by Sylvia Frost
None had.
After the kitchen, they went through the basement, the living room, the study, the library, and the poolroom in quick succession. With each room, Lucille got more and more impatient, realizing there was nothing out of place. By the time they reached Lucille’s own master bedroom, Cynthia was feeling practically giddy. Reagan was even shooting her congratulatory, if snarky, glances. Lucille’s arms were crossed, the only sound the muffled tapping of her foot against the regal blue carpet.
Finally, she spoke. “You did a fair job, Cynthia,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“However,” her puffy lips turned down into an almost-sincere frown, “I don’t think you’ll be able to come with us.”
“What?” both Cynthia and Reagan said at once. Reagan actually sounded more annoyed than she did.
Lucille pursed her lips. “Well, she has nothing to wear.”
“I have a dress,” Cynthia said, almost bored with the protest. The thought of her not having a ball gown was as ridiculous as Lucille’s hair-do. She had almost majored in fashion design, for God’s sake.
“Oh, not the dress, but the mask,” Lucille said. “We forgot to get you one at Fantastique, and I’m afraid all of the proper stores are closed for the night.”
Cynthia winced. As much as she hated the fact that New York had gotten hipster-y enough that there really was a high-end shop selling only animal masquerade masks, she hated more that it was only open three hours a day. What kind of business model was that? Worse, Lucille was right; she didn’t have a black-tie appropriate mask that “represented her inner beast” just lying around.
“That is ridiculously unfair,” Reagan said. “You saw the job she did here, Mom.” A bit of her old New Jersey accent slipped through the upper-crust drawl she had adopted in her years in Manhattan.
Lucille’s frown morphed into a full-on scowl at the sound of their roots showing. “Reagan,” she chided. “You’re the one who set up this little bargain.”
Reagan, who never had the same level of control Cynthia did, pressed her palm into her forehead. “Holy fucking hell.”
“Reagan Amelia Cinders-Miller.” Lucille rattled off each of Reagan’s names with more venom than most people gave a curse word. “I will not have you speak to me like that. Leave the room. Now!”
Reagan stomped off like a thirteen-year-old instead of the twenty-five-year-old she was.
Lucille brandished her same sour glare at Cynthia. “You too.”
Cynthia smiled wanly before exiting to the stairs. Her mind wasn’t present. Plans whirled through her head as she decided what would be the best way to infiltrate the party sans invitation and mask, while managing to avoid the host. It wouldn’t be easy.
She got halfway down the stairs when she ran into Reagan and Christine, both looking sheepish. Although that might have just been Christine’s default expression. The girl was an enigma.
“You going to move, or have you decided to sleep on the staircase tonight?” Cynthia quipped, not having the energy to devote to a conversation with her step-sisters.
“Cynthia,” Reagan started.
“Oh no.” Cynthia held up a hand. “I’m not in the mood for an apology. Because of you, I’m going to have to MacGyver my way into a ball tonight.”
“Cynthia, if you’ll just listen—” Reagan said, louder this time. Christine retreated back a step at the change.
“Seriously, just let me go to my room.” Cynthia nudged Reagan with her shoulder, trying to make space.
Reagan took that as the opportunity to grab Cynthia’s upper arm. The girl had a lot more strength than her skinny body suggested, probably from years of fights in Jersey’s less than stellar public school system.
Reagan pried open Cynthia’s tight fist and thrust a slip of paper into her hand. “This is for you.”
It was an invitation. With her name on it.
“Oh,” Cynthia said.
“I called Rose and had her make an extra invitation off the books.” Reagan frowned. “You should’ve reminded me you were looking for investors. I can’t believe you actually cleaned the whole house. My stupid boy issues and toddler temper tantrums are not worth ruining your business.”
“Well I’m glad you’re aware of your mental age,” Cynthia said, although she grudgingly took the envelope with the invitation inside. “But thanks.”
