by Cassia Leo
By the time the ball is moved outside to the lawn next to the pool deck, I’ve had it. I want to go home, throw away the mask he brought me, wash away the mask I put on myself, and disappear. But I have to be patient.
One thing I am grateful for is that Daimon seems to be as interested in this event as I am. He pulls me under the tent just south of the lawn and holds his hand out to me.
“Just one dance, then we can leave.”
It’s strange to see Daimon in public. No matter how many minutes and hours pass, I find myself wondering if the man sitting next to me, holding my hand, and, now, dancing with me, is truly the Daimon I’ve been investigating the past week. I mean, he looks and sounds just like him, but I find it hard to believe that this man who attends benefits for fallen police officers and speaks of the devastating beauty in the world is the same person I’ve come to know as the perpetrator of so much evil.
I clasp my left hand in his right, then I place my right hand on his shoulder as he places his on my waist. I’ve never danced with a man, or anyone for that matter. But, as I said before, Daimon has changed me. Forever.
He moves slowly, side to side, going easy on me. I only step on his feet twice, but that’s quite enough for me. It’s time to set my plan into motion.
I scrunch my eyebrows together and clutch my hand to my chest. My breath coming in shallow wheezes.
“I can’t be here,” I whisper. “Everyone’s looking at me.”
He looks confused. “Are you having a panic attack?”
“I don’t know. Please … get me out of here.”
He slides his arm around my waist and guides me back inside the hotel. He begins leading me toward the ballroom where the award ceremony took place, but I dig my heels into the carpet and shake my head.
“No, no. There are people in there.”
“Come this way.”
He leads me to another door labeled “International Lounge.” The door is locked when he tries it, but he pulls something out of his back pocket, looks around, and quickly picks the lock in less than sixty seconds. He closes the door behind us and the room is pitch black, but he doesn’t attempt to find a light switch. He just takes me into his arms and rubs my back.
“Is that better?”
The hors d’oeurves we ate outside swirl inside my belly as I try to block out the conflicting voice in my head telling me to stop. It’s not too late to back out. There has to be a method to his madness other than sheer cruelty.
I reach up and grab his face so I can kiss him.
He pulls back. “What are you doing?”
“What does it feel like I’m doing? I’m trying to fuck you.”
“I thought you were having a panic attack.”
“I just wanted to get you alone.”
“If you wanted to get me alone, all you had to do was ask.” His voice is heavy with suspicion. He knows I’m up to something.
Such a worthy adversary. I’d expect nothing less of him.
I drop to my knees and begin undoing his pants. “Can I please fuck you?”
“I think you should get up so we can talk.” This is what his mouth says, but the erection growing inside his pants is singing a different tune.
I slowly slide his zipper down and he grabs a chunk of my perfectly coifed hair. I’m certain he’s going to yank me up so we can talk, but he doesn’t. Men are so weak when a blow-job is being offered.
I place my hand on his boxer briefs, right over his thickening cock, and I massage his erection through the fabric until I know he must be bursting with frustration.
“Just a minute,” I whisper, pulling up the skirt of my white dress, I reach into my panties and retrieve the syringe.
I moan as if I’m pleasuring myself, but I’m really just trying to cover up the sound of the cap coming off the needle. I let out a high-pitched whimper as I lean forward and kiss the bare skin above his boxers. Then I drive the needle into his thigh.
“Fucking bitch!”
The back of his hand swipes me so hard against my cheek, I see flashes of color as I fall to the floor.
“What was that?” he roars. “What have you done?”
“It’s not what I’ve done, Daimon. It’s what you’ve done.”
I stand from the carpet and swiftly remove the brown contact from my left eye so I can see him. I don’t think he can see me, but he’s looking straight at me. Chest heaving, eyes full of seething anger.
“I told you we needed to talk, Alex. This is not what I meant.” He takes a step toward me and I can already see that he’s a little off balance. “What did you give me? Tell me now!”
