by Alison Kent
Sigh. This could become depressing.
Suddenly an agitated Natalie pushed through the crowd, her high color and red hair stunning with a shimmering gold dress. “He’s here,” she blurted.
Isabel blinked. “He?”
Natalie drained the flute of champagne gripped in her hand. “Joe.” She signaled for the blue-eyed waiter, snagged two flutes from his serving tray and downed the contents of one. “I think he knows it’s me, but I ditched him. Oh, God, I don’t know how to handle this, Iz. Having my heart trampled again by this guy is not how I want the New Year to start.”
“Then don’t,” Isabel tossed out. If Natalie didn’t slow down on the bubbly, she’d be in no shape to handle anything, let alone Joe, the mystery man she’d obsessed over after he’d disappeared from the past New Year’s Eve ball. “He can’t hurt you if you don’t let him.”
The band struck up a waltz and they watched the dance floor for a few moments as the handsome couples swirled by. Isabel itched to join them, but not if it meant being swept into old habits.
Natalie tapped a manicured fingernail against her champagne glass. Still thinking of Joe. “You know…” Behind her gold mask, her eyes gleamed with a wickedness that made Isabel proud. “How do you think he’d feel if I didn’t remember him?”
Now they were speaking Isabel’s language. She nodded encouragingly. “Good idea. Wound him where it hurts the most—his ego.”
“Men and their egos,” Natalie said playfully. “Such a fragile thing.”
Isabel smiled. “Just be careful. Don’t hand him your own heart in the process.” Natalie, ever the hopeful romantic, was prone to that.
Satisfied that her friend had been dispatched to enact a suitable payback, Isabel gave in and danced with a couple of eager partners. She turned down their overtures without a second thought. Eventually she found a promising man in a tiger’s mask, but as soon as the salsa music started up he began believing he was Antonio Banderas. She was almost glad when Arianne signaled to her from the edge of the dance floor.
The two women met in a corner of the ballroom, where they could speak in relative privacy. Isabel could see that Arianne was upset and immediately she wondered if Rafe was the cause. She hoped so. It was well past time for them to get together. “What’s up?”
“I need to do something wild and unpredictable,” Arianne announced unexpectedly. She looked down at her plain black dress and frowned.
That was a surprise, Isabel thought. But a pleasant one. After a little prodding, Arianne began babbling about making a resolution to be spontaneous and fun. Her head bobbed up and down, up and down. She looked like Princess Grace on speed.
Isabel advised the blond accountant to go for it, though she did wonder aloud how many champagnes Arianne had downed, not unlike Natalie. Arianne’s eyes were bright, almost panicky. Isabel patted her, distracting her with bawdy suggestions like staging screaming orgasms or performing a striptease at the bar. She offered one of the condoms she’d tucked into her cleavage for handy dispersal.
Arianne didn’t say so, but even a dunce could have deduced that it was Rafe she wanted to shock. Quite right. If she didn’t break out on a night like tonight, it might never happen.
Isabel tried to be helpful. Unfortunately, Arianne ended up excusing herself with a queasy look on her face. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have pulled you away from your latest conquest.”
Isabel had already dismissed the guy from the dance floor. She demurred, surprised to hear herself explaining, “Tonight I need a man with a little something extra.” Like a brain and a true heart, she thought, then immediately felt as though she had to live up to her bad reputation or Arianne would think she’d become wise and mature.
She spread her hands, measuring the air. “Ten inches ought to do it.”
Arianne hesitated, and for an instant Isabel thought her friend had guessed she wasn’t all that enthused about the available selection. But Arianne only said, with a shrug, “Happy hunting.”
Uh-huh. Isabel lifted her chin. “Maybe I’ll see you later. At the bar.”
Arianne made a face. “Very funny.”
Amused at the thought of cool Arianne doing a down-and-dirty striptease that would make Rafe go volcanic, Isabel wandered around the ballroom, idly glancing over the uninspiring talent. Eventually she found herself in the grand entrance hall, where two of the tuxedo-clad attendants had just finished arranging pyramids of gold shoe boxes. Ah…Rafe’s traditional party favor.