The creases on the corner of Reagan’s frown deepened, and she ran a hand through her bleached-blonde hair, sighing. “I know. I’m an asshole. But look at it this way, at least after tonight, I won’t be a directionless asshole. I’m officially moving out and going back on the job hunt. I can’t handle mom anymore.”
“You know you can always work for me, right?” Cynthia asked. Despite being prone toward petty revenge plots, Reagan Miller could spin straw into gold when it came to PR. Unfortunately, no one else would hire her at the moment because she had tattled on her client to the press after he tried to sexually assault an intern only a day after his wife’s funeral from a seriously suspicious boating accident.
Regan’s smile was thin. “Go mother somebody else, Cin. I’ve got a plan.” Her smile twisted into a smirk in a way that made Cynthia wonder if it ever had been a smile at all.
Thank God I’m not the target of her schemes this time.
Christine peeked out from behind the bannister. “And I got you this. A friend in the costume department at Joffrey found it for me,” Christine mumbled before proffering out a pure white mask bedazzled in what had to have been cubic zirconium. It twinkled.
Reagan released Cynthia, allowing her to delicately pluck the mask from Christine’s limp grasp. She couldn’t help the smile that crept over her lips as she felt the cotton fabric on the back of it.
This.
This was the real invitation. Anonymity. The chance to find the little minnows while avoiding the sharks. The chance to break free of her stepmother right underneath her nose.
“Thank you, Christine,” she said, turning the mask over in her hands.
The slant of the eyes, the long, proud nose, and the soft-tipped ears pointing at the top made the animal the mask represented unmistakable. A wolf. Cynthia smiled wildly as she felt the sharp edge of the jeweled fangs protruding from the mask’s mouth.
Tonight, she was going hunting.
Chapter 5
It really is a beautiful trap, Rex West thought as he took in the ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. All ivory, gold trim and creamy frescoes, the space had the feel of an architectural wedding cake, each layer and flourish trying to out-do the last. On a raised stage a string quartet droned out a minuet nobody danced to. His guests were too busy gaping. Some craned their necks toward the newly restored chandeliers imported from France, entranced by the way the dripping crystals shimmered in the light like champagne bubbles frozen in time. Others looked at him.
Rex adjusted the black velvet wolf’s mask over his nose, trying not to acknowledge the women giggling in his direction while their dates staged loud conversations about the size of their stock portfolios. As if that would impress him. Or allow them to keep their dates, if Rex wanted to take them.
He made eye contact with one of the women, raised his head and inhaled. The heat of the ballroom made her scent carry. Cinnamon and vodka. No. Not her.
Nodding impassively, Rex cut through the crowd on the dance floor to the drink table on the other side of the room. Whether it was because of the heat or the sense that his mate might finally, finally, be near again, Rex’s inner wolf was stirring. It turned his normally even steps into forceful strides. When he arrived at the table, he reached for a glass.
“It’s clever, turning up the heat to help sniff out your mate. But is it really necessary to make it a bloody sauna?” drawled a man in an English accent.
“Bane,” Rex said in a greeting that was more goodbye than hello. “I didn’t know I sent you an invitation.”
“Of course you didn’t, but what kind of panther would I be if I could
n’t sneak into a party?” Bane smirked and darted to Rex’s left, plucking the exact same flute of champagne Rex had been reaching for.
“A polite one.” Rex flinched. His damned wolf demanded revenge for the stolen glass, but Rex ignored it, picking up another flute and pivoting to lean against the table, facing Bane.
“Polite?” Bane narrowed his dark brown eyes. Where Rex was broad-shouldered and classically handsome, Bane was all sharp cheekbones and shadows. “Well, that sounds boring and impossible.”
Rex tilted his head, his mouth sharpening into a victorious smile of his own, but said nothing. Bane’s accent may have been upper-crust Londoner, but his surname was Germanic, and there was something more than a little Indian in the panther shifter’s blunt nose and pitch-black hair. No one, not even Rex, knew where the panther shifter had come from, or what he ever really wanted. This wasn’t that uncommon for werebeasts in the upper echelons of human society. It took a serious strength of will to not only survive among their prey, but also to thrive. It took the ability to keep a secret.
