Masked Possession

by Alana Delacroix

  As a bonus, the unceasing work had kept her mind off Eric. Sort of.

  Julien pushed away from the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. “You should take some time off,” he said. “You haven’t had a vacation since you began here.”

  “I’ll take a day tomorrow.” Caro smothered another yawn. Her adrenaline must finally be coming down.

  “You’ll take a week,” Julien corrected. “I can’t lose my star consultant. Remember, you may only have half the stamina of a real masquerada. You might even be as weak as a human.”

  Weirdly, that hurt. She shoved away the reflexive desire to defend herself and took another sip of coffee.

  Estelle knocked at the door, looking stunning in a tight blue suit that showed off her alluring curves and made her pale skin glow. Caro sighed, knowing she was grubby from the flight and the stress of the previous days. Then the vampire spoke and every thought was swept clear out of her mind. “Eric Kelton and Stephan Daker to see you.” She turned aside and openly ogled whoever stood behind her.

  Before Julien could respond, the two men walked into the boardroom. Eric’s eyes went immediately to Caro and he seemed to relax at seeing her. She, on the other hand, had to physically restrain herself from reaching out to touch him. Had he been this smoking hot before?

  “Is it true?” he demanded.

  “Is what true?” Caro asked. Bafflement fought with an intense desire to stroke the angled line of his slightly stubbled jaw.

  “Were you in Belize?” The man sounded enraged.

  Surprised, Caro glanced over at Stephan, who gave a resigned shrug. Clearly, he’d been through a similar conversation with Eric, and more than once.

  Eric crossed the room and towered over her. “Well?”

  “Of course,” she said breezily. “Who else could go? I was the project lead.”

  “It was dangerous.”

  “Not at all. I was there for ground support and troubleshooting.” Her head ached. She needed a shower, water, and sleep. Maybe some food. What she did not need was additional drama from the guy she’d spent days working her ass off for, no matter how overpowering his presence.

  “You could have been injured.”

  Now she laughed out loud. “How? Do you think I was steering the yacht? I watched through binoculars.”

  “It was unjustified,” he said. “You shouldn’t have been put at risk.” He kept his eyes on her and she thought for a quick, ridiculous and utterly thrilling moment that he was going to kiss her.

  He’d been worried about her. That’s what this was about. Caro felt an intense rush of pleasure before she realized he was making her look like an incompetent child at work. Time to smarten him up. “That’s untrue and even if it was, it’s my choice, not yours.”

  “You shouldn’t have been there,” he insisted.

  Caro’s hand twitched with a desire to smack the domineering bastard. “Then it’s a good thing it wasn’t up to you.”

  They glared at each other but before Eric could respond, Julien broke in smoothly. “All the coverage is as we expected,” he said. Together, he and Stephan began checking off media outlets and what they had reported.

  Caro stood to join them and found Eric blocking her way. Since she barely reached his chin, it forced her to lean back to look him in the face.

  He stared at her with a desire so hot it was searing. Simple, naked need. From Eric Kelton? For her? Flustered, she rested her hand gently on his arm, meaning only to move him out of her way. The muscles quivered under her touch and his gray eyes became hooded and dark.

  Stephan coughed quietly and Caro snatched her hand away as Eric took a step back. The lieutenant grinned with frank enjoyment, but Caro’s attention was on Julien. For an instant, and so quick that she wondered if she even saw it, he looked at Eric with a face transformed by a look of cold hatred before reverting to his usual cynical expression. Then he broke into a line of facile PR chatter about metrics and follow-ups.

  The two masquerada left soon after—Caro’s whole body feeling the pressure of Eric’s lingering handshake—and Julien returned to his media monitoring.

  “Kelton was impressed with our work.” The stress Julien put on the our made it clear that he didn’t consider it hers.

  Caro didn’t even blink. When Julien played a game, it was never a good idea to join. “Good. I’m glad he was happy.”

  “Quite a man,” Julien said. “Power, money. I’m sure women find him attractive.”

  Now she sat up. “What are you getting at, Julien? Say it straight.”

  “Are you fucking him?” Julien didn’t even look up from his laptop but she could see his face was red and his jaw tensed.

  Caro was so shocked that she couldn’t even answer. Julien kept talking. “Kelton is a client, Caro, and you’ll keep it like that.”

  She finally found her voice. “You’ve got some goddamn nerve.”

  “No, I’ve got an interest in keeping my company profitable and not getting a reputation for providing special services to clients. Not even kings.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  “You fuck Kelton, you can start looking for a new job.” Now he looked up, though he refused to meet her eyes.

  She kept her temper long enough to answer. “Eric Kelton will get the same level of respect and service as any client, and no more. I’ll take that vacation, thanks. See you next week. Don’t bother calling, my phone will be off.”

  “Caro,” Julien said in a warning voice.

  She didn’t even turn around. “Stuff it, Julien.”

  The shoji screen made an unsatisfying bump as she tried to slam it shut behind her.

  Chapter 11

  Eric liked his office, an old-fashioned loft space in the warehouse district that sat near the waterfront. From his windows he could see the lake with the sailboats and occasional kayaks that traveled its shore like little ducks.

