Endless Affair (A 1 Night Stand Story)

by Gill, Angelita

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Endless Affair

  Copyright © 2013 by Angelita Gill

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-454-6

  Cover art by Angela Anderson Designs

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  Also by Angelita Gill

  A Demon’s Lure

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  Endless Affair

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Angelita Gill

  ~DEDICATION~

  To my Auntie Franciene, who taught me how to be fearless with style and poise.

  I love you!

  Chapter One

  She is so close.

  But she isn’t here yet.

  Five years. The longest I’ve ever remained in one dimension.

  And it’s becoming harder to find Moira.

  Tanith propped his shoulder against the outside wall of the Hotel Ambassadeur in Paris, his hand trembling as he tapped the invitation against his leg. Not with apprehension or fear, but awareness.

  As soon as he materialized into a new parallel universe, he prepared for the unexpected. Nothing’s familiar, everything’s the same, he always said. Survival had to come first, but once he adapted, his goal was Moira.

  He’d never give up searching for her, but it seemed more challenging than ever, making him wait...and doubt, he’d ever see her again. He had her first name and a master artist’s sketch of her face derived from his memory. Her surname changed every time. As did her location.

  Word-of-mouth had led him to1Night Stand. Luck had been on his side when the lady in charge had miraculously found her, and fate—damn and bless it at the same time—had given him yet another chance. He knew next to nothing about Madame Eve, what her methods were, or how she’d succeeded where he’d failed.

  Secret databases? Dark arts? Reading chicken bones on a plate? Didn’t matter.

  When she informed him she knew Moira’s location, he begged to make an arrangement for them to meet. Madame warned that the woman he loved could shy away from one of her “usual” arrangements. I can see why you would never forget her, she had emailed, including a summary of Moira’s background.

  As a young girl, she’d moved from New York to France with her mother, and had excelled at one of the most prestigious dance academies in the world. Now she owned the title of premier danseur for the De Fleurs Paris Ballet Company and rarely, if ever, socialized outside her circle. Her world revolved around dance. She didn’t date, didn’t party, didn’t go anywhere unless it had to do with the company.

  Madame Eve recommended a casual encounter instead of approaching his ballerina in a direct manner. To her, it would appear chance, but it was anything but. Madame sent Moira the invitation and promised him she would be there.

  The anticipation was almost more than he could take.

  With a rake of his fingers through his hair, he straightened and smoothed a palm down his tuxedo jacket.

  Fitting on his black Venetian eye mask, he strode to the entrance.

  ***

  On satin-covered feet, Moira flitted, turned, and spun, the spotlight tracking her. The rush of being center stage, all eyes focused on every perfected move, exhilarated her. Like the sun cajoling the tiniest flower to life, an auditorium packed with spectators who loved ballet filled her soul with resplendent freedom, their rapt enthusiasm feeding the artist within her.

  At her solo’s end, she bowed to roaring applause. The others joined her for a company bow before the curtain fell on the final show of the season.

  As she exited, blotting the sweat from her brow with a tissue, her mood turned wistful. The dark backstage held such cold contrast to the heat and light out front. Nothing compared to the stage. If it were possible, she’d dance all night, every night.

  The company director crushed her in his bony embrace, kissed her cheeks, and praised her in rapid French. A few minutes later, she entered her tiny dressing room alone, took a seat at the cluttered vanity, and noticed a gift.

  Rectangular, black, the size of a shoe box and wrapped in wide red ribbon, it stood out with its elaborate presentation. She picked it up and gave it a shake. So weightless, it could be empty. Then she saw the card tucked underneath the satin tie,

  An invitation, penned in flowing English calligraphy.

  You are invited

  A Black & White Masquerade

  Tonight

  9 p.m.

  Hotel Ambassadeur

  Odd. Anyone who knew her wouldn’t bother to invite her to such an event. She’d turned down countless, to the point of rudeness. They’d all given up by now. Parties just weren’t her thing.

  She flipped the card over. A personal message was scrawled across the fine parchment:

  Your body and soul dance, yet your heart still cries out for more. Tonight is the night you find out why.

  Reading it again and again, her pulse quickened, the words trembling before her eyes. Why would her hand shake? She pulled at the bow and lifted the lid. Her lips parted on a soft gasp. A Venetian half mask lay within—ivory, with a unique top corner edge styling and embossed gold detailing, with black ribbon ties. Using the tips of her fingers, she lifted it, shifting the mask side to side to watch the glitter catch under the vanity lights.

  This was no ordinary invite.

