Masked Indulgence: A Billionaire Holiday Romance (Nightclub Sins Book 2)

by Michelle Love

  Sam had given up arguing after a while. When they had come back to Portland, he had asked India if she wanted to stay with him and his husband, Jay, for a while but she had demurred.

  “I’m no good at being a third wheel, and you need your space. Trust me, I’ll be fine alone.”

  And alone she intended to stay. She didn’t know if she would ever trust anyone again after Roger, such were the scars, physical and mental. She knew that at twenty-eight, a lot of people considered her beautiful. Tall and voluptuous, with dark brown hair and red highlights tumbling down her back, café-au-lait skin, and dark, soulful eyes, all India could see now in the mirror was a scared little girl. Alone.

  She had never known her birth parents, never known what happened to them or why they had given her up. She had been bounced from foster home to foster home until she was sixteen and then, determined to go to college, she had worked long hours in a diner to be able to afford it. She’d answered an ad for a roommate and met Sam, the tall, gorgeous, green-eyed, dark-haired boy and they’d fallen madly in platonic love. Sam was her person—even when he’d met Jay, he had told him, “Love me, love my Indy.” It hadn’t been a problem. Jay and India had gotten along straight away, and the three of them had had a riotous time throughout college and beyond. India was considerate; she never intruded on their private time, and never felt left out or lonely. She had discovered she was, by nature, a solitary creature.

  Which didn’t mean she didn’t date, of course. Her looks, her charm, her warmth meant she garnered a lot of male—and female—attention and she had dated a few times. Nothing serious until Roger Fields, the heir to the Fields Tech fortune, had pursued her relentlessly and she had agreed to go on a date with him.

  Roger had been charming and sweet those first two years after college; his dark blond curls and preppy charm had made him popular, but it was only when they were alone that his insecurities came to the fore. When India had started to make her mark in the art world, Roger had reacted with jealousy and started acting possessively. His mood swings had become more regular; his outbursts more violent.

  He’d only hit her once. He’d only had that one chance, because the first time it happened, she’d walked out of his life, moved in with Sam and Jay, and ended things for good. She’d gone to the police, her face badly bruised, but they’d known Roger was the son of Robert Fields, the patriarch of a billion-dollar conglomerate, and wouldn’t hear her story. An angry and disillusioned India had felt as if she really didn’t matter in this world. It had taken all of Sam and Jay’s love and kindness to keep her from falling into a deep depression.

  Now, India sat on her couch in her small apartment and stared out of the window. The sky was a strange mix of gray and pink and yellow—snow was on the way. She still didn’t know if she would be able to get through Christmas without flashbacks of that terrible night a year ago.

  She grabbed her purse and her coat and headed out of the door. Distraction was what she needed. She had no plans for Christmas, even refusing Sam and Jay’s offer to join them. I’m going to hibernate with a bunch of junk food and some movies, she thought now as she got into her tiny car and set off for the nearest Walmart. Walking the aisles, she absentmindedly threw candy and potato chips into her cart, before deciding she would at least cook a chicken and get some vegetables, something to balance the sugar and fat. A year of rehab and lying in bed injured hadn’t helped with keeping her slim figure; not that she was overweight, just curvier than she had been, and all that despite the fact that she had mostly lost any appetite. Another thing Roger had taken from her—she had loved her food before. Roger had liked her skinny—although how the hell he knew is beyond me, because I’ve never been skinny, she growled to herself now. Fuck Roger, fuck everything.

  She wheeled her cart down every aisle of the massive store, throwing in Christmas decorations too; she’d go get a tree later. “Have yourself a cheesy little Christmas,” she began to sing to herself, “eat junk food all night. From now on, my leggings will be really tight …”

  A snort of laughter behind her made her laugh, and she whirled around to see a man, early forties, she guessed, a little way along the aisle from her. He was grinning at her, and she couldn’t help but notice his warm smile, his eyes rimmed with the darkest lashes, round, wire-frame spectacles giving him an intelligent and vague geeky look. It helped balance out his devastatingly handsome face. He was tall, wearing a dark navy wool overcoat—elegant, classy.