Each box bore an inscribed tag. Last year, Isabel had received a slim pair of classic spectator pumps with modest heels. Not her typical footwear, but exactly the shoes she needed to be properly outfitted for her burgeoning career. She’d worn them for business meetings, when she put on one of the serious-career-gal suits that Arianne and Natalie had helped her select.
Perhaps she’d get a pair made with her own fabric this year. Thrilled by the possibility, Isabel ran her fingers over the boxes, looking for her name. Luckily she found it near the top and was able to liberate her gift with only minor reshuffling.
Several couples drifted through the vast hall, on their way to or from the ballroom, paying Isabel no mind. She slipped off to a stylish little Bérgere chair to sit and open her box.
Folding back the layers of red-and-gold tissue paper, she gasped. “But this must be a mistake.”
Either Rafe or his staff had screwed up. Isabel pushed her mask up to her forehead to see better. The shoes nestled inside the box were not her style. They were delicate, dressy. The heels were impossibly high. Not at all what she, who lived mostly in sneakers and flat sandals when she wore shoes at all, was accustomed to.
She lifted one of the shoes. A slipper, really, it was so featherlight. Nothing but narrow spike heel, a paper-thin sole and multicolored, crisscrossed ribbons that floated like streamers. Altogether too impractical for the gritty city streets.
But, mmm. They were…enticing.
These were shoes that whispered of romance.
Isabel checked the arched doorway to the ballroom. No one was watching. She slipped out of her beaded flats, the same pair she’d worn last year. She wasn’t a fashion maven like Natalie, or a savvy bargain hunter like Arianne. Even now that she had a good income, she tended to stick to the flea markets and vintage clothing stores.
It was fabric that was her love. On occasion she found a bolt of a sensuous silk or a velvet so sumptuous she couldn’t bear to part with it. She’d bring the material to one of several talented but struggling fashion designers she’d befriended during her own pauper days, to have them create a special item for herself or as a gift for one of her large circle of “family.” Rare was the night that she got to wear the sort of dressy gowns that suited these slippers.
Rare, like tonight.
“Well, why not?” she whispered to herself, and bent to slip her bare feet into the new shoes. The red, emerald, gold and purple ribbons had been made to cross her instep, wind around her ankle and up her calf. Weaving them in and out made her legs look like matching maypoles.
She set her feet and rose, wobbling when she reached full height, almost as if she’d mounted a pair of stilts. She took a few steps, knock-kneed, hands out for balance. Natalie would laugh to see her.
By the refracted light of the crystal chandelier, Isabel caught a glimpse of herself in a tall Venetian mirror hung among an impressive display of Italian old-master oil paintings. Her chin lifted, her neck elongated. She touched her palm to her strapless bodice, swished her lace and chiffon skirt back and forth with the other hand. “Goodness,” she murmured.
The steep shoes made her seem quite swanlike. Almost regal.
Certainly very different from the runaway ragamuffin she’d once been—and still thought herself to be, deep inside.
Suddenly the double front doors were swept open and a wintry wind swirled through the hall. A butler appeared from nearby, requesting the latecomer’s proof of invitation. The Monticellos’ exclusive, engraved inv
itation was proffered.
There was a minor fuss as the new arrival’s shoulders were swept free of snow and his topcoat carried away by the cloakroom attendant. The doors had been quickly swung shut, but the cold was in Isabel’s lungs. Freezing her immobile.
The man who stood before her seemed to have come straight from a surreal dream. He was tall, lean and elegant in his tuxedo. All that she could see of his face was the lower half—a wide, strong jaw, a dimpled chin and an incredibly sensual mouth. Above that, he wore a magnificent lion’s head mask, intricately carved and worked in a crackled Renaissance gold leaf, the flaring mane depicted in extravagant swirls.
Though Isabel took all of him in, she was riveted by his eyes. She had no idea what color they were. Who could bother with color when the depths were this hot, this reaching, and molten with an immediate desire?
