Masked Intentions [Unmasking Prometheus] (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Diana Bold

  While his thoughts raced, she held his gaze pleadingly and reached once more for the mask.

  With a growl of frustration, he tossed her back on the mattress and rolled away, standing up and putting his coat and cloak back on with angry, jerky movements. “This was a mistake,” he told her roughly, unable to look at her. “You want too much of me, Vanessa. I suppose I should have known that would happen, but I’m just not ready. I can’t trust anyone with this secret. Believe me, beneath this mask I’m not who you think I am.”

  “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Just come back to bed. If you’re not ready to show me your face, that’s all right. I can be patient. Just please, don’t go.”

  He squared his shoulders against the temptation. He’d been such a fool. He should have known he couldn’t hide behind the mask forever. He’d just hoped he had a little more time…

  The mask taunted him from the chair where he’d laid it. Unable to bear the thought of putting it on right now, he left it there. He had several more at home.

  “When will I see you again?” she asked as he strode toward the window.

  “You won’t,” he answered, forcing a coldness he didn’t feel to his voice as he swung through the window, leaving his heart behind with the mask. “I’m never coming back.”

  Chapter Eight

  Vanessa sank slowly back against her pillows, tears stinging her eyes. Her gaze fell upon the mask he’d left behind, and she blinked away the tears, anger chasing away the pain.

  What was the matter with him? They’d been so close in those moments before she’d tried to unmask him. She knew how difficult it must have been for him to share his pain about losing Bridget, had felt that he trusted her enough to finally let her see him for who he really was.

  Maybe she’d been wrong to push the matter, but how could he expect her to make love to him without even knowing his name?

  Was he really Adrian Strathmore?

  She closed her eyes and relived the moments she’d spent with him, trying to visualize Morgan Strathmore’s features and remember his voice. In her heart, she was so sure she’d put the pieces together. Prometheus didn’t want to take off the mask, not because he didn’t trust her to keep his identity a secret, but because he didn’t want her to see his scarred face.

  Did he really think so little of her, to believe that his scars would matter? Though they’d only spent a handful of hours together, she felt as though she knew him far better than anyone else in her life. The conversations they’d shared, the sweet kisses they’d exchanged… He was beautiful to her, no matter what he looked like.

  Her anger faded as she realized how very much someone must have hurt him. There had to be a reason why he feared that she wouldn’t accept him, because surely he knew how much he had come to mean to her. Why wasn’t he willing to take the chance?

  With trembling hands, she reached out and grabbed the mask, bringing it to her face and peering out the eyeholes, breathing in a lingering trace of his scent that clung to the fabric.

  She tried to imagine how it would feel to live this way, hiding in the dark, every breath stifled. Gasping, she wrenched the thing away. It made her feel claustrophobic, suffocated.

  He’d said he wasn’t going to come back, but she didn’t believe him. This thing between them was too powerful for him to stay away forever. Perhaps, after a day or two, he’d realize how foolish he’d been and return.

  Next time, she promised herself she’d tell him she already knew who he was. Somehow, she had to convince him she’d still be attracted to him, no matter how extensive the scars behind the mask were.

  * * * *

  After leaving Vanessa’s flat, Adrian found himself back near Madame Mamie’s, standing in the shadows across the street, watching the customers come and go, fury and self-loathing roiling within him.

  The only thing that had ever given his life meaning was the work he’d done as Prometheus. “Perhaps it’s time for you to lie low,” she’d said, and he knew she was right. Roger was on to him. The close calls he’d had on his last two missions proved that, but he also knew he wasn’t going to stop.

  Especially now that he no longer had Vanessa in his life.

  Loss welled within him, but he forced it back down, made himself focus on his surroundings, not on thoughts of the lovely woman he’d left behind.

  He could stand the pain of walking away from her. What he could not bear was the thought of her walking away from him. If she’d seen his face and been disgusted, he never could have lived with it. Far better to make the cut himself.

