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A tiny frown puckered her brow. “Sure, I guess.”
He caught the end of the black scarf encircling her neck and gently pulled the strip of silk. It slipped along her throat like a lover’s caress. “This is an unnecessary distraction. You should not hide such a neck and shoulders.”
She swallowed. “Do you really think so?”
“Senza dubbio.Without doubt.” Actually, it was the absolute truth, or he’d never have said such a thing. “Would you mind if I kept your scarf?” He shrugged. “I’d claim I wanted it for a memento, but the truth is, I wish to use it as a mask for the ball.”
She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Did you forget yours?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Take it. I’m happy to help.” She turned to go, then hesitated. “Oh! And good luck with your lady.”
Matteo smiled. “And you with your man.”
He didn’t waste any more time, but darted down the steps to the banquet room. A quick scan of the crowd confirmed that his little redhead wasn’t among the diners. Selecting a steak knife from one of the tables, he swiftly slit holes in the scarf and tied it around his head. Simple, but effective, he decided. Between the mask and the sword Shayne had provided, he could pass as Zorro or some similar type romantic swashbuckler.
Now to find his swan princess.
It had gotten late enough that the gardens were fairly deserted. He roamed the paths with swift efficiency, finally slipping up on a splash of white silk and feathers on a bench tucked well beneath a large sycamore tree. She was crying, he realized in alarm. Nothing bothered him quite as much as a woman in distress and for some odd reason this woman’s distress disturbed him more than normal. No doubt it had something to do with his attraction for her. He sensed this wasn’t a woman easily reduced to tears. Not giving himself time to think, he slipped to the far side of the tree, grasped the lowest branch and swung himself upward.
Easing the sword from its scabbard, he grasped one of the trailing ends of his black scarf and sliced off a square. To his amusement, he noticed that a bit of dainty lace decorated the end. Perfect. Skewering the improvised handkerchief on the tip of the sword, he slowly lowered it toward his weeping princess.
“For you,Signorina,”he said quietly, hoping he wouldn’t startle her too badly.
Her head jerked up and her breath hitched in surprise. “Who’s there?” she demanded.
“No one of importance,” he said with a shrug, flavoring his words with the gentlest of Italian accents. “Just a man sitting in a tree watching a beautiful swan leak tears all over her feathers.”
A smile trembled on her lips and she reached for the scrap of silk and lace. “Thank you, but I’m not crying,” she lied with a blatancy that defied argument. “I never cry.”
She fell silent for a minute, no doubt struggling to regain her composure and control her nonexistent tears. He didn’t mind. He was a patient man, one of the few Salvatores who could claim such a virtue. A good thing. He sensed he’d stumbled across a woman who found control a vital component when confronting those entering her world.
“Why are you sitting in that tree?” she finally asked.
He’d been right. Gone was the vulnerable woman of moments before and in her place sat a woman of strength and determination. It made for an interesting contrast. “I quite like trees,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. “I always have. They make excellent places from which to swoop.”
A smile flirted with her mouth again. “Swoop?”
“Yes, swoop. Shall I demonstrate?”
Securing his sword, he grasped one of the larger branches and swung high over her bench. At the last instant, he released his grasp and executed a quick midair somersault, dropping lightly in a crouch beside her. The maneuver would have done Errol Flynn proud. He’d also broken his arm attempting to perfect it at the great age of ten.
She looked appropriately impressed. “You like how I swoop?” he asked, keeping his Italian accent intact.
“Very impressive.”
He continued to crouch beside her, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. “So tell me what has made you cry,Signorina. Perhaps I can help.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do for me.”
“You must have thought a husband and marriage would help or you wouldn’t be here,” he argued logically. “Now, why would someone as beautiful as you need to come to a Cinderella Ball to find a husband? I would think you’d have men lined up at your door.”
Apparently, he’d said the wrong thing. She withdrew into herself, her back stiff, her chin elevated, her eyes behind the feathered mask flashing a warning even the darkness couldn’t conceal. “What makes you think I’m beautiful?”
“You may wish you were not,carissima,but you can’t hide it.” Ever so gently he reached out and plucked the flamboyant mask from her face. “Not even with this.”
She was as lovely as he remembered. It was almost too dark now to see the exact shade of her eyes, but he recalled they were an intriguing combination of green and gold and glittered with intelligence and character. The clean, strong lines of her face also gave expression to her character. She possessed a straight nose with a firm jaw and high, broad cheekbones. In the absence of light, her ivory dress and pale skin shone with a translucent glow, like the rich texture of a black-and-white movie, her hair and lips glimmering with the only hint of color, a vibrant red that even the darkness couldn’t subdue.