He stared until her throat had closed so tight she couldn’t breathe. Warmth had surged into her cheeks, a sharp contrast to the numbing cold elsewhere. Feeling exposed, she carefully lowered her mask, not surprised to see that her raised hand was trembling.
The stranger in the lion’s mask approached.
The music from the ballroom swelled to a crescendo. She was lifted, weightless, exalted by the clear-cut rightness of this meeting.
Oh, yes. She’d found her man for the night.
He offered his elbow. “Shall we?”
She was almost afraid to touch him. Very unlike her.
“Yes, why not?” she made herself say, throwing her head back and laughing throatily as she took his arm.
At the same moment, she turned, forgetting the shoes she’d just put on. Unaccustomed to the heels, she lost her balance and might have fallen if her escort hadn’t gripped her arms, holding her up. He put one arm around her waist, taking her weight as she sprawled against his chest.
Embarrassment scorched her face. She laughed again, straightening with a snap. “I’m not usually so clumsy. It’s these heels.”
Her companion glanced down. “They’re dangerous weapons.” His gaze lingered. “You could put an eye out.”
“Only of those who are so rude enough to stare.”
His head came up. The lights glinted off the golden mask. His eyes were shadowed, mysterious. “I’ll risk it,” he said. “You are such a beauty it’s impossible for me to take my eyes off you.”
Tom, Isabel thought.
But it couldn’t be.
3
“DO I KNOW YOU?” Isabel asked. She and the stranger stood at the entrance to the ballroom. Her hand was on his arm and his palm covered her fingers—warm, encompassing, exhilarating. He had such a potent zing she was snap-crackle-popping with it.
“We’ve never met.” His voice was as soft and rich as a bolt of the finest imported velvet. “I’m certain that I would remember you.”
“But we’re in masks,” she pointed out. She was trying to think how to handle their encounter. He couldn’t be Tom. Tom didn’t know where she was. He might have guessed where she was—it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out her destination since she had a public connection to the Monticellos. Still…no. She’d been clear with him. They weren’t to meet. Tom was home eating pastrami on rye and watching the ball drop on TV. The man standing beside her was a total stranger.
Nevertheless, she should tread carefully.
“I did see your face,” he said. “When I first came in, before you lowered your mask.”
“Then you have me at a disadvantage.”
“Shall we exchange names?”
“No!” She winced at her vehemence. It had come out of instinct, but why was she so alarmed?
For caution’s sake, she thought. That’s all.
“We’re supposed to remain masked until midnight,” she explained, tilting her head to look at him. His hair was a tawny blond, thick and wavy, longer than her own.
The barrier of the mask was both titillating and frustrating. She wanted to look at his face. On the other hand, keeping their disguises in place would suit her intentions. If he made love the way she hoped, she would need that protection.
And then, there was something so decadent and forbidden about sex with a masked stranger….
She shivered.
“Care to dance?” he asked.
She nodded wordlessly and the stranger swept her onto the dance floor. The orchestra had been switching between beats all evening. She could swing, she could samba, she could even fake a flamenco, but she’d never waltzed before. Surprisingly, the graceful motion of the classic dance came easily to her, thanks to her partner’s strong, guiding arms. Even the steep heels weren’t too much of a hindrance, not when she was dancing on air.
“We have less than thirty minutes until midnight,” he said.
Was that all? Her high spirits swooped in sync with the dance.
Only a half hour, she thought. Thirty minutes to live out a fantasy with the man of a lifetime.
He angled his head toward her ear. “Any ideas on what we should do with the time?”
For once, she was too intimidated to be blunt about wanting him naked and sweaty and pounding deep inside her. There was more going on between them than her initial plan for a fast, anonymous sexual fling to ring in the New Year.
She turned her face away from his, just slightly. “We should play it by ear.”
“You have lovely ears,” he whispered. His tongue flickered near her lobe; he breathed against her neck. Her skin became covered in goose bumps. “And an intoxicating scent.”
