Beneath This Mask

by Meghan March

  I sighed and headed to the bar in search of that scotch.

  As the bartender poured my three fingers, I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket and noticed I had a missed call and voicemail from a number I didn’t recognize. Tossing a tip in the jar, I grabbed my drink and headed out into the lobby, away from the noise of the reception. As soon as I heard her voice on the message, I damn near dropped my glass. I looked at the time of the missed call. Before the parade.

  A surge of excitement rushed through me, followed closely by confusion. She’d called me before I’d seen her today. I dropped onto a bench near the door. It didn’t add up. It’d been less than an hour between the time she’d left the message and the parade. Something had obviously happened to cause her complete one-eighty. I looked down at my watch. I had to stay for at least another hour, but then I’d track her down and get my answers. I’d been ready to let go of my fascination with her, but she’d smashed the ball back into my court. This wasn’t over yet.

  I’d finished the bottle of wine and changed into a pair of threadbare lilac cotton pajama pants to go with my wife beater. The bra had been tossed to the top of the bureau. If I could go the rest of my life without wearing one, I would. But with boobs that topped out just under double D, it wasn’t an option. I envied those B-cup girls some days. My hair was up in a ratty bun, and I was debating whether or not I wanted to open a second bottle. I’d be hung over in the morning, but I didn’t have to work, so why the hell not? I’d toast Simon Duchesne goodbye. Why am I still thinking about him? I gave myself a mental kick. Enough.

  My buzzer rang as I reached for the corkscrew. I looked at the clock. It was 11:30 on a Saturday night. Who the hell? It rang again, and I crossed the tiny space to the ancient intercom on my wall.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Simon.” As if my very thoughts had conjured him. Damn the juju in this town.

  I inhaled sharply, my nipples perking up at his dark, rumbling voice. No, body, the brain has already made this decision. But the reprimand was pointless. I clearly couldn’t trust myself around him. Or his voice.

  I pressed the button on the intercom again. “Go away, Simon.”

  “I got your message.”

  Oh shit. Of course he had. Finishing off the wine had helped me forget my earlier lapse in judgment. And now I supposed I owed him an in-person blow off. After all, I was sending off more mixed signals than a drunken air traffic controller.

  “Hold on.” I slipped on my flip-flops and left Huck inside.

  In the dim glow of the street lamps I could see him leaning against the gate, bowtie, jacket, and the top four studs of his shirt missing. His sleeves were rolled up, and I could see the anchor and trident on his inner forearm. I was all set to tell him to go the hell home, but that peek of his ink combined with the casually confident way he held himself had the words clogging in my throat. I couldn’t help but think that even though his public persona was hazardous to my very existence, it might be worth flirting with danger to steal a taste of the man beneath it. I stared up at the sky for a beat, seeking divine guidance. Finding none, I looked back to Simon.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. My tone was less than welcoming. If he let me run him off, then I’d be saved from the temptation that was Simon Duchesne.

  “You called me.”

  “I shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m glad you did.” He shifted, as though annoyed by the bars between us. Sorry, Simon, I thought, even without the bars, there will always be impenetrable walls.

  A thought struck me. “Are you drunk?”

  “No,” Simon replied with a laugh. “Are you?”

  “A little.” At least I could be honest about that.

  A provocative smile spread over his face, and I caught a flash of dimples. Damn. Come on world, throw me a bone.

  “Are you going to ask me in?” He punctuated the question with a raised eyebrow.

  “I shouldn’t.” To myself I added, I really, really shouldn’t.

  “You don’t look like the kind of girl who doesn’t do things just because she thinks she shouldn’t.”

  I looked down at the uneven cobblestones beneath my feet. “Don’t pretend like you know me.”

  “I want to.”

  “Why?” It was a question I desperately wanted answered. I was still trying to sort out all of the reasons for my attraction to him. Maybe he could articulate whatever this crazy thing was between us, and solve the mystery for me.

  He reached through the bars and tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Honestly, I have no idea. You’re just … there’s something about you.”

