by Nicola Marsh
Devoured
Dirty Rich Boys
by Cathryn Fox
Peyton has hated gorgeous millionaire Roman Bianchi since he kissed her and then left. But she needs a fake spouse for a job in Italy. Underneath their complicated emotions is a wild undercurrent of carnal need. So if hating Roman is this sexy...how does she survive falling for him?
Masquerade
by Cara Lockwood
CHAPTER ONE
THE THINGS ONE did for love...and revenge, Asha Patel thought as she squeezed between two men in custom-made tuxedos wearing silver masks in the glittering gold ballroom of the Grand Hotel in Stockholm. Everyone, in fact, wore them, except Asha, who was—not so subtly, she realized now—crashing this shindig. Also, a small point, but it seemed this might be a black-and-white ball. Everyone wore some combination of one or the other, and her Chanel red strapless gown stood out like a police siren. So much for subtlety.
She moved past a golden column, past the gilded mirror windows lining the walls on either side of the opulent space, feeling like she’d fallen into a costume drama. She checked her reflection in the mirrored windowpanes. She might be standing out like a sore thumb, but she still looked like a damn fine one with the strapless floor-length gown clinging to her curves like a glove. The slinky dress with the thigh-high slit and matching red stilettos suited her perfectly, because she paid her in-demand stylist top dollar to ensure it did.
She wore her long, wavy, nearly black hair down, and it hit midback. She’d kept her makeup heavy and dramatic, her lips the same Chanel red as her dress. She scanned the well-heeled crowd, noticing a few pointed stares in her direction. Not that she cared. She was here to catch her cheating boyfriend, Connor, whom she knew was here was that empty-headed lingerie model, Kayli. She grabbed a glass of champagne from a roving waiter, who also gave her the side-eye and a slight raised eyebrow. Okay, so how was she supposed to know she should be wearing a mask? That hadn’t been mentioned in Connor’s texts to his model mistress, but then, most of his texts included dick pics, so she supposed he was busy doing more important things like trying to get the best lighting for himself.
Asha had been monitoring Connor’s phone for weeks. He was the one dumb enough to use her father’s app to proposition models. Enlisting the help of one of her father’s engineers had been easy. And what she wanted now was to find her boyfriend and tell him to jump off a high balcony. Of course, boyfriend was a strong term. Although not as strong as fiancé, the word he’d been hinting about with phrases like “ring shopping” and “popping the question.”
They’d only been dating three weeks. Hell, they’d not even slept together. Not for lack of Connor’s trying. He came in hot and heavy, declaring his love, telling her she was his soul mate, smiling his legendary smile. Except, it became increasingly clear, Connor didn’t like brunettes, even though he was one. Clearly, he preferred empty-headed blondes. Asha, whose father immigrated to Seattle from India, and built one of the most successful tech companies in recent years, knew from experience growing up in Seattle that she wasn’t everyone’s type. How often had she smiled politely when someone called her an “exotic beauty”—making her sound like she came from Mars? But the worst, by far, was discovering that the men declaring love to her were really declaring love to her billion-dollar fortune.
She was here to make Connor pay. And pay he would. Except, glancing around her, with all the guests hiding behind silver eye masks, she realized finding Connor and Kayli would be more challenging than she thought. And what was this mystery party anyway? Lord help her if she’d stumbled upon some weird kinky sex party. Was Connor into that? Well, he was an actor desperate for any publicity he could get. Who knew what he really felt about anything? She glanced around her and saw many of the guests whispering to each other and staring at her. She got the impression they were all talking about her. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but all she saw were masked faces. Impossible to pick out Connor’s or anyone else’s, unless she knew what the jerk had planned to wear.
“Ms. Patel?” Asha whirled and came face-to-face with a pristine tuxedo shirt and tie, and the dark satin lapel of an expensive black jacket. She looked upwards and saw a strong jaw and full, sensual lips, curved up in a smile. Sharp, cool blue eyes stared at her from beneath the ornate silver-and-gold eye mask he wore. Dark hair rolled back from the mask and curled beneath his ears, thick and soft enough to want to touch.
“How do you know my name?” she asked, suspicious, heart thumping in her chest, because she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d been caught red-handed. Not, of course, that that meant anything. She could usually bribe or cajole her way out of any problem. Trespassing had to be among her most minor offenses of late.
“Everyone knows the heiress of The Skycloud—founded by your father?” He spoke with a faint French accent, soft and sexy. “Also, I believe you have more followers than he does on social media.” Damn her social media feed, a blessing and a curse. Mostly a blessing, since her influencer powers also made her a decent amount of money. Money that she’d need if she ever wanted to get out from under her father’s thumb. “Your reputation proceeds you.”
It always did. She’d made her social media reputation as a party girl with loose morals, someone who courted and discarded actors and pop stars on a whim. Some people loved her, some hated her, but they were all interested. That’s how she kept selling all those mascaras and lips glosses, and how her followers kept growing every day.
“What do you know of my reputation?”
