Unmasking Love: A Holiday for Romance

by Peggy Bird

  It was driving him crazy. He was desperate enough to sit in restaurants and try to sniff out her perfume on the women who walked by. He watched every woman who came into the bank in what he thought was the correct age range to see if she recognized him. Foolish, he knew, because even if the right woman walked in, she wouldn’t know him because of the mask and costume he’d been wearing. Or the nothing he’d been wearing when they’d been in his bed.

  One day he even followed a woman with long black hair for two blocks until he saw how uneasy he made her—she darted into a shop and watched him from the window as he went past. That was when he realized he had to figure out something to take care of the problem before he embarrassed himself and undercut the reliable reputation he was so carefully cultivating.

  The only thing he could come up with was a long shot—hunting down the host for the Halloween party so he—she—could identify Juliet. He asked Fred for help, saying he wanted to add the host to a list he was putting together for a housewarming party he was planning. Throwing a party was true. Adding the host to the list wasn’t exactly true. But his friend didn’t need to know that.

  Fred reminded him that he’d never known who the host was. His girlfriend, Amber, who might at least know someone who knew someone who could identify the host, was on location someplace in the South Pacific for a reality show and was inaccessible.

  Not anxious for Fred to get curious, Trace didn’t ask his buddy any more questions. Instead, he went looking for the house where the party had been so he could find the owner. It wasn’t as hard to find the house as he’d expected. Nor was it difficult to find the owner’s name from public records. What he found, however, created a problem. The house belonged to the ice queen who was threatening to sue the bank. Wary of making her suspect he was trying to influence the case somehow, he dropped the only promising line of investigation as a dead end.

  Then one Friday night, his staff invited him to have a beer at the Standing Stone Brewing Company where they were celebrating several recent birthdays. It seemed like a good thing to do. It turned out to be a goddamn miracle.

  The crew from the bank commandeered a corner with a few tables pushed together and ordered nachos, fondue, and fries along with pitchers of the brewery’s IPA and amber ale. Encouraged to shed his suit jacket and tie, Trace stood to hang the jacket on the back of his chair. Before he could sit down, a familiar shark lawyer swam past him along with a school of young, less-formally dressed men and women headed for a table close to where his group was. He wondered who they were and why they kept company with the ice queen. Not only hung out with her, but also had her laughing—indicating she possessed a side she had yet to reveal to him. It surprised him to think she would ever let go enough to enjoy something, anything.

  The next surprise made the first one pale into insignificance.

  As he watched, she, too, removed her suit jacket, revealing a white camisole underneath. A camisole which bared her shoulders and showed off a small tattoo of a dragonfly right where her neck curved out to meet her left shoulder.

  The exact tattoo his Juliet had and in the exact same place.

  He sat down with a thud, stunned. It wasn’t possible. The ice queen lawyer couldn’t be his Juliet. They were as unlike as chalk and cheese. Oil and water. Heat and ice.

  Then he connected a few dots. “Julie” could be a nickname for “Juliet.” The two names were only one letter apart. Suppose she’d picked her costume because her name really was Juliet? When he’d come up behind her on the street, she’d answered right away when he’d said “Juliet.” And asked how he knew her.

  Then there was the tattoo. He’d already noticed there were dozens, maybe hundreds of people with tattoos in Ashland. Even so, the odds of two people having the same tat in the same place were, he imagined, astronomical.

  He knew she owned the house where the party had been, which meant instead of looking for a party guest, he should have been looking for the hostess. Last, her eyes were the same color as his Juliet’s, although at her meeting with him at the bank, they’d been cold as stone, not glowing with desire as they’d been on Halloween.

  The only dots he couldn’t connect were Julie’s blonde hair and the fact she didn’t wear the same perfume. His Juliet had long hair, black as night, the color of a raven’s wings. Julie was a blonde with shoulder-length hair, now pulled back and pinned up in a severe-looking bun. Had she bleached it?

