Should he follow her?

How could he not follow her after such a clear indication of interest?

Matthew waded through the dancers as politely as he could, chasing after the only thing he could recall being interested in for eighteen very long, very cold months.

When he paused under a grand arch between the two rooms, he saw her. He had the distinct impression she felt just as he did.

Though maybe she’d been flirting and it hadn’t meant anything.

He cursed under his breath. It had been far too long since he’d dated to remember the rules, which was saying something for a guy who thrived on rules. But this was Venice, not Dallas, and he could be someone else.

There were no rules.

They locked gazes across the room and he went after her.

Pregnant

by Morning

Kat Cantrell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KAT CANTRELL read her first Mills & Boon® novel in third grade and has been scribbling in notebooks since she learned to spell. What else would she write but romance? She majored in literature, officially with the intent to teach, but somehow ended up buried in middle management at Corporate America, until she became a stay-at-home mum and full-time writer.

Kat, her husband and their two boys live in north Texas. When she’s not writing about characters on the journey to happily-ever-after, she can be found at a soccer game, watching the TV show Friends or listening to ‘80s music.

Kat was a 2012 RWA Golden Heart finalist for best unpublished series contemporary manuscript.

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To my sister.

Our trip to Italy remains

one of my most cherished memories.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

Excerpt

One

Matthew Wheeler stepped into the fray of Carnevale not to eat, drink or be merry, but to become someone else.

Venice attracted people from all over the globe for its beauty, history or any number of other reasons, but he doubted any of the revelers thronging Piazza San Marco had come for the same reason he had.

Matthew adjusted the tight mask covering the upper half of his face. It was uncomfortable, but necessary. Everyone wore costumes, some clad in tuxedos and simple masks like Matthew, and many in elaborate Marie Antoinette–style dresses and feathered headpieces. Everyone also wore smiles, but that was the one thing he couldn’t summon.

“Come, my friend.” Vincenzo Mantovani, his next-door-neighbor, clapped Matthew on the shoulder. “We join the party at Caffe Florian.”

“Va bene,” Matthew replied, earning a grin from the Italian who had appointed himself Matthew’s Carnevale guide this evening. Vincenzo appointed himself to a lot of things, as long as they were fun, reckless and ill-advised, which made him the appropriate companion for a man who wanted to find all of the above but had no clue how to accomplish it.

Actually, Matthew would be happy if he could just forget about Amber for a few hours, but the ghost of his wife followed him everywhere, even to Italy, thousands of miles from her grave.

Vincenzo chattered in accented English as he and Matthew pushed through the crowd along the edges of Piazza San Marco and squeezed into Caffe Florian, where it was too loud to converse. Which suited Matthew. He had the right companion, but he wasn’t sure Vincenzo did.

Like most Venetians, the man had never met a stranger and had immediately latched onto the American living by himself in the big, lonely palazzo next door. Vincenzo’s description, not Matthew’s, though he couldn’t deny it had some truth. He’d outbid an Arab prince by the skin of his teeth to buy the palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal as a wedding gift to Amber, but they’d never made it to Italy in the eleven months after the wedding. He’d been too busy working.

Then it was too late.

Matthew sipped the cappuccino his new friend had magically produced and summoned up a shred of merriment. If he planned to think about something other than Amber, dwelling on her wasn’t going to work. She would hate him like this, would want him to move on, and he was trying. His sole goal this evening was to be someone who wasn’t grieving, someone who didn’t have the weight of responsibility and his family’s expectations on his shoulders. Someone who fit into this fantastical, hedonistic Carnevale atmosphere.

It was hard to be someone else when he’d been a Wheeler since birth.

Matthew, along with his brother, father and grandfather, comprised the foundation of Wheeler Family Partners, a multimillion-dollar commercial real estate firm that had been brokering property deals in North Texas for over a century. Matthew had firmly believed in the power of family and tradition, until he lost first his wife, then his grandfather. Grief had so paralyzed him the only solution had been to leave.

He was a runaway from life, pure and simple. He had to find a way to get back to Dallas, back to the man he’d been.

The beaches of Mexico had failed to produce an answer. Machu Picchu had just exhausted him. The names of the other places he’d been had started to blur, and he had to do something different.

A month ago, he’d ended up in Venice. Until real life felt doable again, this was where he’d be.

Near eleven o’clock, Vincenzo herded a hundred of his closest friends—and Matthew—the few blocks to his house for a masked ball. The narrow streets allowed for only a few partygoers to pass simultaneously, so by the time Matthew arrived at the tail end of the group, the palazzo next door to his was already ablaze with lights and people. In marked contrast, Matthew’s house was dark.

He turned his back on it and went up the stone steps to Vincenzo’s back entrance. The sounds of Carnevale blasted from the palazzo, drowning out the quiet lap of the canal against the water entrance at the front.

Inside, a costumed attendant took his cloak. An ornate antique table in the hall blocked Matthew’s path to the main area, an oddity with its large glass bowl in the center full of cell phones.

“It’s a phone party.”

The gravelly voice came from behind him, and he turned to find the owner.

A woman. Masked, of course, and wearing a delicate embroidered dress in pale blue and white with miles of skirts. The neckline wasn’t as low cut as almost every other female’s, but in combination with so much dress, her softly mounded breasts drew his eye. Whimsical silver butterfly wings sprouted from her back.

“Was my confusion that obvious?” he asked, his gaze firmly on her face.

She smiled. “You’re American.”

“Is that the explanation for why I don’t know what a phone party is?”

“No, that’s because you have more maturity than most of the people here.”

So she must know the guests, then. Except for Vincenzo, who had disappeared, Matthew knew no one. This little butterfly was an interesting first encounter.

Most of her face was covered, with the exception of a full mouth painted pink. Caramel-colored hair hung in loose curls around her bare shoulders. Stunning. But her voice...it was sultry and deep, with a strange ragged edge that caught him in the gut.

He’d been looking for a distraction. Perhaps he’d found one.

“Now I’m curious. Care to enlighten me?” he asked.

She shrugged with a tiny lift of her shoulders. “Women drop their phone into the bowl. Men pick one out. Voila. Instant hookup.”

His eyebrows rose. Vincenzo partied much differently than Matthew had been expecting. “I honestly have no good response.”

“So you won’t be fishing one out at the end of the evening?”

A tricky question. The old Matthew would say absolutely not. He’d never had a one-night stand in his life, never even considered it. This kind of thing had his brother, Lucas, written all over it. Lucas might have pulled out two phones and somehow convinced both women they’d been looking for a threesome all along. Well, once upon a time he would have, but in a bizarre turn of events, his brother was happily married now, with a baby on the way.

