Unmasked

by Stefanie London

  He raised a brow. “She got the prince, didn’t she?”

  “The prince had to rely on the fit of a shoe.” Lainey shook her head. “What she got was a dude with a bad memory and a foot fetish.”

  Damian chuckled. “Not into fairy tales, then?”

  “Oh, I am.” She swung her feet, relishing the swish of the beaded material around her ankles. “But Cinderella isn’t my favourite. What woman wants a man who can’t remember her face?”

  “Good point.” He pulled a hand towel out of a small basket beside the sink and ran it under water. “They’re all kind of messed up when you think about it. Sleeping Beauty, especially.”

  “I prefer my romances a little more grounded in reality.” Lainey swallowed as Damian dabbed at the stain on his shirt, turning the fabric damp so that it clung to his chest muscles.

  If bodies were supposed to be temples, his was the Parthenon.

  Maybe if you’d been able to recall that kind of crap during exams instead of checking out a hot guy, you would have done better at school.

  “Do you mean the kind of movies where the woman splashes the man with red wine and seduces him in a bathroom?” He caught her gaze in the mirror.

  “I haven’t seduced you yet.”

  “Yet.” His smile turned from amused to wolfish, his lips revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “So there’s still hope.”

  “You don’t even know my name.”

  * * *

  No, he didn’t know her name. And he was supposed to be focused on seducing his client, not a mysterious redhead. But having her alone, feeling her energy sparking all around him put him in his element. Not like out there, where he was an anomaly.

  If she’s here, then she’s one of them. A rich princess type who’ll be more trouble than she’s worth.

  Just like his ex.

  But something gave him pause. There was an inkling, more the potential for a feeling than a feeling itself, that said he was wrong. When she’d dropped her glass, the first thing out of her mouth had been an apology—not an excuse or accusation. When he’d offered her help, she’d graciously accepted. And now she was teasing him. Playing with him.

  The redhead was like him, an outsider looking in. He knew it.

  “Maybe I can guess your name,” he said, giving up on the stained shirt and throwing the face towel into the basket below the sink. “Wasn’t that in a fairy tale?”

  “Rumpelstiltskin. It’s not a very romantic one.” Her legs swung back and forth over the edge of the marble countertop. Though they didn’t know each other, she seemed completely at ease. “But you can try. I’ll give you three guesses, and if you lose...” She tapped a finger against her chin. “You have to share a drink with me on the balcony upstairs.”

  He braced his hands against the countertop, leaning toward her. She smelled like vanilla and peaches. The black beads on her mask glittered, reflecting his hungry expression in miniature, over and over.

  “How many names are there in the world? I’d be a fool to take such a bet.” He grinned. “Do I get any clues?”

  “You don’t look like a man who needs a clue.”

  “Some might argue that,” he said drily. Damian himself thought a clue would be good right about now—one that would give him the hint to leave this woman alone and head back out to the ballroom so he could corner Jerry McPartlin.

  She turned to look in the mirror for a moment. “My name has nothing to do with my hair colour.”

  “So not Ruby or Scarlett or Rose?”

  “Nope.” She tucked a strand of fiery-red hair behind her ear.

  “That doesn’t really narrow it down. Can I get a letter?”

  “This isn’t Wheel of Fortune.”

  His lip quirked. “How about a year of birth?”

  “Tsk, tsk.” She waggled a finger at him. “That’s the one thing you should never ask a lady.”

  He thought for a moment, cycling through some options that would be appropriate for someone in her age group—which was tough to narrow down without being able to see most of her face. But from the smooth, unblemished skin and the way she sat, comfortable and swinging her feet...he’d put her at her midtwenties. Maybe less, although he didn’t want to think about her being over a decade younger than him.

  “You’re holding all the cards.”

  She grinned. “Which is exactly how I like it.”

  “You’re not a negotiator, are you?”

  “No. I’m a romantic and a dreamer.”

  “Ah, so you’re unemployed?”

  She threw her head back and laughed, the sound striking him right in the chest. But it cut off before he could grasp hold of something that flickered out of reach. A memory.

  “Do we know each other?” he asked, looking closer.

  “No.” The answer was immediate, her reaction drawing a line between them that made him curious as hell.

  “Will you take your mask off before I guess?” He cocked his head. “Help me even the playing field a little?”

  “Tonight is all about the mystery, don’t you think? Strangers without faces.”

  Ah, so she was looking for something anonymous. He wasn’t sure why that unsettled him—hell, he’d looked for exactly that on countless occasions. No names, no phone numbers. No repeats.

  And certainly no fucking regrets.

  Maybe it was because Jerry McPartlin had gotten Damian’s head all messed up, but he accepted her terms. “Okay, three guesses it is.”

  She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, as though stifling a grin. The mysterious redhead knew she was going to win, little minx. She held up three fingers. “Go on.”

  “Is it...Samantha?”

  One finger curled down toward her palm. “Strike one.”

  “How about...Natalie?”

  She shook her head. “Strike two.”

  “Lucky last guess.” He blew out a breath, enjoying the way she shifted on the countertop, a faint flush colouring her chest. “Amanda?”

