"How could I say no to a name like that?" she asked, hit with a sudden, almost unrecognizable urge to flirt.
He poured a tasting into her cup. "I'll take that as a good sign."
It was strange being so close to him, Trish thought, and yet somehow familiar, perhaps because they'd been watching each other since she'd arrived. The mask focused her attention on his mouth, which was taut enough to make her certain he was strong, enticing enough to make her wonder what it would feel like to kiss him.
And wonder what his face would look like uncovered.
She sipped the wine and nodded, holding out her cup for more. She watched as he filled her glass. Sandy-brown hair, maybe, or blond, she thought, judging by the Vandyke and the light hairs on the back of his wrist. He had the long fingers and corded tendons of some artisan skilled with his hands, and he passed her the sake with a careless grace.
Trish raised her eyes from her cup to his face. "And you, my lord? What would please you?"
"Choosing just one thing would be the trick," he said, rubbing his knuckles against his jaw. "And will you obey my command if I do?"
Butterflies tickled her stomach. "A dominatrix serving the Marquis? It's sort of like an irresistible force meeting an immovable object, isn't it?"
He considered. "Something of an impasse, it's true."
"I suppose we could arm wrestle."
"Hardly seems fair to you."
"Don't be too sure," she disagreed. "All that whipping keeps me in shape."
His smile widened. "So I see. Maybe I'll just settle for talking you into pouring me some sake and coming out on the deck."
She felt a little self-conscious as he watched her choose a cup and pour the wine, but there was pleasure in being the object of his attention. "Your drink, my lord," she said, inclining her head.
A corner of his mouth twitched as he took the cup she offered and clicked it against hers. "To unexpected pleasures."
Trish flushed. "Unexpected pleasures," she echoed.
Outside, the air was faintly cool with the first breath of fall. The dark water of the canal that ran along in front of Sabrina's house reflected the stars. The trees glimmered with fairy lights, the same winking dots that outlined the curved stone bridges that crossed the water. "It doesn't seem real. It's like a little slice of Italy, isn't it?" Trish leaned on the railing. "Only in L.A."
"Land of play-acting?" he asked, walking up to stand beside her.
"Indeed." He was taller than she was, Trish realized, even though she was wearing heels. She caught a whiff of something clean that might have been cologne, or perhaps just soap. Whatever it was, it smelled all male. Adrenaline sang in her veins. "And are you play-acting tonight, Marquis?"
"No more than you. You wear it well, by the way. It almost looks real."
She sipped her sake and gave him an amused look. "Maybe it is."
"I don't think so."
"Maybe I worked late and didn't have time to change."
"So you came straight over here exhausted from all that whipping and getting your feet kissed?" Behind the mask, his eyes gleamed with humor. "Just lost track of time, did you?"
"You know how it is," Trish said flippantly. "When you love what you do, it doesn't seem like work."
He studied her, his head tilted to one side, then shook it briskly. "Nope, don't buy it. I don't see you getting off on spanking some balding, overweight CEO."
"Ah, but that's just it. You just don't know, do you?" She propped a hand on the wide, wooden railing and slid the other down the curve of her waist. "'Neath this quiet exterior could lie the soul of a committed disciplinarian," she said, riding the giddy rush of fun. Perhaps it was the anonymity of the mask that set her free. If she could see his whole face, he'd probably be the kind of good-looking guy who would make her freeze up. Dressed as he was, he was just a pair of hot eyes and a silky voice, a presence in the night. "Just wait until you're in my clutches and don't have a choice."
Immediately, he seemed much closer. "Oh? Am I going to be in your clutches tonight?"
Her breathing tightened. "I suppose that's up to you." A beat went by.
"Mmm. The Marquis de Sade as a submissive? No, there would be riots in S&M land."
Amusement bubbled up and quickly the tension evaporated. "You could tell them you're finding your feminine side."
The Marquis laughed. "I'd prefer your feminine side."