Matthew did not share his brother’s talent when it came to women. He knew how to broker a million-dollar deal for a downtown Dallas high-rise and knew how to navigate the privilege of his social circle but nothing else, especially not how to be a widower at the age of thirty-two.

When Matthew left Dallas, intent on finding a way to move on after Amber’s death, he’d had a vague notion of becoming like Lucas had been before marrying his wife, Cia. Lucas always had fun and never worried about consequences. Matthew, like his father and grandfather before him, had willingly carried the weight of duty and family and tradition on his shoulders, eagerly anticipating the day his wife would give birth to the first of a new generation of Wheelers. Only to have it all collapse.

Becoming more like Lucas was better than being Matthew, and nothing else had worked to pull him out of this dead-inside funk. And he had to pull out of it so he could go home and pick up his life again.

So what would Lucas do?

“Depends.” Matthew nodded to the bowl. “Is yours in there?”

With a throaty laugh, she shook her head. “Not my style.”

Strangely, he was relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Not mine, either. Though I might have made an exception in this one case.”

Her smile widened and she drew closer, rustling her wings. The front of her dress brushed his chest as she leaned in to whisper in her odd, smoky voice, “Me, too.”

Then she was gone.

He watched her as she swept into the main room of Vincenzo’s palazzo and was swallowed by the crush. It was intriguing to be so instantly fascinated by a woman because of her voice. Should he follow her? How could he not follow her after such a clear indication of interest?

Maybe she’d been flirting and it hadn’t meant anything. He cursed under his breath. It had been far too long since he’d dated to remember the rules. Actually, he’d never understood the rules, even then, which was saying something for a guy who thrived on rules. But this was Venice, not Dallas, and he was someone else.

There were no rules.

Matthew followed Butterfly Woman into the crowd.

Electronic music clashed with old-world costumes, but no one seemed to notice. Dancers dominated the floor space on the lower level of the palazzo. But none of the women had wings.

Along the edges of the dance floor, partygoers tried their luck at roulette and vingt-et-un, but he didn’t bother to look for his mystery woman there. Gambling was for those who knew nothing about odds, logic or common sense, and if she fell into that category, he’d rather find a different distraction.

A flash of silver caught his eye, and he glimpsed the very tips of her wings as she disappeared into another room.

“Excuse me.” Matthew waded through the dancers as politely as he could and chased after the only thing he could recall being interested in for eighteen very long, very cold months.

When he paused under a grand arch between the two rooms, he saw her. She stood at the edge of a group of people engrossed in something he couldn’t see. And he had the distinct impression she felt as alone in the crowd as he did.

* * *

Tarot junkies crowded around Madam Wong as if she held the winning lottery numbers. Evangeline La Fleur was neither a junkie nor one to buy lottery tickets, but people were always amusing. Madam Wong turned over another card and the crowd gasped and murmured. Evangeline rolled her eyes.

Her neck prickled and she sensed someone watching her.

The guy from the hall.

They locked gazes across the room, and she gave herself a half second to let the shiver go all the way down. Delicious. There’d been something about the way he talked to her, as if truly interested in what she had to say. About Vincenzo’s stupid phone party, no less.

Lately, no one was interested in what she said, unless it was to answer the question, “What are you going to do now that you can’t sing anymore?” They might as well ask what she’d do after they nailed the coffin shut.

Hall guy’s suit was well-cut, promising what lay underneath it might be worth a peek or two, his lips below the black velvet mask were strong and full and his hands looked...capable. The man trifecta.

The music faded into the background as he strode purposefully toward her without so much as glancing at what he passed. Every bit of his taut focus was on her, and it had a powerful effect, way down low in places usually reserved for men she’d known far longer.

Boldly, she watched him approach, her gaze equally as fixed on him.

Bring it, Tall, Blond and Gorgeous.

The mystery of his masked face somehow made him more attractive. That and the fact he couldn’t possibly know who she was behind her mask. This...pull was all about anonymity, and she’d have called anyone a dirty liar who said she’d like it. But she did. When was the last time she’d been within a forty-foot radius of someone who wasn’t aware of how her career had crashed and burned? Or the number of Grammys she’d won, for that matter.

For a time, she’d dwelled in the upper echelon of entertainers—so successful she didn’t require a last name. The world knew her simply as Eva.

Then she was cast aside, adrift and alone, with no voice.

“There you are,” he murmured, as if afraid to be overheard and determined to keep things between them very private. “I’d started to think you’d flown away.”

She laughed, surprising herself. Laughter didn’t come easily, not lately. “The wings only work after midnight.”

“I’d better move fast, then.” The eyes on her were beautiful, an almost colorless, crystalline blue that contrasted with the black border of the mask. “My name is—”

“No.” She touched a finger to his lips. “No names. Not yet.”

As he looked very much like he wanted to suck her fingertip into his mouth, she dropped it before she let him. This stranger was exciting, no doubt, but she had a healthy survival instinct. Vincenzo’s friends were a little on the wild side. Even for her.

Yet she’d been following Vincenzo around Europe for a couple of months and couldn’t seem to find anything better to do. She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. But what?

“Are you seeking your fortune, then?” He nodded to Madam Wong and the crowd parted.

Madam Wong shuffled her cards. “Come. Sit.”

Tall, Blond and Gorgeous pulled the brocade chair away from the draped table. Evangeline couldn’t see a way to gracefully refuse without drawing unwanted attention, so she sat, extremely aware of the capable hand resting on the back of the chair inches from her neck.

When Madam Wong shoved the deck across the table, Evangeline cut it about a third of the way down and let the fortune-teller restack the cards.

After that quack doctor butchered her vocal cords, Evangeline had spent three months searching for a cure, eventually landing on the doorstep of every Romanian gypsy, every Asian acupuncturist and every Nepalese faith healer she could find.

No one had a way to restore her damaged voice. Or her damaged soul. In short, this wasn’t her first tarot reading, and she had little hope it would be any more helpful than all the other mumbo jumbo.

The only positive from the nightmare of the past six months came from winning the lawsuit against the quack doctor, who no longer had a license to practice medicine, thanks to her.

The costumed crowd pressed closer as Madam Wong began laying out the spread. Her brow furrowed. “You have a great conflict, yes?”

Oh, however did you guess? Evangeline waited for the rest of the hokey wisdom.

The withered old woman twirled one of the many rings on her fingers as she contemplated the cards. “You have been cut deeply and lost something precious.”