  She made a buzzer noise and dropped her hand down. “You owe me a drink now.”

  He wanted something else. No doubt she would taste better than the top-shelf stuff they were serving in the ballroom. A drink seemed far too tame for her lush, full lips and creamy skin. For that bold, flaming hair and the dress that was cut to a deep V at her chest. For the slit that flashed a shapely leg and hinted at sex and sinfulness.

  He stood in front of her, his hands falling to the countertop on either side of her thighs, hemming her in. He watched her pupils flare—no fear, just desire. Her chest rose and fell with quickened breath, and her lips eased open a fraction. Taunting him. Inviting him in.

  Lust battled with logic—telling him to stay and kiss her. To leave and go after Jerry McPartlin.

  A series of thumps rattled the door to the bathroom, frantic and quick. “Excuse me? Is anyone in there?”

  Damian stepped back and helped the redhead down from the countertop. “Looks like that’s our cue to go. Can you walk okay now?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  He opened the door, allowing the redhead to exit before him. A man in an elaborate gold mask bounced up and down on the spot, clutching his stomach. He pushed past Damian and the redhead with an angry huff. “You know these bathrooms aren’t for fooling around. Some people have to use them.”

  Giggling, the redhead grabbed his hand and pulled him down the corridor, away from the ballroom, to a grand curving staircase. “Come on, this way.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything up there, Ariel.”

  “So that’s my name now?” The hazel of her irises shifted in the light, making the small amber flecks look like gold dust. “Ariel?”

  “Seems fitting. Long red hair, mysteriously showing up out of nowhere.” His eyes dropped down. “Great legs.”

&
nbsp; She laughed and tugged him farther along. The back of the corridor was deserted, but the sound of clanging grew louder. Just before they hit the staircase, a waiter exited from a swinging door, his uniform crisply pressed. The redhead marched right into the kitchen, as bold and brazen as anything, and plucked two champagne flutes from a silver tray that was waiting to go out.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as she breezed back into the hallway as though it were totally normal for ball gown–clad guests to steal drinks.

  “There’s no service upstairs.” She handed him a flute. “Come on, you promised me a drink on the balcony.”

  Damian looked toward the entrance to the ballroom, where a group of men in tuxedos were gathered. Their rich, booming laughter floated down the hall, the sound of stuffy voices discussing boring things ringing in the air.

  Last chance. Go back in there and work on your plan. Or be the man McPartlin thinks you are.

  The redhead leaned in close, the beaded strands on her mask brushing his cheek. Warm breath whispered over his skin as the scent of her perfume grabbed hold of his heart. “You know you want to and I know you want to.”

  He turned, his face so close to hers he could have captured her mouth. “Fine,” he said. “One drink.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LAINEY’S HEART HAMMERED like a toddler beating tin pots together, the feeling vibrating through her body right down to her thankfully uninjured toes. That moment in the bathroom, where Damian had asked if they knew one another, she’d thought it was all over.

  James Bond she was not.

  But her response must have satisfied him, because his suspicion had drained away.

  Holding her hem tightly in one hand, she lifted the fabric as they ascended to the next floor of Patterson House. According to the little sign at the bottom of the stairs that politely directed guests back to the ballroom, the balcony was supposed to be off-limits. But Lainey figured if they really wanted people to stay downstairs, they would have roped it off.

  In any case, she needed to get Damian in private again. He’d been about to kiss her before that bumbling idiot and his digestive issues had interrupted them. She was sure of it. And that kiss was dancing in her head. She wanted it. Bad.

  As they stepped out onto the balcony, warm air swept over Lainey’s skin, reminding her how much she had on display. A shiver rippled through her.

  “It’s a beautiful house,” Damian said.

  “It is.”

  The balcony was as ornate as the rest of the building. White fretwork closed the balcony in while letting light filter through. The sun had started to set, and shades of orange and pink streaked the sky, making the greenery of the Patterson House gardens seem all the more vibrant. Lainey felt like a star waiting for nightfall.

  “Cheers.” Damian held his glass up, and she clinked her own against it. “Here’s to masked strangers and wayward wineglasses.”

  “And fairy tales and guessing games.” She sipped her drink.

  “I notice you haven’t asked for my name,” he said.

  Shit. She’d been too busy worrying about protecting her own identity that she’d momentarily forgotten that she wasn’t supposed to know him.

  “You’re awfully hung up on names,” she replied, walking to the edge of the balcony and peering down at the garden below.

  “And you’re awfully evasive.” He smiled, his head tilted slightly. She recognised that look; he was trying to figure her out.

  “Let’s just say that being able to wear a mask was the reason I decided to come here tonight.”

  The scent of gardenias floated past on a breeze. The balcony overlooked the garden rather than the courtyard, and she could see two people stealing away.

  Was it Imogen? Lainey tried to get a better look, but the haze of dusk made it hard to tell.

  “Are you hiding from someone?” he asked. “Or pretending to be someone else?”

  “A little from column A and a little from column B.” She took another sip of her champagne. “And that’s the truth. I’m not trying to be evasive.”

