In 18th century Siena, Count Salvesto Masello has returned home to find the family villa and his father's estate steeped deeply in debt. In order to save it, he has been selling off valuable family heirlooms, but he is running out of silverware. Somewhere in the villa his deceased father had hidden the art treasures that will pay the debt, but Salvesto can't find them anywhere.
Amadeo Neruccio has been on the run from the vicious pimp, thief, and pawnbroker Guelfetto, but his toughs finally catch him and bring him to the cellar where Count Masello is selling off his silver. When the count learns what fate Guelfetto has in store for Amadeo, he intervenes and trades the last of his mother's dowry for the young man's freedom.
Salvesto had left home over ten years ago to live the life of adventure he craved. He had also hoped to leave his broken heart behind. When he rescues young Amadeo, he did not expect to find love again, or that his adventures had yet to end.
Count Salvesto Masello
What do you find attractive in a man?
A man must have joy in life or a passion that helps him to rise, if only for a few moments or a few hours, above the daily killing grind. I have lived from storm to storm to seek that passion in a man’s eyes and to find its equal in the flesh. A man who loves horseracing, for example, but whose excesses have dropped him into the clutches of evil men. A man who first looked upon me with despair, thinking I was another of that ilk, and then saw that I was not. Hope is appealing in a man, if his eyes are as dark as ripe olives yet sparkle with starlight.
The first thing that went through your head when you saw Amadeo Neruccio?
He was in duress, beaten by toughs in the cellar of that whoreson Guelfetto. I was warned not to intervene, but when Amadeo begged for my help, I had to. That I did as kindness. Desire visited me later in the form of curiosity—who was this man I had rescued? He had endured much, yet the passion for life still burned on in his soul.
Do you think you’ll insist the author visits you again?
Indeed, She has not heard the last of us!
Before you met Amadeo Neruccio, what was your ideal man?
A robust man, one who is discreet, a man of maturity and wisdom, a fighter. A man’s actions and words will do much to make up for lack of handsomeness or manners. That was my ideal. I made do with men without names or master, sometimes chasing ruin myself, searching for—what? Those fledging feelings I’d felt with my first man were ashes until Amadeo.
You’re going out for dinner. What’s your favorite food?
I do not eat meals at inns or roadside taverns. Have you ever been to sea? No? Well, I would not pay to eat at an establishment which serves food no better than I have had to endure after two months at sea. Not anymore. My cook Leonarda keeps us well fed and happy. She makes an egg noodle in hare sauce that is sublime.
Everyone knew everyone’s business in the small hilly honeycomb town of Siena. The house the Masello had once occupied for short periods during the year belonged to a rich merchant now. The eldest Masello had died in a hunting accident in the countryside, and his father, it was said, died of grief a year later. This event had brought the new conte home to the villa with the leaky roof, the broken-backed barn, and massive debt. Yet perhaps Conte Masello was not as bad off as they said, for he had paid Amadeo’s debt to Guelfetto.
Likely Amadeo was wrong about that, too, as the conte had traded for his freedom with silver dishes and spoons. Amadeo swallowed hard but could not dislodge the lump in his throat, a combination of gratitude and resentment. Life in a Florentine bathhouse and sexual slavery to the traditional enemies of Siena was no life at all. He shuddered. He had meant it about throwing himself on the tender mercy of the river.
What kind of master was the new Conte Masello? He glanced at the man beside him and found warm hazel eyes gazing down at him. His new master’s hair was as brown as chestnuts and touched with gray strands. Whatever he’d been doing while the family fortunes dwindled—soldiering, sailing, perhaps even tramping about in the New World—had made him a man with a face weathered by the sun and muscles that strained the seams of his fine clothes. He was broad-shouldered and a forearm’s length taller than Amadeo, who felt like a willow tree beside such an oak.
“We have another stop to make,” the conte whispered. “Finish your prayers.”
The hard press of the conte’s velvet-clad shoulder and the intimacy of his warm breath on Amadeo’s neck sent a small shock through him, and his cock stirred restlessly in response.
Oh no, you don’t. You are not to ruin this chance for me either. Pardon me, dear Saint Catherine. I pledge to you I will stay away from the gaming tables and this man’s bed.
Heloise West, when not hunched over the keyboard plotting love and mahem, dreams about moving to a villa in Tuscany. She loves history, mysteries, and romance of all flavors. She travels and gardens with her partner of 10 years, and their home overflows with books, cats, art, and red wine.
2 comments:
Congratulations on your new book Heloise! It looks like a good one. Thank you for sharing!
Congratulations on your new book.
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