  She stuffed the mask back in and shoved the box away.

  Trying to squelch the rapid rise of temptation, she began removing her makeup with heavy cream and a tissue, watching her face transform from a vivid, buoyant story character to a fresh-faced young woman. Honey-brown hair, dark blue eyes and mismatched lips, the upper one puffier than the bottom. Remembering when kids at school would call her fish lips, she
sighed and rose from her chair.

  After removing her costume, she dressed in her leggings and thin wrap sweater then jammed her belongings in a shoulder sack.

  Lingering to gaze at the mask...a tingle in her fingers and a sudden urgency in her chest startled her. She spun away to the door.

  Mon Dieu, this is ridiculous. I should go home. Pretend I never saw the box. Her hand rested on the cold doorknob, turning it...and something inside her seemed to twist and burn. A merciless emotion that would not be ignored.

  Glancing back to the invitation, she sensed if she didn’t go, somehow, some way, she’d regret the decision.

  She snatched the mask and card from the vanity, and excitement burst in her stomach, giving her a childlike, giddy feeling.

  Perhaps this nameless inviter knew something she didn’t. Or noticed the longing she thought she hid so well. Dance was her life, and she pursued it with unswerving ambition. And yet...whoever sent her the box had it right.

  Her heart cried out for more.

  Chapter Two

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle.” A young man bowed deep, accepting her invitation, and allowed Moira entry to the party.

  She stalked inside, a little insecure at coming alone. She’d chosen a white off-shoulder dress with a snug bodice and long sleeves. Simple, but elegant, the knee-length skirt flowing around her legs with every step. Classical ballroom music and people dressed in tuxedos and gowns filled the room with a formal ambiance, underscoring the sensual energy of faces disguised behind dazzling masks.

  A passing server offered her a flute of champagne, but she declined. The intoxicating vibrations around her were enough without alcohol.

  As Moira moved through the crowd, catching curious glances here, vacant ones there, she realized so much could be spoken without saying a word. Some gazes conveyed flirtation, interest. Others looked past her, through her. So far, she recognized no one as she meandered, catching snippets of conversation, whiffs of heavy perfume and tobacco smoke.

  The swirl of dancing couples caught her attention. Men and women glided across the floor with grace and ease.

  A small smile moved her lips. Nothing lovelier than watching two people dance. Especially when every duo flowed to the music, no one bumping into each other or faltering a step. Mesmerized, she couldn’t tear her gaze away. The dozen or so pairs seem to move in slow motion, the melodious tune setting the kind of trance a dancer could appreciate.

  Then, a strange energy disrupted her musing.

  She glanced to her right, then left...unsure where the distraction came from. Dismissing it, she returned her attention to the dancers and fixated on one fascinating couple who stood out from the others. Two people in love. Lust sizzled between them, but even from a distance, she could see their expressions of rapt devotion. While they moved, in sync, she wondered what that kind of bliss would feel and taste like.

  The song ended and the couple walked hand in hand off the dance floor.

  A man stepped aside as they brushed past him, then he faced her, his gaze meeting hers.

  Moira froze.

  Her stomach went wild with butterflies. She attempted to focus, for he seemed familiar in a strange way.

  When party guests obscured her view, she became obsessed to learn who he was. He wore a fine tuxedo tailored to his physique, a basic black half mask, and his golden-blonde hair was trimmed short, but run-through.

  She blinked, her throat too dry to swallow.

  Why is he looking at me like that?

  Lowering her lashes, warmth crept up her neck and face, then she braved his eyes again. A corner of his mouth lifted, and an infatuation crashed on her like an unexpected hit of an ocean wave.

  Maybe she knew him but couldn’t recognize him with the mask. Turning to her right, she took a couple of steps and he tracked her. The rhythm of her heart escalated as she wove in and out through the crush of guests, anticipation heightening with every step. “Excusez-moi...s’il vou plait,” she whispered to those she had to squeeze by.

  Arriving at the other side of room, where the masked man had been standing, her gaze swept the area. Seconds passed with no sign of him, and disappointment began to tighten her throat, her shoulders slumping.

  Perhaps she’d overestimated his interest.

  As she was about to give up, a voice, masculine and alluring, crooned close to her ear. “I didn’t go far.”

  She spun around, meeting a pair of the most vivid, green eyes she’d ever seen. “Oh—”

  No man should have eyes like that.

  Moira hadn’t the faintest what to say to him. Unlike many ballerinas, she lacked sophistication, the sweet refinement expected of a woman—especially one surrounded by the passionate French—whose career relied on charm and enchantment. Now she wished her onstage confidence would swoop in and save her.