“You’re a woman used to getting what she wants.” He paused. Here it comes, she thought, the moment when he made a remark about how controversial she was, how she hopped from bed to bed. She didn’t care.
“How so?”
“You point at a man and he usually falls in love with you. Is this not so?” He grinned, slowly, and Asha knew he meant one of the pop songs written about her. It was a lie, of course. When she pointed at men, they did fall in love. Just with her money. Not her.
“That’s a slight exaggeration.”
“Is it? I am not so sure,” the mystery man replied, the French accent a bit thicker now. Asha realized that a hole in the crowd seemed to form around them. People were giving them space. Oddly. And a few were staring in their direction. She wondered why. She turned her attention back to the Frenchman in the tuxedo and gilded mask.
“You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Mr....” she trailed off, trying to figure out if the slant of his mouth, the shade of his eyes, held any clue to his identity. No, she decided, she didn’t know him.
“Mathis Durand,” he said, and gently took her right hand. He bent over it and laid a gentle kiss above her knuckles, a warm, feather-like touch that made all the nerve endings in her arm come alive. “I am the host of this party.”
“The host?” Oh, great. Now she was in trouble. “Well, you see, I’m so very sorry. I’ve forgotten my mask.” Forgotten, or never knew she needed one—what was the difference? “The friend I came with forgot to tell me it was a costume party.”
She laughed uneasily. She’d never felt more exposed. Durand didn’t join her. He cocked his head to one side.
“The friend? Who is this?”
“Connor Henry.”
A slow smile crept across Durand’s face. “I do not believe that is true, Ms. Patel. You did not come with Mr. Henry. You are...how do they say in America? Crashing?”
All the guests ceased their own conversations and were simply staring now. Why? Who cared about a single party crasher? Every party had dozens. Didn’t they?
“I...” She was about to double down on her lie, because if she knew anything it was that if she acted passionately enough about a bald-faced lie, most people believed it. “I’m a guest.”
“You’re the guest of no one.” The direct contraction startled her. Now she realized too late that bluffing was a mistake. He was the h
ost, after all. Perhaps he did personally know...all the hundred or so people who crowded the ballroom. “Shall we talk about this in private?” Durand asked. He took hold of her elbow, a gentle but firm grip, his fingers a shade paler against her golden skin.
“Sure?” she said and he steered her through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea, the whispers following her as she went. Now, nervous butterflies flapped their wings against her rib cage. Why all the seriousness? He led her to the end of the ballroom, past the enormous crystal chandelier and to the balcony doors beyond. They passed at least three women in low-cut dresses that only seemed to have eyes for Durand. Asha got the impression she was keeping him from flirting with the gorgeous, lithe Nordic model types who were frowning at her as he took her through the balcony doors, and out into the cool summer night in Stockholm. In the distance, Asha could see Strömmen, the innermost part of Saltsjön, a bay of the Baltic Sea. Warm lights dotted the shore of the bay, making it look magical.
Durand closed the heavy, ornate double doors behind them, and then they were alone on the stone balcony, but as darkness never truly fell in Stockholm on summer nights, the ever-present never-quite-set sun meant they needed no man-made lights to see each other. Beneath the gray, slightly pink sky, she noticed the balcony had another, smaller side door, and she wondered where it led.
“Okay, you’re right. I crashed your party and I’m sorry,” Asha said, hoping that a little groveling might help her case. She needed to find Connor. That is, if he hadn’t seen her already and booked it out of there. “Surely you have room for one more guest? I’d be happy to pay my way. Of course.”
Durand chuckled, the smallest of sounds at the back of his throat. “I do not need your money, Ms. Patel.”
“Really?” She’d discovered that the one truth in life was that money always talked. And opened doors. And some of the oldest money families sometimes were the poorest. After all, a few of the most famous royal families in the world were happy to use her private jets. She shifted slightly, and she watched as his eyes trailed down her bare shoulder.
“Really.” He cocked his head to one side, curious. “What brings you to my party?” She caught the note of possessiveness in his tone. My party. There was no mistaking it. “And, please, if we could dispense with the lies and...ah...the theatrics?”
Says the man hiding his face behind a gilded mask.
She glanced up at him, his full face still shrouded by that damn mask, and was tempted to lie. For fun. For a laugh. But she had a feeling this man would see through any petty lies. For once in her life, she decided she’d be honest.
“I’m trying to find Connor Henry. I do know him. He’s my...” She hesitated to say boyfriend, since they hadn’t been dating that long. Plus, after she caught him with his lingerie model, he’d be an ex-boyfriend. “Well, we had an understanding. He’s deceived me, and he’s come here with a woman he also lied to me about, and I want to catch him in that lie.”
And make him grovel, and then tell him he’s lost me before he ever really had me. Dramatic? Maybe, but he deserves it.
Durand lifted the mask from his face, and Asha’s breath caught a little at the back of her throat. The man made gorgeous look ugly. Strong jawline, slim, straight nose, clear blue eyes that looked even darker in the grayish light of never-quite-dusk, even though she knew it was close to midnight.