“The same thing you gave my father.” He stops moving. “But in a much smaller dose. And I injected it into your muscle so you have about five minutes to listen. Because you’re not going to talk, Daimon. Only I get to talk tonight.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t even know your father.”
“Shut up! You have no right to talk about my father. You murdered him! Right in front of my face, you sick bastard. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the impostor following me? Smoking the wrong cigarettes!”
“Your father kidnapped you when you were a child. That is not your real father.”
“Stop lying!”
He takes another step toward me and I throw a sharp jab at his nose. But he dodges it easily and counters with a blow to my side. Right on my scar. It knocks the breath out of me and he seizes the opportunity to grab my hair and pull my face to his.
“Your father and mother kidnapped you from Princess Amica Amador of Monaco.”
I laugh in his face, ignoring the searing pain in my scalp. “You’re delusional!”
“Your real name is not Alex Carmichael. It is Alexandria Marie Thérèse Grimaldi. You are a princess, Alex! It’s time you start acting like one instead of this caged animal persona you’ve taken on.”
I spit in his face and he roars like an angry lion. “Go ahead and kill me and see what happens.”
I slide my fingers down the neckline of my dress between my breasts to retrieve a tiny, silver tape recorder and press the green button. Our voices come out in shrieks through the tiny speaker.
“Don’t fucking move … or I’ll kill you.”
“Please don’t kill me.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Even if you make it out of this room alive, if I don’t walk out with you, you’ll be walking out in handcuffs. I have an email with this digital recording set to go out to every police station and reporter in L.A. at midnight. If I don’t make it home tonight to cancel it, your life as Detective Rousseau is over.”
“You used me?”
He tightens his grip on my hair and I laugh in his face. “Rip my hair out, Daimon. Go ahead. It will just make my escape from this building that much easier once you’re dead.”
“You can’t kill me,” he says, and I can feel his grip slackening on my hair as the tranquilizer begins to kick in. “Do you know why you can’t kill me?”
“Because there are hundreds of people just a eighty yards from where we’re standing.”
“Because you love me.” He lets go of my hair and his hands drop to his side. “Go ahead, Alex. Kill me.” He bangs his fist against his chest. “Kill me! Because I was sent here to kill you and I couldn’t do it. So you might as well do it for both of us.”
“You … you’re lying.”
“No, I’m not lying. I was supposed to kill you months ago. But I couldn’t do it. And I didn’t understand why. I didn’t understand why I was supposed to kill you or why I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So I decided I would try to find out who you were. Why would anyone want you dead?” His speech is becoming slurred as he drops to one knee. “This is what I wanted to talk to you about. Because what I found … is that you and I … we are the same, Alex.”
“I’m nothing like you.” I wipe the tears from my face as I watch him drop onto all fours.
“Yes, we are. And that’
s why I fell in love with you.” His voice is barely a whisper. “And you with me.”
“I don’t love you.”
I watch in horror, trying to stifle the sound of my chest-wracking sobs as he fully collapses facedown onto the carpet. I wait another few minutes to make certain the tranquilizer has fully taken effect, then I turn him onto his back and cover my eyes with my hands as I use my foot to crush his windpipe, cutting off his oxygen.
Three minutes later, I kneel down and take his pulse. He’s dead.
I remove the mask from his face and rest my hand on his cheek. He looks so peaceful. I need to leave quickly, but I can’t bring myself to leave him here.
“Oh, God. What have I done? What have I done?”
I twist around and vomit onto the carpet behind me. Once my belly, and my soul, are emptied, I swipe my hand across my mouth and lay a soft kiss on Daimon’s forehead.
“Goodbye, mon cher.”
Chapter Eleven
Getting out of the International Lounge without anyone seeing me is the trickiest part. I start by removing my mask and unzipping my dress. Letting the dress fall to the floor, I fold it tightly and stuff it beneath a cushion on the sofa near the window. I pull up the dangling straps of the black camisole I was wearing beneath the dress, then I remove the safety pins holding up the bottom half of my yoga pants.
