by Amy Ruttan
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Masque of Desire
ISBN 9781419913761
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Masque of Desire Copyright © 2007 Amy Ruttan
Edited by Shannon Combs.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication September 2007
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Masque of Desire
Amy Ruttan
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
PT Cruiser: Daimler Chrysler Corporation Delaware
Snoopy: United Feature Syndicate, Inc.
Chapter One
“I don’t really want to go, Deanna,” Miranda Carter protested as her best friend tightened her corset. “Christ, don’t pull the damn thing so tight.”
“Miranda, you want your costume to be authentic, don’t you? You want to win best costume, don’t you?”
“No, you want me to win best costume. I couldn’t care less,” Miranda said as she ran her hands down her even thinner waist. “How did these women breathe?”
“Who needed to breathe when you had sexy cavaliers at your disposal?” Deanna sighed, sitting down on Miranda’s bed to survey her handiwork. “I wish I were going to the masquerade. I would love to wear a costume like that.”
“Do you want to go in my place?” Miranda asked, spinning around. “I mean, if you want to go instead of me, feel free. I would be more than happy to oblige you.”
“No thanks, Miranda. Besides, you’re the attorney who helped that zillionaire client of yours from Europe buy and fix up the place. You have to represent your firm.”
Miranda snorted. Sure, there was representing your firm and then there was acting like a fool on Halloween. When was the last time she dressed up like this and trick-or-treated? Not in a long time, not since her parents split up when she was eight, then there was no time to trick or treat with two younger siblings to take care of.
All her life she had strived to survive and take care of her family since her father had left them. She took on the role of father figure. Miranda wanted to succeed where her father had failed.
She worked her way through Harvard Law and worked her way to youngest partner in her firm. At the age of thirty-three she had it all. Except a man.
Miranda had no time for relationships and any brief liaisons she did have had been short and unfulfilling. Then again, who needed a man when she had a perfectly good vibrator in her nightstand drawer?
“Besides, I have a hot date with Nick tonight,” Deanna said, happily interrupting her thoughts.
“So tonight’s the night?”
“Yes, tonight it is. I’ve rented all the old horror classics to snuggle up and, well, you know.” Deanna waggled her eyebrows suggestively.
“Yeah, I remember,” Miranda said offhandedly. She smoothed down the skirt of her eighteenth-century French costume. It was very beautiful but too constricting. How the heck did women live in these things? Miranda wondered bitterly again. “I really wish it wasn’t themed. If I had my choice to dress up I would have gone as—”
“Either an attorney or something equally boring!” Deanna said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Have fun tonight, Miranda. For once let your hair down, it’s a masquerade, for crying out loud. You’ll be masked the whole night. No one will know who you were if you want to have some fun.”
“Come on, Dee. Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not and you should be for once,” Deanna said seriously, handing her the black sequined velveteen mask. Miranda put the mask up to her face. “Let loose, you’re uptight. It’s one night. Have some fun.”
Miranda stared at herself in the mirror. The mask certainly covered most of her face, except for her brilliant blue eyes and red lips. Maybe tonight would be a good opportunity for a one-night stand.
* * * * *
As the limo pulled up the long gravel drive of the restored Georgian plantation on the outskirts of New Orleans, Miranda felt the butterflies in her stomach go ballistic.
Just tell the driver to turn around, you don’t have to do this. She still couldn’t figure out why she had finally agreed and actually came to this foolhardy masquerade. She had finally convinced herself that it was for a client, a very important client. Now under the light of a full harvest moon, the realization of the foolishness of a bunch of business-men and -women dressing in eighteenth-century French costumes was ridiculous. And attending a mock masquerade of the time of the great plantation owners in New Orleans seemed utterly unrealistic.
“We’re here, Ms. Carter,” the driver said as he opened the door. He held out his hand and she, for once, took it, as the crazy getup she was wearing prevented her from exiting gracefully.
“Bloody hoops,” she cursed under her breath.
She climbed from the limo with as much dignity as she could muster. She could barely see a thing with the damn mask on.
The house, which had once been rotting to nothing, had been easily purchased for her client, Aleksandr Valquet, for a nominal fee. Through his aides and his assistants Miranda had helped the French billionaire get building permits, contractors and materials to restore the plantation to its former glory.
And she must admit that it was beautiful. She stared up at the white stucco masterpiece, lit up against the verdant moss-covered willows under the bright harvest moon. It was like something from Interview with the Vampire. A shiver raced down her spine as she looked up at the spectacular Georgian home. Torches lit the path all the way up to the mahogany double doors.
As the limo pulled away Miranda had the strangest feeling she was being watched. She looked over her shoulder and a small old woman dressed in black stood in the shadows by the trees. The woman’s eyes were fixed intently on her.