  Dammit. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, giving myself a moment to think. Ultimately, it was his honesty that decided it. We were equally off balance here. I was probably going to regret this, but … what the hell. I twisted the lock and opened the gate. For some reason, it didn’t feel wrong. I thought of Yve’s advice. One night. Get him out of my system. I never had to see him again. I could steal this night and emerge unscathed.

  My heart hammered as my plan formed. I forced myself to walk slowly as I led Simon to the inner courtyard, and he paused to take in the garden oasis. It was magical. A hidden gem in the middle of the Quarter. The brick walls enclosed a huge live oak, draped with thick blankets of Spanish moss and resurrection fern. Fairy lights and solar-powered Chinese lanterns dangled from the branches. The tinkle of the fountains and the koi pond were the only sounds beyond the noise of the city. The blue water of the small splash pool reflected the lights and the stars.

  “This place is amazing.” Simon spun in a slow circle, taking in the oasis and the spiral staircase that led up to my apartment.

  My plan was crazy, but I had the privacy I needed; Harriet was at an art showing in San Francisco. Simon was going to think I was insane, but in my messed up mind, this was the only way I could make it work. I wanted us on a level playing field, and his shiny black dress shoes, pressed white shirt, and tux pants did nothing but remind me of my past and the light years between our current situations in life.

  My hands trembled as I reached for the hem of my tank and tugged it up and over my head. I let it dangle from my fingertips and float to the ground. My courage faltered as Simon turned to face me, but I kept going. I stepped out of my flip-flops and caught the waist of my pajama pants with my thumbs and tugged them down. His eyes widened comically, and his jaw slackened as he took in my nakedness. I pulled the elastic from my hair and let the waves fall around my shoulders. The black, red, and purple tresses covered my breasts and hid the gold rings that pierced my nipples. I tried to picture myself from his point of view. Inked from shoulders to wrists. Script down my left side, along my ribs. An abstract phoenix down my other side. My legs were pale white, yet untouched by the needle. I was offering him everything I was, stripped down to the core of me—albeit temporarily. I turned and stepped into the splash pool, the warm water rising up to my chest. My hair floated on the surface before sinking down and clinging to me.

  “Are you coming in?” I was proud that my voice didn’t shake. He hadn’t moved, and I couldn’t read his expression. But I wanted him to be as naked as I was—all evidence of his status and position left outside the little bubble I was creating. For tonight, I wanted there to be no past, no future. I just wanted right now. This moment. With him.

  “Charlie—”

  I leaned back and let my body float to the surface as I treaded water with my hands. I never thought the synchronized swimming lessons I’d been forced to take would ever come in handy, but the gracefulness with which I floated proved me wrong.

  “Don’t think, Simon. Just strip.”

  He tugged his bottom lip between even white teeth and hesitated a moment before reaching for his belt and unbuckling it. He unbuttoned his pants and drew down his zipper. I watched, fascinated by his efficient movements. He pushed his pants to the ground, revealing snug black boxer briefs stretched by his thick e
rection. Well, it’s good to know I’m not the only one who thinks this is a good idea.

  He plucked the remaining studs from his shirt and shrugged it off, letting it drop to the ground, before gripping a handful of the back of his white undershirt and pulling it over his head. Underneath it he was all broad shoulders and defined muscles. I let my eyes wander down his rippling abs to the trail of dark hair that began at his navel and disappeared into the gray band of his underwear. He obscured the perfect V of his hips when he hooked his thumbs in the top of his boxer briefs, and my eyes snapped up to his. He was grinning at my unabashed ogling of him. As much as I wanted to look down, I held his stare. He bent slightly, and I knew he was stepping out of his briefs. He crossed the last few feet to the pool, stepped into the water, and came toward me. I paddled toward the far end and he followed.

  “What game are you playing, Charlie?”

  “No game. Just … this.” I spread my arms out wide, gesturing to … everything. Because I couldn’t explain myself any other way without exposing too much.