  “That’s a great song,” he said, “and I second everything you just said.”

  India half-grinned, flushing scarlet. “It’s the only way to celebrate.” Damn, he really did have a great smile.

  “Very true.” He waved his nearly empty basket. “I was struggling for inspiration, but I can see you’ve got your groove on.”

  He nodded to her now overflowing cart. India grinned and picked up a particularly tacky light-up reindeer. “I’ll have you know, Bambi here is lit by actual elves on the inside.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yup. And this beautiful little snow scene—lookit.” She switched it on, and tiny dancers began to glide around an iced-over lake, surrounded by Dickensian houses. “See?”

  The man chuckled. “That’s …”

  “Beautiful is the word you’re looking for,” she said with mock indignation. She dumped the toy back into her card. “Well, lemme see what you got there … oh, that’s just depressing.”

  He showed her the contents of his basket. Two apples, a pre-cooked chili for one, and a pack of Twizzlers. She shook her head at him, and he bowed his own in contrition.

  “I know. I know. I can’t compete.”

  India laughed, surprised at herself for being so open and friendly with this stranger. But it felt good to just fool around again with someone who didn’t know her, didn’t know what had happened to her, and didn’t treat her like “poor old stabbed India.” She was just a girl in the grocery store. He gazed at her for a long moment and then stuck out his hand.

  “Levi Granger.”

  She took his hand, feeling how big and smooth and dry it was. She felt flash of longing, imagining his hands on her body, but she shook it away. “India Ray.”

  He looked vaguely surprised—at what, she didn’t know. “That’s a great name.”

  She flushed. “Thank you.” She could feel her face burning at the man’s scrutiny—it had been years since she had felt this way, actual sexual attraction. To cover her embarrassment, she nodded to his basket. “So, is this your whole holiday in this basket?”

  He laughed, and it was a heavenly, deep rumble that made her heart kick up a notch. “I’m happy to admit it isn’t—less happy when I tell you it’s because, like a teenager, I’m spending time with my parents and my brother this holiday. I hate to foster stereotypes, but my mom makes the best food yadda yadda yadda …”

  India laughed. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “You the same?”

  She must have hesitated a beat too long because his smile faded. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have intruded.”

  India reddened. Damn, now her lovely little moment had been made awkward. She forced a smile. “Don’t be. Everyone has their own way of celebrating. I’m glad you have a great season planned.”

  His green eyes held hers. “Say … if you’re around on New Year’s Eve … would you like to have a drink with me?”

  India’s heart banged uncomfortably against her chest. “I … um …”

  He saved her. “Listen, don’t decide now. Here.” He stuck his hand into the pocket of his jeans—designer, well fitted to a fine pair of hips, she noticed—and pulled out a rather crumpled business card. “It’s got my cell phone. Call me if you’d like to meet up then—or anytime. For anything.”

  India was torn between thinking he meant it genuinely or pitied her. So she just nodded and half-smiled. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

  He grinned again. God, he really was divine. “Good. Well, I had
better leave you to your provision selling. Hey, don’t tell anyone else, but I think, I think, I saw a genuine Fabergé singing Santa down the next isle.”

  India giggled, grateful for him relieving the tension. “Are you sure it’s Fabergé?”

  Levi pretended to consider. “It could be Ming Dynasty. I’m not too sure now.”

  “Whatever it is, I probably need it in my life.”

  “I think you do. It was great to meet you, India Ray, and I hope we’ll see each other again.”

  She smiled. “Happy holidays, Levi.”

  “And to you, sweetheart. Bye now.”

  And he was gone. India stood in the middle of the aisle for a long moment, wondering at the strange feelings inside of her, feelings she hadn’t felt for a long, long time. Giddy, teenage-crush kinds of feelings.

  She went and bought the singing Santa despite the fact that it was neither Fabergé nor Ming Dynasty.

  She named it Levi.

  Sam wrapped his arms around his friend and hugged her tight. “Please change your mind and come spend tomorrow with us.”

