by Zoe Blake
Ella bit her lip. She had more questions than she could have counted, but didn’t dare say a word. Just what the hell sort of party was this going to be? For a moment she considered leaving. Finding Anastasia and the boys and getting a sure ride home.
To Griselda.
Lifting her chin, she stood firm, determined not to betray her nerves. Besides, there was every chance she would actually get to meet Zainon. And she would do whatever it took to make that happen.
If I go home now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
“All right, ladies. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” The blond man stalked out and the room once more erupted with nervous chatter.
“I knew I’d get chosen if I wore this,” a brunette was saying excitedly, indicating her skintight dress.
Her heart in her throat, Ella glanced at the paper which was fluttering in her trembling fingers. She scanned it, her pulse ratcheting higher with every sentence or phrase she saw.
… over the age of eighteen on this date, the …
… certify that I am not a member of the press…
… I will not speak of anything or anyone…
… entering into this agreement of my own free will…
… will not hold Zainon Matthews or any related parties accountable for damages incurred…
She was also asked to provide her full name, address, email and phone number. For a moment she considered lying but then saw the small print. ‘ID will be verified before attendance,’ it said. Why? With every minute which passed, the less this looked like it was going to be a regular party.
If only I were more experienced. People will only have to glance at me and they’ll realize just how out of my depth I am, Ella thought glumly. Nathan and Anastasia were the social butterflies, not her. She’d never even been to a party. But then an image of Zainon flashed in her mind; his voice, his body, those spectacular eyes. She’d probably barely get two seconds with him—if she were lucky—and not even she could betray her complete naiveté in so short a time, surely? Before she could lose her nerve, she gripped the pencil with sweaty fingers and scribbled her signature.
There. No turning back.
There was a muffled roar of applause. Zainon must have finished his encore. Ella was sorry to have missed it. Still, she was there now, backstage, while everyone still in the audience would be thronging their way back out of the stadium and to their various cars. About to meet her idol; the man she had been fantasizing about and lusting after for more nights than she cared to acknowledge.
The mere thought was enough to make her want to pass out.
After what felt like an eternity and also no time at all, the man had returned and everyone’s forms were collected. Ella estimated the group at about twenty people—all women.
“Because he’s straight.” Greg’s voice suddenly echoed unbidden in her mind.
Surely this wasn’t going to be some sex party?
Ella’s fears did not abate when the blond guy began handing out masks. “Just in case you’d rather remain anonymous,” he said with a faint trace of amusement in his tone. “This sort of thing can ruin a girl’s reputation.”
Ella slipped the mask on without even thinking about it. It was the type people wore to fancy balls, and covered only half her face. She figured she could always remove it again when she felt more comfortable. If she ever did. But for the time being, it gave her a comforting sense of anonymity. It was covered in silver glitter and her inner child felt like a princess about to attend a ball. Glancing around, she realized that most of the girls had eschewed the masks. Maybe they didn’t want to ruin their make-up.
“All right, form an orderly line. Your carriages await,” the blond man said, indicating a door.
Obediently, Ella shuffled along behind some of the other girls. She wished Anastasia had agreed to accompany her. At least then I’d have somebody to talk to. On the other hand, I can understand her wanting to stay with Joshua. It is their first date, after all.
Not wishing to dwell on any line of thought which might remind her what was waiting for her once the night had ended, Ella forced her mind to go blank and took a deep breath of the crisp, cool night air as she emerged with the others. They were at a loading bay of some kind, and a couple of minivans were waiting, engines idling.
The sight brought her up short; this was her last chance to back out. If she got in one of those vans, she would have no choice but to follow through and attend the party—with no way of knowing how she’d get home. But yet again she was reminded how the unknown was almost definitely a better prospect than what she had to return to, and after another deep, calming breath, she clambered into the second van beside a very pretty redhead.
“I love your corset,” the girl said as Ella took a seat beside her.
“Thank you. I love your hair.”
“It took me ages,” the redhead admitted, fingering one of her ringlets, pulling it straight and letting it bounce back up over her shoulder. “I hope Zainon likes it.” She flashed Ella a big grin. “I had a feeling I’d get picked tonight.”
“Do you know anything about where we’re going?” Ella tried to sound nonchalant.
The girl shrugged. “One of the better hotels in town, I assume,” she said. “Zainon usually reserves at least a whole floor so no-one complains about the noise.”
“Have you been to one of these parties before?” After all, she seemed so self-confident—the complete opposite to Ella herself.
“Several. I’m kind of a groupie,” the redhead said conspiratorially. She narrowed her eyes. “You haven’t.”
“No, I haven’t,” Ella admitted. “First time.” She gave what she hoped was a friendly smile, trying to belie her nerves.
“Hmm. Well, you’ll be in for a bit of a surprise then,” the redhead said. “By the way, I’m Anna.”
“Ella. What do you mean by ‘surprise’?”
“Well…” Anna lowered her voice as the van door slammed and the vehicle began to move slowly out of the stadium grounds, “Zainon has a bit of a reputation for being a kinkster. So his parties are… unusual. Kinky, you know? A lot of sex, drugs and rock’n’roll.”