The woman was cloaked in black, her long gray hair blowing around her face in the gentle breeze. Miranda couldn’t help but stare at her. The little old woman seemed familiar to her. Then suddenly Miranda had a vision that washed over her like a wave. She saw a roaring bonfire and the old woman clapping her hands in time with the sensuous sound of the violin.
Gypsies was Miranda’s first thought. She knew over a century ago this land was covered in caravans. Heck, even now New Orleans peddled voodoo priests and other forms of magic to tourists.
“Mira,” came a whispered voice on the wind. Miranda quickly looked toward the house, when she saw no one there she turned back to the trees but the old woman was gone. “Mira, welcome home,” the voice said faintly in the breeze that rustled the leaves in the trees. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she listened to the voice calling her name—a rich, deep, male voice. “Mira.”
“Welcome to Violet Hall. May I see your invitation please?”
Miranda startled at the sound of the doorman’s Cajun accent, before handing the liveried and powdered-wigged man her gilded invitation. He scanned it quickly in the torchlight. He smiled and bowed, adding to the old-world charm.
“Very good, Ms. Carter. Again, welcome to Violet Hall. Monsieur Valquet asks that all guests remain masked until midnight, when all will be revealed. If you will follow me up to the house.”
A shiver passed down Miranda’s spine. All will be revealed, what did that mean
? She brushed it off as she followed the doorman up the gravel path toward Violet Hall.
As they neared the house, she paused briefly, feeling that someone was still watching her. She stared back and saw a marble statue of a man. A mausoleum, unmarked and lit up by floodlights. The bust of the occupant of the tomb was what intrigued her. Without a doubt, the occupant had been a handsome man. She could not tell the color of his hair, or his eyes, because he had been carved in white marble. He had a strong face, with a delectable cleft in his chin.
She just stared up at the man’s face, mesmerized by the poignant expression set deep within the stone. She felt a rush of heat flood her veins as she stared up at the cold, marble face. It seemed familiar to her, as if she had seen that stone face before.
“Ms. Carter?” the doorman asked from a few feet away.
“Do you know who this is?” she asked.
“Ah, no one knows his name but he was the original owner of Violet Hall over two hundred and fifty years ago. Have you never heard of the curse of Violet Hall before?”
“No, I haven’t,” Miranda said quickly.
“Apparently, the previous owner crossed the paths of a mad voodoo priestess. She condemned him to sleep forever until his one true love wakens him.”
Miranda snorted. “A reverse sleeping beauty, huh?”
“Sort of. The man disappeared two hundred and fifty years ago today. Myths are that the original owner appears every Halloween looking for his one true love to break the curse.” The doorman chuckled. “Of course, it’s all a romantic myth. The mausoleum was opened, there was a body that had obviously been in there for over two hundred years.”
“Hmmm,” Miranda said seductively, returning her attention to the marble bust. “Too bad it was only a myth.” As she spoke those words, the wind whipped through the trees, the flame in the torches around her snapped and sparked. She felt a chill run down her spine.
“Come, Ms. Carter, it’s much more hospitable inside.”
Miranda nodded and followed the doorman back down the path. The night was suddenly silent and all she heard was the crunching of gravel beneath her feet. She looked back at the mausoleum and thought she saw the fleeting glimpse of a figure in the shadow of the crypt.
Chapter Two
Miranda walked around the room. She was dying of heat. The crush of bodies, the heat from the electric and the authentic oil lamps made the ballroom absolutely sweltering. This must be how our forefathers felt, poor bastards. She felt the sweat trickle down from the nape of her neck and pool between her breasts, which had been smashed and pushed out by the strict confines of the corset beneath her mantua, height of fashion in the mid-eighteenth century, or at least that’s what Dee had told her when she complained about the complex costume.
She waved her fan, the one that Deanna had included with her costume when Dee made it. Note to self, kiss Dee when this is all over.
She stood by the open double patio doors, leaning against the doorjamb, letting the tepid autumn breeze lick at her skin. She could see the other homes surrounding the grounds by the glow of jack-o’-lanterns. Why am I here? she thought.
She didn’t recognize anyone because of the masks. Apparently, Monsieur Valquet felt that it added to the mystery.
Everything about this masquerade was historically accurate, the music, the trained dancers performing minuets and quadrilles for the guests’ entertainment. The food was accurate to eighteenth-century Louisiana. That’s what the invitation had boasted about this shindig. An eighteenth-century masquerade on All Hallow’s Eve, a Masque of Desire. Totally cheesy but Monsieur Valquet had done a good job pulling it off.
As Miranda looked over the estate she almost expected to see one of Anne Rice’s vampires strolling up the path.
“May I ask what you are thinking about, mademoiselle?”
Miranda startled at the heavy French accent that purred in her ear. She turned her head to see a tall, broad-chested masked man leaning over her, smiling. He had a cleft in his chin and sparkling green eyes. That was all Miranda could see from behind the black scarf mask tied around his face. She leisurely perused the rest of his body. He was decked out all in black—his waistcoat, vest and shirt. What intrigued her most were the very tight breeches he wore that showed off very muscular thighs. Miranda had to admit that men’s clothing of the eighteenth century left nothing to the imagination.