  * * * *

  “No yellow roses tonight?” Marcus asked, leaning comfortably against Vanessa’s dressing table as she removed the heavy stage makeup.

  She frowned and shook her head. Over a fortnight had passed since the last time she’d seen Prometheus. Every night, she left her window open, hoping against hope that he’d return to her, but she’d begun to think that would never happen. Coincidentally, Adrian Strathmore had stopped coming to see her perform at the exact same time. If she’d had any lasting doubts about his identity, that fact alone would have proven irrefutable.

  “What do you know about Adrian Strathmore?” she asked, rinsing her face and meeting her friend’s gaze.

  He shrugged. “Just the usual gossip. When he was a boy, there was a fire at the earl’s country estate. The old earl got his wife out, and then went back for his children. He got two of the boys out without incident, but when he went back for the third, part of the roof collapsed upon them. Somehow he managed to throw the boy out a second-story window, into a hedge to break his fall, but he didn’t make it out himself. They say Adrian is very badly burned, but he keeps to himself so much that I don’t know anyone who’s ever actually seen him.”

  “Do you think perhaps the burns aren’t that extensive?” She knew for certain that the bottom half of his face had not been affected, because she’d stared at that mouth, kissed him, ran her hand across his jaw. She’d seen the edge of a scar the one time he’d let the mask slip a bit, but it hardly seemed extensive enough to make a man shut himself away as Adrian Strathmore did.

  “Why?” Marcus asked warily. “Please don’t tell me you’ve set your cap for him. You could do far better than a deformed recluse.”

  “Burned,” she replied sharply. “He’s not deformed. I don’t believe there’s really anything wrong with him other than a few scars.”

  “Perhaps the beast has snared the beauty,” Marcus said with a choked laugh. “A little mystery, a few flowers, the promise of wealth and title…”

  She glared at him. “You don’t know anything about him. Nor me, obviously, if you think that’s all it takes to win me.”

  “Has he won you?” Marcus asked, suddenly serious. “Have you been seeing him outside the theater?”

  She shook her head, unwilling to reveal her encounters with Prometheus. Despite their friendship, Marcus was a notorious gossip. She didn’t want him to complicate things even more than they were. “Of course not. If I had, would I be asking you all these questions?”

  He gave her a suspicious glance, but then shrugged and squeezed her shoulder. “Well, I’m off then. See you tomorrow.”

  As soon as he was gone, she shut her dressing room door and locked it, not wanting to be disturbed again. With a sigh of relief, she sat back down at her dressing room table, staring impassively at her face in the mirror.

  She’d finally come to accept that her looks defined her, at least in everyone else’s eyes. She certainly wouldn’t be so successful if it weren’t for her beauty, because she knew her acting was only fair. She’d been told she had the ability to bring her emotions to her work, but she rather thought that was simply because she restrained herself so much at all other times.

  Adrian, or whoever he was, had made her feel so much more than a pretty face. She could be herself around him, and she wanted so badly to give him the same comfort.

  She reached out and ran her fingertips across the p
etal of one of the dead roses. It crumbled to dust, bringing a sting of tears to her eyes. Three weeks was such a long time. In her heart, she knew he was never going to come back to her. She’d ruined it, the only chance she might ever have of a life with him.

  “No,” she whispered aloud, shaking her head. She wasn’t going to let this end. She wasn’t going to let him decide that she wasn’t strong enough to handle his scars. If he wouldn’t come to her, she was going to have to go to him.

  He wouldn’t be happy to see her. In fact she knew he’d try to send her away, even after she’d proven that his scars didn’t matter. Her plans faltered. What if his scars really were terrible? What if the face behind that mask was as hideously ruined as he seemed to think it was?

  Could she manage not to react? Could she hold his gaze and convince him the beauty of his soul was all that mattered? She hoped she truly was the kind of person who could say such a thing and mean it.