  Wait. When he’d asked Amber about her at the party, she’d described her as, “The woman in the wig and Juliet costume.” Damn. He’d spent all this time looking for a woman with the wrong color hair because he’d forgotten his Juliet was wearing a wig.

  As for the perfume, had he been close enough to recognize it on her when he’d met her in the crappy bank office that smelled like overripe mold?

  He had to talk to her. Had to see if she wore the distinctive scent; had to see if he could jog her memory so she realized who he was.

  Making an excuse for wandering off from the bank party, he approached her table. She looked up at him, her green eyes looking surprised, neither cold nor hot. “Mister Watkins. To what do we owe this honor?”

  “I wanted to say hello, Juliet. I called your office today to give you the weekly update but you weren’t in.” He searched her face while he waited to see how she would react. She looked disconcerted, he thought. Good. Maybe I’m getting someplace.

  “It’s Julie, Mister Watkins. And I got your message, thanks.”

  “Julie then. And it’s Trace.” He took an empty seat next to her.

  “You still haven’t answered my question, Trace. What can I do for you?”

  Plenty, beautiful, if you’re who I think you are. But I have to shake you up again to find out.

  “Like I said, I wanted to make sure you got my message. And I wondered if I could buy you a cup of coffee tomorrow so I could give you the update, and maybe we could get to know each other better while we talked about the situation.”

  She was shaking her head before he finished what he was saying. “I don’t think so. I’m about to sue you, remember? I don’t want my clients thinking I’m colluding with the bank.”

  “Sleeping with the enemy, in a manner of speaking?” Let’s see if she takes the bait.

  It didn’t faze her. “Hardly. But thanks for the invitation.” She glanced over at the table where the bank employees were sitting. “It looks like your food has arrived. Maybe you better return to your colleagues before they eat it all.”

  “I appreciate your looking out for me.” He cocked his head and smiled at her. “Sure you won’t have coffee with me tomorrow?”

  “Yes, quite sure. Thanks again for asking.”

  “My loss. Maybe another time.”

  Five minutes later, just as he remembered he still hadn’t given her the information he wanted relayed to her clients, she left the brewpub. He took it as a sign he’d rattled her. He wondered if she’d recognized him after all. He was more and more sure she was who he’d been looking for, although the perfume thing hadn’t worked out. He didn’t think she’d been wearing any perfume at all. She smelled clean and sweet, not hot and Oriental spicy, flowery, or whatever the rest of them were. Of course, maybe she didn’t wear perfume when she was working.

  So either he’d have to find some way to get her to admit she was his Juliet, or he’d have to see her naked and kiss her. His cock hardened at the thought. It seemed unlikely that would happen any time soon, but a guy could dream.

  Then he had an idea. He had something he could use to push her into a corner and prove he was right, make her admit who she was. Once he solved the mystery of his Halloween encounter, maybe, just maybe, he’d get to confirm her identity the other way. The one involving no clothes.

  • • •

  Julie didn’t sleep well the night after she ran into Trace Watkins. He’d irritated her. Or scared her. Or both. She wished he’d drop the other shoe, the one where he said he knew what happened in Portland and wh
y she left the D.A.’s office. But if he knew about Portland, knew it might possibly ruin her reputation in Ashland, wouldn’t he have tried to use the information by now to head off any possibility of a lawsuit against the bank? If he wasn’t going to try and pressure her to back off, why did he keep dropping hints like he knew something about her?

  Maybe that’s what the invitation for coffee was about. Maybe it wasn’t an attempt to put their relationship on a personal level in spite of getting all “Julie” and “Trace” with her. Was the purpose of the invitation to soften her up with smoldering smiles and coffee? Lull her into meeting him so he could drop the bomb, tell her what he knew and what his price was for keeping it quiet?

  She had no idea what he was up to. All she knew was he was a confusing—and sexy—S.O.B.

