Page 10 of His Two Hidden Masks

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.”

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