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She looked genuinely frightened. Rocco bit his lip to keep from laughing. There was something childlike about her. Something he’d first noticed when they were locked in that room in Barcelona.

He peered out the window. “He seems a decent fellow. I’d hate to kill him.” Shrugging, he ran his fingers over his moustache. “But then, I’m Inigo Montoya.”

Nico burst out laughing.

He jumped out of the car, brandishing his sword, and the man backed away.

At first the man and the crowd were stunned and remained silent.

Rocco opened the passenger door and held out his hand. “Come on!”

Nico got out.

“There’s a pair of ’em,” someone yelled.

“Throw ’em back,” cried someone else.

Everyone laughed. The man with the fishing rod came running after them.

Rocco grabbed Nico’s hand. “Don’t let go. It can get pretty crazy, and it’s easy to get lost.”

They took off and didn’t slow to a walk until they’d reached the middle of the village. He led her through a crowd of people until they came to some musicians playing a lively song while people wearing colorful costumes, hats, and black masks danced.

“The people dancing are the Mascher,” he said.

“I thought you said we have to watch out for them.”

Just then the music stopped, and one of them pointed at Nico and Rocco.

“We do,” he said as a group of them came running toward them.

“Come on,” he cried, and they took off.

They turned a corner, and another group of Mascher jumped out at them.

“This way,” he called as he pulled Nico after him.

They turned left and then right, running through a maze of streets until they came back to the village square, which was swarming with people. Rocco carved a path through the mass of bodies, heading for the center, looking to lose themselves in the crowd.

Suddenly, his hand felt empty, and it dropped to his side. He turned around.

“Nico!” he shouted. “Nico!”

He pushed his way back through the bodies, retracing his steps, his heart beating with such force that he felt as though it had leapt outside him and was propelling him forward rather than his feet.

“Nico!”

“Rocco!”

He stopped and looked around.

“Nico! Where are you?”

Suddenly, he saw her hand waving back and forth above the heads in the crowd.

“I’m coming,” he shouted, running toward it.

Finally, he saw her standing with a group of women wearing masks and done up like old hags.

“There’s a pair of them!” one of them shouted.

“More to go around!”

Some of them made obscene gestures.

He gripped her hand, yelling, “Don’t let go!”

“You don’t let go!”

“I promise I won’t! But you have to promise if I have to throw you over my shoulder like I did before, you won’t kick me in the balls!”

She laughed, but it sounded forced to his ears.

“I won’t!”

He wanted to look into her eyes. See what was wrong. He felt sure something was. But there wasn’t time.

They ran through the cobblestone streets, weaving their way through the crowd until finally Rocco ducked into a quiet alleyway and pulled her in after him.

She looked down at their hands, and he released his hold.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked. “I didn’t want to lose you again.”

She had her back up against a building. She looked … scared.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. It was one of those Mascher, I think. Someone grabbed my other hand and … I tried to pull away, but then you were gone.”

“I’m sorry if they frightened you. You don’t have to worry. Nothing bad will happen. It’s all a part of it. I told you it was crazy. But you’re okay, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“It’s my fault. I should have held on tighter. But your hands.”

He picked one up and stared at it.

She flinched, but she didn’t pull away.

He suddenly realized hers had not been the only hand held above the heads in the crowd. But he’d known instantly which one was hers.

“I should have held on tighter,” he said, still gazing at her hand as if he were speaking to it. “But I’m afraid I might crush them. They’re so small. And delicate.” He looked up at her. “Did you know that?”

She smiled. “So I’ve heard.”

He sighed—relieved. She was okay.

She glanced down at the hand he was still holding. He let go.

Staring back at him, she suddenly smiled. “You look ridiculous!”

He grinned. “Well, if I do, then you do.”

They burst out laughing until they were nearly breathless.

But not quite.

He felt a sudden overwhelming urge to take what little breath she had left from her.

He wanted to kiss her.

He blinked. It was absurd. He was staring at the mirror image of himself. And what a mirror image. She had on that ridiculous wig and that outlandish moustache.

I don’t care. I want to kiss her.

Real. Bad.

It’s those eyes , he thought, staring into them.

Suddenly, he liked the idea that they were so dark he couldn’t see what lay ahead.

He fisted his hands. There was that itchy feeling again—the one he’d only ever felt before a race.

Until.

He felt as though there were only one remedy.

Kiss her.

Now.

Her lips parted.

She’s waiting for you to.

He leaned forward, but before his lips reached hers, he heard the voices of those two Tasmanian devils.

“Uncle Rocco!”