Removing the five hairpins from my up-do, my hair falls over my shoulders as I make my way toward a small bar in the corner of the lounge. I turn on the faucet and scrub as much makeup off my face as I can. Dragging my nails through the thick layer of pancake covering my skin. Then I hold my head under the running water and imagine the temporary reddish-brown dye running clear into the sink. I squeeze the water out of my hair then hold out the white piece of hair on the left side of my head.
I head straight for a door leading to the adjoining California Ballroom. I maneuver through the maze of tables to the other side of the room where I find another door to another adjoining meeting room. From here, I exit near the elevators, keeping my head held high. I ignore the few strange looks I get from people wondering why I’m walking around with wet hair and my face rubbed raw. I hope they’ll assume I just came from the pool deck.
In front of the hotel, I hail a taxi and I’m at my apartment in less than five minutes. The first thing I do when I step inside is head straight for the refrigerator. The vomiting and crying, combined with the anxiety, have left me extremely parched. I open the refrigerator door to get a bottle of water and the first thing I see is the prickly pear Daimon brought me nearly two weeks ago.
Reaching for the fruit, I barely flinch when it pricks me again. I hold it in my palm in the light of the refrigerator and a roaring pain throbs inside my chest. I turn around and quickly toss the fruit into the waste bin under the sink, then I grab a bottle of water and head for the bedroom.
I guzzle the water and place the empty bottle on my nightstand. I slide my laptop out from underneath my bed and I swiftly open up my email program. After I cancel the email I had scheduled, I double-check that my flight is on time. It is.
I slide the laptop back underneath the bed. I won’t need it anymore. Then I grab the small carry-on duffle I packed this morning. I take the bag with me to the bathroom where I take a long shower to completely rid myself of all the makeup.
Daimon’s peaceful face flashes in my mind as I scrub the scar on my side. I vomit the bottle of water I just consumed onto the shower floor. Collapsing into a heap, I hug my knees to my chest and try not to think of his face. His touch. His voice.
He was right. We are the same.
I peel myself off the shower floor and stand under the hot water for a while, hoping I’ll find the courage to call the police station and confess. But, just like Daimon never had the courage to confess he killed my father, my cowardice wins over my honor.
I blow-dry my hair and dress in a new pair of jeans and a pink T-shirt. Then I slide on a new pair of glasses. The only thing dark about these glasses are the square rims. Anyone who sees me now will see the real me.
I allow myself a few final tears as I realize this is it. The mask is gone.
Grabbing the duffle bag, I head for the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water to go. When I open the refrigerator door, my hearts stops. The prickly pear is resting on the top shelf where it was earlier.
“No.”
I yank the waste bin out of the cupboard under the sink and dump out the contents. No fruit. Did I imagine throwing it away? Am I losing my mind? Or….
I spend ten minutes tearing the apartment to shreds, but I find no sign of entry or that anyone has been here. I am losing my mind.
Staring at the fruit where I left it on the counter, I shake my head in dismay as I sling the strap of my duffle bag over my shoulder. I can’t leave this city any faster.
Thank you!
Thank you for reading Unmasked: Volume 1! This story continues in Unmasked: Volume 2.
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Other books by Cassia Leo
EROTIC ROMANCE
KNOX Series
LUKE Series
CHASE Series
CONTEMPORARY ROMANCE
Forever Ours (Shattered Hearts #0.5)
Relentless (Shattered Hearts #1)
Pieces of You (Shattered Hearts #2)
Bring Me Home (Shattered Hearts #3)
Abandon (Shattered Hearts #3.5)
Black Box (stand-alone novel)
PARANORMAL ROMANCE
Parallel Spirits (Carrier Spirits #1)
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About the Author
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Cassia Leo loves her coffee, chocolate, and margaritas with salt. When she’s not writing, she spends way too much time watching old reruns of Friends and Sex and the City. When she’s not watching reruns, she’s usually enjoying the California sunshine or reading – sometimes both.
@AuthorCassiaLeo
AuthorCassiaLeo
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