She didn’t wear perfume—all natural, that was her.
Isabel shifted nervously in his arms as he drew her closer. Together, they were magnetic. She wanted to close her eyes, lose herself…
“Your hair is so short.”
Her eyes flashed open. “So?”
He slid a hand over her bare shoulder, his fingers tickling her nape. “It shows your neck.” He made a sound in his throat. “Makes me want to kiss it.”
She relaxed and leaned her head on his shoulder carefully so that she didn’t crush the white plumes that crowned her mask. “Hold that thought.”
“Ah, but you’ve filled my head with wicked thoughts. Some of them have to spill out into words.”
That was intriguing. So few men knew how to seduce a woman with their brain as well as their body. “Mm-hmm?” she hummed, encouraging him.
The music had shifted into a string melody that was pure romance. They moved even closer to each other, one pair of hands remaining clasped while his free hand roamed at will, not in a presumptuous or sleazy way, but with just the right touch as he caressed her shoulder blades, stroked her spine, then finally settled his splayed fingers on her hip.
He touched his cheek to her head. “Your feathers are ticklish.”
She imagined plucking one and running it down his naked body, knowing that all she had to do was signal assent and they would be doing exactly so. The palm of her free hand itched where it rested on his chest. If she moved it slightly, she could slide a fingertip past the studs of his shirt…
Ahh. His skin was hot satin.
He gave no sign he’d noticed her small caress. She uncurled her finger and stroked it inside his shirt again, bolder this time, savoring the electric sensation that even such an insignificant contact engendered. What would it be like to slither against his entire length, skin to skin?
She had to know.
“Can we find a more private location for this?” he asked.
Isabel lifted her chin, lips parting. “I’d like—” Nothing better.
But something made her stop and swallow the rest of her sentence rather than admit her instant lust out loud. The attraction between them was so amazing, so pure and strong, she had to remind herself that he was a total stranger. Even at her wildest moments, she’d chosen her partners with some caution, always keeping in mind a lesson learned the hard way: that the worst of men could be cruel and abusive. And that women, no matter how careful, were physically vulnera
ble.
She needed a safety net.
Rafe, she thought. He was the kind of honorable, loyal man she could rely on.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” she chided her dance partner. “You haven’t even spoken to our host yet. You do know Rafe Monticello, yes?”
The stranger smiled at her, his heavy eyelids lowering as he gazed into her face. “You want to check me out with him?”
She flipped her partner a sassy grin. “Sure. My judgment can’t be trusted once I’m champagne-impaired. Rafe vets all of my New Year’s Eve flings.”
His smile dropped away. “All of them?”
She concealed her sudden disappointment. Of course he would pounce on that. The old double standard rears its macho head.
“Never mind,” he said abruptly.
So that’s it, she thought as the mystery man stepped away—but he didn’t let go. Keeping her hand, he led her across the dance floor, through the guests clustered in small groups around the edges of the room.
“None of your previous flings matter now that I’ve found you.” He scanned the crowd with a visible impatience that was very flattering. Her excitement took hold again. “I don’t see Monticello. Do you?”
She dragged her gaze off the stranger. “He was dancing, earlier, with my—” She stopped just before identifying Arianne as her close friend. It was best if she left no clues. After this night was over, it would be over.
Her dance partner cocked his head, radiating curiosity. “You’re not Monticello’s sister, are you?”
She shook her head.
“His wife? I would have to draw the line there.”
“Rafe is a notoriously single playboy,” she said. How could any guest not know that?
“Just checking,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to insult the host by stealing his, hmm…girlfriend?”
“Trust me. I have no personal connection to Rafe.” She thought of Arianne. “At least not the kind that would lead him to fight for my virtue.”
The masked man dropped the teasing smile and put his arms around her to say in thrillingly formal tones, “I don’t intend to dishonor you. Given the chance, I hope to worship every inch of your precious body with a most reverent and attentive care.” He added a suggestive chuckle. “Albeit, in very inventive and naughty ways.”
