“Hello, Caro.”
Even his voice was sexy. It was unfair. Completely unfair.
He took her bag, then opened the car door and gestured her in before climbing in beside her in the back seat. “How was your day?”
“Fine, thanks.” She hoped she caught the tremble in her voice before it was too obvious.
“Mai says hello.”
“Did she?” Caro demanded.
“No. She is unharmed, though. And once the situation was explained to her, sympathetic.”
“Oh, good.” Caro felt better. That whole night had been a shitshow of epic proportions that she had tried desperately to forget, but guilt about Mai kept surfacing. As well as other things, like regret that she hadn’t stayed. She glanced at his mouth, remembering how it felt pressed against her.
There was a heavy silence in the car. Caro gazed out the window. People spilled onto the King Street sidewalks and strolled past black-clad hostesses standing guard on already crowded patios. A woman went by laughing with her friends as she swung a brown leather bag on her arm. She looked carefree and happy and when she waved at someone sitting in the front of a restaurant, Caro was filled with a resentment so thick she nearly choked on it. She’d never had that. As a reporter, she was always on deadline, or searching for the next big story. Even when she went out, it had been with contacts or people from work who turned the night into gossip and shop talk. It had been her choice, but it still hurt. Iverson had even ripped that small comfort from her.
A strong hand grasped hers, warm and comforting. “Are you okay?”
Then suddenly, after all the roller-coaster emotion of the day and the misery of the night, she was. There was nothing she could do about it. If Iverson wanted her dead, he would try to kill her. When that time came, it didn’t matter whether the attempt was by him in a masque or one of his goons.
Still, despite this resigned acceptance, her mind was all over the place. It was difficult to calm down. The thoughts kept rolling in on a tsunami of worry but under it she was surprised to find a growing wish to lean closer to Eric, and feel him against her. Here she was, thinking about Eric when she should be thinking of Iverson’s threats.
She knew what it meant. She felt safe going to Eric’s—physically safe despite her mental confusion. That was…liberating. Even when she had thought Iverson was in jail, she’d always lived under a heavy cloud of fear that he would find her again. Now he had, but she had someone to help her. Someone she could depend on to be on her side, even though he didn’t know all of the facts. Most of the facts, she amended. Maybe she had been wrong about not trusting a masquerada. If so, what else could she have been wrong about?
Then Caro made a decision. No, two decisions.
First, screw being paranoid about Iverson. If he killed her, he killed her. Fear had forced her into a half-life anyway. She wouldn’t let him steal a minute more of her existence. This time, she thought, remembering the many nights she’d spent with the curtains clamped shut against the night, I mean it. She would fight it.
Second, screw being paranoid about masquing. If she shifted, then she was going to deal with it. She wouldn’t do it deliberately, but she refused to live quivering under the shadow of a possibility. There were enough real reasons to be frightened. She tilted her chin up in the air.
It would be hard. For a long time, she had defined herself by who and what she wasn’t. She wasn’t a masquerada, despite being a half-blood. She wasn’t a woman who dated masquerada. She wasn’t Lynn Butler. She wasn’t her mother.
If one of those things changed, what would happen to the rest?
Surreptitiously, she regarded Eric out of the corner of her eye. His orange-and-cinnamon smell drove thoughts of Iverson away, making her mouth dry, and other places very wet. He sat silently, staring ahead as though the driver’s backseat was the most compelling thing he’d ever seen. You can’t trust a masquerada, she thought automatically.
Oh, shut up, brain. You’re one yourself. You can’t deny it now.
It was going to be hard to work through her old prejudices.
Never mind. Worry about that later. What she was feeling for Eric was simple sexual chemistry. Completely physical. Maybe Estelle was right. She didn’t need to approach this as a prelude to any sort of a relationship. She’d have some fun. Eric didn’t do commitment anyway. She’d go in, take what was offered, and leave. Like a boss.
As if he read the turmoil in her mind, Eric glanced over and smiled, making her heart squeeze tightly then beat double-time. “Almost there,” he said. “It’s the next street.”
They drove down College Street and up Palmerston Avenue, with its long, lovely green lawns, dotted with tulips and daffodils, and the huge trees that lined the street. The big house was quiet when they arrived. Heavy storm clouds covered the sky; it would rain soon. Eric ushered her politely to the library and took her jacket. “I need to check on something, so make yourself at home.” He was all courtesy. “Coffee? Would you like some wine?”
“Red, please.” No more caffeine, but a drink might help calm her dancing nerves.
He brought over a bottle and two glasses and poured generously. “Feel free to find a book.” He waved at the packed shelves. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Caro watched the muscles of his broad back flex under his thin shirt as he left the room. It was criminal how comfortable this place was, she thought as she took a sip of wine. Then another. She was no sommelier, but this was a definite step up from what she usually bought. Maybe it was time to graduate to the twelve-dollar bottles.