  Perhaps, in the beginning, it would be easier to make him think her motives were less than pure. If she went to him and told him she knew his secret, that she wanted him to marry her so she could adopt Gabriel… He would believe that. He would understand that she wanted his wealth and power. And then perhaps, in time, she could convince him she wanted more, that she had seen the man behind the mask all along.

  Chapter Nine

  Vanessa fidgeted with her lace gloves as she waited in Adrian Strathmore’s study. She’d arrived over a quarter of an hour ago, but her host had yet to put in an appearance. She gave a surreptitious glance around the large, teak-paneled room, taking in the thousands of leather-bound books that lined the walls and tumbled haphazardly over the surface of his desk.

  She wished she had the nerve to get up and explore the sketches and notes, perhaps even riffle through a drawer or two in an effort to learn some of his secrets. Unfortunately, being caught in the act would ruin whatever element of surprise she’d managed to gain.

  When the door opened quietly behind her, she froze. What if he were truly as disfigured as they said? She could not let him see a hint of shock or disgust, no matter how horribly scarred he proved to be.

  “Miss Bourke?” His deep voice was the same sexy, familiar rasp. A thrill went through her as she realized her assumptions about the man had just been proven true. A relief, because she’d have had a hard time explaining her visit if she’d been wrong. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  She turned slowly and found him leaning against the door, the whole of him bathed in the soft glow of the electric lamps. Her breath caught in her throat as she came face-to-face with Adrian Strathmore for the first time.

  They lied.

  For a moment, that was the only thought her mind registered, because the sable-haired, blue-eyed gentleman who stared back at her was hardly the monster everyone had made him out to be. The left side of his face—from his forehead to his cheekbone—bore a tracery of rough scars. Other than that small defect, the man was perfect—every bit as handsome as his twin.

  She stared, remembering the way that sensuous mouth had pressed against her own, those few moments of magic when he’d become the embodiment of her every midnight fantasy.

  As the minutes stretched by, his bright blue gaze hardened. “This isn’t a circus sideshow,” he snapped. “Haven’t you seen enough?”

  She flinched, stunned by his sudden anger. “How’s your leg, Mr. Strathmore?” she managed to fire back once she’d regained her equilibrium. “I hope you’ve recovered from the gunshot wound.”

  The satisfaction of seeing his surprise was short-lived, because he shook his head and crossed the room, taking a seat behind the desk with no visible sign of a limp. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You can pretend all you like, but I’m certain that if I were to go to the authorities, they’d find a bullet hole in your right thigh, Prometheus.”

  “Let me get this straight,” he murmured silkily. “Are you accusing me of being that notorious criminal who has Scotland Yard all aflutter?”

  “I don’t think Prometheus is a criminal,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But we both know it was you who broke into my flat the night Hawley’s Gentlemen’s Club burned to the ground, wearing a mask and bleeding from a gunshot wound. We both know you came back several times, only to run away when I demanded to see your face.”

  He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers on the cluttered surface of his desk. She could practically see the wheels turning in his brilliant mind as he weighed her statement and plotted his next plan of action.

  “Thank you,” he said at last, seeming to realize he was caught. “For everything you did for me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Heat rushed to her cheeks at his simple gratitude, which was the last thing she’d expected. “Your visits were perhaps the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”

  A slow smile curved his sensuous mouth, and for a moment, the shadows in his eyes lifted. Attraction flared between them, and her guilt over what she was about to do nearly overwhelmed her. She sensed he rarely let his guard down this way, and she hated to do anything to bring his shield back up again. Doubts assailed her. Should she continue with her plan, or just try to break down his walls by telling him how very much she’d missed him? The silence between them lengthened uncomfortably.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Bourke?” he asked warily. “Have you come here to ask me for something?”

  She gave a sharp nod, knowing it was now or never. His wariness decided her. He’d never believe the truth, that she’d come here because she couldn’t bear to stay away. “I’d like to offer you a deal.”