  Inside, the architect had retained the bare planks and naked beams of the original industrial space. Broad windows let natural sun permeate the entire area, and cunning lights lit it on gloomy days when rain lashed the glass.

  It was easy to work there. He had his own spacious office and his staff—twenty multi-talented masquerada who did everything from policy research to IT—were scattered in private enclaves throughout the space. The whole place was relaxed and comfortable, something he craved in all his living areas.

  Eric leaned back in his chair and considered the last few days. The risk of convergence was gone, thanks to Caro. Because of the enforced rest Stephan had insisted on, he was doing well physically. No headaches. Anything to do with his most recent masques had been destroyed or packed away, except for one fantastic suit of Alex’s that he planned to have sent to a tailor and resized. That had given him a small twinge of nostalgia, but it had passed quickly and, as usual, he’d started thinking of the new masques he could create. Or would when the medics gave him the go-ahead to create them again. This time, he would only have one masque at a time. Maybe two. Maximum three.

  He glanced at the clock without enthusiasm. Frieda was coming in a few minutes; their first meeting in years. He wasn’t sure what she could do, but it would shut Stephan up.

  With all that convergence shit finished, he was free to concentrate on the real issue confronting him—Franz Iverson. Frowning, he pulled forward the dossier Tom had left on his desk. The sightings were still unconfirmed, but Eric had no doubt it was him. Although a formidable masquerada, Iverson always left a small trace of his real self in his masques. Tom believed it was unconscious, that Iverson did it because he was afraid to abandon his real self in a masque. Eric disagreed. Iverson was good—very good—but he was cocky. Overconfident. If anything, he left those small tells as a calling card. They were a fuck you directed straight at Eric.

  He paged through the dossier and pitched it aside with a cu
rse. Iverson had some plan in the works, and any plan that son of a bitch put together was bad news. The chair creaked as he leaned back to stare at the ceiling. Iverson was a born masquerada, and both parents had been members of the High Council, the group who served as advisors to the Hierarch and enforced his or her rule. There was no doubt in Eric’s mind that Iverson was one of the most dominant masquerada he’d met. It was that strength, combined with ruthless ambition, naked arrogance and an obsession with power, that made Iverson problematic.

  Their first altercation had been over a hundred years ago, when they’d been on opposite sides on a Virginian battlefield. Every few years after that, there had been minor and major skirmishes, culminating in what Iverson saw as the ultimate insult when the Council chose Eric as heir to the old Hierarch, a woman who had succumbed to le vide and taken her own life. Iverson’s own parents were part of that decision. Eric had his suspicions about their deaths, which occurred under unusual circumstances several years later.

  After the election, Iverson had attacked Eric without warning or provocation. Eric had won, and left Iverson with a long scar along the throat as a reminder of his generosity in not having the traitor executed. Now, thinking about it, it was obvious he’d made a serious mistake in leaving Iverson alive.

  He glanced at the other document Tom had provided. Tom had started a list when Iverson first challenged Eric’s right to the Hierarch’s throne. Monitored with an eagle eye, the list included all of the lineages who had supported Iverson during the fight for the throne and whose loyalty was in doubt. It had shrunk over time, thanks to Eric’s efforts to get the lineages to realize that it was easier and, given the fact that humans outnumbered them, more productive to live peacefully with them instead of trying to overtly dominate them. Not to mention the other arcana would be down on them like avenging furies if they broke the Law. He’d connected his message with a healthy dose of prestigious Council positions and exotic diplomatic trips that helped sweeten it.

  But it was still long.

  A low, sexy voice purred at him from the door, interrupting his thoughts. “Eric. A true pleasure to see you again.”

  He raised his eyes slowly, knowing what he was going to see. It was Frieda, sheathed in the masque she thought he liked best. Pale blond hair hung to her shoulders and huge blue eyes peeped out from under thick bangs. She was dressed in a full skirt and tight, striped tank that showed off her strong shoulders, generous cleavage, and impossibly tiny waist. Strappy sandals emphasized elegantly narrow feet.

  Eric had never seen Frieda’s core self but he doubted she looked as perfect as this, for the simple reason that no woman could. The woman standing in front of him was as manufactured as a doll, deliberately designed to turn heads, the way she’d once turned his—until he’d discovered how badly she’d broken his trust.

  “Good morning, Frieda,” he said, keeping his voice distant.

  She moved over to his desk with the deliberate sway that he remembered. “Stephan called me. He wouldn’t say anything over the phone but he said you wanted my professional opinion.” Frieda stressed the modifier with a slight smile, as though she was amused by his determination to make sure this remained anything but personal.

  “He’s right. We have some questions about convergence.”

  She moved over to his desk and sat on it, leaning over so he could smell her lush amber fragrance. “I won’t ask if it’s for a friend. You’ve been doing some interesting things lately. Many of your masques have simply up and left or died. Unusual for you.”

  He wasn’t surprised she knew about his masques. He’d learned long ago that Frieda had an extensive network feeding her information, and she had no qualms about using her knowledge to her advantage. Despite the innocent expression she cultivated in those big blue eyes, she was ruthless about pursuing her goals, which were mostly of benefit to her. Eric leaned toward her. “Tell me what you’ve been studying.”