  Backing me into a corner, he trapped me in the circle of his arms, much like he had earlier at the gate. I reached up and laid my palms against his chest, tracing the compass inked on his pectoral muscle with my index finger. Our skin didn’t touch anywhere else, but mine prickled with the need to feel him against me. I leaned closer, but he grasped my shoulders, effectively holding me back.

  I looked up questioningly.

  “You left me a message, then slammed a gate in my face, then you strip in front of me, and invite me to go skinny dipping. I can’t keep up with you. I need to know what the hell is going on here before it goes any further.”

  I sagged back against the edge of the pool, letting the concrete lip dig into my spine. So much for my hastily constructed plan. An experienced seductress I was not. He must have read the defeat in my expression because he said, “I’m not saying I’m not interested. Hell, I’m buck ass naked, and I can’t exactly hide that I want you. But I need to know … why now? What changed?”

  I stared down at the water, wishing fleetingly that the pool lights were on so I’d know for certain that he still did, in fact, want me. But given the leap I’d taken by stripping naked in front of him, I suppose I owed him at least some sort of an explanation.

  “I decided that, for tonight, I didn’t care that you’re you and I’m me. I decided to take a risk and see what happened.” My answer was vague and without substance, but I hoped it would be enough. Heat pulsed between my legs and my nipples beaded almost painfully. I wanted him. Now.

  But he didn’t relent. “It doesn’t matter who I am or who you are. Tonight or any other night. We’re just people.”

  I held in a snort. Barely. He wouldn’t be in this pool if he knew who I really was. I was poison to someone like him. To everyone.

  Simon tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “If I fuck you tonight, are you going to throw me out on my ass as soon as we’re done and never call me again?”

  I bit my lip. Damn. He should be a freaking interrogator instead of a politician. But I wasn’t going to lie to him. At least not about this. “Probably.”

  He released my chin and backed away. “Then, no.” He shook his head. “This isn’t happening. Not tonight.” He turned and made his way to the stairs. I caught a flash of his pale, muscular ass as he climbed out of the pool. I looked down at the water, hot humiliation filling me. What the hell am I doing? I sank farther beneath the surface, up to my chin. I needed to be covered. I heard the rustle of clothes and wondered how he was drying off without a towel. But I didn’t look up to assuage my curiosity. I’d given in to curiosity once already tonight, and this was where it landed me. In a pool of my own shame.

  He cleared his throat, and I finally looked up. He was wearing his tux pants, and the shirt was partially buttoned. He held his soaked white undershirt in his hand. One question answered.

  His hazel eyes drilled into me. “You have my number. Call me when you want more than a quick fuck.”

  And then he was gone.

  I spent all day Sunday ricocheting between being pissed and embarrassed. My hangover didn’t help matters. After Simon left, I’d uncorked that second bottle of wine and drowned both my shame and my desire. When Monday rolled around, I’d decided that I’d dodged a bullet. It was a moment of weakness. I wanted to hate him for walking away, but for some reason, it made me respect him. It gave me a glimpse of his true character. I had to assume that most guys would have taken what I had offered and been happy to get laid and then bail without guilt. But not Simon Duchesne. He wanted more than a quick fuck. But I wasn’t capable of more. Not now, and not for the foreseeable future. Or was I?

  If I was giving off mixed signals before, now my emotions were spinning like the weathervane at our country estate. Former country estate, actually. Since it had been auctioned off by the feds. Dammit. Wasn’t thinking about that today.

  I glided up to the Dirty Dog, parked my bike, and chained it to the drainpipe next to the back door. I was seriously contemplating taking Huck to obedience school. He was getting bolder when it came to the horse-drawn carriages. So my choices included: obedience school, not riding my bike while holding his leash, or leaving him at home to laze around in the oasis all day. But I liked to think that he preferred to be where I was. It hadn’t helped that I’d seen a dark-haired guy in a suit and ended up distracted by thoughts of Simon.