“The theme of animals… do you think your true mate will decide to come as a wolf? I assume that’s who you’re looking for in all this.” Looking too innocent, Bane fiddled with one of his gleaming gold cufflinks in the shape of his company’s logo, a spinning wheel. “What if she came as a cat?”
Hearing the words cat and his mate in the same sentence made Rex’s wolf fully alert for the first time since his matemark dreams had strengthened six months ago. He fought the ragged pounding of his heartbeat. “Faces are distractions. Unlike you, I can smell.”
“Unlike you, I can shift.” Bane inclined his head before sipping at his gently bubbling Veuve Clicquot.
“Keep fishing for rumors, Cat.” Rex kept his face carefully blank, even under his mask.
“Funny thing is, rumors have a beautiful little habit of finding me.” Bane set down the glass and pointed lazily at a girl dressed in gold, wearing a mask made out of feathers. She was heading right toward them. Leaning in conspiratorially, Bane whispered, “What do you think she wants?”
Rex frowned, trying not to imagine what sort of scheme Bane was going to use to ensnare the poor young woman, but before he could ask, Bane had already taken off. Rex decided against following. No matter how innocent the girl might’ve looked, no one who had a problem Bane Stilskin could solve was ever completely clean.
Pressing his hands to his temples, Rex sighed. More people had filtered in during his conversation with Bane. Like most wolves, Rex never cared for crowds, but unlike most wolves, he was able to control his claustrophobia. Control was Rex’s specialty. He had only ever lost it once. Twelve years ago, he had met his mate, a girl who couldn’t have been more than nineteen to his twenty. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a lost princess in the dark woods, he meant to rescue her. Instead, his wolf, long ignored because of his designation as family “human liaison” and “business whiz” had frightened her away by growling at her.
It had been tempting to stalk her down and explain, but Rex wasn’t a monster. He didn’t kidnap girls. They came with him. For him. Because they wanted to. Even at the tender age of twenty.
Anyway, he had been sure that once the matemark asserted itself a few days after their initial meeting, she’d be drawn to his side where she belonged. But she hadn’t returned, and the tight control Rex maintained over his inner wolf kept him from following her scent across streams, let alone state lines. Shifting wasn’t an option. Rex would never do that again.
As a human Rex could, however, track his prey within a room, and so when his matemark dreams had become more vivid after he came back from Michigan six months ago, Rex began throwing parties in the hope that his lost princess was near and would attend. Every week he chose a different theme. As Bane had noted, he had already burned through most of the Upper East Side’s models, actresses, doctors, socialites, artists, and musicians. Tonight was entrepreneurs.
Knowing it was probably useless, Rex breathed in, sifting through the hundreds of individual scents, both artificial and real. The alcohol-tinged perfumes were like a flimsy veil over the stench of sweat and heat, some speaking of sickness, some of hunger, many of desire and inebriation. None of them spoke of her.
His wolf whined softly. It knew she was close. Closer than ever. Rex grimaced. The beast was being so vocal tonight. Irksome.
He almost gave up and opened his eyes, when he tasted it.
There.
A hint of orange twisted through the air, like the echo of a dream. He’d know that scent anywhere. It was her. His mate.
His eyes flew open as he followed the scent to its source—a speck of white in the sea of off-the-rack tuxedos and ball gowns that belonged more in a Texas prom than the Plaza Hotel. He couldn’t see her face yet, or any other details, but it didn’t matter. He was sure.
Rex smiled, his matemark pulsing on his ankle. Twelve years later, his princess had finally returned.
Now he could show her the man he had become.
Chapter 6
Rules For Networking Events
1)Don’t drink.
2)Don’t bring up your company unless prompted first.
3)Keep ratio of talk about how awesome Boxes & Broom is to pandering to male investor’s egos at a healthy 1:20.
4)Really don’t drink.
