. First names only and no identifying details. Adrenaline rushed through my body. “How long are you in town?” I asked, failing to sound casual.

“Perhaps not long enough,” he said, and he licked his lips.

“You need a good tour guide,” I said, my voice husky.

“I would love one.” His voice was low, his tone playful, but focused. “Do you know anyone who is free to guide me through these confusing streets?”

“I may know someone,” I said, playing along.

“There is just one problem,” he said, pretending to wince. “I don’t like people that much. I can be a bit of an asshole and I need someone who can do tours at night.”

“At night,” I repeated, my mouth dry.

“Yes,” he said. “I have this problem. I can’t sleep.”

“I know that feeling,” I whispered. I imagined his hands running over my bare skin. When we kissed, would he push his tongue into my mouth? What would it feel like to spread my legs and feel his hard body sliding inside of me?

How many ways could this man make me come? Would he be a gentle lover, I wondered? What was happening to me? Was I really playing with the idea of having sex with a total stranger? Well, he wasn’t a stranger any longer, I told myself. His name was James.

He leaned across the table, moving closer. I smelled his cologne, a mix of woods and spice, or maybe it was just the scent of him. It was intoxicating.

In the golden light of the square, the threads of his cashmere sweater looked soft and luxurious. Everything about this man looked expensive. I wanted to know what his body looked and felt like underneath all those clothes.

His fingertips slid across the table, moving closer to my hand. Just the proximity of his body sparked a flame deep inside me.

“Perhaps tonight doesn’t have to end here,” he said.

I took a breath before speaking. “Perhaps, it doesn’t.”

He looked at me like a man who knew what he wanted. He looked at me like a man who knew his power. “You are beautiful, Bella. I wonder what your dark hair would look like unfurled across my pillow.”

My breath quickened. “I’ll bet you do.”

“I also can’t stop wondering about your gorgeous curves.”

“These curves,” I said, pointing to my breasts, “or these curves,” I pointed to my hips, “or are you wondering about the whole package.”

“The whole package.”

Holy Fuck. Every word this man spoke was seductive. This man was strong. He would take what he wanted, and I had no doubt that he would make me moan. Oh, my God, I wanted him. Here was a man without complication. A man who made me feel like he could bring me to climax with just a touch of his hand.

“James, there is something I should tell you about Venice,” I whispered, inspired, “but if I share this secret with you, you must promise not to tell a soul.”

“I always keep my promises,” he said.

“There is magic in Venice,” I continued to whisper, knowing my voice was filled with desire. “People mistake the magic of Venice for love.”

“Is that right?”

I nodded. “The true magic of Venice is sex.” Who the hell was I and where was my broken-hearted, insecure self?

“Sex is magic.” James smiled. “You are not only beautiful, you are clever. I like that, clever Bella.”

I liked it too. “Venice offers pleasure to those who are willing to take it. Pleasure that can last minutes, hours, all night. The magic of sex will bring you to your knees.”

“For one night,” he said. “Sex that will bring me to my knees.”

“Yes,” I said. “Right now, for example, I feel the magic. Do you?”

“I do.”

“Would you like to embrace the magic of sex for one night of pleasure in Venice?”

“With you?”

“Uh, huh.” I nodded, words were too much right now. I needed to calm the beating of my heart.

“Yes, I would very much,” he said, his voice low. I liked the way he looked at me. I liked the way he wanted me. I knew exactly where I hoped this night would end, but I wasn’t done playing.

“Now, if you want to experience sex in Venice for just a night, you have to close your eyes in the moonlight and hold the hand of your prospective beloved.” I gazed across the cafe table at this beautiful man.

“And how long does this spell last?” he said, leaning toward me.

“Just one night.” The need pulsing between my legs grew stronger. I wanted to lean into this feeling, to feel the power and the heat of his body moving through me. My breasts tingled. My hands ached to touch his bare skin.

This is what I needed, not a walk, not a late-night brainstorming session re-hashing my business plan. I needed a night of passion with a beautiful stranger named James.

“How could I possibly say ‘no’ to sex with you for one night?” He reached across the table, his fingers dancing across my wrist, his touch electric, impossibly alive.

“We agree then,” I whispered. “Sex is the magic. The spell lasts one night, as long as we agree.”

“I agree,” he said. “One night?”

“One night.”

If this beautiful man was sent to me by the moon, I would bathe in his desire. I would allow his body to move into me, move with me, shape me, shake me, heal my wounded heart. I wanted him. I wanted this. I wanted magic.

I pointed to the sky. The clouds had passed in front of the moon. I waved to the moon as if I had the power to shape the sky, and the clouds shifted. I knew it was coincidence, but in that moment, I held my power. I believed I could control the weather.

I would take this stranger, make love to him for one night, and no one would ever need to know but us. I was a thousand miles away from the stress of my real life and I loved it. James would belong to me and only me, and I would be his clever Bella.

Moonlight flooded the piazza. Lovers who had passed earlier looked at the sky, eyes filled with wonder. They stopped and kissed. The painter put down his brush and looked up, removing his hat as if he needed to pay his respects to mother moon. The violinist paused for a moment to look at the moon before continuing his song. Soulful, beautiful music filled the piazza.

I laughed. My eyes had filled with tears. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I stood up and held out my hand to James, the American, who had been everywhere in the world it seemed, but Venice.

James took my hand. His fingers were long, his grip strong and firm. He pulled me close with a sudden move that took my breath away. “Good God, who are you, woman?” he said, his voice low and raspy, his muscular arms strong.

“My name is Bella. I was born in this city, and tonight, I am your lover.”

He kissed me. I moaned softly. His kiss was firm, and our lips parted hungrily. He pressed his body against me. I responded, my mouth opening to his as I cuddled into him closer.

His body felt firm against my softness. I opened up, melting with our heat, and I felt his cock harden between us. The idea that this man was engorged and craving me after just one kiss made me feel beautiful and powerful in his arms. I sighed and rocked my hips against his body.

“You are magic,” he said, between kisses.

I broke away for a moment to look up at him. He was radiant in the moonlight. I had never met a man I wanted this much.

Before I could take a step, he lifted me into the air, my legs locking around him as if we had done this a thousand times. He throbbed between my legs and my release almost escaped me.

“Easy, lover,” I said, as my mouth danced across his lips. “We have all night. Where should we go?”

“Let’s go to my hotel,” he said. “I’m staying at the Mia Sorella.”