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"You can't just leave me here!" she's incredulous, angry as fuck and beautiful as hell.

"Watch me." I grin and leave the room, her helpless, subdued little cries following me down the hallway.

I TAKE my sweet time working with some clients overseas that night. I don't head back to my bedroom until 10:00 a.m. has come and passed. Finally, because I'm a damn impatient bastard, I leave my study and walk in on Cara with her eyes sleeping like a doll.

"Morning, sweetheart," I say gently, and she stirs sleepily at the sound of my voice.

I walk over to her, pleased to see she hasn't struggled against her restraints. I let her down, smoothing down the skin on her wrists as she curls up on the bed.

"Sleep well?"

"Not enough," she mutters. "Need more."

"Sorry, Cara," I laugh. "We're going into town today. No more time to sleep."

As soon as the words leave my lips, she gets up and looks at me, wiping her sleepy eyes.

"Are we really?" she asks me, the excitement plain in her voice. "I want to go so badly. Do you promise we're going? To Venice?"

I nod, her excitement pleasing me. In a second, she's forgotten all about her traumatic night, and she squeals as she jumps up from the bed, telling me all about how excited she is.

It’s going to be a fun day. Cara doesn’t seem to remember I have an agenda though, and I have some plans for her when we get to town. She’ll find out what they are soon enough.

CHAPTER NINE

CARA

I CAN'T BELIEVE I finally get to leave the house. I've been cooped up here, and my excitement at finally exploring Venice is making me grin the whole way into town.

Filippe drives us to the city, with Mason and me sitting in the back. He keeps smiling at my childlike excitement, but I can't stop myself. I never lied about my obsession with art history, and I've always wanted to travel and explore the world, Italy especially. I just know this is going to be amazing.

I'm also trying to distract myself from thinking about Mason and what happened during the night too much. It was insane, the things he made me feel scaring me as much as they turn me on. I don't really know what to think of the whole thing. Does he like me, or is he merely using me, showing me he has to be in control every single second I'm there? I guess I'll find out eventually, but for now, it's easier to occupy my mind with the beautiful scenery surrounding us.

We drive up to the port, where Filippe explains the last leg of the journey will be spent on the boat. I grin excitedly as he helps me walk to a boat Mason apparently owns. The man in question is grinning at me as I sit down, barely able to contain my excitement.

"This is amazing," I tell him honestly. "Thank you so much for bringing me here, I really love it."

He gives me a thoughtful smile, and it makes me wonder whether this was all a test. Maybe he just wanted to see if I really was interested in art, like I'd claimed. Well, he won't be disappointed.

"First stop - the island of Murano," Mason tells me with a wink, and I lean forward in my seat as the boat takes off.

The sea is foamy and beautiful, the spray of the salty water pleasant against my cheeks as we make our way to the island. I don't know a whole lot about Murano, so Mason fills me in over the sound of the crashing waves as we make our way to the island.

I find out Murano is famous for its glass, a unique colored kind that is used in jewelry and decorations for the home. Mason promises he'll take me to a workshop to see just how it is made.

As soon as we arrive on the island, I realize he is well-known around these parts. Several people shake his hand and exclaim in Italian, obviously happy to see him. I follow sheepishly behind and find myself oddly proud when he introduces me as his protégée.

I haven't really paid much attention to the fact that Mason is an artist, though the portrait he has of me has been on my mind constantly. But here on the island, it becomes abundantly clear how involved he is in the art world.

He leads me into a small stone house, and as soon as we enter, the heat consumes me. There's a fire burning in a huge oven, and a shirtless, incredibly handsome man is standing in front of it. Another excited handshake, a clap on the back for Mason. A curious look for me. Mason tells the man something in Italian, and they both laugh. I want to know what he said.

We stand back as the man demonstrates how Murano glass is made, my eyes widening in surprise as he shapes the moldable, hot shape into a beautiful vase. He's a master of his craft, but the scars and burns on his body speak of a time when he wasn't. I find myself respecting this man immensely.

Mason leans over to me and says, "Murano glass is expensive as hell. That vase could be sold for as much as twenty thousand dollars."

My eyes glaze over and I keep watching as the man - Cristiano, I think his name is - continues to shape the beautiful vase. Once he's happy with it, he sinks it into a bucket of ice cold water. A little while later, Mason and I admire the vase, finished and flawless.

"For the ragazza," the man says in broken English, pointing at me. "If you like."

"The vase?" My eyes widen. I wasn't expecting this, and I know I should turn it down as it's too generous a gift. "But why? You've only just met me."

"Bella," he tells me with a wink. "Mason's pet."

I blush deeply as Mason's arm wraps proprietorially around my waist. I nod, accepting my role and accepting the vase. I would be lying if I claimed his words didn't flatter me.

Another boat ride and we arrive in the center of Venice, my vase wrapped up and left with Filippe. Mason shows me around the beautiful city and the sights I've only seen in pictures and TV come alive in front of my eyes. The pigeons in St. Mark's Square make me squeal as they descend upon me. I feast my eyes on the beautiful canals, the bridges, the gondolas. I lose myself in our surroundings, Mason's voice a pleasant distraction as he explains the history of the city.

We end up in a quaint restaurant in one of the side alleys, and once again, Mason proves he knows everyone. I ask him to order for me, and when I'm presented with a huge plate of fettuccine with truffles, I lick my lips expectantly.

It's delicious. The day is perfect. So perfect I wish it would never end.

While we eat, I ask Mason about his art, his paintings. He seems hesitant to answer me, but finally, he opens up a little.

"Like I said, it's merely a hobby," he tells me softly. "I can't live off it and I love my job, but painting is... it fills a hole in my life."

I wonder why the hole is there, but I don't inquire about it, remembering my place.

"Do people know you paint?" I ask him, and he gives me a devious grin.

"They do, baby."

His term of endearment makes me blush, and I wipe my lips with a napkin to hide the redness in my cheeks. I don't think it goes unnoticed, as Mason smiles at me knowingly.

"In fact, I'm going to have an exhibition at the house soon," he tells me.

"While I'm still here?" I ask, the excitement plain in my voice.

"I think so. Would you like to be there?" he wants to know, his eyes curious.

"Oh, yes." I clap my hands, excited. "I would love to - if you'd like me to, of course."

"Maybe."

We finish our meal chatting about this and that. I try to convince Mason to let me have a Bellini, a mix of champagne and peach juice, but he merely laughs. The drinking age in Italy is eighteen, but he won't budge. In some ways, the man is so traditional it hurts.

Once we're done eating, Mason tells me we only have one sight left - the Ponte dei Sospiri. He refuses to explain what it means until we've arrived at our destination.

I realize he's somehow managed to close it off for everyone else, as it's only the two of us now. The bridge is small and quaint, but beautiful. It spans over a small canal, the white limestone worn under my fingertips.

"Tell me what the name means," I beg Mason for the last time, and he finally complies.

"Ponte dei Sospiri means Bridge of Sighs," he says, and I gi

ve him a curious look. "The view from this bridge is the last thing many people saw. Convicts were lead through it into prison."

"That's awful," I breathe, the gruesome history of the bridge taking away from its beauty.

"It's only awful if you make it out to be," Mason tells me, moving to stand behind me.

My hands are braced on the small windowsill of the enclosed bridge, and they shake as he puts his palms on my ass.

"I like to make my own memories," Mason says, sending shivers down my spine. "And I think it's about time a different kind of sigh happened here."