Masquerade - Cara Lockwood Page 0,1

thumping in her chest, because she couldn’t shake the feeling she’d been caught red-handed. Not, of course, that that meant anything. She could usually bribe or cajole her way out of any problem. Trespassing had to be among her most minor offenses of late.

“Everyone knows the heiress of The Skycloud—founded by your father?” He spoke with a faint French accent, soft and sexy. “Also, I believe you have more followers than he does on social media.” Damn her social media feed, a blessing and a curse. Mostly a blessing, since her influencer powers also made her a decent amount of money. Money that she’d need if she ever wanted to get out from under her father’s thumb. “Your reputation proceeds you.”

It always did. She’d made her social media reputation as a party girl with loose morals, someone who courted and discarded actors and pop stars on a whim. Some people loved her, some hated her, but they were all interested. That’s how she kept selling all those mascaras and lips glosses, and how her followers kept growing every day.

“What do you know of my reputation?”

“You’re a woman used to getting what she wants.” He paused. Here it comes, she thought, the moment when he made a remark about how controversial she was, how she hopped from bed to bed. She didn’t care.

“How so?”

“You point at a man and he usually falls in love with you. Is this not so?” He grinned, slowly, and Asha knew he meant one of the pop songs written about her. It was a lie, of course. When she pointed at men, they did fall in love. Just with her money. Not her.

“That’s a slight exaggeration.”

“Is it? I am not so sure,” the mystery man replied, the French accent a bit thicker now. Asha realized that a hole in the crowd seemed to form around them. People were giving them space. Oddly. And a few were staring in their direction. She wondered why. She turned her attention back to the Frenchman in the tuxedo and gilded mask.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage, Mr....” she trailed off, trying to figure out if the slant of his mouth, the shade of his eyes, held any clue to his identity. No, she decided, she didn’t know him.

“Mathis Durand,” he said, and gently took her right hand. He bent over it and laid a gentle kiss above her knuckles, a warm, feather-like touch that made all the nerve endings in her arm come alive. “I am the host of this party.”

“The host?” Oh, great. Now she was in trouble. “Well, you see, I’m so very sorry. I’ve forgotten my mask.” Forgotten, or never knew she needed one—what was the difference? “The friend I came with forgot to tell me it was a costume party.”

She laughed uneasily. She’d never felt more exposed. Durand didn’t join her. He cocked his head to one side.

“The friend? Who is this?”

“Connor Henry.”

A slow smile crept across Durand’s face. “I do not believe that is true, Ms. Patel. You did not come with Mr. Henry. You are...how do they say in America? Crashing?”

All the guests ceased their own conversations and were simply staring now. Why? Who cared about a single party crasher? Every party had dozens. Didn’t they?

“I...” She was about to double down on her lie, because if she knew anything it was that if she acted passionately enough about a bald-faced lie, most people believed it. “I’m a guest.”

“You’re the guest of no one.” The direct contraction startled her. Now she realized too late that bluffing was a mistake. He was the host, after all. Perhaps he did personally know...all the hundred or so people who crowded the ballroom. “Shall we talk about this in private?” Durand asked. He took hold of her elbow, a gentle but firm grip, his fingers a shade paler against her golden skin.

“Sure?” she said and he steered her through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea, the whispers following her as she went. Now, nervous butterflies flapped their wings against her rib cage. Why all the seriousness? He led her to the end of the ballroom, past the enormous crystal chandelier and to the balcony doors beyond. They passed at least three women in low-cut dresses that only seemed to have eyes for Durand. Asha got the impression she was keeping him from flirting with the gorgeous, lithe Nordic model types who were frowning at her as he took her through the balcony doors, and