  The store was quiet when I unlocked the back door, and Huck trotted inside. Usually Yve beat me to work every day. Maybe she’d taken her own advice and gone out and gotten herself a man for the night. She was cagey about her past, but I had a feeling that her last relationship hadn’t ended well. She referred to the guy as only the ‘ex’ so I didn’t even know his name. I calculated it had ended around the time I showed up in New Orleans, because she was distant during our first few months of working together. We hadn’t really become close until last September when we’d discovered our mutual love of classic rock and punk bands. In a city that revered jazz and partied to zydeco, classic rock and punk weren’t exactly at the top of the play list. After she’d let her guard down some, we’d gone barhopping with the tourists down Bourbon Street. Our friendship had been cemented while holding each other’s hair back at Pat O’Brien’s. As a Crescent City native, Yve would never admit to the indignity, and I was sworn to secrecy.

  She strolled in fifteen minutes late with a wide, satisfied smile.

  “You totally got laid this morning, didn’t you?” I asked.

  Her smile, if possible, got wider. “Oh, hell yes I did. You never told me that Con was a stallion in the sack.”

  Ummm. What the fuck?

  I gaped. “Seriously? I mean … what the hell?”

  When she registered my look of shock, her feline smile faded. “Oh shit. I thought you were … done with your friends with bennies thing with him. I never would have if I’d thought you were…”

  I held up a hand. “It’s fine. I’m not jealous. I’m just … surprised.” And I wasn’t jealous. I didn’t even feel a pang. It was like my body had moved on from Con Leahy and wanted someone new. He who would remain unnamed.

  “So what happened with Simon Duchesne?” Yve asked.

  Okay, maybe he wouldn’t remain unnamed.

  “Nothing. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.” To myself I added, Except I sort of threw myself at him and saw him naked. And good God…

  Yve leaned back against the counter. “That’s too many ‘nothings’ in one sentence for that to be the truth. Spill, girl.”

  “Do I have to?” I winced at my whiny tone. It was not attractive.

  “After that answer, hell yes, you do.” She crossed her arms and pinned me with her amber stare. I took in her golden brown skin and curly dark locks. She had on a teal halter dress with pink and teal platforms.

  “You look really cute today, by the way.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Spill. Now.”

  I rolled my e
yes and spilled. Her mouth was hanging open by the time I finished recounting the events of Saturday night.

  “So you see, it was a humiliating mess. And I’m better off having dodged that bullet.”

  She closed her gaping mouth and tapped a finger to her lips. “Dayum. Only you, Charlie. Only you would find a guy who won’t let you ‘one night’ him. I gotta see this man who’s got your wet panties in a twist.” She moved behind the counter and started typing. I could only assume she was Googling him. I forced myself to stay where I was.

  “Holy shit. Now that’s a man. Damn, can he wear black tie. And in a uniform…” She fanned herself. I clenched my fists, embracing the sting of my nails digging into my palms. She started to read. “Simon Jefferson Duchesne. Age thirty-one. Highly decorated fighter pilot honorably discharged from the Navy two years ago, after he spent a year teaching at his alma mater, the United States Naval Academy in Annapolis. Only son of Jefferson Duchesne and Margaret LeBlanc Duchesne. The senior Mr. Duchesne served sixteen years as a congressman for Louisiana’s 2nd Congressional District, leaving his seat to run for governor. After he was defeated in his gubernatorial bid, he purchased a small Mississippi River shipping company, Southern Cross Logistics, which he has grown over the past decade to the ranks of the Fortune 500. Currently, the younger Mr. Duchesne is serving as vice president of Southern Cross, in addition to being a councilman for District A of the NOLA City Council. It is rumored he will be announcing his candidacy this fall to challenge the incumbent for his father’s congressional seat.”

  I’d known the bare bones of this information, but hearing the details just highlighted our differences, once again reminding me why it was better I avoided him. I tried to tell myself this was a good thing. Then she continued.

  “Simon Duchesne is frequently accompanied to charity events by long-time friend Vanessa Frost. Rumors abound as to the couple’s status, and all are speculating whether Mr. Duchesne will pop the question prior to hitting the campaign trail. Ms. Frost is the daughter of Royce Frost, CEO of Louisiana Steel Products, and the late Amelia Bennett Frost, heiress to the Bennett textile empire…”