  “An American,” she blurted.

  His slow smile started at the corner of his mouth, forming a perfect grin that made her heart flutter. “Yes. American. Just like you.”

  That expression—slow, lascivious—could turn a sane woman into a blabbering idiot if she let it. And those amazing irises, a clear celadon green, gazed down at her, patient...but with a hint of underlying urgency. She took in the rest of his features, the sharp, aquiline nose, the mouth, and square chin. Handsome as hell, even with his face half-covered.

  “You seem familiar....” she murmured. “Have we met?” Right away, she knew the answer was no. Even with a mask, she’d be hard pressed to forget those eyes.

  “Would it matter if we had?” he asked, tucking a hand in his pocket.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I wouldn’t be standing here, being rude, trying think of the time and place when we became acquainted. Or your name.” Although an answer nagged, her memory supplied nothing. How in God’s name did she know him?

  “Perhaps it’ll all come to you later,” he drawled. “But for now I’ll relieve you of wondering something so simple as my name.” He gave her a single nod. “It’s Tanith.”

  “Tanith....” A unique name. It rolled off the tongue, but it didn’t ring any bells. “I’m sorry, I still don’t—”

  “It’s all right.”

  She reached up, her fingertips skimming his mask. “It would help if you took this off.”

  He caught her hand and brought it down. The contact speared hot and straight up her arm, detonating every nerve under her skin, striking an internal flame. She stiffened at the unexpected reaction. Her head said to pull away...a place much lower on her body throbbed, begging to allow him to touch her at will.

  A little spellbound, she cocked her head. “Who invited you to this party?”

  “A remarkable lady named Madame Eve. Why?”

  Madame Eve? She didn’t know any woman with that name. With a disbelieving laugh and shrug of her shoulders, she looked away. “I don’t know. Here I am at a masquerade in the middle of the night, talking to a man I think I’ve met but can’t remember ever speaking to in my life. Tonight has been unusual to the say least. And it’s late. Usually I’m in bed by now.”

  “Would you rather be in bed?” He turned her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of her wrist, eyes twinkling.

  How bold...and enticing. “It’s too early to tell,” she answered in a hoarse voice.

  “Is it?” He chuckled softly. Amused at her discomfiture? “Dance with me.”

  She hesitated, glancing to the dance floor. “I....”

  “You know you want to.”

  He pulled her to him, snaking a muscled arm around her waist. The barest scent caught in her nose. A dark, captivating fragrance, with hints of orange and sandalwood, revived her senses like a burst of sunshine after endless days of storm. It made her want to be even closer to him.

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

  “Acting foolish can be liberating.” He splayed his wa
rm hand on her back. “When was the last time you let go? Really let go as you danced?”

  She opened her mouth to reply that she did that very night—but lacked conviction. Ballet commanded a certain amount of control, mastery, perfection in both personal and critiqued measurement. One could surrender only so much. She closed her mouth.

  “See.” He spoke in a gentle tone, seeming to read her. “Maybe it’s about time you let someone else lead. And trust.” He hooked a finger under her chin, raising her face. “I promise, it’ll feel good.”

  I bet it will.

  They waited for a space to open between the swirling couples, and he rubbed the pad of his thumb on her palm. She closed her eyes, wondering if he had any idea how his touch made her heart hammer.

  Just when she opened them, he pulled her into the crush, fitting her snugly against his tall, solid body. He leaned down, his slow, wicked smile putting her in a trance. “Ready?”

  She nodded, even though her self-possession made her want to give the opposite answer. “Yes.”

  Without taking his eyes off her, he began to move. A step forward, then back, and a turn. Repeat.

  For the first time in Moira’s life, her feet didn’t seem to belong to her, and she wondered if her toes were even touching the floor. Within moments, Tanith proved his expertise, his style and fluidity impressive for a man who appeared more suited to sports. Yet his coordination rivaled that of her most fit ballet partners. She held on tight as he guided her with an air of unconcealed confidence. She felt a sharp cognizance of his screaming masculinity. Her small breasts pressed to his broad chest, her small hand clinging to his huge shoulder, her hips flush against his, directing her to think of more intimate positions.

  Some women thought men who were good dancers made the best lovers. Moira could imagine what he’d be like in bed. How a man with his raw power and sensuality would slide into her, make her cry out his name for hours, and seduce her soul with explicit skill. And then vanish the morning after without a goodbye.