Digesting this information, Ella glanced around the van at all the women. “Without guys?” she said. Was she going to be in some kind of harem?
Anna laughed. “Of course not! Zainon has a huge crew; friends, musicians, security, the works. All men. Many of them attractive. Not nearly as handsome as him, of course, but they’re still fun to play with.”
I’m in over my head. Am I about to have my cherry popped by a sweaty roadie with hairy shoulders? Ella thought in a panic.
“Are you okay? You look terrified all of a sudden.” Anna was peering at her, a little line of concern between her neatly penciled brows.
“I. Um. I’m fine,” Ella managed. “Er. I don’t suppose there’s any alcohol at these parties?”
Anna began to laugh so hard that she ended up snorting. “That was a good one!” she managed at length, her shoulders still shaking. “Oh, dear. Is there any alcohol.” She wiped her eyes. “I think we’re going to be good friends.” Suddenly her expression changed, a cold stillness entering her gaze. “So long as you stay the fuck away from my Zainon.”
It had been an interminably long, awkward drive after Anna’s bizarre little outburst, and Ella was relieved when the van finally rolled to a stop. As she and the other girls got out, she noticed with surprise that they weren’t at any sort of hotel. Instead they stood in front of a large, bleak warehouse. But for the muffled bass throbbing within, there would have been no clue that anything was happening inside, let alone a party. Still, the night was growing colder and she was relieved when everyone was shepherded to a side door.
It was a shame Anna had turned out to be something of a psycho, as Ella could really have done with a friend as she followed the other young women into a dimly lit room.
“You can leave your coats and bags here, pick up a ticket,” a clerk sai
d, motioning them to form a queue. Ella hadn’t brought a coat, nor did she have a bag. Anastasia had everything, she realized with a start—the only thing Ella had slipped into her little purse was her ID. Unwilling to hand that over, she shuffled directly past the clerk, wondering how on earth she was going to get home afterwards.
Those thoughts fled her mind as soon as she stepped into what had been done up to look like a huge ballroom. Great chandeliers swung from the ceiling, curiously at odds with the brightly colored lights flashing everywhere. The music, which had only been muffled outside, was now much louder, the bass thumping as hard as Ella’s heart. Various couches and chairs were scattered about everywhere, as well as tall tables, and there were several vast mirrors on the walls. The overall impression was bizarre, to say the least. But what really took Ella’s breath away were the people there. Despite her misgivings, there seemed to be a good mix of both male and female, but what she hadn’t expected were the various states of undress of both sides. Several people were strutting around completely naked save for shoes and jewelry, and still others were down to their underwear. Mostly women, she noted, hoping that was an option and not a requirement.
Someone walked past her with a tray of drinks and Ella took one, not caring what the glass contained as long as it was something alcoholic. The liquid was sweet and slightly fizzy, and she swallowed it gratefully, letting it soothe her parched throat. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was, and finished it in no time. Setting the glass down on the nearest table, she looked around for another waiter.
Then she saw a tall, broad-shouldered figure with black hair, and her heart skipped several beats.
It was him.
Zainon Matthews. In the flesh.
Despite the fact that he was still high on adrenaline after his performance, and he was surrounded by gorgeous people all having a good time, Zainon was feeling restless. Bored, even. It was always the same thing. Sleep late, get ready, perform, party, repeat. Some of the people remained the same while others—usually the women—changed from night to night, but the routine was getting old. Stale, somehow. As he looked around, swirling his tumbler of whiskey, he considered the irony: it was his after party and yet he would have bet everything he owned on the fact that everyone else was having more fun than him.
The novelty had worn off.
In the beginning, he had relished every second of his newfound success and popularity. With his dark good looks, he had never had any problems attracting the opposite sex, but ever since he’d become famous, he’d been confronted with a whole new problem. It seemed as though the women were attracted to his name, his fortune, his fame. His status. They were all the same; painted, beautiful, polished, exuding savoir faire and experience. Nothing seemed to faze or even move them. All that mattered was that they could go home to their friends and brag that they’d spent the night—or even a few hours—with the legendary rock star, Zainon Matthews.
He no longer mattered as a man. As a person.
Besides, he had a reputation to uphold. The pressure to perform, therefore, no longer ended when he walked off the stage. He constantly had to be on his guard, be careful that they left his side satisfied and with nothing but good things to say about him and the way he had treated them. The non-disclosure agreements he had everyone sign protected him from anyone going to the press, but he knew what girls were like. They loved to gossip. And gossip spread like wildfire, especially among fans, especially with the Internet.
The end result was that, these days, Zainon felt more like a show pony than a man. While he made no secret of his kinky side or dark desires, he was never really able to indulge himself. God forbid he might leave a bruise or anything else which could later be turned against him. The media was full of famous men who had bedded the wrong woman only to be facing charges of rape afterward, and no way to defend themselves against false accusations.