Glass in hand, she wandered around the room. Eric had a huge collection of books in several languages, with an entire shelf of first editions. The Great Gatsby. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Hemingway, Wharton, Melville. All the American greats. With trembling hands, she opened To Kill a Mockingbird to the flyleaf. “To William,” she read. “Thank you. Harper.”
A signed first edition and no doubt William was actually Eric. She looked at it in awe, wondering at what he had seen over his long life. After all, he was a masquerada, changing his masque whenever it struck his fancy. For all she knew, he could have been one of these authors.
Her glass was empty, so she absently refilled it before moving on to other shelves. Finally, she found a copy of The Sun Also Rises, also signed. She’d liked Hemingway since A Farewell to Arms was assigned in her American Lit class. Reading had always been her refuge and she didn’t hesitate to take the book and settle in on the deep sofa. In moments, her worries began to recede.
She was only a few pages in, and on her third glass of wine, when Eric reappeared. He came over and sat in the chair across from her and took note of what she’d chosen.
“You like Hemingway?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Why?” He poured himself a glass of wine and settled back in his chair.
“His prose, I think. It’s simple and direct, his journalist’s training coming through. I always tried to—” She caught herself before the alcohol had her revealing any more. “Ah, nothing. Are you finished what you needed to do?”
“We should talk,” Eric said. “About Iverson. I’d like you to stay here until this is sorted. It will take a few days.”
She nodded silently, not in acceptance but in acknowledgment. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll see how things go.”
He gave her a long look that made her thighs clench. “I’ll take that for now. I’d also like to know more about why Iverson targeted you. Do you know him?”
“I know of him,” she said, choosing her words. “He was supposed to be in jail, I know that.”
“By the way, do you know Lynn Butler?” His question was casual, but Caro’s entire body tightened.
She took a sip of her wine and tried to keep it together. “Why do you ask?” She prayed her voice didn’t sound as high and tight as she suspected. D
id he know?
“Saw her name in some books at your place. We were hoping to talk to her.”
“Why?”
“Tom wants to follow up on the work she did on Iverson. Do you know how we can get in touch?”
She made sure to look doubtful. “I haven’t talked to Lynn in a long time.” Truth: Lynn Butler was gone. Dead. Caro wanted nothing to do with the woman she used to be.
“Do you know where to find her?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Lynn and I were roommates for a bit before she left for Washington. I heard she was in an accident but I haven’t heard from her in ages.” The lies rolled easily off her tongue. What a hypocrite she was. Well, it wasn’t as though she could add anything to what he already knew of Iverson. There was nothing to be guilty about.
“Too bad. What was she like? She was a superb reporter. Astonishing writer.”
She bit back the thanks and tried to stop herself from glowing at his admiration of her work. Answer the question, Caro. “She was focused,” she said, reflecting on what her life had been when she’d lived for the next story, constantly trying to beat everyone to the scoop. “Driven. Not easy to get along with.” That at least was true.
“I could see that. Her work reflected how sharp her mind is.”
Her mind is. Not was.
“Caro?”
“Sorry.” She forced a smile to waylay any suspicion.
He glanced at the clock. “It’s early, but will you join me for dinner?”
She hesitated. In the car she’d made her decision but now she found herself second-guessing. It would be better not to be near him. She knew herself—all of the pep talks in the world weren’t going to change the fact that she wanted more than a single night from him. Would she be able to handle it if that’s all that was available? The no from her head feuded briefly with the yes from her body. “I’m a little tired,” she hedged. The smart thing to do would be to plead exhaustion and go to her room. Alone.
“You need to eat.” A huge clap of thunder shook the building and Caro heard heavy raindrops begin to hurtle against the windows. He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Plus, I’m afraid of storms.”
One look at those dimples and her body won. “I’ll join you,” she heard herself saying.
He looked honestly pleased and Caro’s spirits rose. It would be nice not to eat alone, she admitted. The fact that her dining partner was also the most impressive man she’d ever met was a bonus.
He asked if she preferred fish or pasta before calling the order to the kitchen. While he was on the phone, Caro walked over to the big window. Mullioned glass emphasized the old-fashioned feel of the room, and the rain beating against the panes made her feel safe in the dim space.
Crackling from the far end of the room caught her attention and she turned to see Eric on his knee, building the fire. The glow from the flames lit his hair to a reddish tint and played over his impeccable features. At least the wine was helping break down her inhibitions. “Eric.”
“Yes?”
“When we first met in the office, I asked what you looked like. You said this. You look like how you are now.”
“I did.”
“Is it true?”
He stood and rested his long body against the stone mantel. “Are you asking if this, the man you see now, is the true man? Or simply my preferred masque?”
His voice sounded neutral, but she had a feeling he was angry. She’d crossed a line she didn’t know existed. Nevertheless, she pushed on. Thank God for alcohol. “Yes. Which is it?”
Now he smiled lazily at her, though his eyes were still cool. “Would it matter, Caro? You’ve probably been told not to judge a book by its cover.”
“Of course it wouldn’t change how I think about you,” she said hurriedly. “I’m curious.”
“Do you think I’m a repellent little man, trying to trick you?”