5)Try not to get into a rapturous discussion with fellow entrepreneurs about the joys of post-it notes and vision boards.
6)Although clearly, vision boards are pretty fucking awesome.
7)Don’t hook up with anyone.
8)If you’re going to break rule 7, they cannot be better off than you are.
9)If you’re going to break rule 7 & 8, they must not be an investor.
10) If you’re going to break rules 7, 8 & 9, they can’t know who you are.
11) Don’t break rules 7, 8, 9 & 10.
“Yes, thank you. I’d love to meet over coffee.” Cynthia kept up her drooping smile as she placed one of her minimalist white business cards in the oily palm of yet another investor.
He stared at Boxes & Broom’s logo quizzically for a moment before putting the card in his pocket. “I’ll have to check with my assistant, but I think you’ve got an idea that could really go viral here.” Balding and in his late forties, the man said the word viral like it was a foreign language, but he looked enthusiastic enough.
Cynthia patted his hand and withdrew. “Fantastic. Just call this number whenever you’re ready to talk. I’d love to get started,” she said. She had given this exact same line to at least sixty different men tonight and she was tired of them all.
The man nodded and continued staring at Cynthia’s chest before downing the last dregs of his wine and shambling back to the buffet.
He wasn’t going to call. At least not about investing.
Isn’t anyone here a professional?
The whole thing was more like a fancy frat party than a networking event. The masks, the stench of sex in the air, and most of all, the fact that there were far more women here than men.
I have got to leave before midnight anyway, Cynthia thought. That’s when the doormen change shifts. And Harry is, unfortunately, actually conscious when he mans the desk.
Just as she turned to leave, a lick of heat and pain shot up her leg from her ankle straight to her core. Her knee buckled. She peered at her ankle, willing the sensation to end, but it didn’t. Stranger still, the room had fallen quiet, not silent, but hushed, like a show was about to begin.
Cynthia glanced up and realized something very weird.
The show was her.
A man strode toward her with the authority of a ringmaster, and people parted to let him pass. Couples split mid-twirl, laughter fading, and a few really drunk partygoers actually pointed. Some at her, others at the man. It wasn’t until he got close enough that Cynthia put together the hints hidden behind his mask to realize why.
A geometrically perfect square jaw, meticulously slicked-back sandy hair,
blue eyes that pinned her in place, and a body that even hidden in a tuxedo was clearly well formed, it all added up to one man.
Rex West.
The host of the feral masquerade. The Prince of Wall Street. Or the wolf of it. It depended on which tabloid you asked. His mask, a minimalist face of a wolf in black velvet covering only his eyes and forehead, clearly held with the latter interpretation.
Damn.
With everyone staring at her, running wasn’t an option, and Rex knew it. He slowed to a stroll, never breaking eye contact.
Cynthia bit her tongue, hoping that would stop the red blush from stinging her cheeks. It didn’t matter if he could see it or not. She could feel it, and she knew it wasn’t just from embarrassment.
The crowd closed behind him, and he stopped a few feet in front of her. His shoes were polished enough that they should’ve squeaked on the floor, but he made not a sound. Neither did anyone else. Rex inclined his head, the twinkling of his blue eyes not hiding the command implicit in the gesture.
His silent order tugged at Cynthia in a way she had felt only once before. A man dressed too well to be out hiking, touching her just the way she had always wanted, but could never vocalize.
It’s not the same guy. That would be insane.
Her ankle burned.
Before it could get worse, Cynthia gave him a polite smile that she knew didn’t reach her eyes, nodded, and turned her back on the richest man in Manhattan.
The moment their eye contact broke, Cynthia felt a piece of her soul return to her body. However, her relief was edged by the throbbing of her foot. The ribbons winding up her ankle and the Band-Aid covered her mark, but only just. She hoped it wasn’t suddenly cancerous. She’d make a doctor’s appointment later.
Cynthia nicked a glass of champagne and downed all of it in a single gulp. To her relief the string quartet finally started up again, the minuet melting into a waltz. Christine would’ve known the composer.