The capable hand of the masked stranger brushed her hair. Evangeline sat up straighter and frowned.

Cut.

She had been, in more ways than one.

“This card...” Madam Wong tapped it. “It confuses me. Are you trying to conceive?”

“A baby?” Evangeline spit out the phrase on a heavy exhale and took another breath to calm her racing pulse. “Not even close.”

“Conception comes in many forms and is simply a beginning. It is the step after inspiration. You have been inspired. Now you must go forth and shape something from it.”

Inspiration. That was in short supply. Evangeline’s throat convulsed unexpectedly. The music in her veins had been abruptly silenced and she hadn’t been inspired to write one single note since the surgery from hell.

Madam Wong swept the cards into a pile and began shuffling. “I must do a second spread.”

Speechless and frozen, Evangeline tried to shake her head. Her eyes began to burn, a sure sign she’d start bawling uncontrollably very soon. It was the wrong time of the month for this sort of emotional roller coaster.

She needed a code word to get her out of this situation. Her manager had always given her one, so if the press asked a sensitive question, she’d say it and he’d rescue her.

Except she had no manager and no code word. She had nothing. She’d been rejected by everyone—music, the industry, fans. Her father.

“I believe you promised me a dance.”

Tall, Blond and Gorgeous clasped her hand and pulled her out of the chair in one graceful move.

“Thank you,” he said to Madam Wong, “but we’ve taken enough of your time. Good evening.”

And like that, he whirled her away from the table, away from the prying eyes.

By the time he stopped in an alcove between the main dance floor and the back room, her pulse had slowed. She blinked away the worst of the burn and stared up at her savior. “How did you know?”

He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “You were so tense, the chair was vibrating. I take it you don’t care for tarot.”

“Not especially. Thanks.” After a beat, when it became apparent he wasn’t going to ask any questions—which almost made her weep in gratitude—she made a show of scouting around for a nonexistent waiter. “I could go for a glass of champagne. You?”

The thought of alcohol almost made her nauseous, but she needed a minute alone.

“Sure. Unless you’d rather dance?”

“Not right now.”

Actually, she was thinking seriously about ditching the party and going to her room. A headache had bloomed behind her eyes. Except her room was right above the dance floor and Vincenzo’s other guests had taken the rest of the rooms.

“Be right back. Stay here.” Her stranger vanished into the crowd.

Maybe she could quietly gather her things and check into Hotel Danieli, with no one the wiser.... She groaned. As if. She had a better chance of finding solid gold bars on the street than an empty hotel room in Venice during Carnevale.

The stranger returned quickly with two champagne flutes, and she smiled brightly, clinking her rim to his in a false show of bravado. Yes, he was gorgeous and intuitive, but she wasn’t going to be good company tonight. She nursed the drink and tried to think of an exit strategy when over his shoulder, she caught sight of her worst nightmare.

It was Rory. With Sara Lear.

Of course he was with Sara Lear. Sara’s debut album full of bubblegum pop and saccharine love songs had burned up the charts and was still solidly at number one. The little upstart hadn’t worn a mask, preferring to bask in the glow of stardom. Rory was also unmasked, no doubt to make doubly sure everyone knew who was with Sara. He was nothing if not savvy about his own career and his band Reaper made few bones about their desire to headline one of the major summer concert series. Hitching his wagon to a star was an old pattern.

Evangeline had flushed his engagement ring down the toilet after he dumped her and gladly told him to go to hell when he asked for it back.

Rory and Sara strolled through the main room as if they owned it, and why wouldn’t they? Both of them had functional vocal cords and long, vital careers ahead of them. Six months ago, Evangeline would have been on Rory Cartman’s arm, blissfully in love, blissfully at the top of her career and still blind to the cruelty of a world that loved a success but shunned a has-been.

The headache slammed her again.

She knocked back the champagne in one swallow and tried to figure out how to get past Rory and Sara without being recognized. Sara, she wasn’t so worried about; they’d never officially met. But her ex-fiancé would out her in a New York minute without a single qualm. A mask only went so far with someone who knew her intimately.

She couldn’t take the questions or the pitying looks or the eyes watching her navigate a very public meeting with the guy who’d shattered her heart and the woman who’d replaced her in his bed. And on the charts.

“More champagne?” her companion asked.

Rory and his new Pop Princess girlfriend stopped a few yards from the shadowy alcove where she stood with the masked stranger. She couldn’t step out into the light and couldn’t risk standing there with no shield.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

Praying she’d read him right, she plucked the half-empty flute from her savior’s hand, set both glasses on the ledge behind her and grasped the lapels of his tux. With a yank, she hauled him into a kiss.

The moment their lips connected, the name Rory Cartman ceased to have any meaning whatsoever.

Two

Matthew had only a moment to register her intent. It wasn’t long enough. When the winged woman pressed her lips to his, his body lit up and flooded with heat. She was like a conduit to a nuclear reactor, and the shocking sensation of her warm mouth on his threatened to bring on full meltdown.

He knew precisely what Lucas would do in this situation.

Cupping her face with both palms, Matthew tilted her head to slant his mouth against hers at a deeper angle. Her lips parted on a sigh, and the hands holding his lapels tightened, drawing him closer.

Nearly groaning, he kissed this nameless butterfly until he couldn’t think, couldn’t stop, almost couldn’t stand. The shock of awareness and incendiary carnal lust picked up where his brain failed.

Shocking. And yet familiar. As if they’d done this before, exactly this way, pressed against each other in the shadows. Their lips fit, their bodies slid together with ease. He was kissing a stranger—a nameless stranger—and it should feel wrong, or at least odd.

It was so very right.

This woman was not at all his type—too glittery, too sensual, too beautiful. He couldn’t imagine introducing her to his mother or taking her to a museum opening where they’d rub shoulders with the elite of Dallas.

But he didn’t care.

For the first time since Amber died, he felt alive. His heart beat in his chest and blood flowed through his veins and a woman was kissing him. He reveled in these small clues that he hadn’t been buried alongside his wife.

After an eternity passed in a blink, she broke away and stared up at him, her breath coming in short gasps. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He hadn’t kissed a woman other than Amber in five years and as a reintroduction to the art, it was off the map. Surely she’d felt some of the same heat.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

“Yes, you absolutely should have.”

He might be out of practice, but she was still firmly in his arms, and a woman who hadn’t just had her world shaken to the foundation would have stepped away by now.

She inhaled sharply, her chest pushing against his and stroking the flame higher. “Not under false pretenses. I have to come clean. My ex is here, and that was a poor attempt to hide from him.”

