by Trish Morey
She looked at them all, speechless. A fluffy grey koala, Tin Man and Humpty Dumpty all stared back.
‘Sylvia?’ the nun prompted. ‘Is that you under that sexy get-up?’
She shook her head, unwilling to give away her identity. If she was going to go home, the last thing she wanted was for Sam to question her on Monday as to her sudden disappearance. She’d rather people thought she’d never bothered to attend. ‘Um. Marie,’ she murmured, trying to add a different note to her voice. ‘From—the Sydney office.’
‘Welcome, Marie!’ said the nun. ‘No wonder you’re shy. Why don’t you come in with us? We’ll take good care of you. Won’t we, Tin Man?’
Tin Man rattled as he tried to nod enthusiastically, earning himself a quick dig in the ribs from the koala.
Before she could protest and extricate her hand from Sam’s, Humpty grabbed her other one and together they steered her towards the doors. ‘Don’t worry about Tin Man and Koala,’ Humpty said conspiratorially. ‘Newlyweds. And I know we’re not supposed to take off our masks till midnight, but I’m Julia. If you get lost or need any help, look for Sister Sam—’ she nodded her big egg head in the direction of the nun ‘—or me. Now, let’s join the party, shall we?’
Before Philly could protest, she’d been swept into the throng inside the large room and her plan altered. She’d slip away in a few minutes, while everyone was otherwise occupied. They’d assume she’d just met up with some other people in this crowd and wouldn’t give it a second thought.
Someone put a glass in her hand. Tin Man took Koala off to dance to make up for his gaffe and Humpty and Sister Sam found a group of colleagues and were busy comparing outfits and guessing identities.
Philly stood on the fringe of the group, planning her escape. Just her luck to run into Sam! At least he hadn’t recognised her. Father Time stood, scythe in hand, just across from her, a large fob watch conveniently around his neck. Already after nine.
She’d give it just a few minutes and then she’d steal away and go home.
She was a goddess!
He was wending his way through the crowded room, enjoying the anonymity lent by his disguise, dropping in to catch snatches of conversation with this group and that, when he saw her. Even in this sea of costumes and colour she stood out like a beacon. How could she not, looking like an Egyptian queen?
She wasn’t tall yet her legs had to be sensational under the sleek gown that looked as sheer and fine as gossamer, accentuating the feminine curves apparent beneath. Golden sandals peeped out below.
The gown ended at her breasts with some sort of twist of the fabric in a strapless arrangement that hugged her form and had him immediately calculating how difficult it would be to get off. Her lips were a splash of red, vibrant and lush and a contrast against the jet-black hair swishing over her bare shoulders. Coiled bracelets adorned her arms.
Her costume was unmistakeable. She was Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. Little wonder emperors had fallen under her spell.
He drank in every detail and his prolonged scrutiny confirmed what he’d known immediately.
He wanted her.
Who was she? With her mask covering her eyes there was no way he could pin down her identity. Did she work for him or was she someone’s partner?
He scoured the group she was standing in, but no one guarded her possessively, no one fielded admirers. She had to be alone. No one in their right mind would let her fly solo in such an outfit. If she was his date he wouldn’t let her out of his sight.
Who was he trying to kid? If she was his date he wouldn’t let her out of his bed.
He had to have her.
Two minutes. Just two minutes more and she’d excuse herself. They wouldn’t miss her now. Sister Sam and Humpty were both deep in conversation with Noddy and Big Ears. She’d leave, make the excuse of a headache if anyone asked her, but chances were no one would even notice in this crowd.
Escape was at hand.
She placed her barely touched glass of champagne on the tray of a passing waiter and slid into the crowd, heading for the door. The sudden hand around her arm told her she hadn’t made the clean escape she was hoping for.
‘You’re not leaving?’
She stopped dead as the tremor passed through her, but there was no mistake.
It was him!
