by Teri Wilson
“Lovely,” he whispered.
It was perhaps the biggest understatement of his life. She was gorgeous, with large, luminous eyes, high cheekbones and pink, bow-shaped lips.
She shook her head. “I really shouldn’t be here.”
Leo couldn’t think of a single place she belonged more.
“Don’t go.” There was that note of desperation in his voice again. What was happening to him?
“I’m afraid I must.” She took a step backward and cast a panicked look toward the house.
Before Leo could say another word, she dashed past him, the skirt of her elegant gown swishing in the darkness. He reached for her and managed to catch her wrist right before she slipped away for good. “Wait. At least tell me your name.”
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
He couldn’t just let her leave. Not now, before he even knew who she was. “Please. After all, what’s in a name?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then she pulled away, and her wrist slid through his fingertips.
In his other hand, Leo still held her mask. Its crystals glittered in the night, like stars in the Napa Valley sky. He started after her to return it, but she’d already disappeared through the tall stalks of the sunflowers.
She was gone.
And the bewitching spell that had been spun among the grapevines was broken.
* * *
Temporary insanity.
To Juliet, it seemed the only explanation. She’d suffered some sort of breakdown. Why else would she have wandered around the Mezzanotte ball, throwing herself at the first random man who crossed her path?
It hadn’t felt random, though. Quite the contrary. Their meeting had somehow felt predestined, orchestrated by the hands of fate.
Fate? Destiny?
Really?
Now she knew for a fact that she’d lost her mind. She didn’t believe in such things. She believed in free will. Life was a product of the choices one made, day in and day out. She’d never been one to believe in la forza del destino—the force of destiny. That was superstition, like the Malocchio, the Evil Eye. Or her mother’s bizarre belief that wearing red panties on New Year’s Day would bring good luck. It was crazy.
Odd, she didn’t feel crazy. She felt fantastic. Invigorated. Her skin tingled all over. If this was what a breakdown felt like, then sanity was highly overrated.
That kiss had been a work of art. An all-consuming masterpiece. She’d forgotten anything and everything the moment his lips had touched hers. Had her mystery man not removed her mask, who knew how far things would have gone?
The exposure of her face had served as a powerful reminder of exactly who she was. An Arabella.
She couldn’t jeopardize everything she’d worked so hard for by ridiculing the family name and making a spectacle of herself at the Mezzanottes’ party. Wouldn’t any member of that family be delighted to find out what she’d been doing only a handful of minutes after the heir to the Royal Gourmet dynasty had proposed to her? Her secret would be exposed. George would no doubt put an end to his association with Arabella Chocolate Boutique, not that Juliet would blame him. They would be right back where they started—struggling to make it with their tiny shop while Mezzanotte candy bars flew off grocery store shelves.
Of course, George might even decide to end their business arrangement based solely on her refusal to marry him. And that would be fine, too. Fiscally devastating, but fine nonetheless.
Her actions in the vineyard, however, were a flagrant slap in his face. The Mezzanottes would surely scream the news from the mountaintops. Her father would have a coronary. And her mother...
There was no telling what her mother would do. That was a horror that Juliet couldn’t bring herself to consider.
Things had to change. She’d decided that much in the wake of George’s proposal. But not like this. Any necessary changes to her life would be made on her own terms. She wasn’t about to let the Mezzanottes dictate her future any more than her parents, or George.
She gathered the floaty layers of her tulle skirt in one hand, her discarded shoes in the other and ran up the stairs toward the ballroom like a Cinderella in reverse. Music swelled from the party as she slid her feet back in her stilettos. Enough lingering. She just needed to make haste, get back inside and pretend nothing had happened.
The party was in full swing upon her return. The center of the ballroom was overflowing with couples spinning in graceful circles across the dance floor. They almost outnumbered the row of chocolate fountains ringing the room atop gleaming silver stands. Seriously, she’d never seen so many chocolate fountains in her life. White, dark, milk. It was like a Hershey’s version of Niagara Falls. Juliet nearly toppled one of them while she was craning her neck looking for George.
She found him in the far corner near the wine bar. He was chatting with an older gentleman wearing a white half-mask like the one from Phantom of the Opera.
At the sight of George, the afterglow of her tryst in the vineyard lost some of its luster. She couldn’t believe she had to go stand beside him for the rest of the night. It made her feel like the biggest imposter in the world.
Get a grip. You just need to make it through the next hour or two, and then everything will be better.
She took a deep breath, pasted a smile on her face and joined George and his companion. “Hello.”
“You’re back.” George cast a cursory glance in her direction. As usual, he seemed to look right through her.
Juliet no longer cared. Her lips still felt swollen from stolen kisses, and she carried the memory of how the mystery man had looked at her right from the start. As if she mattered. She didn’t think she’d ever forget it.
She cleared her throat. “Yes, sorry. I just needed to get some air.”
“Juliet Arabella? What are you doing here?” The exposed side of the Phantom’s face turned an angry red.
Juliet took a closer look at him. She would have recognized that one beady eye and thin-lipped mouth anywhere. No doubt there was a forked tongue in there, waiting to dart out.