It felt different, Trish realized abruptly. She wasn't uncomfortable, she wasn't tongue-tied. She wasn't miserable and hoping she could leave. She was actually having fun.
And she was turned on.
"Does that mean you're asking me to take you on as a client, after all?"
"Brings us back to that irresistible force problem, doesn't it?"
"No dominatrix worth her salt would let a client wear a mask without her permission. Take it off so I can see your face, and then I'll decide."
"You want me to take it off?" He set down his sake cup and raised one hand toward his face.
Anticipation had her pulse thudding a little faster. "I like to know who I'm dealing with."
"That's less about the looks and more about the person, isn't it? Image shouldn't be everything, even in L.A."
"That's usually my line," she said ruefully.
He inclined his head. "Thanks for the loan."
"Still, it's hardly fair that you get to see my face and I don't get to see yours."
He chuckled softly. "Perhaps I have my reasons."
"You can always put it back on." The urge to see his face was fast becoming a craving.
He just drained his sake cup. "It's a slippery slope, mistress. Some things cannot be undone."
"Coward," she mocked him.
A corner of his mouth tugged up in amusement and he glanced down at the flail that stuck out of his pocket. "Careful what you call a man who's holding a whip."
Trish laughed. "Good point. In that case, can I get you some more sake, my lord?"
"Only if you promise to continue our conversation when you return."
"It might be bad for my reputation if I follow your orders." She didn't want to leave. She wanted to stay and bask in this new feeling.
"Look at it as coincidence. What I want just happens to be what you feel like doing." He reached out for her hand and brought it to his lips.
It was the contrast that did it. Cool air, warm lips. Rough wood, soft skin. The touch of another where there hadn't been one in so long. For an instant, it was as though every nerve in her body were centered in the small patch of skin over her knuckles and she could only absorb it. She thought more, and I want and don't stop.
He lowered her hand and closed her fingers around the ceramic sake cup.
Her alter ego no doubt would have had something sexy and provocative to say. Trish considered it a triumph that she remained upright and mobile.
The Marquis gave her a mischievous look. "Sake?" he asked.
She walked back inside, closing the sliding door behind her.
It was two different worlds, the quiet, private dimness of the deck outside and the warmth and hubbub of indoors. Trish turned to the sake bar, looking out into the night to see the Marquis watching her. She was trembling a bit, and yet talking with him, being with him didn't tie her in knots the way it did with other men. It was exciting but in a way that made her feel larger than life, as though she were the best possible version of herself.
Shaking her head at her fancy, she reached out for the sake carafe.
"I been a bad boy, mistress," slurred a voice behind her. It was the cowboy from earlier, looking a bit the worse for wear and more than a little drunk. "You should dis'pline me."
"Sorry, I'm off the clock," Trish said briefly, turning to glance back out at the Marquis.
"You're not dressed to be off'a clock. You're dressed to find a man, aren'cha," the cowboy said swaying, making her look at him again. "Well, I'm your man."
"I don't need one, thanks," she said with a force
d laugh.
"'Course you need one." He moved close enough that she could smell the liquor on his breath.
The sushi chef had gone off to resupply, she realized. Though she heard music and the hum of conversation downstairs, the loft was empty. She searched for a way to shut him down but all the quick flippancy of her alter ego had suddenly deserted her. And the cowboy showed zero sign of going away. "I'm not looking for company," Trish said stiffly, trying to ignore the way he was staring at her breasts.
"Lissen to you. Oh, man, you're the kinda woman gets a guy right here," he said, grabbing his crotch. "You know, y'look so hot but then you just cut it off."
The effervescence she'd been feeling evaporated abruptly. Suddenly, she felt exposed in her scandalous party clothes. With confidence, they were high adventure; without, they merely made her vulnerable. She wished for a T-shirt, a sweatshirt, the loosest, biggest, bulkiest clothing she could find. She wished she were hidden, or a hundred miles away. Instead, she wrapped her arms around herself. "Look, I've got to go."
