He was tall, with powerful shoulders outlined by a fine doublet of dark red velvet, closely cut and unadorned by lace or embroidery. A shirt of creamcoloured silk, soft and with the sheen of springtime clouds, peeked through the jagged slashings of the sleeves and the silk closures at the front of the doublet, rising up to a small frill framing a strong, sun-browned throat, a vee of smooth bronze chest.
Julietta’s gaze moved inexorably, unwillingly, downwards to plain black hose and Spanish leather shoes buckled with shining gold. No elaborate codpieces shaped like a conch shell or a gondola to display and enhance his masculine equipment, no gaudy striped hose. No popinjay, him. Yet not a man unaccustomed to luxury, either. Her regard slid back upwards, past the narrow hips, the powerful shoulders, the muscled chest. His face was cast half in shadow by the brim of his red velvet cap, but she could see the large, blood-coloured ruby clasped in that cap, the teardrop pearl that dangled from his left earlobe. No—not unaccustomed to luxury at all.
Glossy, dark brown hair, streaked with the gold of the sun, fell in thick waves from beneath the cap, brushing his shoulders. And his lower face could be glimpsed, a strong jaw, close shaven, darkened by the sun, set off by the glistening white of the pearl. Not a soft merchant, then, or a banker who spent his days softly indoors. Not a churchman, assuredly, yet not a poor sailor or shipmaker from the Arsenal.
A man of power, certainly, of wealth and fine looks. Not a man who drenched himself in cologne, either; Julietta’s sensitive nose told her that, even across the length of the shop. He smelled only of fresh, salty air, faintly lemony, clean. What would such a man need from her shop?
Ah, yes—of course. A gift for a lady. And here she stood, staring at him like a lackwit, gawking at his shoulders and chest and lovely hair as some alleyway putta would.
Julietta straightened herself to her full height, reaching up to check the fall of her veil. “Buon giorno, signor,” she said again, dropping a small curtsy.
“Buon giorno, madonna,” he answered. His voice was deeper than she expected, rougher, with the hint of some strange foreign accent. Not a Venetian, then. “I feared you would not yet be open for custom.”
“We are always open for such eager patrons, signor,” Julietta said, touching the tip of her tongue to suddenly dry lips. There was something strange about this man’s voice, something that seemed to reach out and wrap itself around her with misty, enticing caresses. Something about his scent…
Could he be a sorcerer? A magician from foreign lands?
Do not be a fool, Julietta! she told herself sternly. He is a man, like any other.
A man who could be a very profitable customer, to judge by the ruby and the pearl, the fine velvet, if she did not drive him away with her gapings and gawkings. Julietta stepped even farther away from him, back behind the safety of the counter.
“And what can we assist you with today, signor?” she asked briskly. The pierced bronze brazier set on the tiled floor was warm now; she added small sticks of scented wood to the coals, filling the cool air with the smell of white roses. “Our selection of fine scents is unparalleled in all of Venice.”
He moved closer to the counter, the short red velvet cape swung over his shoulders by a thin gold cord falling back to reveal sable lining, rich and soft. The bars of light from the windows fell across him, illuminating him like a stained-glass saint as he swept off his cap and lightly brushed aside the waves of his hair.
Julietta’s lips, so dry, turned numb at the sight of his eyes. They were blue—nay, not blue, turquoise, like the waters of the Mediterranean, pure and bright, startling in that sun-browned skin. Piercing. All-seeing.
A sorcerer, indeed.
Il diavolo.
Her fingers tightened on the scented sticks still in her hand, and she felt splinters pierce the skin. With a soft cry, she turned to fling them into the brazier. Turned away from those eyes.
“That is what I have heard, madonna,” the man said. She sensed him leaning lightly against the counter, watching her closely.
“Heard?” she muttered stupidly. Sì—she was behaving stupidly all round. She was a grown woman, a widow, a shop owner. She should not be unsettled by anyone.
Nay! I am not afraid, she thought fiercely. She swung around to face him fully, her head high.
A small smile played about his lips, lips as finely formed as the rest of him, full and sensual. He was younger than she would have thought; only the faintest of lines creased the edges of those sorcerer’s eyes, lined his slightly crooked nose. Who was she to be made so nervous by such a young man, no matter how rich, no matter how fine?
“I had heard that this is the finest perfumerie in Venice,” he said easily, “and that I must pay a call here.”
“I am flattered, signor.” Julietta moved slowly to the very edge of the counter, resting her hands flat on the cool marble surface, near the soft velvet of his sleeve. His body emanated warmth, and again she had that odd sense of unseen fingers reaching out to wrap around her, entice her. Yet she did not move away. “And what is it I may assist you with today? A gift for some lovely lady? No woman can resist a sweet scent blended only for her. In a jewelled bottle, perhaps? A pretty token of admiration.”
His smile widened, and he leaned his elbows on the counter until he looked up into her face, beguiling and gorgeous. “Alas, I am a newcomer to Venice, and have not yet found the lovely lady who would accept my tokens of admiration. But I do seek a gift, for a very special woman, indeed.”
Julietta felt her brow wrinkle in puzzlement. “A woman not of Venice?”
“Nay, a lady of Seville. I try to find her fine trinkets wherever I go, so she may know I am thinking of her.”
The frown broke as Julietta’s brows arched in a sudden stab of emotion hitherto unknown to her—jealousy. “Your wife, signor?”
He laughed then, a rough, musical sound, warm like a summer’s day. The faint lines around his eyes deepened, crinkled in a mirth that seemed to demand an answer. Julietta pressed her lips tightly together to hold in a chuckle, even though she knew not what the joke could be.
“Nay, madonna,” he said. “I am a seafarer, and have no wife. I seek a gift for my mother.”
His mother! Madre de dio, but she did seem doomed to foolishness this day. “You seek a gift for your mother?”
“Sì, one, as you said, blended only for her. She is very special, you see.”
“Very beautiful?” She would have to be, with such a son as this.
“Yes, and very sweet, very devout. Innocent as the morning. What would you suggest, madonna?”
Ah—here was something she could understand, rationally and coolly. The blending of the perfect scent. Julietta retrieved a tray from beneath the counter, a slotted ivory container holding vials of many precious oils, neatly labelled. Her fingertips danced over their cork stoppers. “Roses, of course,” she murmured. “And—perhaps violets? Violets from Spain. What do you think, signor?”
She held out the vial, and he leaned close, inhaling deeply. Too deeply; he choked and sputtered.
Julietta laughed softly. “Not so much! This is pure essence of violet, very strong. Here, like this.” She shook a small drop on to her wrist, drawing the lace frill back from her skin. She held the bare flesh out, the drop of oil shimmering.
He reached out in turn, balancing her wrist in his fingers, and Julietta caught a ragged, sharp breath in her throat. His fingers were long, warm, callused, bisected by tiny white scars. A gold ring set with a gleaming ruby flashed on his smallest finger. He held her delicately, but there was