“I beg to differ. As attempts go, I thought it was pretty good.”

A quavery laugh slipped out from her kiss-reddened lips and then she did step away, out of his embrace. But not too far.

“Just so you know, I don’t go around kissing random men.”

“There’s an easy way to fix that. I’d be happy to introduce myself and thus eliminate the randomness.”

“That would be awesome because I’m pretty sure I’m going to kiss you again.”

She had felt it.

The thrill swept all the way to the soles of his feet. Tonight, he was someone else, and as it seemed to be working out well so far, why screw around with it?

“Matt. My name is Matt.”

It flowed from his mouth effortlessly, though he’d never been Matt in his life. But right here, right now, he liked Matt a hell of lot. Matt wasn’t bogged down in inertia and terrified he’d never find his way out. Matt hadn’t walked away from all his responsibilities at home or lain awake at night, eaten with guilt over it. Matt hadn’t drifted around the world in search of something he suspected didn’t exist, only to land in Venice holed up in a cold, lonely palazzo.

Matt had fun and kissed costumed women at parties and maybe got to second base before the end of the night.

She smiled. “Nice to meet you, Matt. You can call me Angie.”

Angie. It was too harsh, too common for such a delicate and ethereal woman. The careful phrasing tipped him off that it wasn’t her real name, but since he’d similarly hedged, he couldn’t exactly complain.

“Which one is your ex? So we can steer clear.”

Since she’d been trying to hide, he assumed the breakup had been nasty and not Angie’s choice.

Surreptitiously, she glanced behind her, then faced him again. Her soft brown eyes bored into his, luminous with appreciation. “He’s over there, on the couch with the little blonde.”

Matthew located what had to be the couple she meant. They were locked in a torrid embrace, and the guy’s hands were down the blonde’s dress. Ouch. Not only was her ex at the same party but also not much for public decency.

“They didn’t get the memo? This is a masked ball.”

“I like you,” she said with a decisive nod.

He grinned. “I like you, too.”

“That’s good, because I intend to thoroughly use you. I hope you won’t be offended.”

Matthew’s eyebrow shot up. “That depends, I suppose, on what you plan to use me for. And I really hope it’s in the same vein as kissing me to hide from lover boy over there.”

Apparently Matt knew how to flirt, too. There was no other explanation for such blatant come-ons.

Her tongue wet her lips, and the way she did it—while eyeing his lips at the same time—clamped down hard on his lower half. “You just became my new boyfriend.”

“Excellent. I didn’t realize I’d applied, but I’m gratified to have survived the rigorous selection process.”

She laughed, and that gravelly timbre sliced through his gut anew. “Just for tonight. I can’t stand the thought of anyone feeling sorry for me because I’m here alone. Pretend we’re together, and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

Breakfast? He might be in for an evening with a little more action than he’d envisioned.

Was that what he wanted?

“I’m not the slightest bit offended. Unless I’m the backup choice. Is your real boyfriend otherwise engaged?”

“Very nicely done. But unnecessary. You don’t have to be all casual-like if you want to know whether I’m available. Just ask.”

Dang, he was out of practice. But dating had felt like such a betrayal. For so long, he couldn’t, and when he finally deemed himself ready, no one appealed to him. Even if he’d dated every one of the sophisticated, demure women in Dallas angling for an invitation to dinner, none of them had wings.

He swallowed and dived in. “Angie, are you seeing anyone?”

“Yeah, this guy named Matt.” She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, like she’d done in the hall when they first met. It was becoming something he enjoyed thoroughly. “And he’s really hot, too.”

“Really?” No one had ever referred to him as hot. At least not to his face. The notion buzzed through his heightened senses and settled in nicely. “I must know more about this guy.”

“I’d like to, as well. Vincenzo’s got a great balcony on the second floor. Grab a couple of glasses of champagne and meet me there.”

She turned and threw a saucy glance over her shoulder as she swayed in the direction of the stone staircase beyond the roulette tables.

He couldn’t comply fast enough. Lucas would definitely see what this sexy little butterfly had in mind, and Matt was pretty curious, too. This was one night where anything might happen, and for once, he was looking forward to the possibilities.

* * *

The balcony overlooked a closed-off side courtyard that had fallen into disrepair. The small space above was poorly lit and cold, but had the bonus of being Rory and Sara free.

Evangeline was confident Matt wouldn’t recognize Rory, as her new friend didn’t seem the type to listen to punk rock, but her ex-fiancé’s picture did end up next to hers with alarming frequency, even six months later. She couldn’t be too careful.

Vincenzo’s entertainment system vibrated the stone below her feet. In the distance, the revelry at San Marco drifted along the streets, wrapping the city in festive noise. Singing, instruments, the pop of what might be fireworks, all of it blended into the mystique that was Carnevale. And, for a moment, she was by herself at the world’s largest party.

She didn’t have to wait long for Matt. Her masked companion came through the unlocked French door with two champagne flutes balanced expertly in one capable hand. It was February in Venice, but the shiver that twisted her back had nothing to do with the temperature.

Thank God she hadn’t ditched him. If she had, she’d have run smack into Rory and missed the single most perfect kiss in the history of time. As stand-in boyfriends went, Matt had it going on. And he’d kissed her headache away, too.

She could find worse company to stave off the perpetual loneliness. Especially among Vincenzo’s friends.

Matt handed her a glass and clinked the rims in an echo of their first toast. “This balcony is very difficult to find. How did you know it was here?”

Without the muddle of loud music, his voice was nice—clear, with a hint of the South running through it.

“I’m staying with Vincenzo. My room is down the hall.”

“Oh? How do you know Vincenzo, Angie?”

Only her mother called her Angie, so it had seemed safe enough to use the name, though she regretted the necessity. Matt was a genuinely nice human being, someone she’d probably never have connected with under normal circumstances.

“Friend of a friend. You?”

As he was well-spoken and had far more class than Vincenzo’s typical wealthy, spoiled buddies, she’d pegged him as a casual acquaintance.

“I’m staying next door.”

Well, that made sense. Here on business and renting for the duration, most likely.

“Will you be in Venice long?”

Below the mask, his mouth turned down. “I’m not sure.”

As she knew exactly the tone one used to say back off, she didn’t press him, though now she was curious what his business in Venice might be. Shipping, maybe. She’d never dated a businessman and rarely interacted with people in that realm unless it involved contracts.

Whatever his livelihood, it was to remain a secret for the time being, and since she had secrets of her own, that was fine. She tossed back some champagne, let the bubbles fizz across her tongue and contemplated this very intriguing stand-in boyfriend.