But he stood close, trapping her against the sake table. "Y'not gonna talk to me? Y' put on that li'l bit a nothin' and come on and then act like I shouldn' notice?" His voice rose a little.
She was in Sabrina's house, Trish reminded herself, and there was a room full of people downstairs. She was perfectly safe, she just needed to find a good way to end the conversation, and then leave. She kept her voice calm—strained, perhaps, but calm. "Look, I'm sure you're a nice guy," she began.
"I look atcha and I'm a walkin' hard-on. I—"
"Are you ready to go look at that Warhol?" the Marquis asked from behind her. His fingers slipped around her elbow and Trish could have wept from relief.
"I'd love to."
"Excuse us," he said to the cowboy. Trish couldn't help noticing that he had several inches in height and a couple of inches in shoulders on the cowboy, who stared back at him in confusion. "I said excuse us," the Marquis repeated in a hard voice and Trish let him steer her to the stairs.
"Were we talking about a Warhol?" she asked in a low tone as they descended.
"No. You just looked as though you weren't particularly enjoying your conversation with Cowboy Bob, there. I figured I'd give you an excuse to leave if you wanted one. No, don't look up, he's still watching you."
"God," she said unsteadily, "I know how to pick 'em."
"I don't believe that was your choice." He turned at the living-room level and steered her down another half flight of stairs to the dining room. "In through here," the Marquis said, guiding her with a gentle touch in the small of her back.
They stood in the warm glow of Sabrina's kitchen, away from the music and the crowd. The caterers had set up in the garage, so for the moment all was quiet. The Marquis watched her as she leaned against the counter, rubbing her arms. "Something to drink?" he asked.
Trish looked at him blankly. Quickly, he began opening cabinet doors until he found tumblers.
"You shouldn't be going through her cabinets," Trish said faintly, but she accepted the iced water that he pressed on her.
"I think she'll forgive me."
The feel of the cold glass in her fingers made her shiver.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "What the hell did he say to you?"
Trish shook her head and took a deep breath. "Nothing much. It's okay." A woman like Delaney or Kelly would have told the cowboy to go to hell and gone about their business with no more than a passing thought. Why was it she'd never learned how? Don't think about it, she ordered herself, and with conscious thought dropped her hands back to rest on the edges of the counter at her sides. "Thanks for not making a scene."
"Fights tend to lead to broken furniture and unhappy hostesses," he said mildly. "I try to avoid them."
"You've been very nice."
"You make it easy." His eyes had glints of gold in them, she saw, as they looked back at her from behind the mask. The seconds stretched out. He cleared his throat. "There really is a Warhol over in the dining room. Do you want to see it?"
Trish gave a shaky laugh. "Sure."
* * *
"So I never knew Warhol did abstracts," Trish said, sitting on the kitchen counter and dangling her legs. "I just knew the pop art stuff." She took a drink of her water.
The Marquis had taken his frock coat off and tossed it over a chair in the breakfast nook. Now he leaned against the counter next to her. "Yep, Michelangelo gets remembered for the Sistine Chapel and old Andy gets soup cans and Marilyn Monroe. There's a legacy for you—soup."
"It could be worse," she explained, watching him roll up his sleeves over sinewy forearms. Watching him in his mask. "George Borden's claim to fame was evaporated milk."
"And then there was the toilet designer, Thomas Crapper—"
"Who we remember for obvious reasons," she finished with a laugh. It was good to be talking idle foolishness. The memory of the drunken cowboy was disappearing, replaced by the easy presence of the Marquis.
"I suppose it would be worthwhile to leave your name behind on something you did," he said thoughtfully. "What would you want to be remembered for?"
"You first."
He pondered it. "Self-mowing lawns, I think. I'd gold plate my lawn mower and put it on a pedestal as yard art."
"Not big on yard work?"
"Summer afternoons should be for drinking beer and sitting in a hammock, not for going at the grass with a freakishly loud machine." He took a sip of his water. "And what about you?"