She could feel the heat emanating from his body, due to the closeness. His breath was cool on her hot skin, causing goose bumps to rise down her neck. She felt her heart beat faster. He was so close she could smell the spiciness of his warm body.
“I don’t share my thoughts with strange men.”
He looked surprised. “Well, how about just for tonight. I cannot tell you my name, yet.”
“Look.” Miranda was about to tell this man where to stick it and she wasn’t in the mood to play these silly games. Play along, have some fun, it’s been so long since a man paid attention to you. “All right, I was thinking about vampires,” she said coyly, waiting for his response.
He chuckled. His voice, rich and deep. “Vampires, now that is something I have not heard of before. Could it be the date that reminds you of vampires so?” he asked, his voice heavily accented.
She laughed. She liked the sound of his voice—it had an old-world quality to it. “Well…no, not really. It has nothing to do with Halloween.”
“Ah, Halloween. Yes, that is what you call it. Halloween.”
“What do you call it then?”
“All Hallow’s Eve.”
Miranda laughed. “Maybe, you’re certainly taking on this role seriously.”
“Role?” he asked frowning. “What do you mean by role?”
Damn, Miranda, stick with the act. Don’t blow it. “Sorry, monsieur. You can forget my last remark.”
He seemed happy then he nodded his head. “Bonne.” He held out his arm. “Dare you take a walk with a complete stranger?”
Warning bells immediately went off in her head. She would never, under any circumstances, walk into unfamiliar territory with a stranger but Monsieur Valquet would hardly invite any dangerous criminals to his party. Do it, a little voice inside her head said. Do whatever he wants, you’ll never have another chance. Live a little.
“All right, I shall.” She took his arm and she could feel his muscles under the sleeve of his tight black waistcoat.
“Would you like a tour of the house, or perhaps the garden?”
“House, I think,” she replied. He smiled and led her across the ballroom to the double doors that led out into a dark hallway.
She’d rather walk with a stranger in a house occupied by fifty or so partygoers, than wander unlit grounds with a stranger. Although, she wasn’t thinking he was a stranger anymore. Only the owner would offer her a tour, which meant her handsome stranger was probably Monsieur Valquet, whom she had yet to meet.
This was the man her firm wanted to impress and she would impress him and play along with his games. It might be fun, Miranda thought to herself. It also didn’t hurt that Monsieur Valquet seemed a prime specimen. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen such a hot man before. You can have your cake and eat it too.
Miranda could feel his rippled muscles under the taut fabric of his waistcoat. She could feel the heat of his body and the feel of his breath against her neck, which caused her heart to beat faster, her pulse quicken. She thought about what it would be like to be wrapped up in his warmth.
“Follow me then, ma chere,” he whispered in her ear.
He was so close to her, her lips went dry as she thought of him pressed against her. A mental image flashed through her mind. She saw herself against the wall, her bare legs wrapped around him, her skirt hiked to her waist as he pounded into her.
Miranda fanned herself as she walked into the entranceway. She realized the image of them together was from this hallway. She had a sudden, intense feeling of déjà vu.
As they walked out into t
he hallway, he immediately led her to the stairs.
“Shall we start with the upstairs first?” he asked.
“I don’t see why not,” she replied. She had been longing to see what kind of restoration had been made to the house.
He led her up the stairs and she saw that apparently they were not the only ones who had that idea. She heard the steady creak of a bed from one of the chambers at the top of the stairs. The closer they got to the upper floor, the louder the moaning became.
The nerve of some people! was her first thought, then, she envied them. Envied their unbridled want to be able to fuck in someone else’s house.
She felt her blood heat and her pulse race at the thought. She wished it was her.
“Are you jealous of them?” her companion asked, shattering her reverie.
“What?” she asked hoarsely.
“I asked you, ma chere, if you were jealous.”
“No—I,” she faltered. She couldn’t think of a plausible excuse. He pushed her up against a paneled wall with his arms on either side of her face.
“I could accommodate you,” he whispered huskily into her ear. “That’s what we’re all here for, is it not?”
She felt him press his hard body into hers. Even through the folds of fabric she could feel his hard cock against her thigh. His lips mere inches from hers. His spicy scent wrapped her up, enveloping her body, enflaming her senses.
Her initial reaction was to knee him in the groin and tell him to fuck off before she called the cops but she didn’t do that. Instead, she pictured herself impaled on his cock, riding him up and down. She pictured him going down on her, his tongue tracing the lips of her pussy. It had been too long since she had a good, hard fuck.
“Ma chere, that is the purpose of these masquerades. To let the inhibitions flow free, you will remain masked, as will I. We can enjoy each other, as strangers. Neither one of us would know.”