  “You can still be things even if you’re not trying.” His lip quirked. “Tell me, Ariel. If you’re not yourself tonight, who are you?”

  He was close. So close she could smell the cologne on his skin and the bare hint of his soap underneath. He’d used the same sandalwood soap since forever. The clean, woodsy notes were burned into her brain—and never ceased to shock her with a mix of memory and fantasy.

  The visuals played like a film reel in her head, flickering images from that day years ago when she’d been studying at Corinna’s place. She’d watched him strip down to his board shorts and dive into their pool. She’d imagined what would come next. Following him into the water, pulling him close, running her hand over his naked chest...

  “I’m no one.”

  He reached for her champagne and placed the two flutes on a table. Then he did the same with her clutch. It was like being stripped down, and her empty hands felt naked without something to do. “You are most certainly someone.”

  “Maybe I’m a figment of your imagination.”

  “I hope not.” His voice lowered, the sound rough yet silky. Like satin dragging over gravel.

  Her breath hitched as his fingertips came to her waist, confident and firm. With the dress sucking her in, his hands looked enormous against her. He could overpower her, control her. She wanted him to.

  The voice in her head shouted at her to press against him, but she wanted to draw this moment out. Stretch it like toffee and give her brain time to soak in every minute detail. This moment would have to sustain her for the rest of her life and become the thing she could cling to late at night. Her fantasy come to life. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—rush it.

  “Why?” Her hands came to his chest.

  Beneath the thick cotton of his dress shirt, he felt like sculpted stone. Hard and unyielding. Powerful. She had to remind herself to breathe, not to lose herself entirely and let something slip. Like his name.

  “Because imagining things is a waste of time. Why spend energy on something that isn’t real?” His hand slid around her back, pulling her closer.

  “Life doesn’t always measure up to a fantasy.” Her voice was barely a whisper now, thin and soft and unnatural. The rest of her body struggled to function with all the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

  “That’s sad, Ariel.”

  “It’s the truth.” Not just that, it was the story of her freaking life. The world she’d created in her head—the world that matched the romantic stories she loved so much—was way better than reality. If real life truly lived up to her fantasies, then she wouldn’t be wearing a mask tonight.

  His head lowered to hers, hovering for what felt like her life three times over, before he ended the torture. He crushed her to him, his lips landing on hers and opening in a hot kiss, delving and exploring and tasting. Making her head spin and the world shift beneath her feet.

  God help her, she was done for. Ruined for all other men. For all other kisses.

  His lips were soft and full, the taste of champagne and the scent of something earthy and male lingering in her senses. Heaven. Her hand found the back of his head and her fingers thrust into his hair, pulling him closer, hoping it might stop her from levitating in his arms. From floating up into the night air.

  When his hand slipped up her thigh, parting the slit in her dress, her body sang out: yes, yes, yes.

  She ached everywhere. In her head, in her heart, between her legs. For him. Because of him.

  His palm was hot against her skin, his thumb moving in slow circles against her inner thigh. Inching higher, then retreating. Moving forward and back in a maddening, teasing dance that left her breathless with need. She tightened her grip while her tongue ran along his lower lip. She nipped at him, dragging a groan from deep in h
is throat. The sound rubbed her nerve endings raw, heightening her sensitivity.

  He kissed her as if all of his pent-up lust and attraction and protective urges spilled forth at once. As if he’d fantasised about this for the past decade just as she had. This was everything she’d wanted, and holy hell did it live up to expectation.

  “My God,” she groaned into his mouth, thrusting her body forward so their chests pressed together.

  He backed her up against the railing, keeping one arm around her waist and pushing his other hand up higher so he could slide it around to cup her ass. Warm air caressed her everywhere, the tiny scrap of lace masquerading as underwear covering only the necessities. He moaned into her mouth as he grabbed bare flesh.

  “You feel so damn good,” he gritted out as his teeth scraped along her neck. “And you taste like heaven.”

  “Touch me,” she whispered into his ear. “Please.”

  He traced the lines of her body, the curves of her hips, and felt for the heat between her legs. Pinpoints of light danced behind her shuttered lids as he finally brushed his fingers over her sex. The thin silk and lace of her underwear hid nothing. He crushed his lips against hers, kissing her rough and hard and dirty. With teeth and tongue. Ferocious. Demanding. Every cell in her body fired as if fighting for life. Fighting for survival. Fighting to hang on for that one moment of pleasure.

  “Please,” she whimpered. “I need more.”

  “The next step is you coming against my hand, princess.” The growl in his voice rippled over her skin. “Because once I start, I won’t stop until you’re shaking with my fingers inside you.”

  “Yes,” she gasped as he toyed with the edge of her underwear, the back of his knuckle rubbing against her sex.

  “Be sure.” His teeth were at her neck, scraping the line from her jaw to her collarbone.

  “I am.” Her eyes fluttered shut. “I couldn’t be surer. I am so sure right now.”

  He chuckled against her neck. “I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

  “And I like a man who’s good with his hands.” She arched her back as he pushed her underwear to the side, biting down on her lower lip to keep from crying out.