Tension builds in the dark space. I can only see the planes of his face in the rapid rhythm of light from streetlamps. There’s no expression in shadow. Only the certainty that I’ve misstepped. This isn’t what he’s paid me to do. Not to touch him, not to question him. Only obey.
His murmur rumbles through me. “Why would you want to?”
There’s a clench in my chest. A skip to my heartbeat. Why would I want to? Because he’s a handsome man. A desirable man. Doesn’t he know that? Or is he so wrapped up in paying for services that he’s forgotten what it is to be wanted?
I don’t answer with words. I study him, the angle of his cheekbone sharp, his lips a hard line. How will he feel beneath my hand?
It’s worth the risk to find out.
On my knees, I still have to stretch to reach his eyebrows. I’m careful, so careful as I touch his eyebrow and stroke across. I run my finger from the top of his nose to the tip. He’s beautiful in a remote way. I half expect him to feel cool to the touch. It’s somehow a surprise to find his skin warm and soft.
He sits stiff and unwelcoming, and a shot of embarrassment runs through my heart. What if he doesn’t want this? I’ve presumed too much. I’ve humiliated—and then his head tilts toward me, hesitant, halting, as if it’s the first time he has ever been touched, even though that can’t be true.
I reach for his mouth, but he pushes me away.
He sets me roughly onto the seat beside him, with a muttered, “No, No. That’s enough.”
I run my hands over my arms, where goosebumps have formed. It feels like I’ve encountered a bear, stroked his fur, faced him head-on, and lived to tell about it.
Something gold and glittery appears in my lap. A mask.
“It’s a masquerade,” he says gruffly.
The mask feels solid, as if maybe it’s made of real gold. It fits over my face as if it’s been crafted for my features. It feels good to hide, especially as my cheeks are warm. Did he like the kiss? And more importantly, should I have liked it so much? I’m being paid for this.
He pulls out a black mask that covers half his face as the limo slows into a circular drive. I stare out the window as we approach the mansion—there’s no other word for it. It looks like a sprawling English manor was transported only an hour and a half outside Manhattan. Thousands of fairy lights and plush oversized feathers hang suspended above garden walkways. Every window in the manor glows with festive yellow light.
My breath catches. This is where we’re going to spend the evening?
The limo comes to a stop before I’m ready, before I’ve even begun to process the enormity of this event, the crowds of beautifully dressed people, the elaborate decor that makes this feel like some kind of fairy land. Raoul holds out his hand, beckoning, his eyebrow lifted in silent question. Or maybe it’s a challenge. He certainly doesn’t look soft or kissable. It’s hard to believe this is the same man who shuddered beneath my kiss.
“Shall we?” he asks.
2
Raoul
The outside of the Constantine compound was decorated for the occasion, but it’s nothing compared to the inside. Foliage drips from the ceiling, giving the impression that we’re walking through some fantasy forest. An actual moat moves frothy water through the entrance hall. We’re escorted to the receiving line at the base of a wide staircase.
“Her name’s Tinsley,” I murmur to Anita.
Her eyes are wide as she takes in the greenery covering the balcony. She turns back to me, her pretty red lips in the shape of an O. The whole thing’s overwhelming her, which is… well, adorable. I had some idea it would, after she mentioned balloons in the limo. There are no balloons. Lions in cages and acrobats from Cirque du Monde hanging from the ceiling, yes. But no balloons.
“Tinsley,” she says, blinking once. “How old is she?”
“Sixteen.”
“Wow… This is…”
“I know.”
She clears her throat. “I thought this dress was a little outrageous when I was in the hotel bar. Now that I see all these costumes it feels understated.”
It’s true there are people in full Marie Antoinette dresses and velvet suits with ruffles. In comparison, her gold dress and my tux are ordinary clothes. In principle.