Refusing the coke Thorn was holding out to him, already set in neat lines on a silver tray, Zainon took a slug of whiskey and sighed, scanning the room. Performing always made him uptight, on edge, in desperate need of release. His gaze roved over the people scattered about, singling out the women as he thought how sad it was that so many of them were pretty much the same when it came down to it.
And then he saw her.
A petite blonde, standing by herself several feet away. A tight black miniskirt showed off slender, bare legs, and a black lace corset molded her shape perfectly. From where he was standing, her waist looked tiny. But despite her gorgeous figure, what immediately drew his attention were the eyes behind that silver half mask. It was impossible to read her expression from where he was standing but it looked like she was staring directly at him. All around her, people were moving, dancing, making out—yet she remained as still as if she’d been carved out of ice. And Zainon had the feeling he’d seen her before.
Then he remembered: she’d done exactly the same thing earlier that evening during his performance. While the crowd had heaved and shifted, a constantly moving mass almost as if it were one living thing, she had stood absolutely and utterly still. It gave her an almost ethereal aura.
Zainon was fascinated.
Noticing her empty hands, he picked up a glass of champagne off a nearby tray and wandered over to her.
Up close, she was even smaller and more still than he’d first thought. Even when he said hello, she simply stood there, gazing at him from behind that glittering mask.
“Would you like a drink?” He held out the flute.
She took it wordlessly, and he noticed her fingers were trembling.
“Are you all right?” he tried, when no other response seemed forthcoming.
The girl nodded before taking a large gulp of champagne.
“Do you have a name?” he asked.
She nodded again.
Exasperated, he pushed a hand through his hair. He was used to women being shy around him—at least initially—but this was something else.
“Want to go somewhere quieter?” he said, immediately kicking himself for the way it came out. Sounds like a seedy pick-up line and you don’t even know her name yet.
To his astonishment, she nodded. Without hesitating, he held out a hand and she took it. The moment her fingers touched his, a jolt of something he couldn’t quite identify shot through him. Deciding to wait and analyze that later, he led her away.
Chapter Four
The hand gripping hers seemed huge. It was warm and firm, and Ella couldn’t stop staring at the way her slender fingers seemed to disappear into Zainon’s. Bolts of electricity shot up through her arm and made her tingle all over.
She was still in shock. Zainon Matthews was touching her—actually touching her—and there was a bizarre sense of unreality as she let him lead her around, past the other partygoers, past the tall, bald man she had encountered earlier, and through a nondescript door in the back.
She knew she should say something—what must he be thinking of her?—but somehow she wasn’t able to. Desperately afraid that if she tried to speak her voice would be nothing more than a croak, she simply gazed at him, as if she were still at home, lying on her narrow bed, looking at her poster of him.
“There,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I told Ben not to let anybody in, so we won’t be disturbed.”
Had he? Ella hadn’t noticed him exchanging words with anyone. Then again, she hadn’t noticed anyone or anything else. Her hand still tingled where he’d held it.
“It’s much quieter here,” Zainon went on, “one of the perks of being the host; you get your own private playspace.”
She followed the movement of his arms and looked around. The room wasn’t very big but there was an overstuffed sofa against one wall and a dressing table with mirror against another. One corner had a small washbasin and mirror. A couple of tall lamps cast a cozy glow over everything. While the music and other party noises were still audible, they were muffled.
“Come and sit down,” he said, collapsing o
nto the couch and patting the seat beside him. “Did you want another drink?”
Numbly, Ella shook her head, walking over to where he was sitting and perching tentatively next to him.
There was a long, awkward pause.
“Christ,” he said at length, pushing a hand through his black hair. “I’ve seen star struck people before but you are something else!”
Ella swallowed, willing herself to speak but still not finding her tongue.
“Take off your mask,” he said, with the confidence of someone who was used to getting his own way.
With trembling fingers, she obeyed. Truth be told, she’d forgotten she was even wearing it. There was a cool rush of air over her skin once it was uncovered.
“Beautiful,” Zainon said, running a finger down her cheek. “Like a doll.”
Unable to stop herself, Ella closed her eyes, relishing his touch. This was probably all a dream but she’d be damned if she ever wanted to wake up.
“And like a doll,” he continued, “you don’t speak.” He narrowed his heartbreaking eyes. “Are you a mute?”
She shook her head.
“Then fucking say something! I’m tired of having a one-sided conversation.”
The first prickle of panic began to snake through her belly. She wanted to talk, she so desperately did, but somehow she couldn’t. And now he was getting impatient, she could tell by the way he was tapping his fingers against his thigh, and all too soon, he’d tell her to get out and she’d never see him—
WHAM!
Ella yelped, her fingers immediately moving to her face, caressing the cheek he’d just slapped. “What was that for?” she blurted out.
To her astonishment, instead of apologizing, he gave her a disarming smile. “It worked, didn’t it?”
About to argue, she was forced to admit that yes, it had worked. She had regained her voice. And not just that—now that the shock and the sting were wearing off, she was feeling something else. A pulse, steadily beating between her legs, which only increased when she met his eyes and saw the way he was looking at her.