She’d know Damien DeLuca’s autocratic voice anywhere. But now his tone held something else—interest?—desire? She turned and gasped. Relieved her mask would hide the shock in her eyes—the admiration in her eyes—she drank him in. He looked sensational, from the overlapping metal plates at his shoulders to the carved breastplate and the slatted leather tunic ending above his knees. His arms were bare, olive-skinned and gleaming, except for some sort of wide band at his wrist. He held a helmet under one arm, a sword hung at his side.
A Roman gladiator or an emperor going off to lead his army to war? Whatever, he looked magnificent. He fitted the part, with his Italian colouring, hair lazily windswept, curling at his collar and with his chiselled cheekbones accentuated by the simple mask tied over his eyes.
If she’d thought he’d exuded masculine sex appeal in a suit, that was nothing to the sheer testosterone surge he gave off in this outfit.
She swallowed and looked back towards the door. His hand still held her arm and the heat from his grip weakened her resolve to leave.
‘Stay, Cleopatra,’ he said intently, almost reverently. ‘I’ve been waiting over two thousand years to find you again.’
She shuddered, his words going straight through her in a flush of heat that seemed to touch and awaken every last extremity of her and then bounce back, settling at her core, warm and heavy. He reached across and took her hand.
‘Surely you recognise me? Mark Antony?’
He inclined his head and for the first time she allowed herself to smile. It was Damien—really Damien—and he’d noticed her, amongst all these people. And not only had he noticed her; if she wasn’t mistaken he was coming on to her.
Her head dipped in response; she couldn’t allow herself to speak. Her brain had too much information to process to cope with making small conversation. Besides, why spoil this magic? He thought he’d found Cleopatra. Why let on just yet that she was Philly from marketing? He wouldn’t hang around two minutes if he knew. Tonight she might just stick to being Cleopatra.
‘Come,’ he said, tugging on her hand so that she came closer to his body, closer to the source of that heat, as he gestured to the dimly lit dance floor beyond. ‘Dance with me.’
She didn’t have to think about whether or not she should; her feet drifted after him of their own accord, her plan to exit all but forgotten. He led her to the dance floor and drew her into his arms, his hand at her back anchoring her close, his other hand wrapped around hers, securing it close to his shoulder, his wide shoulder, the armour enhancing his masculine form.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said, his voice low and husky.
His words tripped her heartbeat. Beautiful. No one had told her that for a very long time. She had to remember to breathe and when she did it was with a gasp that immediately rewarded her with the scent of him—masculine, clean and enriched with the smell of leather. But not just his scent. She was sure she could just about taste him.
He started swaying to the song, taking her with him, their bodies moving in unison as the music took them away.
Heaven. This must be what heaven was like. Sheer bliss. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to be carried along by the music and by the man who held her in his arms with such strength, yet such tenderness.
Suddenly he stopped. She blinked her eyes open, the music still playing, and saw Damien’s head swivelled to the side. He was talking to someone; it looked like a geisha but the voice was unmistakably Enid’s. She caught a snatch of her words here and there—London—crisis—and Damien rattled off something in response and the geisha disappeared.
He turned his face back to hers, the line of his mou
th grim, tension replacing the liquid heat she’d felt within his grasp.
‘I have to take a phone call.’
His arms continued to surround her and he stared at her as if he was wavering between the phone call and the woman in his arms. ‘I’ll be back. Ten minutes max.’ He hesitated. ‘Maybe twenty.’
She looked up at him, his face so close to her own, and she knew she would wait forever if it meant feeling like this again. Then he dipped his head and his lips brushed hers, so gently that his breath was as much a part of the kiss, as much a part of the sensation, as his lips.
‘So beautiful,’ he whispered, his voice suddenly rougher. ‘Wait for me.’ He smiled and let her go.
And then he was gone.
It was like being in a vacuum. Damien had gone, all too quickly, and she felt cold, suddenly bereft of his heat. But he’d be back. He’d promised he’d be back. And that knowledge started the warmth pooling inside her all over again.
