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Perhaps once he had attended to this assignation and returned from Venice, he would address the recent absence of sexual intimacy in his life, which certainly wasn’t due to a lack of opportunity.
Yes, recreation would definitely go to the top of his to-do list.
But not right now.
For now there was work. There was always work. His refuge and salvation. Opening up his computer, Odysseus sat down at the antique desk, the beauty of the Grand Canal forgotten as he stared intently at the screen.
‘Oh, Grace. You lookgorgeous! Like something out of a film!’
But Grace barely registered her friend’s excitement, or the lavish compliment, even though she wasn’t usually known for her looks or her dress sense. She stared in the mirror of the staff restroom, at the very summit of the fifteenth-century Venetian palace which Kirsty had smuggled her into earlier. A whole hour ago actually, but it had taken that long to shoehorn her into this elaborate costume.
She knew the whole point of a masked ball was to disguise the way you looked, but even so. Who could have thought she could ever look like…
This?
The flowing scarlet silk dress was cinched in so tightly around the waist that she could barely breathe. It was doing things to her body she hadn’t thought possible. The boned bodice clung to her ribs, pushing her modest breasts upwards and close together, resulting in the rather startling effect of making her look incredibly busty, so that she was practically spilling over the embroidered edge of her bodice. An elaborate hat covered most of her chestnut-brown hair with a cascade of scarlet feathers, and the gleaming golden mask left only a pair heavily kohled eyes and vermillion lips on show. What on earth had happened to Grace Foster, the colourless mouse who always faded into the background with her nondescript clothes and ordinary features?
That woman was nowhere to be seen. Tonight, she looked like an exotic bird. In other words, nothing like her at all. The bland functionary was nowhere to be seen—her usual uniform a distant memory. She’d never done anything remotely like this. Never even imagined she could. Yet here she was…
‘I don’t know if I can go through with it, Kirsty,’ she gulped.
‘Are you kidding?’ Her friend’s voice was disapproving as she indicated her own black waitressing dress with a disparaging wave of her hand. ‘If you really think I’ve gone to all the trouble of sneaking you in and risking my job, only for you to have cold feet at the last minute—you’re wrong! I’ve worked out exactly how to get you in there without having to go through the official entrance bit.’
‘But what if I can’t carry it off?’ Grace swallowed. ‘With no ticket?’
‘Of course you can carry it off!’ retorted Kirsty. ‘Nobody’s going to bother asking for your ticket. Anyway, the others are in there and they’ll be looking out for you.’
This much was true. Grace made another unnecessary adjustment to her hired dress. Over the years she’d built up a small network of friends and Cara and Sophia were both here…somewhere…with legitimate tickets they’d saved up for, unlike her. But they didn’t have her responsibilities, she reasoned. And although she happily sent most of her wages to pay for her grandmother’s care in England, it did mean she missed out on a lot of the stuff which other women her age were doing. She didn’t spend much on clothes. She didn’t go out much. Which was why she occasionally found herself wishing that life could be a bit more…well, exciting.
But wasn’t that the whole point of tonight?
Wasn’t this a chance to enjoy one of the more sensational aspects of her adopted home city, rather than contending with the downside of the busy Venetian Carnival? Like having to fight her way through marauding hordes of tourists every time she went to buy a loaf from that little shop near the corner of Campo San Barnaba. Or being half startled to death every time a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows, wearing one of those white, unmoving masks which she still found scary, even after all these years.
‘Does your boss know you’re here?’ asked Kirsty.
‘Are you kidding?’ answered Grace. ‘He’d have an absolute fit.’ Vincenzo Contarini was a self-confessed snob, who believed that everyone had their station in life and, as his general dogsbody, Grace was very definitely near the bottom of the heap. But he paid well and provided free board and lodgings in a city which was eye-wateringly expensive. She could never have afforded to live here otherwise. And if sometimes it felt a bit like living in a gilded cage, she always tried to push that particular thought away, because those kinds of thoughts got you nowhere.
Kirsty gave her a little shove. ‘Now, grab your bag and let’s go. The ball awaits you, Cinderella. And don’t forget…’ She paused dramatically, but her words were tinged with seriousness. ‘Tonight you can be anyone you want to be.’
Rather nervously, Grace nodded and followed Kirsty from the cloakroom, through a confusing number of back stairs, until they found their way to a discreet door which was obviously a staff entrance. She could hear chatter and music and laughter in the distance. In her narrow and delicately buckled shoes, her footsteps faltered and if Kirsty hadn’t given her another gentle push, she might have fled.
Inside, it was as spectacular as everyone had said it would be. The sparkle and gleam of lavish costumes. The rising chatter of voices and cliquey little groups. Beneath chandeliers which cascaded from the high ceilings like diamond waterfalls, people were dancing, the women wearing jewels which glittered like flashing lights. In a distant alcove of the giant space, a string quartet was playing, and in another stood a trio of young men, juggling with gleaming golden balls.
But everyone else was mingling at the far end of the ballroom and Grace felt stupidly self-conscious and alone as she stood there, her fingers gripping her sequined bag.
Her main objective had been getting into the venue—she hadn’t thought much beyond that and she couldn’t see her friends anywhere. Hurriedly, she moved forward, aware that her palms were damp with nerves but not daring to wipe them on the hired dress. Terrified that people were looking at her and recognising her for the usurper she was, she felt achingly self-conscious, her progress slow, and as she paused deferentially to let an older woman pass, her gaze drifted upwards to the balustrade which overlooked the ballroom.
And that was when she saw him. Standing on a balcony directly above her. Grace’s footsteps came to a halt as their eyes met and, beneath her tight bodice, her heart began to pound.
If only she had wings and could fly!
Because there, silhouetted against a tall window, stood a man who made every other man in the room shrink into nothingness. Why? Was it because he was so much taller than all the others? His shoulders much broader? His legs indecently long? Or because he exuded an aura of experience and danger which was almost tangible? Which should have made her want to run a mile in the opposite direction, but instead she found herself rooted to the spot.
He was dressed entirely in black. A tricorn hat sat rakishly on his slightly too long ebony hair, making him resemble a figure who’d stepped out of a fairy tale. Or a dream. He stood alone and watchful, as if daring anyone to come close. As if personal space was something he guarded jealously. Was that why people were circling him so warily, the men appearing to acknowledge an unassailable rival while the women slowed their speed whenever they passed, though he seemed oblivious to their lash-batting attention?
She wondered if their gazes reallyhadconnected, or whether that was wishful thinking on her part, because why would he have noticed someone like her—small and insignificant and out of place in this grand setting? But he was definitely looking at her now. Behind his mask, she couldn’t see his facial expression—obviously—but there was something subtly challenging about his stance. Something which was calling out to her and bringing her senses to life. How mad was that? Blood flooded to her cheeks as Grace found herself remembering Kirsty’s parting words.
‘Tonight you can be anyone you want to be.’