by J. Kenner
"Okay then," I say, but I'm fighting back a smile. Jackson's serious about this game--and if he saw Edward or a Stark limo, he'd see me. And that would take the fun out of the hunt.
It's silly, but I actually feel a little nervous as Edward maneuvers us from the house to Beverly Hills. I feel a bit like a girl going on her first date. Jittery. Unsure. But certain it's going to be a grand adventure.
The Segel mansion is situated on several prime acres in the hills. It's tucked away down a private drive and accessed only through a guarded gate. It was built during Hollywood's golden age by Anika's father, Arthur Segel, a brilliant movie producer and director who also happened to have co-founded the studio behind most of the movies that brought Anika to fame and glory.
She told Jackson that it was her father who insisted she keep the family name when she got married. "He can offer you a lot, sweetheart," he'd said. "But not a better name." She'd listened, and her fame--and her fortune--had only grown.
I've only met her once, but I found her to be both charming and intimidating. And even now, in her eighties, she's a force of nature.
I'm full of anticipation when Edward brings the limo to a halt and an actual footman opens the door, then offers me a hand to get out. And my eagerness isn't just for Jackson, though that certainly tops the list. But for the party as a whole.
The footman escorts me to the front door, and for a moment I'm afraid he's going to ask for my name and then announce me. But he simply tells me to have a good time, explains about the upcoming silent auction, then nods politely and heads back outside.
By the time I reach the ballroom, I realize there's more in my favor than just the amazing costume Cass put together. This party is a crush. I can barely move, much less find Jackson, and I know his costume won't be as intricate as mine. The odds of him finding me in an hour are seriously skewed in my favor.
Though I'm enjoying the taste of impending victory, I'd rather be enjoying a glass of wine, and so I veer off to my right, skirting the edge of the ballroom as I head to one of the many bars that have been set up. I'm groping in my bag for my drink ticket and not paying attention to where I'm going when I bump hard against someone, then jump as I realize it's Wyatt.
He'd been chatting with a woman dressed like an elven princess, and now he turns to face me, his expression mildly irritated, but then downshifting to polite.
"I'm so sorry," I say. "I wasn't looking where I was going."
His bold smile is wide with a hint of invitation as he looks me up and down, and I'm both amused and a little bit mortified as I remember that while Wyatt doesn't have girlfriend, I've heard enough gossip among my friends and co-workers to know that women are eager to be on his arm. And, presumably, in his bed.
He takes a step toward me, and for the first time I study him critically. Honestly, it's enough to make me believe the gossip. He's exceptionally good looking, with an athletic build and the kind of wind-swept, golden-brown hair that always looks like he's just rolled out of bed. He moves with a confident grace, and when he looks at me with his photographer's eye, it's as if he's seeing all my secrets.
That's an illusion, of course. Because at the moment, my biggest secret is my identity. And considering the sensual twist of his mouth as he starts to speak, it's clear that he hasn't recognized me.
"Wyatt," I whisper, jumping in before he says something that will embarrass us both. "It's me. Sylvia."
He stops, and for just an instant, his expression is confused. Then it shifts to understanding before rounding third and heading on home to mortification.
"Syl--" he begins, but I cut him off, tamping down on the air as if to force a lower volume. It works. "I didn't recognize you," he continues, and despite the whisper, I can clearly hear the apology in his voice.
"That's the idea," I say. "Costume ball, remember?" I can't stop the confident grin that spreads over my face. After all, if a man with a photographer's eye doesn't see the real me, then maybe I really do have a shot at fooling Jackson.
I take a step toward him, and this time I actually want to look like we're flirting and not old friends. Because Jackson is somewhere in this room, and he's watching everyone. "Are you working this party?" I frown because I don't see his camera.
"No, it's much more servile than that." The corner of his mouth twitches. "This is a command performance. My grandmother insisted I come."
"Oh." I'm still confused. "Who's your grandmother?"
"Anika Segel."
