Page 51 of Casanova LLC

All of this had occurred to me on a delay. I’d spent the first fifteen minutes of the fitting giving her one-word answers, turning when she told me to turn, lifting my arms up and down as commanded, all the while trying to calm my heart, which felt as though it was about to leap out of the corset. Could she tell? Did she know where I’d just been? The effect he had on me? How close I’d been to losing all composure? Apparently not. Though if she could, she was probably used to it. She probably saw it all the time in the women who came through this palazzo. She just benignly grinned, chattered in half-understandable English and, finally, presented me to the mirror.

I initially felt a tad-bit—or more accurately a tit-bit—over-exposed in the dress, but then Alessandro reentered the room and the way he slowed at what he saw, the look on his face, gave me the confidence I needed to pull it off.

He hadn’t put on a mask yet, so I was able to see everything that crossed his face as his eyes raked over me.

Conversely, I hoped mine hid my reaction to him. Watching him move toward us, I found it hard to breathe, which I mostly attributed to the corset. But it could have also had something to do with the tight-fitting breeches, the matching waistcoat of black brocade with intricate silver threading, the white silk bastion shirt untied at the neck. The black velvet cape draped over his shoulders topped the whole look off like a dark cherry on a Dread Pirate Roberts sundae.

How were we ever going to make it through the ball?

At my feet, Paola finished taping the dress’s hem and Alessandro offered her a hand up, which she repaid with a hug.

The older costumer had obviously done this for him before. Many times before. I would bet she’d done it for Jacopo, too. She rapid-fired some Italian at Alessandro and then said to me, “It’s good, no? Just some few, eh, piccolo alterazione. He knows your curves to the centimetro.” Then she gave Alessandro a wicked smile.

He pursed his lips, jaw clenching slightly. But a second later the embarrassment was gone. “My one party trick.”

He pointed at Paola’s chest and said, in Italian, a number. Then pointed at her waist; another number. Her hips; another number. Then he brought his fingers to his lips and made a chef’s kiss. “They haven’t changed since the day I met her.” Paola swatted his arm and he pulled her into a side-hug, kissed the top of her brassy-bronze head. She tsked and scolded, tying the neck of his shirt closed.

He walked her out and I heard her say to send her love to Jacopo and Alessandro’s sì, sì, sì, and then he came back and asked if I was ready to go. He helped me into a jacket and we walked out the door and started down the stairs. I let him get a step or two below me before I said, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He turned around and looked up at me. “It’s only the most important part.” I tapped the material over my cheekbone.

“Whoops.”

He pulled the mask out of his coat pocket and lifted his hands behind his head. “No, let me.” He turned around, settled the mask over his eyes, and handed me the velvet ties. I secured them across his midnight hair. “Too tight?”

“Tighter.” I obliged.

When I was done, though, I gave into an impulse. I dropped my lips to his neck, right above the cape’s collar. He jolted like he’d been tased. He spun around, hissing out a laugh. “Jesus, warn a guy first.”

In retribution, he yanked me against his body and brought his lips to that spot on my jaw. That same spot that his fingers had feathered in Raines Law Room. The spot that made me shudder…just as he had a moment ago. He flicked his tongue against it and I full-on spasmed, and then he pulled back and looked up at me. “We’re even.” His fingers trailed down my arm, touching my skin through the slits in the blousy sleeve, took my hand, and started back down the stairs.

“For now,” I whispered back, and realized we’d reached a point of connection where I could feel his grin, even if I couldn’t see it.

We left the palazzo and walked a short distance to another grand house, Alessandro explaining the tradition of Carnival and the purpose of the masks on the walk. They were equalizers. With masks, no one knew which class you belonged to. It was an opportunity for the upper classes to slum it for a night; and the lower classes to interact with their “betters” without anyone being the wiser.

But for many, in today’s world, it was simply permission to be someone else for a night. Something I understood.

We stopped at an iron gate and Alessandro pressed an intercom button. From other buildings on nearby streets, I could hear the muted bass of party music. But from this house, nothing. No lights, either. When the intercom connected, Alessandro said a single word in Italian, and we were silently admitted to the courtyard. When we reached the front door, I still couldn’t hear any noise from within.

We didn’t knock or ring a doorbell. The door just opened. Whoever had opened it was standing behind the door, out of view. We may as well have been welcomed by a ghost.

We stepped into a soaring foyer, greeted by the smell of incense. The space was bisected: a reception-like desk on the right and a grand marble staircase on the left. A woman appeared, wearing a mask—only a mask—and took our outer coats, while a man—in the same “uniform”—handed us two champagne flutes.

I did not stare.

I did not gasp.

I did take a large gulp of champagne.

Alessandro took my hand again and led me up the staircase. As we switch-backed on the landing, he glanced at me. “You okay?”

“Yeah! Fine!” He peered at me. “I just wasn’t expecting, you know—” I gestured more sharply than intended down the stairs. “—right out of the gate. But it’s fine. Really.” As he led me up the next set of stairs, I couldn’t help but mumble, “Not sure why there’s a period costume dress code if everyone’s going to be naked, but—ooh, that’s lovely.” I pointed at the ceiling, to a chandelier that had just come into view. “Swarovski?”

“In Venice? Murano.”

“Of course. Do you think it’s original? To the house, I mean? The reproductions are exquisite, but the wiring on this one doesn’t look as integrated as those?—”

“Claire.” He stopped and turned to me. “This isn’t a house tour. We’re not in a museum. This is—” He gave me a very sweet, patient smile, and stepped closer. Brought his palm to the side of my head as he had in the traghetto and rubbed his thumb over my temple. “Try turning this off for the night.” His hand dropped to my stomach. “Try turning this on. Does it feel good? Does it feel bad? That’s it. That’s the brief tonight.”

I took a breath, appreciating his reminder, and nodded.

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