Joe Mezzanotte.
Mask or no mask, she’d seen him skulking around across the street enough times to know exactly who was standing in front of her.
But how did he know who she was?
Her hand automatically flew to her face, making contact with bare skin. Her mask. Where was it?
Oh, no.
She’d left the vineyard in such a hurry that she’d forgotten it, which meant she was standing in the middle of the Mezzanotte ball completely exposed. Less than a foot away from Joe Mezzanotte.
“Um, yes. It’s me. Surprise!” She smiled. If memory served, this marked the first time she’d ever smiled at someone with that particular surname.
Joe tore his mask off. The right side of his face was equally as red as the left. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“Um, well...” She looked pointedly at George. A little help?
Why had she ever let herself get talked into coming here?
George removed his mask. “Mr. Mezzanotte. It’s me, George Alcott from Royal Gourmet. You were so gracious as to invite me to this evening’s event, and Miss Arabella is my...”
“There you are, Uncle Joe.” A familiar voice cut him off. A voice that sent a thrill up Juliet’s spine. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Let’s get this over with.”
Oh, my God.
It was him. Her mystery man.
She would have recognized those blue bedroom eyes anywhere. And that mouth...the mouth that had been on her neck only moments before. He’d straightened himself up a bit—the top button of his shirt was now fastened, and his tie was arranged in a perfect knot at his throat. Although, upon further inspection, she could make out a series of indentions in
the vibrant blue silk. A rush of heat filled her cheeks as she realized those indentions were from her own fingers, where she’d grabbed him by the tie and reeled him in for a kiss.
None of those visible clues mattered, really. She would have recognized him even if she’d had her eyes closed, simply by the way his very presence sent a wave of awareness crashing over her. She nearly swayed on her feet.
Make no mistake. It was most definitely him. And he was standing right there, talking to Joe Mezzanotte. And calling him Uncle Joe! “I see we’ve dispensed with the masks already. Good.”
Then the world around Juliet seemed to move in slow motion as he reached for his mask and lifted it from his face. She might even have stopped breathing as she waited for her first full glimpse of his appearance.
It was well worth the wait.
God, he was handsome. No wonder she’d thrown herself at him. If George and that awful Joe Mezzanotte weren’t present, she would do it all over again in a heartbeat.
Except why had he said Uncle Joe?
He raked a hand through his rich espresso-colored hair and looked up, his gaze meeting hers for the first time since he’d breezed into the ballroom. The breath left Juliet’s lungs at the impact of that single glance. She experienced a moment of recognition so intense that her heart stopped beating as his expression changed from shock to extreme pleasure.
“You.” He studied her, his gaze burning a searing path from her eyes to her lips to her throat.
Juliet forgot how to breathe. She couldn’t have felt more exposed, more vulnerable if she’d shed her ball gown on the cool marble floor.
“I believe this belongs to you.” He reached into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket, removed her mask and offered it to her.
She stared at it, unable to move a muscle.
“Leo? You two know each other?” Joe Mezzanotte’s voice dripped with disgust.
“Yes,” he said at the precise moment she blurted a hasty denial.
“No.” She shook her head.
George touched her elbow. She could feel his irritation travel clear through his fingertips. “Which is it—yes or no?”
“Um...” Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. “No, of course not.”
Her mystery man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “My mistake.”
Joe crossed his arms. His head swiveled back and forth between the two of them. “Then what are you doing with her mask?”
A ribbon of dread snaked through Juliet as she wondered what he would say.
“I found it out on the terrace. It belongs to this lovely lady, obviously. She seems to be missing a mask.” He held it toward her once again.
He’d saved her. Interesting. She reached for the mask, her hands shaking for reasons that now left her more confused than ever. “Thank you...Leo, is it?”
“Yes. Leonardo Mezzanotte, but please call me Leo. And you are?”
Leonardo Mezzanotte?
Bile rose up the back of Juliet’s throat.
What have I done?
In her single moment of indiscretion over the course of a lifetime of being the good girl, she’d kissed a Mezzanotte?
Leonardo Mezzanotte. She struggled to absorb the name and its myriad of implications. Funny, he didn’t look like the devil’s offspring. Truthfully, he looked delicious. Every bit as delicious as he’d tasted only minutes before.
“Cat got your tongue, Miss Arabella?” Joe’s beady eyes slid over her, dark with malice.
“Arabella?” Leo asked slowly.
Beside her, George cleared his throat. It startled Juliet out of her shell-shocked state so badly she jumped. “Permit me to do the honors. Mr. Mezzanotte, I’m George Alcott, of Royal Gourmet Distributors, and this is my fiancée, Juliet Arabella.”
Leo’s eyes flashed. “Fiancée? Congratulations must be in order.”
Fiancée? Fiancée?
Juliet had been so rattled that she hadn’t even processed George’s presumptuous use of the word. Before she could issue any sort of denial, George nodded and smiled, the picture-perfect groom-to-be.