"Oh." How the hell did I not know this? I want to ask him if he's pulling my chain, but before I can figure out how to phrase it, Jamie Archer bounces up to Wyatt. She's decked out as Marilyn Monroe, and she looks incredible. Jamie is Nikki's best friend, and she's drop-dead, camera-friendly, Hollywood gorgeous. I know she tried making it as an actress, but she seems to have settled in with her job as an on-air celebrity reporter.
"Someone over there is looking for you," she says to Wyatt. "A green-eyed cat. Can't miss her."
"Thanks." He nods to me. "See you later, Syl."
Jamie's brows rise. "Sylvia? Damn, girl, you look amazing."
"That's the idea," I say. "I'm so glad you're here. I didn't realize you were coming."
"Got lucky," she said. "The job has a few perks, that's for sure."
"Speaking of celebrity gossip, did you know that Anika Segel is Wyatt's grandmother?"
"No way!" she says, and I feel a sense of relief that I'm not the only one who is completely clueless.
Jamie's brow furrows. "I think I smell a story."
"Just remember it didn't come from me." I have no idea if I've broken a confidence. Why on earth had Wyatt never mentioned that his family is Hollywood royalty?
It's not a question that bothers me for too long, though, because Evelyn Dodge glides over. Her focus is on Jamie, but she aims a polite smile in my directions. She looks exactly like herself in a flowing evening gown in a violent shade of orange. It's stunning, but it definitely doesn't qualify as a costume.
"Not dressing up?" Jamie asks.
Evelyn chuckles, then lifts a black stick with a mask attached to one end. She puts it over her face and smiles. "All I need," she says. "Why the hell would I want to come to a Hollywood shindig and not be recognized?"
She has a point. One of my favorite people, Evelyn Dodge is practically a Hollywood landmark. She's been in the business for years, has held every job imaginable, and has recently returned to agenting. In fact, she represents Jamie.
A high-end Hollywood charity event is probably her happy hunting ground.
She confirms my thinking when she taps Jamie's shoulder with her mask. "You should mingle. Garreth Todd is over by the pool," she says, naming one of Hollywood's brightest stars. "Play your cards right and you can line up an interview." She frowns, looking Jamie's costume up and down. "But take Ryan with you. Todd's an absolute horn dog. Where is Ryan, anyway?"
"Over there," Jamie says, pointing vaguely across the ballroom. Her long-term boyfriend is Stark International's Chief of Security, and so I know him well. She shifts her attention to me. "By the way, where's Jackson?"
At the question, Evelyn's brows rise. "Sylvia?"
"Shhh," I say. "I'm in disguise."
Her mouth twists, clearly amused. "Are you? Hiding from Jackson?"
"Something like that," I admit. "We came separately. Now he has to find me."
"Really?" Jamie's brows are practically to her hairline. "Why?"
"I'll tell you later," I say, realizing that by talking to these particular women, I've probably made it too easy on him. "I'm going to go mingle."
"Date night," Evelyn says in a tone of absolute surety. "They're doing it up right."
"Not yet," I say with a wink. "But we will be."
Chapter 7
++
The clock continues to tick, yet Jackson doesn't find me. I can't decide if I'm thrilled I'm so close to winning, or disappointed that I won't be Jackson's prize.
Of course, I haven't seen him either, whi
ch surprises me. I didn't expect him to get deep into costume. And with only fifteen minutes to go on the hour, I start scouring every face at the party.
Most people are recognizable, having gone more with the idea of a costume than an all-out disguise. I see a woman with dark hair by the bar and am just thinking she looks familiar when she turns toward me and I recognize Mila. I consider going and talking to her--after all, it seems like such an odd coincidence to see her so soon after Cass mentioned her--but I hold back. For one, I don't particularly like her. For another, I don't want to have to introduce myself in my fantastical costume.
I'm not terribly surprised she's here, though. I'd heard she'd moved on to work in television. I'd assumed reality TV, but now I wonder if she's not working in scripted drama or on features. After all, she's talking to Lyle Tarpin, a popular television and movie actor whose star is about to explode. He recently play the lead in a movie that my friend Jane wrote. It's coming out in the summer, but the advance buzz says it's going to be a game changer for Tarpin's career.
