“Someone will shoot someone else soon enough, and they will forget,” he said confidently. “For now, Mr. Tanniger will not allow me to hire you. He agrees that you are best for the role, but he thinks it will be very bad for business.”
Mr. Tanniger, a wealthy businessman, was financing the production.
She was speechless.
“Do not look so sad, Mariana. You have still your glorious talent, and I . . . have another gift!” he said wheedlingly.
From his pocket he retrieved what appeared to be a very plump letter.
“It was sent to you at the theater, and I retrieved it. It’s from Signor Roselli in Paris.”
Signor Roselli was the director of a smaller opera company there—she’d met him. A kind and respected man. Her heart picked up a beat. Paris!
“Thank you, Giancarlo.”
“Prego. Oh, Mariana,” he sighed. “I have missed you. You turn winter into spring. It is always so dull now. No one is like you.”
It was funny. Now that she was learning Italian, she suspected that his compliments were so dramatic because he was making use of the English words he knew in the best way he knew how. He’d likely learned them the way she was learning Italian. Hot cold good bad beautiful sun moon.
“Surely you exaggerate, Giancarlo,” she said, dropping her lashes, partly because she was just a bit parched for flattery and this reliably encouraged more, and partly because Giancarlo was as gifted at creating drama as Helga was at crafting an apple tart. He could be counted on to do it the moment serenity threatened.
He startled her by stepping closer to her. “No, Mariana, cara. It is true,” he said, suddenly, startlingly ardent. “Scandal agrees with you. You glow like the moon and have roses in your cheeks . . . and your . . . lips . . . your eyes are like spring . . . your . . .”
He lowered his eyes to her bosom and dragged them up again a little too slowly. His lips tipped in a crooked, confiding little smile, and he stepped closer still and lowered his voice. “Do you recall, how the night was”—he cast a hand up as though tossing confetti—“so many, many stars, and we kiss?”
She hesitated. “I might,” she said carefully. She was not in the mood to reminisce. They’d had ratafia. He had purred things in Italian she could not understand, but they’d sounded like a lullaby, and then he had seized her impulsively in his arms. He’d unsurprisingly smelled marvelous, and her vanity and sense of competition made sure the kiss that he’d gone in for and that she could not escape had been one he wouldn’t soon forget.
But that was all she would give.
She’d gone heavily limp in his arms immediately after, which made him break his hold on her, and he’d laughed, and so had she, and escaped.
He had not pressed her for more then.
But he did tend to put his hands on her far more than she preferred, especially if he’d had a little wine.
And right now—and probably never again—she did not want to touch or be touched by him.
She felt a sweep of crushing exhaustion. She didn’t want to play this game at all, ever again.
She wished she were in a quiet sun-washed room, watching those russet and amber lights stirring in the eyes of the duke. In a world that seemed unsafe, it suddenly seemed the safest thing, the only place she wanted to be. Although it was hardly safe, either.
“We are alone and the light is so beautiful, as are you, cara, please . . . dammi un bacio.”
Ah, hell’s teeth. Thanks to her Italian lessons, she knew what that meant, so at least she was somewhat prepared for what was about to happen.
“Oh, I don’t think so, Giancarlo. Not now. Not here.” Not ever, but since he could employ her, since he wrote music she would die to sing, she could not produce the sterner commands she’d learned.
“Oh, come now . . . we are alone. Just think how it could be . . . Voglio baciare il tuo seno . . . Voglio le tue mani su tutto il corpo . . . Dammi un bacio.”
“Giancarlo!” she said firmly. “Ti chiedo di parlarmi con rispetto. I must ask that you not speak to me that way. Not even in jest.”
She didn’t think he was jesting, but she thought she’d give him an opportunity to back away gracefully.
“We need not speak at all if we are kissing,” he explained, logically. Teasing.
“Giancarlo. I don’t want to kiss you. Please stop.” Her voice escalated in pitch.
He didn’t seem to notice that she wasn’t laughing. He laughed and snaked an arm around her. She pushed it away. She pivoted, but he was too fast, and he got the other one around her, too. She pushed at that.
And he half waltzed, half backed her toward the mantel, where she would not be able to turn around. All the while grinning as if this were merely a game of charades.
He transferred one of his hands to her hip. She twisted again, but he’d managed to plant the other hand on her hip.
And then another voice seemed to come everywhere and nowhere at once, like God, or perhaps Satan. It was low, calm, and so menacing all the fine hairs at her nape prickled erect:
“Se non le togli subito la mano dal culo, la rimuoverò con una spada.”
Giancarlo’s hand flew from her body as if it had been lopped off, and he staggered backward and whirled around.
Mariana adroitly stepped away from his reach and spun.
To find the Duke of Valkirk standing in the doorway. Pure, cold fury in his eyes.
A long silence ensued, during which invisible flames of wrath seemed to lick at Giancarlo’s ankles. Giancarlo was motionless. Unless one counted the sudden rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“Would you like me to remove him, Miss Wylde?” the duke said politely. His voice was all taut, and nearly dripped icicles. He didn’t move his gaze from Giancarlo.
“From . . . this earthly plane?” Mariana nearly stammered.
It was just . . . he looked capable.
His lips performed the slightest of taut curves. “From the premises.” He turned to Giancarlo, and added, shortly, “For a start.”
Giancarlo had gone as white as the marble-fronted fireplace. Other than this, and a certain tautness of his own features, his composure remained admirable. He raised his palms in self-deprecating surrender. “There is no need to speak of me as if I am not here. Or to . . . cut off my hand with a sword.” He lowered his hand and circled his wrist with the other hand. “I shall take my leave. Miss Wylde, I apologize if I offend”—he looked the duke full in the face, his own speculative, awed, and resentful—“or trespass. If you will please allow me to pass, I will go.”
He bowed quite beautifully—first to Mariana and then to the duke—because he was a graceful man, and second only to his instinct to flirt was his instinct for self-preservation.
Mariana held her breath while the duke’s eyes followed his swift progress from the building. No doubt he was counting Giancarlo’s pores, memorizing his eyelashes as he passed.
Mariana was surprised not to see two smoking holes in the back of Giancarlo’s head.
The slam of the heavy door echoed in the foyer.
Mariana put a hand to her heart as if to steady it. Her face was still hot.
He remained in the darker foyer. She remained in the light of the reception room. In silence, she and the Duke of Valkirk regarded each other.