Of course, if they stayed on this balcony, she didn’t really need a companion, coerced or otherwise, as a shield from questions and ex-fiancés. So maybe she needed him for something else entirely.

She was alone in the most romantic city in the world, and Matt represented a golden opportunity to change that for one magical evening, then leave before he realized who she was. Loneliness went hand in hand with the fresh scars of rejection that kept reminding her not to let anyone get too close.

But an anonymous encounter—that was a horse of a different color. If he didn’t know who she was, he couldn’t reject her.

The direction of her thoughts heated her up fast despite the chill in the air. But who could blame her for going there when the man’s mouth made her blood boil?

There was this strange awareness between them, which she’d felt the moment he’d turned to face her in the foyer. It was almost a recognition, as if she’d seen him many times, but had never quite caught up with him to start a conversation.

Yet he’d never removed his mask. She knew he had a chiseled jaw to match his well-defined mouth and a solid chest under his lapels, but that was it. The rest of his face remained hidden, like his body, his hopes, his disappointments...the mystery of it whet her appetite for more.

“Ever been on a speed date?” she asked him.

He took a sip of champagne and shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”

She doubted he’d ever have a need to resort to such a thing. Dating as a whole never worked for her. Men usually fell into three categories: starstruck, unavailable or opportunist.

Rory was firmly in the last category. His rejection had been crushing, especially after losing her voice. She’d thought of all people, he’d understand and would sympathize. That he’d be there for her during the worst crisis of her life. Instead, he couldn’t dump her fast enough. On the bright side, he’d cured her of any desire to have a man in her life permanently.

Which made her masked friend exactly what the doctor ordered.

“I haven’t either, but I always wanted to. It seems like fun.”

“I’m always up for fun. What does it entail?”

She loved the way he talked, like it never occurred to him that normal people’s vocabulary didn’t usually include words like entail. And like it never occurred to him that she hadn’t gone to college. He treated her as if she possessed intelligence. That was potent.

“Well, to the best of my knowledge, there’s a time limit. We have to get to know each other as quickly as possible before the bell rings. It’s designed so you can figure out if you’re compatible in a short period of time.”

He cocked his head, lips pursed. “I already know I like you. Why do we need to have a speed date to figure that out?”

She shook her head, gaze glued to his. A part of her wanted to take this instant attraction to its natural conclusion as fast as possible. But no smart girl jumped into the pool without at least some clue how deep it was.

“Consider it part of the application process. There’s a spark here, and I’m curious to see what happens if we fan it.”

His irises flared. “Just so I’m clear, how does the time limit factor in?”

“Ask as many questions as you want, as fast as you can, and when the timer on my phone goes off, you’re going to kiss me.”

His palm cupped her face, tilting it up to almost meet his. “What if we skip the timer and I kiss you right now?”

“That’s no fun.” She firmly removed his hand from her chin, only to lose it to her hair as he threaded his fingers through the loose curls not caught up in her feather headpiece.

His warm thumb rested in the hollow behind her ear, brushing it lightly. “Clearly you need a refresher on how good my lips feel on yours.”

The shiver went deeper this time, and a nice little hum zipped along her skin, tightening all her erogenous zones into an ache she’d not experienced in a long time. Apparently the speed date was unnecessary to fan the spark.

“Where’s your sense of adventure? Five minutes.”

She pulled her phone from the clutch tied to a string at her waist and tapped up the timer. She set it on the stone ledge behind Matt, then locked onto the ice-blue of his eyes. Anticipation was one of her favorite parts, and she’d happily drag it out as long as she could.

“I’ll go first,” he said. “How many times have you seduced a man on a balcony?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. Was that what she was doing? “Never. I’m making all sorts of exceptions for you.”

“How many times have you seduced a man period?”

“Once or twice. I’m not one to apologize for having a healthy sex drive. Should I?”

“Not to me. Maybe to all the other men down there who are missing out. Your turn.”

“I’m naked. What do you do first?”

“Fall down on my knees and weep with joy. Did you really mean to ask what I’d do second?”

Oh, yeah, she really did like Matt. There was something to be said for a guy who could make her laugh with such regularity. “That is what I meant, and before you get all smart-alecky with me, go ahead and hit me with third, fourth and fifth.”

“Did I buy you dinner first?”

“Who cares? I’m naked or did you forget?”

“Oh, no, my gorgeous little butterfly, I did not forget. I asked because I’m trying to get a solid picture in my head of the scene.”

His hand pressed on her nape, oh-so-slightly, and her head fell back. His lips grazed the corner of her mouth, not quite touching, but close enough to send a frisson of sparkling heat all the way down to her core.

Well, she hadn’t intended for this speed date to descend into foreplay, but okay. It was sizzling. And personal information, like their secret professions, or lack thereof in her case, wasn’t likely to come up.

“Are you naked on a bed after I’ve undressed you?” he murmured against her jaw, breath fanning the uncovered part her of face and making her ache to turn into those lips to complete the connection. “Or naked in the shower and have no idea I’m about to join you? Naked, but asleep and I’m going to awaken you slowly?”

Her lungs hitched. “Cheater. You’ve played this game before.”

She felt his mouth turn up against her cheek. “Let’s assume I’m a quick study. Your answer? I believe that was three questions.”

“It was?”

Who was seducing whom here? And how far did she want this to go? Never had she contemplated such a dangerous liaison with a mysterious man she’d only just met but who touched her on so many levels.

“Bed, shower or asleep? I must know in order to tell you what I plan to do. Or perhaps you’d prefer I show you?”

Yes, yes she would. Except she couldn’t speak, as he slid an arm around her waist, drawing her taut against his warm body. She clutched his shoulders and they were amazing and strong underneath his jacket. “There’s no shower on this balcony.”

“So true,” he murmured. “The alarm’s going off.”

It wasn’t. She didn’t care.

He covered her mouth with his and turned her into liquid mercury for the second time. The man was a master, hot and forceful, and her lips fell open under the divine pressure. He plunged in, tongue skimming against hers, deliciously rough and tasting of champagne.

She moaned and changed the angle, inviting him deeper, urging him forward with small tugs of her hands against his shoulders. More, she needed more, needed to quench the thirst raging in her veins with this extremely arousing man.

Judging by the full-fledged blaze between them, he felt the same. About her, not Eva. How great was that, to be with a man who hadn’t already made a bunch of snap judgments?

“Touch me,” she commanded hoarsely, her damaged voice even more raw with desire.

