Page 9 of His Two Hidden Masks

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.

---