For a moment longer she stood, all by herself, in the centre of the crowded dance floor, couples jostling for space all around until she realised she had to move.
Ten minutes, he’d said. Maybe twenty. Where should she wait for him? How would he find her?
She made her way to the bar, ordered a mineral water and held the iced glass to her cheeks, trying to think about the time, trying not to think about the time. How many minutes now—five?—ten? She wanted to be back in his arms and every minute he was away felt like for ever.
The band finished its set and the dancers dispersed as someone took over the microphone. A stand-up comic. Good. At least that might take her mind off the time.
Damien cursed, loud and emphatic, before turning the microphone on the speaker telephone back up. It was worse than he’d thought. Enid sat nearby, armed with pen and paper and tactfully ignoring his comments, her delicately made-up white face giving nothing away.
He raked a hand through his hair, waiting for someone to pick up, snagging it on the mask. He tore it off, flinging it down on the desk of the makeshift office. It was actually a storeroom but with her usual efficient style Enid had already organised a couple of chairs, a phone and a fax machine. He didn’t need a computer—this was no time for email. He wanted action.
Of all the times for Delucatek’s United Kingdom agent to collapse. The news had been splashed in London’s Saturday papers and now there were a hundred clients all screaming for help. Okay, these things happened in business. He’d dealt with worse before and no doubt there’d be worse to come, but why did it have to be tonight? Why now? Already he’d been here forty minutes but he wasn’t going anywhere until he’d cornered his agent’s CEO. There were plenty of questions he wanted to ask him.
He picked up a pencil, tapping it furiously on the table as he waited.
Strains of laughter drifted in from the nearby auditorium and his mind wandered back to the ball and the woman he’d left behind. She was waiting for him. Or at least he hoped she was.
He could still feel her in his arms, the magic way her body floated into his, matching his moves and the music so that her sweet body flowed, her curves swaying to the rhythm. How he’d like to feel that body sway to a different rhythm, how he’d like to feel her body dance to a different music, a music they would make together. His body ached just thinking about it. He was a normal man; he liked sex. But it had been a long time since he’d wanted anyone as much as he wanted her.
There was something about her. Something special. That body, those lush lips. The way she’d come as Cleopatra, Mark Antony’s seductress. That had to be fate.
He glanced again at his watch. What if she’d found someone else? The thought of her with another man—holding her, dancing with her, maybe even… His teeth ground together. She’d tasted so sweet, so ripe. The mere idea that someone else was sampling her mouth or even something more…
The pencil in his hand snapped in two.
At the other end of the line the phone rang out. Damien slammed down the receiver and checked his notes for the next number. He’d track this guy down and get him to take responsibility for this mess if it killed him.
He wasn’t coming back. The sad truth hit her like a blow to the gut. Almost two hours now. The comedian had finished, the band had done another two brackets, leaving taped music in its wake, and it was clear there was no way Damien was coming back. Either whatever had called him away was taking more time than he’d anticipated or he’d found someone else and changed his mind.
There was no question as to which scenario was the most likely. She’d been kidding herself to think she was that special.
It was getting late. She should go home. Staying here longer just increased the feeling of bitterness, the sense of overwhelming loss that gradually but irrevocably gnawed away at her earlier euphoria.
He wasn’t coming back.
She had one last look around the ballroom. The party was in full swing and laughter and music filled the air. Her evening hadn’t been a total loss. She’d chatted with a few people, sticking to safe topics like costumes and the party. She’d enjoyed the comedian. Even the lavishly spread tables, covered with all manner of finger food and nibbles, had proved a diversion, at least for her eyes, helping for a little while to take her mind off the time and its passing.
But now it was time to go home. There was no point staying. She put her glass down and turned towards the exit.
‘Would you care to dance with me?’
She smiled her thanks at the six foot tall kangaroo looking down at her and shook her head. ‘I was just leaving but thank you.’
