Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118245 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Gone was the thick, cloying, rose-scented perfume I remembered. It was replaced with something fresh and clean, with hints of grass and verbena.
Then there was the way her dark eyes widened at the sight of me, a soft blush blooming on her cheeks as her full lips parted on a gasp. As though I had startled a maiden in the woods.
And when I kissed her.
Fuck.
The woman had me believing I was the first man to kiss her.
Could Antonia have been manipulated, like my father's new wife Liliana, into playing a role at that dinner? Was she more innocent than the rumors suggested?
I had almost believed that… then she'd moaned into my kiss.
It was a soft, throaty moan.
If I were a gullible man, I'd think she wasn't even aware she was doing it.
I wasn't fooled. Quite the opposite.
I realized this was why other men were drawn to her.
One of the oldest honey traps.
The ultimate femme fatale… the virgin whore.
Most men had a hard time resisting an innocent damsel in distress.
Myself included.
I'd have to be careful around her.
She obviously enjoyed using her body and her skills to convince any man she was with into believing they were the only one. And I had almost fallen for the wide-eyed, sexually shocked look, and the way her pulse elevated when I tightened my grasp on her waist. Thank God the others were not here to see my almost-folly.
I would have to be more on my guard around her in the future, but first I had to find her. Again.
The minx escaped my grasp when we were shoved by some drunken revelers.
Before I could grab her, she had disappeared into the crowd.
I'd just caught up with her and kissed her when she slapped me and managed to wriggle free a second time.
Snatching my mask from the ground, I secured it over my face.
Time to go bride hunting.
CHAPTER 3
ANTONELLA
With shaking fingers, I yanked on the knot securing the colorful crimson-and-gold scarf around my waist.
After shaking it out, I wrapped it over my head like a kerchief, to cover my blonde hair. For the first time damning the Norman heritage in my ancestry. Usually, I couldn't help but feel thankful for my blonde hair. It was one of my few distinguishing features and reminded me of the only photo I had of my mother, who also had long, blonde hair.
Or did have…
Not now.
Carefully avoiding swinging arms clutching bottles of wine, greasy plates of street food, and groping hands, I maneuvered through the crowd of masks, capes, pantaloons, feathered hats, and trailing gowns. Vigilant to avoid any attempts to draw me into a carola as the chain of dancers was led along by a similarly attired Colombina character banging on her tamborine to the beat of the onstage pizzaca music. A stage filled with frenzied dancers and a small orchestra of strings and bass.
With the creeping darkness, Carnevale inched closer to its more pagan roots.
For the second time, my ankle rolled when my heel slipped on a smooth cobblestone. In frustration, I sent another curse up to the thigh-high, high-heeled boots my sister convinced me to wear. Between them and the tight corset I wore under my peasant blouse to avoid bra straps so I could have bare shoulders, I was hobbling and could barely breathe.
I longed for my usual black turtleneck, slacks, and ballet flats. The standard for most female cello players since it allowed ease of movement when straddling the instrument.
In order to warn Antonia, I had to escape from Matteo Cavalieri.
As I weaved my way through the increasingly drunk crowd, I seized the opportunity of Peppe Nappa's appearance.
With the entire mass of people surging toward the entrance to the piazza, the noise level swelled as the big-headed, straw-stuffed effigy came tottering into view on a makeshift parade float. The bandleader shouted into the microphone for all to hail the arrival of the King of Carnevale. He then prepared to read off Peppe Nappa’s last will and testament.
I refused to stop, shouldering my way through, even when someone spilled wine down the side of my skirt.
When I was sure I had lost Matteo, I risked a moment to pause and rise on my toes to search over the tops of everyone’s heads. It only brought my already short stature up to normal height, so I saw little.
An American tourist grabbed me around the waist and tried to lift me against his chest, slurring out licentiously, “I’ll give you a ride on my shoulders if you’ll give me a ride later.”
Urgh. Gross.
Not wanting to dwell on why this man’s embrace was repulsive while Matteo’s had made me want to melt into his arms, I pushed the offender off me with a firm knee to his groin.
Why hadn’t I thought of that with Matteo Cavalieri?
I shivered. Because the idea of angering a powerful man with that move terrified me.