  He hadn’t seen India so animated and cheerful for months—heck, for years with that monster of an ex, even before he tried to kill her, she had been subdued and low-key. She’d brought their presents around and stayed for dinner, but now she smiled up at him and shook her head. “Dude, this will be your first Christmas for a while that’s just the two of you. No way I’m a being the third wheel.”

  She knew Jay was relieved—what Sam didn’t know was that Jay was planning on proposing to Sam on Christmas Night—and India was definitely not going to intrude on that. Jay was nervous enough anyway.

  She hugged Jay too, and he whispered “Thank you, darling” in her ear. She had helped him pick a ring out, a solid black tungsten ring with black diamonds inset. It was big, masculine, and would suit Sam to a tee. She had no doubt in her heart he would say yes to Jay—they were so in love it made India’s heart soar.

  “You’ll come over after Christmas, yes?” Jay, too, was worried about her being alone, but she grinned.

  “How about I promise you I will see you before New Year’s?”

  She drove home, a contented feeling inside her. Maybe this was the start of her new life. Maybe she needed to forget “The Savior” and move on. She stuck her hand in her pocket and pulled out Levi Granger’s card. She put it to her nose and breathed in—it smelled faintly of cologne. She smiled and tried to concentrate on the road home.

  At home, she put on some music and added the gifts from Sam and Jay under the tree. She had to admit, she had gone a little over-the-top with the decorations, but who cared? She turned off the main lights then lay on the floor, staring up at the tiny white lights on her tree. Maybe I should get a dog or a cat. Maybe I should start painting again. Maybe, maybe, maybes. She smiled to herself. She really could do what she liked from now on.

  She was glad to be back in Portland. It was the friendly locals, the small-town vibe she needed in her life right now. And it had a great artists’ community—she would seek some of them out in the New Year, she decided, and rent a studio somewhere.

  At midnight, she wished herself a merry Christmas and went to bed, snuggling down into the comforter. Sleep came quickly as it always did now; her body, even after all these months, was still recovering and she was always dog-tired, too exhausted even to dream.

  But not tonight. The dreams returned, and they were not good dreams …

  She remembered stepping up to her apartment door after returning from the gallery then a hand covering her mouth and nose with a cloth that stank of chemicals. Struggling against two thick, muscled arms around her. We’re going for a ride, baby girl. Roger. He’d always called her baby girl, and she had always hated it. It wasn’t a term of endearment; it was a term of subjugation, of possession.

  It had been a week since she had left him, after that terrible day when he’d lost his temper and punched her across the room. Her face was still badly bruised. She’d told him—stay away, or I take the photos to the police and bring down your perfect little life.

  She thought about that now as she began to lose consciousness and she knew what he was going to do.

  When she woke, her hands were bound in front of her and it was freezing cold on the rooftop of an abandoned building in downtown Detroit. Roger sat astride her, his once handsome face now demonic in its anger and hatred and bloodlust. As soon as he saw she was awake, he’d just grinned and raised the knife. She closed her eyes.

  The first blow. The knife sank deep into her belly, and she cried out. The pain was unimaginable, but she barely had time to register it before he stabbed her again and again and again …

  “Wake up.”

  The knife kept tearing at her flesh, and now she could smell her own blood …

  “India, baby, wake up…’

  She smelled smoke. No, wait … that wasn’t until after Roger had left, leaving the knife buried in her stomach. Why could she smell smoke? Woody, almost spicy smoke?

  “India, wake up. You’re safe, you’re well. I’m here now, wake up …”

  It was him. India struggled to force herself awake, still locked in the horror of her murder. She had died; she knew that without any doubt. She had left most of her blood volume on that roof. Her belly was torn open, the pain, the pain …

  “Indy … wake up.”

  She opened her eyes to see a man, tall, with dark curls cropped close, dark blue eyes, swarthy skin. A sensual mouth. She drew in a shaky breath. “You’re here.”

  “And so are you, beautiful, just like I promised. You did it, India. You lived.”

  She reached out to touch his face, half-expecting it to pass through thin air, but when her fingers touched his skin, a thrill ran through her. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Theodore Markham,” he said gently. “Call me Teddy.”