  She woke the next morning with the need to clean. It was her default activity when she was worried or under extreme pressure. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on whether one was concerned about her mental health or the condition of her house, since she’d moved from Portland, the urge to play maid had been minimal.

  As a result, there was much to keep her busy as she made up for her previous inattention. She dusted, waxed, swept, vacuumed, polished, cleaned, scrubbed, and scoured everything she could get her hands on. Sheets and towels were washed. The oven cleaned—well, the oven turned on to clean itself. The refrigerator emptied and wiped down. She didn’t stop for lunch, grabbing a leftover chicken leg at noon and a banana about two hours later.

  By five o’clock she was finished. She was tired; she was hungry. Her house was spotless, and she had managed to work out the worry. A shower, clean jeans, and a turtleneck sweater later, she was about to pour a glass of wine and make dinner when the doorbell rang.

  She wasn’t sure who she expected to find when she opened the door, but it wasn’t Trace Watkins with a smile on his face and his hands behind his back.

  “Mister Watkins. What are you doing here?” Her stress levels began to climb rapidly to their pre-cleaning levels.

  “I thought we’d agreed it was Trace, Juliet.” His smile was so engaging. So damn sexy. So … vaguely familiar.

  “And I thought we’d agreed it was Julie. Outside a few family members, no one calls me Juliet.”

  “I did.”

  “Yes, in the brewpub, where I asked you to call me Julie.”

  “No, I didn’t mean the brewpub. I meant on Halloween.”

  Her hand froze on the doorknob; her breath hitched and her heart rate ratcheted up. The same sense of impending disaster she’d had in Portland the day the feds came to interview her returned in a most unpleasant déjà vu. He not only knew about Portland, he knew about Halloween?

  “What about Halloween? You weren’t here then.” Damn it, she needed to sound in control, not like some babbling, squeaking mouse.

  “Yes, I was. I was in Ashland the week of Halloween to talk about my new job here. I came to your party with my friend Fred Arnett and his date, Amber Lake.”

  “No. I don’t believe you. Oh, God. It’s not possible. No. You’re making this up.” She could barely get the words out, her throat was so tight. “Why are you doing this?”

  He brought his hands from behind his back. In his right hand was the mask she’d worn with her Juliet costume. “This belongs to you, doesn’t it?”

  She recoiled from him as if snakebitten. “Where’d you get that?” she whispered.

  “You left it in my motel room.”

  Stumbling, trying desperately not to cry, she backed into the living room, putting space between herself and the evidence of what she’d done. He followed, closing the front door behind him.

  “I’ve been looking for you ever since I moved to Ashland.” He came within arm’s reach and stopped.

  She snatched the mask from his hand. “Why? For more cheap sex?”

  His response sounded unaccountably angry. “I certainly don’t remember the night that way. Nothing we did was cheap. And it was more than sex. If you won’t admit it, I will.”

  She fingered the elastic band on the mask, tempted to put it on, to hide behind it once again. “How did you find me?”

  “I saw your tattoo last night, when you took off your jacket. I kissed that tattoo, out on the street, when I came up behind you.”

  An involuntary shiver from the memory of his mouth on her shoulder shook her. “But how did you know where I lived?”

  “I looked for the house where the party had been held, so I could ask the host how to find you. I found the house and found out who owned it, but didn’t know how to ask you about what I thought was a party guest. I didn’t put all the pieces together until last night when I realized you were my Juliet.”

  His Juliet? What did he mean? “So, when I came into your office you didn’t know me? Didn’t recognize me from Portland?”

  “Why would I know you from Portland? We’d never met until I came here.”

  Hope—or relief—began to flicker in her gut. “You’re sure you don’t remember me from Portland? I kept thinking, that day in your office …”

  “The day you accosted me in my office?”

  “The day I had the appointment with you. I thought I’d seen you before. And you said you thought you knew me.”