Almost hesitantly, he palmed her breast through the thick bodice of the dress, and she nearly growled in frustration. Forget that. She reached down and gathered up the hem of the ridiculously full skirt and tucked it under the sash at her waist. She guided his hand through the opening, straight to her bottom.

It was his turn to groan as he flattened his palm against her bare cheek. “A thong? That is unbelievably sexy.”

“Not nearly as sexy as your hand on it while I’m still fully dressed.” He explored the uncovered flesh and traced the strings into her crevice and back out again. Her knees almost buckled. “Don’t stop. Keep going.”

He took her mouth again, ravenous and greedy, as his fingers nudged underneath the silk. Just far enough to steal her breath for a long second. Blatantly, she circled her pelvis, silently begging him to go deeper.

Whether she’d planned to go this far or not, her body wasn’t holding back. She was about to come apart under his capable hands.

Instead, he withdrew entirely and blew out a heavy breath, smoothing her skirts down with a confusing finality. “Angie, I have to confess something.”

“You’re married.” Disappointment swamped her so quick and so fast she nearly convulsed. The ache, which had moments ago been a vortex of desire, cooled. She should have known.

“No.” He shook his head in vehement denial. “I’m completely unattached. It’s just...I don’t...”

“You’re not attracted to me.” But his impressive length had ground hard against her, evident even through the monstrosity of fabric at her waist.

He swallowed hard. “How could you possibly think that? I’ve never been so turned on in my life. There’s this one small problem. I’ve never seduced a woman on a balcony, so I’m ah...unprepared.”

Oh. “You don’t have a condom.”

The giggle slipped out before she could stop it. He was just so flustered and so cute, running a hand over his dark blond hair with evident frustration. It caught her quite unexpectedly in a soft, warm place inside. Talk about being unprepared.

Was he ever going to stop being so unexpected and amazing? God, she hoped not.

Three

“I’m glad you find my lack of preparation amusing.” Matthew certainly didn’t. He’d never been so mad at himself and so happy she wasn’t angry, all at the same time.

And he had never been in quite so much physical pain. Yes, the women in his social circle were sophisticated and demure, rightly so, but lukewarm in their approach to everything.

He never realized how truly hot it could be with someone so uninhibited.

“It’s not funny. Trust me, it’s not.” She pulled him down by the lapels and kissed him sweetly. “That’s for not having a condom.”

“What?”

She shrugged with a delicate one-shoulder move. “I’ve been around my share of dogs. It’s nice to find someone who isn’t always thinking with what’s in his pants. Besides, this isn’t the dark ages. You can easily be mad at me for not having one.”

“I take it that means you don’t.”

She shook her head. “And I can’t do birth control. Everything gives me headaches. But we’re in luck because it’s Carnevale. I bet we can score a boxful of very festive condoms from Vincenzo’s room.”

So now Matt had been reduced to stealing condoms. Brilliant. Condoms were not first and foremost on his mind, yet he’d gladly jumped into her wicked game without hesitation.

What was he doing on this balcony?

“Maybe it’s a sign.”

“A sign? Like what, we’re not supposed to hook up tonight?”

Hook up. Matthew Wheeler did not hook up. He’d been happily married to the perfect woman and would still be if an aneurism hadn’t killed her. Commitment made him tick.

Angie might discount the idea of signs, but he couldn’t. This wasn’t meant to happen and probably for a very good reason. Did he really want a one-night stand with some woman he’d met at a party? It just wasn’t his style.

The empty palazzo next door called his name, offering a place to retreat and lick his wounds. Where he would go to bed alone, dream about Amber and wake in a cold sweat. If he slept. Sometimes he lay awake, racked with remorse over leaving his family in the lurch.

That was his real life. This interlude with a winged woman at a masked ball was nothing but a fantasy born of desperation and loneliness. It wasn’t fair to use Angie to appease either.

But God Almighty, it was difficult to walk away from her. When she’d been in his arms, pliant and sizzling, he heard the distinct sound of his soul waking up.

Angie’s kiss-stung lips and luminous brown eyes nearly did him in. She’d asked him to be her fake boyfriend at this party, a role he’d stepped into with ease and enthusiasm, but without really considering what enormous pain must have driven her to ask.

He couldn’t abandon her.

Matthew might not hook up, but neither did he have to listen to Matt, who despite Angie’s belief, was very much thinking with the bulge in his pants. He needed to cool down and evaluate his goal here before he got carried away by the fantasy.

So he’d split the difference.

“Let’s dance.”

Wary surprise wrinkled her mouth. “At the party?”

“Sure. Why not? You haven’t had a chance to throw your new boyfriend in lover boy’s face yet.” Neither of them had done much spelling-it-out and some clarity might be in order. “And I’d like to take a step back. Make sure we’re both headed in the same direction.”

“I hear you. The balcony is cold and I do like to dance,” she mused. “How about this? I’ll dart into Vincenzo’s room and stuff my clutch with as many condoms as it’ll hold. We’ll dance. If you move to music like you do on a speed date, we’ll be headed in the same direction all right—back upstairs and into my bed.”

His pants grew tighter. Exactly how many times did she envision having sex? He shook his head to clear the erotic images she’d sprung loose in his brain. It didn’t work.

“I’ll consider myself warned.”

She smiled and it was a whole lot wicked.

Matthew took her hand and led her toward what promised to be a provocative round of dancing. At least in a room full of people, the temptation to dive under Angie’s skirt would be lessened.

If he did that again, he’d like to be much more clearheaded about it.

Unbelievably, more people had gathered in the rooms downstairs, filling the dance floor to overflowing. Couples swayed and dipped to the slow song. Matthew drew Angie into the sea of dancers, carefully navigating to protect her wings. He hadn’t danced in a long time but the ballroom classes he’d let Amber drag him to came back in a rush.

He positioned his arms and prepared to try some semblance of a modified waltz, or at least do the best he could in such a crowd. Angie melted against him, undulating her hips against his in a hypnotic, sensual rhythm. A hot lick of need coursed through his gut. She hadn’t attended the same classes. Obviously.

He held her close, mimicking her moves. All he could think about was the scrap of silk underneath her skirt. And the foil packets rounding the sides of her clutch. He wasn’t doing a very good job of splitting the difference.

Angie’s ear was right by his mouth, and he had the most insane urge to nibble on it. Instead, he cleared his throat to ease the knot of sexual tension that had stiffened everything in his body.

“What if we continue our speed date but take it down a notch?”

She repositioned her head so it was lying in the hollow of his shoulder. The feathers anchored in her hair brushed across his neck. “I’m listening.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“That’s more like forty-seven notches. I don’t have a favorite color. I like the rainbow.” Someone bumped into her, shoving them closer together, not that he minded. “What’s yours?”