  “A deal?” His lips thinned. “What sort of a deal?”

  “I know all about your family,” she blurted in a rush. “I know you and your brothers are very close, and that you have a younger sister who is just about to make her debut. I doubt you’d want to put them through the scandal of your arrest and trial for the various crimes of which Prometheus stands accused.”

  “You don’t know a damned thing about what my family means to me.” His voice cracked like a whip, and a sharp edge of fear snaked through her as she wondered if she’d pushed him too far.

  She bit her lip and continued, “I’ve decided the scandal of you marrying an actress would be minimal and far preferable in your eyes to having the world discover that you’re Prometheus.”

  “Are you trying to blackmail me into marrying you?” He didn’t try to hide his stunned disbelief.

  She gave a jerky nod, reminding herself that she was doing this for both him and Gabriel. They could be a family. He would forgive her in time. “We could give Gabriel a home,” she whispered. “It wouldn’t be so terrible to be married to me, would it?”

  He laughed bitterly and then shook his head. “And why should I agree to this? If I’m really a criminal, hasn’t it occurred to you that I could make sure you never tell anyone anything?”

  Realizing she’d twisted one of her gloves into a tight knot, she forced herself to stop fidgeting, determined not to let him know how nervous he’d made her. “If I believed you would hurt me, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “You’re either mad or the biggest fool I’ve ever met.” He surged to his feet and began pacing the stretch of floor behind the desk, obviously agitated. She watched him, too worried to be incensed by his insults. How could she take offense, when he was right? Her entire plan had been foolish and stupid beyond belief.

  At last he paused and let his mocking gaze rake over her from head to toe. “I’m sure my admiration hasn’t escaped your notice, Miss Bourke. Luckily for you, prostitutes are both expensive and inconvenient. I would be willing to accept your outrageous proposal, as long as you allowed me full husbandly rights.” Something in his eyes gave her pause. He’s bluffing. He thought she’d find the idea of sharing his bed so horrifying she’d give up on her plan entirely.

  Didn’t he remember the passion they’d shared? How could he
think she was anything less than thrilled by the thought of making love to him?

  “I’ve never done anything by half-measures,” she assured him calmly. “If we wed, I’ll do my best to make you happy.”

  “Happy?” He acted as though he’d never heard the word before. As he stared at her, a dozen conflicting emotions danced across his expressive face. Suddenly, he reached out and swept his arm across his desk, sending books and papers tumbling to the floor. “Prove it to me. Come sit upon my desk and show me just how agreeable you plan to be.”

  “Wh–what do you mean?” She tried to pretend ignorance, but she had a very bad feeling she knew what he wanted. How had she let this meeting slip so far out of her control?

  “Come here,” he ordered. “I’ll show you.”

  Her heart thundered in her chest, but she’d come too far to turn back now. Besides, part of her thrilled to his sensual command. As she walked toward him, some of his anger seemed to abate. He caught her around the waist and lifted her to the top of his desk with apparent ease.

  “I suppose I should be thanking you,” he murmured, as he toyed with the neckline of her gown. He had the hands of an artist or a musician—fine-boned and elegant, yet undeniably masculine. “I’ve been obsessed with you since the first moment I saw you on stage, and this certainly simplifies things.”

  He unfastened the half dozen tiny buttons at her throat and parted the fabric, allowing a rush of cool air to brush her skin. “So modest,” he chided, meeting her gaze with mocking tenderness. “I’m surprised you didn’t put more of your assets on display, given the nature of your visit.”

  She drew in a sharp, indignant breath, but before she could speak, he leaned forward and pressed his lips against the tender skin he’d revealed. “You were magic in my arms, Vanessa. I’d never experienced such pure, honest passion. In the beginning, I planned to woo you as Prometheus, until you were so taken by my wit and charm you wouldn’t care about the scars. But you were so impatient. You didn’t give me enough time. I’ve driven myself mad during the past few weeks, battling the urge to come to you again.”