  “I couldn’t figure it out. You seemed familiar, but you weren’t who I’d been looking for. I thought I was trying to find a woman with long black hair. I should have recognized your eyes, but they weren’t exactly the same when you were threatening to sue me as they were when you were …”

  “Stop. Just stop.” She began to pace the floor. “So, now you know. We’ve met.”

  “Is that what you call it? I think we’ve done more than meet, don’t you?”

  “What do you want? Money? I don’t have a lot but I can see what I can put together.”

  “You think I want to blackmail you? What in hell did I do to make you think I’m that kind of man?” Now he was really sounding pissed off. “I can’t think of even one reason I’d want to blackmail you.”

  “I can think of several. If you don’t want money, then you want power. Control.” She stopped in front of him. “You want to get your bank out of hot water by forcing me to persuade my clients to drop their lawsuit. If you’re protecting your precious bank, you’re shit out of luck. I won’t back off. Tell whoever you want what I did.” If she could stay mad at him, maybe she had a chance to keep from crying.

  “What we did. I was there, too. And if I out you, I out myself, don’t I?” He reached for her arm, but she eluded him. “I’m sorry you have such a poor opinion of me. I’d hoped you remembered me with a considerably different feeling.”

  The second time he tried to touch her, she was too slow to evade him. His hand on her arm sent a shockwave of sensation through her, every part of her suddenly remembering what it felt like to have him touch her. She closed her eyes against a powerful hunger sweeping over her, the yearning she’d been trying to tamp down, to ignore, ever since she’d walked out of his motel room. How could she make him stop touching her? If she didn’t, she wasn’t sure she could keep from melting into his arms and kissing him.

  He went on, “I’ve been trying to find a way to track you down even before I got to town. I didn’t know you were involved in a legal action against the bank. All I knew was I’d had the best night of my life with a mysterious woman, and I had to find her again. To see if what we had could lead to something.”

  “I can tell you the answer. There’s nothing between us. I made a reckless mistake on Halloween. It can’t lead anywhere. The town’s too small. There’s too much at stake.”

  Suddenly, he reached for her face. His touch was gentle, tender. Without thinking she leaned into his palm, pressing her cheek to his hand, sighing.

  “Nothing between us? I don’t think so.” He ran his hand down her arm and took her hand. “Look, Juliet, have dinner with me tonight. So we can talk.”

  “Dinner? In Ashland? Everyone will know, will gossip.” />
  “Let them. We have every right to have dinner together. I’m not married and I hear you’re not either. For all anyone knows, we’re working out a settlement agreement. Or discussing a way to protect the bank’s customers.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. On one hand, she wanted him to take her in his arms, kiss her, make her feel like she’d felt on Halloween. On the other, she still didn’t trust him enough to believe him about why he tracked her down. He could be as damaging to her reputation here as that bastard Paul Dreier in Portland had been. She couldn’t take the risk of it happening a second time because of her bad taste in men.

  But she was so attracted to him. She was afraid of what she might do, of how she might give in to him. The only way to protect herself was to get him out of her house, into a public place. And since he seemed unwilling to leave until she agreed to have dinner, she’d say yes. Maybe over dinner she could think clearly enough to find out what he really wanted.

  She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. “Okay. Dinner. At the brewpub.”

  “The pub’s a little noisy for talking.”

  “All right, then where would you suggest?” Apparently he was as bossy about dinner as he had been in bed.

  “Beasy’s? Greenleaf? Amuse? Pasta Piatti?”

  “Lots of dinner dates since you’ve moved to town, Mister Watkins?” She failed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “Lots of business dinners, Ms. Payne.” He brought her hand up to his mouth and kissed it, his brown eyes now as black with desire as she remembered. “What’s your pleasure?”

  God damn him. He was playing word games with her. He knew exactly what her pleasure was, and knew he could make her shiver at the mention of it. Which was exactly what she was doing at the moment. Again.

  “I’ll go change and think about it.” She turned to go upstairs. “Make yourself at home while I’m gone. There’s wine open in the kitchen. I was about to pour myself a glass when you ca … arrived.”