“That is unfortunate. But I am afraid I cannot let you stay.” He shook his head slowly, eyes solemn. It took a moment to realize this walking sex god was actually denying her.
“Why not?”
“This is a members only event. You must be a member of the Sphinx Society in order to mingle here.”
Asha laughed, bright and brittle, but seeing the serious look on Durand’s face, she realized her mistake. He was serious.
“What is the Sphinx Society? Some kind of sex club?”
Now it was Durand’s turn to laugh. “Hardly. It’s one of the oldest societies in the world. We helped build this hotel. You know, in that ballroom the very first Nobel Prize ceremony and award banquet was held in 1901?”
“Really?” Asha faked interest. She cared little about history, unless it concerned her personally. What could dusty old facts do to help her, anyway? What she wanted to do was get into that ballroom and find Connor. And if kissing up to this exceptionally sexy Frenchman was the way to do it, then she would. She actually didn’t mind, truth be told. She loved pretty things. Durand was the one who ought to be the movie star. She moved closer to the man, eyes never leaving his. If he wasn’t interested in money, then maybe he was interested in her attention. Most men were. And she wasn’t afraid to take advantage, either. “Tell me more.”
Durand’s dark eyebrows raised a millimeter. She bit her lip, and he studied her mouth. Good.
“The King of Sweden uses this hotel for his official business, as do all the Swedish royals,” Durand said.
“Tell me more about the Sphinx Society.” She ran one perfect red nail down his immaculately tailored lapel. He watched the bloodred tip against the black fabric. She didn’t exactly care about the society, or its history, but if this man wanted to crow about it, and indulging him got her what she wanted, then she was happy to do it. Not all of her reputation was exaggerated. Men might not fall in love with her at first sight, but they often fell into lust.
“You either know about the Sphinx Society or you don’t. There’s no telling someone about it.” Durand was interested, she could tell, just as she knew that now his gaze lingered a bit too long on the neckline of her strapless dress.
“How about...you help me join?” She was so close to him now that if she rocked up on her stilettos, she could kiss his lips. She took his hand and put it open-palmed on her slim waist. He let her. His eyes met hers, the dark pupils in them crowding out his gray-blue irises. Yes, that’s it. Want me. You know you do.
“Membership is by invitation only.”
She studied his eyes. “I can think of one way to get an invitation.”
She reached up and slid her hand behind the back of his neck, and then pulled him down to her lips. Asha knew how to play this game—to a point. Most men turned into jelly with a kiss and little more. She’d never really had to go farther than she’d liked. And, to be honest, she’d only ever had a handful of lovers her whole life. Unlike what the tabloids said. According to them, she was one of the world’s biggest whores. Using her body and her money to get famous men to do what she wanted. She’d been accused of all kinds of nonsense, all the allegations no rich man would have to confront. After all, rich men were supposed to have revolving doors on their bedrooms. Rich women? Not so much.
Not that any of what was said about her was true, anyway.
But she used it all to her advantage. Played up the role. Men loved it. And she typically got what she wanted in the process. Now she pressed her lips to his. She was the aggressor, and yet the man took possession of her mouth as if it always belonged to him. Damn, he knew how to use his lips, gently, over hers, coaxing her mouth open, his tongue meeting hers. He tasted like fine champagne, and something more...expensive. He deepened the kiss with a gentle lash of his tongue, teasing her, drawing out her hunger, and for a second, she lost herself. Forgot she was the one trying to seduce him. He seemed to hold all the power, and she seemed to be losing her edge. All she wanted was more of his mouth. More of his body. More of everything. His mouth on hers, driving her, tasting her, made her head spin, made her body buzz with want. He opened the floodgates in her, and her desire roared out, white rapids of pure energy.
And she wasn’t the only one affected by the kiss, either. She could feel Durand’s own body stiffen, feel his own lust rising as she pressed her belly against him. Yes, he wanted her, too. Wanted her badly. She pulled away at last, panting, her heart pounding in her chest, her mind buzzing with all kinds of feelings, none of them having to do with Connor or the party or an
ything other than Durand’s talented, talented mouth. She met his gaze, and he, too, seemed a little stunned. Her chest heaved as she struggled to get her breathing under control. Hell, after a kiss like that, he’d have to let her in. She couldn’t see how he could deny her entrance to this party after a white-hot encounter like that, and the promise of more to come. A small smile quirked the corner of his sensual, knowing mouth.
“Thank you for that, Ms. Patel.” He wiped the corner of his mouth with one finger, the light of desire flickering in his eyes. “That was...exquisite.”
The way he looked at her now made the air catch in her throat. Was he going to pull her into his arms for another kiss? God, she hoped so. Her whole body vibrated with desire for his mouth against hers once more.
“I’m afraid, however, that you can’t stay at my party,” he said, voice low. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Copyright © 2020 by Cara Lockwood
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ISBN-13: 9780369702326
Her Playboy Crush
Copyright © 2020 by Nicola Marsh
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