  Her eyes raked over him and he schooled his expression. “Have you experienced one? A convergence?” She lingered on the last word.

  “Would I be standing here if there’d been a convergence?”

  “Doubtful,” she admitted, considering him. “Doubtful, but possible. I’m here as a healer, Eric. You have to tell me what I need to know to help. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time and yours.”

  Eric assessed her with fresh eyes. Perhaps Frieda had changed over the years. She stood, then sat on the chair opposite the desk, waiting for his response. She was correct, after all. He made his decision.

  “I converged.”

  She nodded as though he merely confirmed her suspicion. “How did it stop?”

  Eric described what happened, leaving out the incredible mind sex and Caro’s name. Frieda listened carefully. “That’s similar to how a healer would stop it. Is this woman a healer?”

  “Not even a masquerada.”

  Frieda’s lip curled. “Impossible. She must be at least a half, even though she’d still be too weak. Half-bloods dilute our strength.”

  “That is a lie and you know it,” Eric snapped. He regained his temper when Frieda’s eyes flickered in surprise, and reminded himself to keep calm.

  “What do you want from me then?” Frieda leaned forward but Eric kept his eyes on her face. “It sounds like your little outsider has it figured out.”

  He let this go. “Will there be long-term consequences for my health?”

  Frieda moved over and placed the tip of her foot on his chair. She spun him around to face her before leaning against the edge of the desk. He tried not to notice that her skirt rose high enough to reveal her lack of undergarments. “Before we talk about that, I think we need to clear the air, Eric. It’s time that you got over what happened the last time we were together.”

  He stared at her in disbelief. “You took on my masque without permission and tried to make deals. As the Hierarch, and with other nations, so I suppose they were technically treaties. You think that’s not an issue for me?”

  “They were good treaties,” she said calmly. “I had your best intentions at heart. You were ridiculous to get stuck on the details of how they were arranged.”

  “You know you’re not allowed to take on another’s masque without express permission, let alone do what you did.”

  “I loved you. I did it out of love. I thought I was doing the right thing. I took my punishment.”

  He ran his hand over his eyes. “Frieda, this is ancient history. I don’t want to go over it. You’re here as a healer. Can you tell me about the consequences or not?”

  “Mmm. Maybe you’ll have to force me to tell you. Would you like that? Tie me down? You used to. We were good together.” She pulled his chair forward and slid down with a quick and fluid motion, settling herself on his lap, with a knee on either side. Her breasts pressed against him as her lips grazed his neck. She undid the first button on his shirt.

  Goddammit. There was no way to end this gracefully. Despite himself, he began to harden against the heat of her body. Then a vision of Caro swept across his mind and he pulled back.

  “Frieda.”

  She undid another button and snaked her hand into his shirt.

  “Frieda. Enough.” He picked her up and put her gently down on the floor, knowing there was no way to end this that wouldn’t release the onslaught of her fury.

  He was right. She smiled at him, and there was something nasty in her expression. “Then it’s true.”

  Eric felt a premonition. “What’s true?”

  “You’ve found a little bitch to fuck. From Julien D’Aurant’s.”

  How could she know about Caro? “I don’t become involved with outsiders,” he said as steadily as he could. “You know that.”

  She blinked, then smiled at him. “That’s true, isn’t it?” She swept away from the desk. “Excuse my temper, Eric. Consequences, you were saying.”
/>   Eric eyed her cautiously. The old Frieda would never have given up easily, or gracefully. “This is private, of course.”

  She smiled with all her teeth. “Of course. It wouldn’t look good, would it? A Hierarch not strong enough to fight a convergence? It would show such a lack of authority, especially when you need to prove yourself.”

  He leaned back in the chair. “I don’t need to prove myself.”

  “No, sire? Perhaps you’d better tell that to Franz Iverson.”

  Eric marked her mention of Iverson to tell Stephan. “The effects?”

  “The primary issue you may face is a possible inability to shift from now on. We’ve seen this in most masquerada who survive, which is not many.” Frieda got up and slung her black bag over her shoulder. “Let me look through my files for anything that can help you with your…problem.”

  She left before he could respond.

  Eric pried open the window to flush the rich amber fragrance out of the room, running through the conversation. He didn’t even bother seriously considering what she’d said about a possible inability to shift. That would never happen to him. That she knew about Iverson’s return was interesting, but not surprising; the man was contacting potential allies and Frieda’s family was one of the oldest and most conservative on the continent. Her anger at hearing about Caro was disturbing, but she seemed to have gotten over it. But she knew about Caro. Who could have told her? He considered the last few days. Stephan? Impossible. He was as loyal to Eric as Eric was to him. Tom? No. Tom had his doubts about Caro but was loyal to Eric. His household staff he trusted with his life and he also knew for a fact that they despised Frieda. She wouldn’t get a thing from them.

  There was that potential mole, the one who had taken the knife from the throne room. He shook his head. Tom had done a thorough investigation and had seen a strange woman on the security video the same day that Amit had been injured. The most probable idea was that one of the emergency workers had seen an opportunity and stolen the knife to sell.