‘Just one dance before you go? Come on, it’ll be fun. You ever danced with a kangaroo before?’
‘Um, no actually.’
‘Then now’s your chance.’ The kangaroo held out its paw.
She laughed a little and slipped her arm through his furry one. ‘Well, if you put it like that.’ One dance wouldn’t hurt. It would be nothing like dancing with Damien had been, but it might be fun, and it would be something to tell her mother in the morning. She’d certainly enjoy a story like this.
Kanga made it to the dance floor in a combination of skips and hops that had Philly laughing before they’d even begun. When he started to move to the music she couldn’t stop. She was either being buffeted by the huge hind legs of his costume or he’d swing around and collect her with his tail. It was impossible not to have fun.
She was still here.
For a while he’d been unable to find her, scared beyond belief that she’d already left when he didn’t even know who she was. But then his eyes had been drawn to the dance floor and there she was.
My God, she was even more beautiful than he remembered. Her smile was so wide her whole face lit up and she moved so well to the fast rock and roll number, her body picking up the beat and making it her own.
He checked out her partner and discounted him in the same glance. He could deal with Skippy. He’d dealt with much stronger adversaries, like the CEO he’d finally caught up with. He was history in the business community from here on in.
He moved closer, sensing the music track was nearing its end, preparing to cut in before anyone else had a chance to get anywhere near her. He’d wasted enough time tonight. Now he was going to make her his.
What made her look around? There was no way she could have heard a thing over the loud music, but something made her turn. Something made her look.
Not something.
Someone.
Her steps faltered in time with the skip of her heartbeat.
Damien. He was back and he was heading straight towards her. He’d come back for her. She sucked in a breath, watching his approach. He looked like a triumphant general returning from war. She was unaware she’d stopped dancing until Kanga tapped her on the shoulder with his paw.
‘You tired? It’s like an oven inside here. I’m getting a drink. Want one?’
She was aware her head was shaking but only just. Every other part of her concentrated on
Damien’s purposeful approach, her body tingling in mounting anticipation with each step he took closer. His eyes were still masked but she could tell his focus didn’t leave her. It was empowering knowing that he could no more take his eyes off her than she could from him.
‘Okay, then. Thanks for the dance.’ Kanga bounded off to find refreshments as Damien reached her side. He took one of her hands, lifted it to his mouth and held it there, pressed to his lips.
Finally he removed his mouth. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘where were we?’
His grip was firm, his hand warm and strong. The fast rock and roll number came to an end as, without letting go of her hand, he drew her closer. For a few seconds he just stood, looking at her, ignoring the jostling of the crowd around him, waiting for the new track to cut in.
She couldn’t move. Even if he hadn’t had a grip on her hand, she wasn’t going anywhere. From under his mask the heat from his gaze pulled her like a magnet. Her body responded, breasts swelling, nipples tightening, as his sheer presence touched her in places his eyes couldn’t.
When the gentle strains of guitar playing signalled the start of a slow Robbie Williams ballad Damien pulled her gently into his arms and suddenly he was all around her. His chest, solid and warm, pressing against hers, his thighs firm, his arms encasing her, modelling her like clay to his form while he swayed to the music.
She gave in to the pressure and let her head fall against his chest to rest upon the plates that covered it. It wasn’t exactly comfortable but she didn’t care. When she breathed in it was his scent, natural and masculine, that intoxicated her senses.
His large hands held her close, one cradling her shoulder, the other firm at the small of her back, and his head rested over hers as they moved together to the music, their bodies as close as they could be with clothes on.
He breathed deep, unable to get a hold on her scent—frustrating for someone who prided himself on knowing them backwards. She was wearing a wig—that didn’t help—but there was some kind of rich perfume, something exotic, just like she was. Something else lurked below too, but the signals were blurry and he couldn’t quite make it out. Whatever it was, she smelt all woman. He liked that.