“No.” She thought about it as she took another sip of wine. “No. I mean, not me in particular, but everyone.”
“Even statics can change their hair and bodies.”
“You know it’s different,” she challenged him. “A masquerada takes on a persona, not a dye job. You become a different person.”
“Are you always the same person?” he asked. “To your friends or your family or the panhandler on the corner?”
“Maybe not, but I’m still me.”
“As am I.” He paused. “A masquerada is never the masque. That’s what you’re having trouble understanding. Your essential self, your core, never changes. The masque is a lens.”
She emptied her glass. “I don’t believe that. Isn’t that the point of convergence? That you can no longer distinguish who you are?”
“Which is why we fear it.” His breath slowed. “Is that why you deny your masquerada side?”
Caro felt her vision narrow to a pinprick. This wasn’t about her. “You know nothing about it,” she said.
“Said the woman who’s never intentionally taken on a masque. Why did you lie about who you are?”
“I never lied,” she said defensively. “I just didn’t tell you.”
He snorted. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you, Ms. Masquerada Always Lie. I guess you’ve proved your own point.”
She bit her lip. Eric was right, of course, and he didn’t even know the worst of her deceits. She didn’t tell him about being a masquerada because she was frightened. She should tell him about Lynn but the words stuck in her throat. That life was her secret. To talk about Lynn would mean talking about Washington, and her job and her family. It was the slippery slope to an intimacy that she desperately craved but at the same time had never experienced. And it scared her. Everything was changing and she was flat-out scared. Scared about talking about her hidden past. Scared about what it would mean for her to have to accept her arcane heritage. It was a burden but one that was impossible to put down.
Eric stayed by the fireplace, giving her space to think. What if she did get involved with him? What terrible thing could happen?
She put the wineglass down on the table.
* * * *
Eric read the trepidation on Caro’s face as she considered what he’d said. He ached to comfort her, but refused to move. He would not touch her first. This was going to be the last time. If she said no, he’d take it with honor and stay clear of her from then on. He’d decided that in the cab. It would be her choice, her decision. Tom and Stephan’s warnings to be cautious around her rang once more in his ears, then faded away.
He knew this woman. She wasn’t out to betray him.
She glanced out the window and he admired the line of her throat, of her profile. “It’s cold,” she murmured.
He couldn’t help himself. “Sit by the fire. It’s warm.”
She walked over and the roll of her hips nearly drove him insane. With her tight jeans, red ballet flats, and striped shirt, she reminded him of French sailors. Sexy French sailors, he amended.
Caro was about a foot away from him when she stopped. He remained still, almost an observer to what was going to happen. Don’t touch her, he chanted in his head. It’s up to her.
“Maybe you’re right.”
Eric didn’t reply. He wouldn’t be surprised if that was all the explanation he was going to receive.
The longest moment of his life passed as she stood in front of him. “Eric,” she whispered. Her voice had gone husky and it took all his self-control not to take her in his arms.
“I’m here.”
That seemed to satisfy her because she reached out and pulled him close before undoing the button of his shirt. Then the next. She undid them all in rapid succession, making sure not to touch him, then slowly pulled his shirt open. When she reached for his belt buckle, Eric bit back a groan of torment. She was playing with him. The belt unbuckled, she pulled it out of the loop
s, agonizingly slowly.
She took a step toward him, bringing herself so near that the tips of her breasts rubbed against his chest. Not touching her was the hardest thing he had ever done, especially when her pink tongue came out and licked her soft lips. She was so close that he could feel her breath against his flesh. Behind her, the fire crackled and burned.
Still nothing.
He’d never wanted a woman so bad in his life.
Without breaking their gaze, she put one small finger delicately on his chest. His entire body tightened and every sensation was focused on that single spot where they were connected. Caro flattened her hand against him, then dragged it over his chest.
“Caro,” he warned.
“You will stand there and not move,” she said softly. “I’ve been thinking of what I’m going to do to you for a while.”
She had? Eric tried to avoid thinking about what she’d been imagining. At least she’d made the decision, which meant Eric gratefully freed himself of his promise to keep his hands to himself. “One touch.”
“When I’m done.” As though to end the argument, she drew her hand down and flicked open the button on his jeans. His cock nearly exploded as she went to her knees and pulled his jeans down and off. Leaning forward, Caro snaked out her tongue and flicked it gently along the shaft of his cock. He reached down and ran his fingers through her silken hair as he admired her. Nothing had felt as good as her mouth on him. Nothing, ever.
Caro took him deeply inside her mouth, letting her tongue trace serpentine patterns all over the head of his cock. The muscles in his thighs tightened as she ran her hands up and over his stomach. Then she looked up at him through long eyelashes and he was almost undone.
“Enough,” he said roughly. He bent and pulled her to her feet, bringing his lips down on her hot mouth. His one hand tugged up her shirt, baring her gorgeous breasts, even as his other slid around to cup her delicious ass. She melted into him, her hands twining themselves in his hair as she kissed him back, her mouth opening under his like a flower.
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