Page 4 of Venice Vampyr: The Beginning

“Signora, my sincerest apologies,” he mumbled and attempted to rise, then seemed to realize he was unclothed. “I would get up and bow in order to ask for your forgiveness, but it appears I find myself without the proper attire to do so.”

Despite his sincere words, there was a smirk on his face, bringing out dimples in his cheeks. He looked young, younger than she thought he was. She followed his gaze to the heap of wet clothes that lay on the floor.

“It appears my garments are unusable at present.” Then he looked at her, one side of his mouth tilting up in a smile. “Did you help me out of them?”

Isabella felt herself blush down to the roots of her hair. He knew! Had he been awake when she’d undressed him? Had he felt it when she’d caressed his naked body, washed him, dried him? She sucked in a much needed breath of air, afraid she would faint from the acute embarrassment that swept through her. She’d been a fool. Her reputation would be destroyed forever, and she would have to leave Venice because decent society would shun her.

A soft chuckle came from him. “Ah, I see. Well, Signora, then it appears I have nothing to hide.” She heard the blanket being tossed to the floor and instantly turned her back to him.

He rose, and a second later, she could sense him a step behind her. “Signore, I will have my servants bring you some of my husband’s clothes,” she rushed to say.

“Husband?” he asked, sucking in a sharp breath.

“My late husband’s, yes.” She walked toward the door, trying to leave temptation behind her, but he followed her. When his hands grasped her shoulders, her breath caught.

Relief seemed to color his voice when he spoke again. “I’m very grateful for all you’ve done for me. Very grateful,” he emphasized.

Then he spun her around to face him. “Raphael di Santori, at your service.”

She turned her head to the side, making sure her gaze didn’t drift lower, because she knew what she would see: his very tempting naked body. And if she allowed herself to feast her eyes on him once more, she would succumb to the temptation of touching him.

“Signore, this is hardly the time for an introduction.” She tried to pull from his grip, but his hands cupped her shoulders firmly.

“When then, if not now? Or would you rather I ravished you before I found out your name?”

His arrogant suggestion made her snap her head back to him. “There will be no ravishing, Signore di Santori. I’m a respectable widow. Once you’re dressed, you may come down to the parlor so we can talk.”

Isabella pulled free of his grip and turned to the door. He didn’t follow.

“Your name, Signora.” When she hesitated, he added, “Please.”

The softness in his voice made her relent. “Isabella Tenderini.” Then she swept out of the room, holding her head high, trying to hold onto her dignity. When she closed the door behind her, his laughter followed her. Insolent, arrogant rake!

***

Raphael couldn’t stop laughing. Oh, this woman had fire in her belly. She made him feel alive. Hell, he was alive! And he had hundreds of questions. Had one of her servants pulled him out of the water? But, more importantly, who was this alluring woman who had clearly undressed him?

And not only that, now that her intoxicating scent wasn’t flooding his nostrils any longer, he noticed that his own skin didn’t smell of the murky waters of the canal like he would have expected. Somebody had bathed him. His eyes scanned the lavishly decorated room, his gaze instantly honing in on the four poster bed and the endless possibilities it suggested. Down, boy, he cautioned himself and continued his perusal of the chamber. Clearly, her chamber.

When his eyes fell onto a bowl with water and a sponge, he smiled to himself. Isabella had been the one who’d washed him, taken the sponge into her elegant hands and laved his body with it. Had she cradled his balls? Had she taken his cock into her hand as she’d performed this intimate task?

No wonder she’d blushed like a debutante. Now he understood. She’d touched his body intimately, more intimately than anyone had in a long time, and now she felt embarrassed about it. Had she liked what she’d seen? Had she maybe even stroked him, caressed him? Had her lips followed where her hands had explored first?

By God, he was hard just thinking of all the things she might have done to him while he was unconscious. He didn’t feel violated in the slightest by the knowledge that she’d exploited his vulnerability. No—all it served was getting him aroused. All he could think of was whether she would do it again.

Clearly, as a widow she was familiar with the pleasures of the flesh. She was no shy virgin, but a grown woman who must recognize her own carnal needs. He’d felt them boil under her skin, those passions she kept locked away. Finding the key to unlocking those desires and ensuring she unleashed them on him would be his greatest challenge. Yes, that’s what he would do: seduce her into his bed (or hers, as the case might be) and make her surrender to him.

He hadn’t had a challenge like this one in a while. Most women fell into his arms and his bed without much ado, without much more than a smile and a wink from his part. Despite the kiss she had allowed him to steal, she wouldn’t fall easily. Her stern reprimand had hinted at that. She’d brought herself under control again. And he’d do anything to snap that control from right under her nose like a mere twig a hunter crushed with his feet. All because he could. And because she was the choicest morsel he’d tasted in a long while.

Chapter Four

Raphael found the elegant parlor in which Isabella was waiting for him after he’d gotten dressed. The clothes of her late husband fit him perfectly, and the fellow had had taste too. And just as perfectly as he’d slipped into the man’s breeches, shirt and coat, Raphael wanted to slide into his widow. He was sure she’d fit him just as perfectly.

Isabella stood near the fireplace with her back to him as he entered. Her hair was now tied in a tight bun low at the back of her neck. And she was dressed in a gown that was fit for any noble in Venice. If she wanted to pretend that she was all prim and proper, he’d let her, and then he’d expose what lay beneath her respectable exterior: a passionate woman.

“Signora Tenderini,” he greeted her.

A visible shudder went through her body. Had she not heard him come in? Perhaps he was so used to being silent when approaching humans that it had become such a habit he barely noticed. He made a mental note to try not to startle her again.