“Thank you.” He released her elbow. Finally. He’d marked his territory with about as much subtlety as a Great Dane.
“Would the bride-to-be care to dance?” Leo extended a hand toward her.
She took a step backward, stepping on George’s toe in the process. “Oh, I don’t think...”
“I insist,” he ground out.
He snagged her hand in his and dragged her toward the dance floor.
“Please, let go of me,” she huffed as he pulled her into a dance hold. She hated to admit it, even to herself, but it felt right to be back in his arms. As if she belonged there, which was clearly not the case.
“Save it. We both know how much you like my hands on you.” His gaze burned into her, deep, reminding her of things better forgotten.
She took a ragged breath. “That was before.”
“Before what, exactly?” He lifted a seductive brow.
“Before I knew who you were.”
He leaned in close, so close that his next words sent a ripple through her hair and a cascade of goose bumps over her skin. “Perhaps you should have checked my ID before you kissed me.”
Juliet wanted to die right there on the spot. “Shh. Someone might hear you.”
“Not my problem. You’re the one who’s spoken for. Tell me something, though. I’m curious—do you kiss your fiancé like that?” His palm in the center of her back slid lower, perilously closer to her bottom.
Her cheeks blazed with heat. “No.”
He smiled the smile of a man most pleased with himself. “That’s what I thought.”
Could this get any more humiliating? “I meant no, as in no, he’s not my fiancé.”
He glanced over her shoulder, toward the spot where George and his uncle stood watching them, both looking equal parts mystified and annoyed. “Have you told him that? Because he seems confused.”
She lifted her chin. “I made things very clear when I turned down his proposal earlier.”
His confident smile wavered. “Earlier? Are we talking earlier tonight?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t.”
Yes, he did. She could see it in the tense set of his jaw and the angry vein that throbbed in his right temple.
“Just tell me one thing—did this proposal take place before or after you kissed me?”
That again. Was he ever going to let the kiss thing go? Doubtful. As far as kisses went, it was pretty memorable. “Stop saying that. Please. I beg of you.”
“Why? You don’t want anyone to know what happened between us earlier?”
She let out a most unladylike snort. “Of course I don’t.”
“I suppose this has something to do with the fact that I’m duty-bound to abhor the sight of you.” He rolled his eyes.
“Yes, it has everything to do with it. Didn’t you see how your uncle reacted when you asked me to dance? He looked like he wanted to kill me with his bare hands.” And he probably would have if Leo hadn’t dragged her away.
“What my uncle thinks of my romantic pursuits is of no concern to me whatsoever.”
Had he lost his mind? “If you’re a Mezzanotte, why have we never met before?”
“I’ve been away for a while. And now I’m being dragged into the family business.” His droll expression left no doubt about his feelings on the matter. Juliet wasn’t any happier about it than he was.
This could not be happening. “Away? Where exactly?”
“Paris.”
“And what did you do there?” Why did she even care? Shut your mouth, Juliet.
“I studied at Le Cordon Bleu and then interned at La Maison du Chocolat. Is that an adequ
ate summation of my résumé?”
Juliet’s head moved in the subtlest of nods. “It’ll do, I suppose.”
Le Cordon Bleu? La Maison du Chocolat? Who was this guy, Willy Wonka?
Apparently, that’s exactly who he was. Willy Wonka, albeit a mouthwateringly hot version of him.
“I suppose that means we’ll be seeing more of each other. My uncle told me that the fires of hatred should burn deep in my gut at the mere mention of your name. I’ll admit you’ve stirred a fire in me, but it doesn’t feel anything like hatred.” He took advantage of their dance hold by running the pad of his thumb up the curve of her neck.
Juliet grew dizzy. Whether it was from the swirl of their feet on the dance floor or his boldly flirtatious words, she wasn’t sure. “You don’t know what you’re saying. This thing, this feud, is bigger than the both of us. Trust me.”
“So, that’s it? We’re destined to despise one another simply because of our last names?” His arms tightened around her, holding her flush against him.
“I’m afraid so.” Although when he put it that way, it didn’t make much sense. She didn’t believe in destiny. Did she?
It didn’t matter. He was a Mezzanotte. She was an Arabella. If that weren’t bad enough, he was the heir apparent to the entire Mezzanotte operation.
“What if I kissed you? Right here, right now. Do you suppose that would put an end to this whole ugly feud?” His voice was smooth and sweet as honey. It made her limbs go limp.
And for a nonsensical second, she actually considered his proposition.
She blinked in an effort to clear her head. He was the competition. And he was awfully arrogant. She hadn’t noticed that before, in the vineyard. Then again, it was difficult to notice such things with his tongue halfway down her throat. “Don’t you dare. Do it, and I’ll slap your face.”
His eyes flashed. “Would you now?”
She was bluffing, of course. If he so much as gave her a peck on the cheek, she’d probably melt into a puddle at his despicable Mezzanotte feet. “Try me.”
“Relax. I won’t force myself on you. I won’t kiss you again until you ask me to do so. And you will. Sooner or later.” The corner of his mouth quirked up into a smirk.