The smell of her hair weakened his knees. Outside, it hadn’t been so noticeable, but in the close, heated confines of the room, the exotic scent curled through his nose. Even her shampoo was unearthly, as if he needed another reminder they came from different worlds.

“Black. It goes with everything.”

“How practical. I like that in a man. Where were you born?”

“Dallas. And please don’t ask me if I’ve met J. R. Ewing. I’ve never been to Southfork, and I don’t watch the TV show.” That was one constant about Europe. Everyone knew Dallas from either reruns of the old drama or the reboot version on cable. “What about you?”

“Toronto. My mom moved to Detroit when I was a baby and became a U.S. citizen. That’s where I grew up.”

So maybe their worlds weren’t as far apart as he’d assumed. “You’re American?”

The silence stretched long enough for Matthew to wonder if he’d said something to offend her. But she had to know her ragged voice didn’t carry a discernible accent and was unusual enough to warrant such a question.

“I’m nothing and everything,” she said with a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “Usually I tell people I’m French Canadian. But I haven’t been to Toronto in years. Or Detroit for that matter.”

“Is your mom still in Detroit?”

“She lives in Minneapolis, for now, working on her fourth marriage. I have fam—other people in Detroit.”

Other people? He didn’t ask. The undercurrent of pain in her voice had been strong, and if she’d wanted him to know, she’d have said.

“Your home is in Europe then?”

“Or wherever the wind takes me.” She injected a note of levity, but he wasn’t fooled. Nowhere felt like home and it bothered her. “Do you still live in Dallas?”

“No.” Lack of a home was something they shared. He’d sold his house, his car, everything. The only possessions he had to his name were the clothes in the closet at the palazzo and a few childhood mementos stored in his parents’ extra bedroom. “I’m going where the wind takes me, too.”

At least until he found the way home.

She stopped dancing and collided with the next couple, earning a dirty look from them. Impatiently, she pushed Matthew off the dance floor toward the side wall and peered up through her mask, eyes liquid with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For whatever happened.”

She didn’t question him,, though she could obviously read between the lines as well as he could.

A wave of understanding rippled between them. Both of them were searching. Both of them carried secrets full of pain and misery and loneliness.

They weren’t different at all.

She whispered, “I’m glad the wind blew us to the same place.”

All pretense of speed dating evaporated. Something much more significant was happening.

“Me, too.”

Amber’s death had broken his heart, nearly broken him entirely, and he couldn’t fathom feeling that strongly about anyone else. For months and months, he’d despaired of ever feeling anything again, and like a foghorn echoing through the mist of his grief, this gravelly-voiced fantasy had appeared.

She was a gift, one he wasn’t ready to give back.

No, he didn’t want a one-night stand with some random woman, but he couldn’t resist exploring what two damaged souls might become to each other.

With his brain firmly in command, he drew her hand into his and smiled.

“Instead of directions upstairs, I have a better idea. Come home with me.”

* * *

Home. Evangeline liked the sound of it. She’d never had a home.

She’d had new stepfathers every few years. A half sister, Lisa, whom their father had obviously preferred since he’d married Lisa’s mother. Plenty of hotel rooms and airplanes—all of that, she’d had.

She wished she could indulge in something so simple, so achingly honest as home. But imagine if she took off her mask and Matt turned out to be a reporter. Or worse.

At Vincenzo’s, masks were part of the ambience, the anonymity. Masks kept things surface level. Masks kept a man at arm’s length and promised nothing more than one night, a brief, sizzling interruption of loneliness. Masks prevented rejection. And scars. She’d had enough of both, thanks.

And there was no doubt Matt had a couple of his own scars.

With a light laugh, she blinked at him coquettishly. “What are you proposing?”

“A continuation. No exes. No crowds. No rules. Just me and you and whatever feels right.”

Oh. That might be okay. “What if I wanted to keep our masks on? What would you say?”

“No rules. For anything.”

Her insides shuddered deliciously. “That’s a little open-ended. How do I know you aren’t into some very naughty things?”

“You don’t. We’re both taking a leap of faith.”

The wicked gleam in his eye didn’t reassure her, but it certainly piqued her interest. “I might be into naughty things.”

“I’m counting on it.” He tugged her hand as the music switched to another electronic number. The crowd went crazy, pressing in on them from all sides. “Come on.”

To her left, she glimpsed Sara Lear posing for a picture with two men in drag. Rory was nowhere in sight, but he might pop up again at any moment. That decided it. The last thing she wanted was to be at this party alone, constantly reminded of how she wasn’t Sara.

Matt was clearly lonely, too. She’d head in his direction and see where it led.

“Let’s go. Right now.”

He kept her hand in his and led her out of Vincenzo’s palazzo via a side entrance. They crossed a moonlit courtyard and climbed an ornate outer staircase to the second floor. Matt held the door for her to enter ahead of him. Lights flashed.

“Welcome to Palazzo D’Inverno,” he said.

Evangeline’s breath stalled in her throat. Relief frescos lined the walls and extended to the ceiling, where the colors exploded into Renaissance-style art of unparalleled beauty. Modern terrazzo floors studded with chips of marble and granite spread underneath her feet and met three sets of glassed French-doors leading to what appeared to be a marble balcony overlooking the Grand Canal.

Three long leather sofas in sea-foam green formed a U in the center of the living room, and all three afforded an amazing view of Venice, lit for Carnevale with breathtaking splendor.

“This is unbelievable.” There were no other words. Vincenzo’s palazzo had been in his family since the time of the Medici but it couldn’t hold a candle to this one. “I had no idea anything like this still existed in Venice.”

Matt’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile. “Keeps the rain out.”

“Whoever owns this place hit the jackpot. You’re lucky they agreed to rent it out. It’s amazing.”

He shot her a quizzical look. “I’ll be sure to pass on the compliment.”

“Do you have all three floors, or just the piano nobile?”

“Top two. The bottom floor isn’t restored. The bedrooms are upstairs. Would you like to see them?”

“Was that a line?” She grinned at his chagrined expression. He was endearing in a way that shouldn’t be possible in conjunction with his forceful, compelling personality. “If so, I must say it worked extraordinarily well. I not only want to see the rest of the house, purely for aesthetic reasons of course, but I want to get out of this dress in the worst way.”

She took a step toward the twisting staircase, but he tugged her back and pierced her with his beautiful crystalline eyes, capturing her gaze with his and refusing to let her go.