  “Teddy,” she said, almost in wonder, then, “Teddy, how are you in my room, in my bed?”

  She realized now that he was still dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, but yes, he was lying with her on her bed. “You’ve been looking for me,” he said, “that’s all that matters. India.”

  And it was. She lay for a long time with him next to her and just gazed at him. “You brought me back.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s what I do.”

  “Are you human?”

  He laughed softly. “Of course. I was a firefighter.”

  “Then how come no one knew who had saved me?”

  Teddy’s eyes were midnight blue. “I had to go help someone else. I waited until I knew the paramedics were coming and made sure you were being looked after.”

  “They told me some kids had called it in after they found me.”

  “Yes.”

  India rubbed both her eyes and blinked at him. “Teddy … this is all … I mean, it’s been a year. A year and now you show up, you break into my home, my bedroom.”

  He touched her cheek gently. “Just say the words, and I’ll go.”

  “No!’ A wave of panic came over her, and she reached for him. His arms wrapped around her.

  “Don’t worry, beautiful India … don’t worry … as long as you want me, I’m here.”

  Instinctively, India pressed her lips against his, wanting to be close to him after all this time and she felt him respond.

  “Are you sure, Indy?” he whispered, and she nodded, not wanting anything now to stop this dream, this reality, whatever it was. He had saved her once. Now she wanted to know him, be with him. His woody, spicy, smoky scent made her senses reel, and her body react, her skin tingling. He kissed her tenderly at first then, as they became breathless with growing desire, the electricity between them explosive, they stripped each other’s clothes off slowly, exploring each other’s bodies. India didn’t stop to think about the weirdness of this all—she had been looking for him for so long … she listened to her heart and her body and …

  Oh! His coc
k, huge and pulsing with desire, plunged deep into her, and she cried out in ecstasy as he fucked her hard and passionately.

  What was this? She was almost delirious with pleasure, still not sure what the hell she was doing, but God, this was heaven, heaven, heaven …

  India woke to an empty bed. Christmas morning. She rolled over in bed, faced the ceiling, and blew out a sigh. Shit. It had been a dream. She sat up in bed and gazed out at the snow gently falling.

  Well, at least it had felt real; her body was still tingling from the memory. Teddy Markham and his magnificent cock had made her dreams turn from nightmares to the ultimate pleasure. She slid out of bed and went to find her iPad. She tapped in his name into the search engines and found … nothing. No Teddy Markham at the Detroit fire service, or police service or anywhere. Theodore Markham. Nope. Only one Theodore Marcham, long dead. Maybe Teddy had moved around.

  “See that’s the sort of question you should have asked in your dream, dumbass, instead of just screwing the guy,” she chuckled to herself. She wandered into the kitchen and set the coffee machine up to make her Americano, then pulled open the refrigerator, not feeling inspired to eat despite the delicious junk she’d filled it with just for today.

  She felt on edge, her body vibrating with … what? Frustration? The afterglow, she grinned to herself now. Hell, they should market dreams as sex toys because her body felt as if she’d been thoroughly and professionally fucked.

  She checked the front door. Deadbolted from the inside. No way could anyone else have been here. She wondered if maybe it had been a weird form of brain burp, maybe PTSD on the anniversary of her murder … maybe she should stop calling it that. Dead people didn’t come back. Her attempted murder. Roger had failed. She was here. She was alive.

  She spent the day as she had intended, reading a couple of short novels from her “to-be-read” pile, watching Christmas movies, picking at food until, at five p.m., she decided she was hungry enough to cook the chicken she had bought. She took her time to prepare it, enjoying the process of blending herbs and spices with butter and garlic, slicing a lemon to stuff inside the bird. Soon, the apartment filled with the delicious scent and India realized she was starving. Since the stabbing, she had lost her appetite frequently, but now she felt ravenous. When the chicken came out of the oven, she couldn’t help but tear hot pieces from it and eat it, burning her fingers and her tongue, but she didn’t care. It was as if she were tasting it again for the first time.