I continue looking around the room, and make a mental note to tell Cass that her favorite actress and crush, Kirstie Ellen Todd, is here.
I'm toying with the idea of being completely gauche and asking Kirstie for an autograph when I feel warm hands cup my waist.
I stiffen.
"You are by far the most beautiful creature in this room," the deep voice behind me says.
"You should be careful. My husband might be watching."
"Would serve him right if I turned you around and kissed you right now. Hard. Deep. The way you should be kissed." He moves in tight against me, and I feel the press of his erection against my ass. "He must be a fool to leave you alone in that outfit with so many hungry men."
"Maybe he likes to see me as the object of other men's appetites."
My companion chuckles. "I imagine he does. It's nice to know something beautiful you own is coveted by other people. He does own you, doesn't he?" he asks, trailing a fingertip up my spine, and sending a series of little shivers coursing through me.
"Completely."
"Then why isn't he here with you right now?"
I tilt my head to the side, considering the question. "I don't know. Maybe he likes to watch?"
I spin in his arms, then face my husband. He's dressed like the Man in Black from The Princess Bride. A black mask over his eyes, a black bandana on his head. And a pair of tight black pants that make my pulse speed up. He looks like sex on a stick, especially with those blue eyes behind the mask, and the beard scruff on his jaw framing that rich, sensual mouth.
I have no idea how I've missed seeing him, but now I drink him in, and like a woman parched, I feel myself coming alive. My body is flushed, my nipples hard. And I'm so very, very wet. "Is that what you want?" I ask. "To watch me with another man?"
It's a tease, of course, and I expect him to laugh it off. I don't expect the heat that flares in his eyes, along with a dangerous, possessive spark. "I've been watching you," he says, glancing quickly to the second floor. "I've been watching you for almost an hour. Did you think I couldn't find you right away? I will always find you, Syl. I know the way you move. The way you smile."
He leans in, so that I feel his breath on my face as he speaks. "I'm so goddamn hard from watching you. But baby, I'd kill any other man who touches you like that. You're mine. And I don't share."
The words shoot through me, arousing me even more than I believed possible.
"Then tell me what you do want," I murmur. "Whatever you want."
He traces his hand down my arm, the brush of his fingertip on the lace that separates his skin from mine shockingly arousing. "I want you to go to the ladies' room," he says, leaning in so that I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. "I want you to take off your panties. And I want you to bring them to me."
My core clenches, heat rippling through me. My pulse kicks up, my nipples strain against the soft material of the bodice. I'm craving his touch. Hell, I'm desperate for it. And I hold his gaze, then lick my lips before very firmly saying, "No."
Surprise flashes in his eyes, and his left brow lifts above the mask, the scar that bisects it adding a dangerous edge to his heated expression. "No? Is this an act of pure defiance?" he asks, sliding a hand behind my neck and making me gasp again as he roughly tugs me closer. He holds me like that for a moment, then moves his hand down to cup my rear through the thin material of the dress. "Or is it an invitation for me to spank your sweet ass?"
I swallow, then tilt my head to the side. I smile innocently, my eyes wide. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Steele. I'm not being defiant--I just can't do the impossible."
I continue before he can articulate the question I see forming on his face. "The fact is, I'm not wearing any underwear."
This time, it's his turn to groan, and I know the man well enough that I recognize the sound as one of pure, primal need. I've surprised him. More than that, I've aroused him even more than he already was.
I glance down at his crotch and see his erection straining against the tight black leather. "You really should do something about that," I tease.
"Believe me. I intend to." He takes my hand and pulls me to the side, the sudden movement jarring a surprised gasp out of me.
"Are we leaving?"
"Hell, no," he says, and a wave of disappointment crashes over me. At least until he leads me into the back yard and over to a small copse of trees that is just out of the circle of colored lights that illuminate the pool and the yard beyond.
