CHAPTER FOUR
BROKEN GLASS AND bloodshed weren’t supposed to be part of the deal. Not to mention the fact that she’d come precariously close to getting red wine on her borrowed finery. But it was the stupid dress that caused the problem in the first place. Who was tall enough for these damn dresses? Amazonians?
The fabric had gotten caught under her heel and she’d stumbled, the wine splashing across Damian as the glass escaped her grip. She was only supposed to slosh a little over the edge, just enough to interrupt him and the glamorous woman in the white dress who was about to go in for the kill.
But oh no. That would have been too easy, and Lainey never could seem to take the easy route.
So elegant, Kline. Like a drunk baby llama on roller skates.
But being weightless in Damian’s arms was more than she could have hoped for, at least within the first five minutes. Now all she had to do was cross her fingers that she hadn’t embedded glass in her foot.
“You okay?” he asked as they exited the ballroom and headed to the powder rooms.
The mask covered only half of his face, one eye and cheek, Phantom of the Opera–style. That was how she’d spotted him so easily. Tonight he was freshly shaven, his olive skin smooth. By the end of the night he’d have a shadow there, a hint of darkness impressing itself on his clean-cut image. Like a reminder that he was more than he appeared.
“I’m not about to pass out from blood loss, if that’s what you mean,” she replied in the voice she’d been practising all week. She spoke slower and breathier than normal, trying to disguise the very last thing that could give her away.
“I should hope not.” His tone was heavy with amusement. “I doubt they’ll take the tux back if it’s got blood on it.”
A five-thousand-dollar entry price and Damian had rented a tuxedo? For some reason that made her grin like an idiot. No matter how rich he got, there would always be a hint of where he came from lurking beneath. And damn if that didn’t make her heart swell.
No hearts, no flowers, no chocolates. Cut that shit out right now. This is a fantasy. Nothing more.
“At least you’d have a story to tell.”
“I have a lot of stories to tell. That’s not my problem.”
“What is your problem?” Her heartbeat kicked up a notch when his eyes shifted down to hers. With the black surrounds of the mask, the sharp blue of his irises was even more stark and breathtaking. “Maybe I can help.”
The corner of his lip quirked. “You’ll do the opposite of that, I’m afraid.”
“Try me. You never know when a stranger might be exactly what you need.”
A little seed of guilt unfurled in her stomach. She was no stranger and everything about this encounter was for her own selfish gain—to appease the fantasy that’d plagued her for years.
You’re not forcing him to do anything. If this goes somewhere, it’ll be because he accepts your offer, not because you held a gun to his head.
They reached the private powder rooms. There were no cubicles for the guests of Patterson House, that was for damn sure. Each powder room was spacious, with a single private sink and toilet. Lainey thanked her lucky stars for the diva-like needs of the rich, because it would afford them some privacy.
Holding her, Damian nudged the door open with his foot and let it swing shut behind him. The click of the automatic latch was like a single firework in the quiet room, the sound echoing off the tiles and rattling around in her brain. He set her on the marble countertop. Lainey glanced around. The room was like no other bathroom she’d ever seen—the taps were gold and ornate, and fresh flowers sat in a vase that was most likely crystal. They even had a fancy hand soap dispenser that resembled a Fabergé egg.
“Let’s have a look at the damage.” He crouched in front of her, pushing her dress up so he could get to her foot. His fingers made quick work of the strap on her sandal, and with one hand bracing her ankle, he slipped the shoe off.
The action was so soft and caring that Lainey’s heart caught in her throat. The warmth of his fingers was like an aphrodisiac, potent. Intoxicating. Her blood hummed at the contrast of it all—the firmness of his grip mixed with the careful, tender touch.
“I think you can keep the foot,” he said, his tone serious. But the twinkle in his eye gave him away.
It appeared Damian did still have a sense of humour, much to her delight.
“You think?” Lainey peered down and wriggled her toes. The light glinted off the shimmery black nail polish she’d chosen because it reminded her of the stars against a night sky. “The word think isn’t something I want to hear when we’re discussing amputation.”
He chuckled and lifted her foot higher to inspect the sole. “I’m going to rub my thumb across the ball of your foot. If you feel any pain, then there could be glass under the skin.”
She nodded, her breath stuttering like a car engine failing to turn over. Lainey wasn’t sure she’d be able to detect pain—or anything else—as Damian inspected her. For an encounter that shouldn’t have been in the least bit sexual, every nerve ending in her body was singing as though it was Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve and every other damn holiday all at once.
“Do you feel anything?” He looked up.
Seeing a big man like him on his knees, looking up at her through that sexier-than-sin mask, touching her as though she were the most precious thing in all the world...
“I think I’d be a statue not to feel something,” she said, her voice low and soft. “But I’m not in pain.”
He held on to her foot for a moment, his eyes fixed on her. Her calf was cradled in his palm, the heat from his skin working its way through her, turning her veins to threads of fire. Thank God she had a mask on so he couldn’t see her face heating up. They stayed there—locked in that moment, frozen by intimacy—until he cleared his throat and slipped the shoe back onto her foot.
“So I’ll be alright, Doc?”
“Better than alright.” He stood. The tuxedo fit him perfectly, hugging his shoulders and tapering down to his waist in a line so mouthwateringly divine, it stole Lainey’s breath. The only thing ruining the effect was the red wine stain. “I’m glad we checked—the last thing you want is a glass splinter.”
“Exactly. Cinderella had glass on her feet, and look how that turned out.”
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.”
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.”