Venice Vampyr (Venice Vampyr #1)

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 as 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 on his part. Despite the kiss she had allowed him to steal, she wouldn’t fall easily. Her stern reprimand had made that clear. She’d brought herself under control again. And he’d do anything to snap that control, 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 a habit he barely noticed. He