"What--" I begin, but he presses a finger to my lips, hushing me even as he turns me around so that his other hand is on my waist, and he has me positioned so that my back is nestled up against his chest as he leans against one of the trees.
"Just look," he says. "Just listen. The costumes, the lights. The sounds of laughter. The music from the orchestra. Just watch. Just enjoy. Just feel."
On the last, his hand slides up my thigh, moving beneath the long strips of overlapping material that make up the skirt of this dress. It's solid until about two inches below my ass, allowing for modesty even when going commando, but that is no deterrent to Jackson's nimble fingers that are now tracing a path along the line of sensitive skin between my thigh and my sex.
"Don't you remember?" he murmurs in my ear. "I told you I'd take you to a dark corner. I promised to make you shatter. Sweetheart," he adds, taking the hand from my waist and putting it gently over my mouth, "I'm going to make you come so hard you scream."
I want to protest that he's crazy. That we're in public. That anyone can see.
But the truth is that I don't care.
No, that's actually not the truth. The truth is that the possibility excites me. To be standing here in the dark with Jackson's fingers up my skirt and his hand over my mouth as he teases me into a fever pitch.
I know he's right--it's dark where we are. Secluded. But there's still a chance. Still that danger.
It's enticing. Exciting. And right now I'm drunk enough on lust to want it.
Oh, how I want it.
I want to melt against my husband. I want to submit to his whims.
I want him to make me explode.
And right now, he's doing a damn good job of working toward that goal.
I try to gasp as his fingertip slides over my slick folds to tease my clit, but his hand tightens on my mouth, and I have to suck in air through my nose. At the same time, he cups my sex, then pulls me tighter against him.
He's trapped me there, holding me firmly against him by the pressure on both my mouth and my sex. I'm utterly at his whim. He could spread the panels of my skirt. He could lift it, completely exposing me. He could rip the lace of the bodice, releasing my aching nipples to the cool breeze that is blowing through these trees.
He could do all that, and for one moment of sanity, I think it is good that he's preventing me from speaking, because right then I might actually beg him to do all those things. Because I want that and more.
>
Hell, I want everything, and I squirm, moving my hips in a silent demand.
I feel the press of his erection against my rear and know that he wants it as well. That he's close, too. But I know Jackson, and I'm certain he won't go all the way. Not here. Not in this secluded dark corner.
But god help me, I want him to.
I arch my back so that my ass presses more intently against his crotch, then writhe against his cock as his fingers slide in to fill me. I feel my body clench around him, and shift back and forth, riding him, wanting his cock. Wanting him to come with me.
"Christ, Syl, stop. You don't know what you're doing to me." His voice at my ear is rough. But I do know what I'm doing. Of course I know what I'm doing. And to prove it to him, I slide my own hand between my legs and gently tug his fingers free.
From his throaty groan, I know that he can tell what I'm doing, and my assumption is confirmed when he says, "Are you sure?"
I answer in action and not words. I move my other hand between us and part the panels of the skirt that cover my backside.
"Fuck," he says, and the next thing I hear is the snick of his zipper. "Touch yourself," he orders. Then he's using his one hand to hold my skirt aside and the other to position himself. "Bend forward," he whispers. "Just a little."
I do, and then I have to swallow a cry when I feel the tip of his cock at my entrance for just an instant before he thrusts hard inside me.
"Baby, you feel so damn good," he says as one hand cups my breast and the other moves around to tease my clit. "Reach back and hold my hips."
I do as he demands, and he uses the pressure of my hands to keep us steady as he moves rhythmically inside me even as he teases my clit, so that I'm lost in a haze of glorious sensations.
Deeper and deeper, harder and harder. I'm whimpering, not ever wanting this to end--this sensation of spiraling upward toward something, and all the more exciting because there's a danger to it. A naughtiness. A wild intimacy that I can share only with Jackson.
"I'm close, baby," he murmurs, as the low timbre of his voice pushes me higher still. And then he explodes, his body convulsing, the wildness taking me over the edge, too, so that I shatter under the force of the electric shock that consumes my body, breaking me apart and sending me floating off out into the night.