Watching him swallow scattered her thoughts for a moment. "Um, I don't know … never-ending hot water," she threw out.
"The endless shower?"
"Exactly. It would stay hot long enough for anything. You'd have time to condition your hair or scrub your back or…" The sudden visceral image of rubbing up against a slippery, soapy male body stopped her short.
She glanced up to find the Marquis's eyes on her. "Or?" he prompted.
"Just get really hot," she managed, then flushed. "I mean…" She cast about for conversation. "So how do you know Sabrina?"
His laughing eyes were trained on hers. "Oh, we've known each other since we were kids."
"Really? Does that make you another rich Hollywood baby?"
"Not at Sabrina's level. How do you know her?"
"College. We met working on a play."
"What was your role?"
Trish snorted. "Me, an actor? No way. I'm happier behind the scenes."
"You're center stage in that outfit."
"Don't believe everything you see." And she had to remember that she wasn't her alter ego, that she'd be going back to plain old Trish after the party was over. That she wouldn't have a sexy man dancing attendance on her and making her laugh.
"So what did you do on the play?" He pulled at his complicated cravat, untying it.
"Script doctor. You're losing your look, you know."
"Yeah, but I'm much more comfortable." He pulled off the cravat and unbuttoned the top buttons on his shirt so that she could see the strong column of his throat.
"I know, I know, image isn't everything." With his shirt loose he looked amazingly sexy, like the lord of the manor just before he set about seducing the scullery maid.
"Hello?"
She'd drifted off, Trish realized. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Is that what you do now?" he repeated, rolling up his sleeves. "Write scripts?"
"In my dreams. I work for my sister. She's got a home concierge business. You know, grocery shopping, picking up dry cleaning, you name it."
"We do it all?"
"That was our old motto. Now it's Amber's Assistants: Servicing the Stars."
He laughed, seemingly before he could help himself. "Can't you get arrested for that?"
"I know, I know," she said ruefully, "but once Amber gets an idea in her head, she's hard to stop. Anyway, ever since the anesthesiologist from Boston Memorial signed on, she's been hot for the Hollywood vote."
"If you'd go t
o work dressed like that, Hollywood would probably be hot for you, too."
His appraising look made a little pulse of arousal surge through her. "Oh, yeah. I can just see myself dropping by the vet's office dressed like this."
"You could tell them you were doing a show."
She shrugged. "It's a living until I find something better. What about you? What do you do?"
"What do I do?" he repeated. "That's a good question."
"I know you're not a professional Marquis de Sade."
He studied her for a moment. "Well, it depends on how you define professional. Actually I—"
A sudden commotion came from the living room, and over it rose Sabrina's voice. "Okay, guys, show time. Everyone into the living room. True Sex is starting."
The Marquis looked at her. "I think we're being summoned."
All the party guests were clustered around the wide-screen TV. Trish might have been tall, and taller still in her heels, but in front of her rose a nearly impenetrable wall of heads and shoulders. She made a noise of frustration.
"Over here," the Marquis whispered, pulling her to the stairs across the room. "It's not close, but at least you'll be able to see something. Stand on the step." His hand was warm under her elbow, guiding her onto the stair. She felt an abrupt, fierce longing for a touch that was more than just a hug among friends.
And the documentary began.
Bare skin. Naked bodies. Unapologetic sexuality. Sabrina had vowed that her documentary was going to be something new and she was right. It wasn't cold and academic, it was natural, unguarded, often undignified.
And at times, completely and utterly erotic.
Trish watched the screen, but her awareness was focused on the man standing behind her. All she could think about was the heat, that magical warmth of another human body. She watched a couple take a lap dancing lesson, the man kissing his partner exuberantly at the end, and the wistful desire for the same kind of intimacy rose up in her. So many years, she thought, it had been so many years since anyone had touched her like that. She swayed lightly, hit by the sudden, intense need to lean back against the Marquis.
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