“Angie, I didn’t invite you here solely to get you naked. When I said no rules, I meant no expectations. If nothing happens, that’s all right. I don’t mind if we talk until dawn. Whatever feels right. Remember that.”

“Matt—” The rest froze in her throat.

He was nothing like the people in her world. He carried a hint of vulnerability, a depth that pulled at her. And his restraint—that she couldn’t fathom. All the men she knew took what they wanted, when they wanted it.

Not this one. He was very clearly telling her she still had choices, regardless of how brazenly she’d thrown herself at him all night. He didn’t just see her as an outlet to slake his thirst but as a valued companion. That was powerful. And seductive.

She whispered his name again. “I don’t mind if we talk, either.”

She never talked. Talking sucked, especially when the sound of her own voice made her cringe. But they both deserved to have choices.

“Is that what you want?”

She craved the attention of this man, who seemed to understand exactly what she needed, when she needed it. To understand the weight of loss and the pain of being adrift, desperate for an anchor.

Something momentous swelled in her chest. “I just want to be with you.”

“You’ve got me. For however long you’d like. I’m not going anywhere.” As if to prove it, he lowered the lights, creating a romantic ambience instantly. He sat on the couch and spread his hands. “Think of me as a smorgasbord.”

She laughed, and it blew away all the thick implications of the moment.

“Now that’s something I’ve never had before. By the way, I wasn’t kidding about getting out of this dress. I can hardly breathe, and it’s heavy.”

“Would you like a T-shirt?”

“Um, not really. What I’d really like is your help.” She stepped out of her heels, crossed the room and sat on the couch facing away from him. “The laces in the back are too hard to reach.”

“What would you have done if we hadn’t connected? Slept in it?”

Connected. That hit her in all the soft, warm places again. This was a connection, a greater one than she’d been looking for, or had expected, and far more precious—thanks to the custom of wearing masks for Carnevale. She’d never have let her guard down otherwise.

“I would have figured out something,” she murmured as he gently lifted her curls and swept them up over her shoulder. Her skin prickled as she felt his gaze on the bare expanse from her hairline to the strapless bodice.

His hands skimmed down her back on either side of the wings, stoking the fire he’d built on the balcony, which hadn’t extinguished at all. Those strong fingers pulled on the threads, unknotting them and drawing them through the grommets with deliberate, aching leisure.

She kept expecting to feel his lips on her shoulder, on the column of her neck, or at the place where fabric met her skin. But the longer he held back, and the longer her skin burned for his touch, the crazier it drove her.

Yes, he was a master at this anticipation game. Among other things. When she finally got him naked and under her, she’d show him a thing or two.

Except she still wasn’t sure they were headed for the bedroom. It was disorienting to have her temporary, surface-level liaison morph into something undefinable. Something so much more than a quick fix for loneliness.

So what was it?

Finally, after an eternity, the laces pulled free from the bodice, loosening the corset and spilling her breasts partially over the neckline of the dress, and he still hadn’t made a move.

“It, uh, has to come over my head,” she said without turning around. She raised her arms. “Can you...?”

He grasped the bodice but she was sitting on the skirt, so she wiggled and he pulled, until the yards and yards of lace tulle eased past her waist. The mask popped up onto her forehead, but she repositioned it before the skirt fully came off.

Then she was naked except for her thong. And the mask. What would he do first? The way he’d answered that question back on the balcony had been maddeningly vague.

He draped her dress over the back of the couch. She faced the canal, away from Matt, and he had yet to say a word. Screaming sexual tension whipped through all her nerves until she thought she’d pass out.

“So. What did you want to talk about?”

His soft laugh settled inside her. “I’m wondering about this.”

He traced the trail of eight notes tattooed in a string at the small of her back. The smooth touch unleashed a tremor she couldn’t control. “It’s a tattoo.”

“The notes are all the colors of the rainbow. I like it.”

No one had ever noticed that before. “Music is important to me.”

It was more than she’d meant to say and communicated none of the shock of pure grief the words had unearthed. She shoved the grief back, like she always did, shoved back the longing for a voice to express the pain. If she had a voice, she’d have no pain to express. It was a cruel, vicious circle she couldn’t escape.

Except this was one night she didn’t have to face the darkness alone. “Matt.”

“Angie.”

The smile in his voice warmed her. “Just making sure you’re still there. Are we going to talk some more or is there something you’d like to do instead?”

“Was that a line?”

“Yes. It was.” The ache at her core spread, and only the man behind her could ease it. She’d never wanted to be with someone more. What did she have to do to get him to make a move? “Obviously not a good one since you’re still sitting there like yo—”

“Stand up and turn around, Angie.”

She did slowly.

His hooded gaze swept her from head to toe, lingering along the way and unleashing a delicious tingle in all the places his eyes touched.

“You are the most beautiful woman alive. Come here.”

He grasped both her hands and stood to meet her. In one breath, he drew her into his arms and kissed her.

Flames exploded at their joined mouths, between their bodies, crackling down the length of her bare skin where the soft fabric of his suit brushed it. Oh, how wrong she’d been. He was a man who took what he wanted. And he wanted to consume her whole.

She wanted to let him.

They connected. On every level.

When he tilted her head back to access her throat with his firm, gorgeous mouth, their masks caught at the corners. Patiently, he disentangled them and glanced down into her eyes, suddenly still. “No expectations. Does this feel right?”

Without warning, he skated a hand down her spine and fanned it at the small of her back, cradling the tattooed music notes in his capable hand as if he knew he held her very center.

Her eyelids fell closed and she moaned. “More right than anything I’ve ever felt. Please don’t say you’re really in the mood to talk.”

He laughed against her throat, and she felt the caress of his lips clear to her toes. “I’m not. But I would be happy to talk, if that’s what you wanted.”

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, terrified she’d dislodge his mouth from her skin. “I want you.”

“Good. Because I’m about to make love to you.”

Yes, she wanted that, too. To be filled by this very different man, to the brim. To connect, bodies and minds. Souls.

He threaded a hand through the hair at her neck, his fingers solid and firm against it. “Angie,” he murmured, almost reverently.

“Stop.” Tears stung the corners of her eyes. Baffling, irrepressible tears because she wanted something else from him, something she’d resisted all evening. “Just stop.”

“Okay.” His hands withdrew and the sudden lack of support buckled her knees.

“No! Don’t stop touching me. Stop calling me Angie.” Before her subconscious could come up with one of the hundreds of reasons it was a dangerous idea, she reached up and yanked off her mask. “My name is Evangeline. Make love to me, not the mask.”

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