by Pamela Aares
“You scored the only three goals that afternoon.”
“It was my lucky day,” the velvet-voiced man said with a shrug.
“I don’t believe in luck.” Parker turned to Natasha. “Do you, my lady?”
“Not lately.” Not good luck.
“A woman of the highest sensibilities,” Parker said. “You really should set your sights higher than a dark-force musketeer.”
A woman wearing an Egyptian headdress and slinky silk gown—incongruously holding a clipboard—sidled up and whispered in Parker’s ear.
“I’m off. Needed.” He shot another playful grin to Natasha. “Remember, no identifying information. There’s party karma at stake here.”
As Parker walked off with the clipboard-hugging Cleopatra, the dark musketeer turned to Natasha. “Don’t mind him.” His lips turned up in a smile. “Parker’s the heart of this event. He has much on his mind.”
Her heart stuttered when he held out his hand.
“Since I can’t tell you my true name, I’ll introduced myself as Dumas, the man who invented the fictional character I am supposedly representing in this silly costume. I was promised a Prince of Darkness costume, but I was badly deceived by our man Parker.”
There wasn’t a single silly thing about the clothing he wore. He looked authentic, and his accent made him seem that much more real. He could’ve stepped off the screen of an eighteenth-century period film.
“And what might I call you?” he asked. He surveyed Natasha’s costume.
She shivered under his scrutiny.
When he returned his gaze to hers, though she expected to feel judged, the smile in his eyes melted through her ready defenses.
“I recognize the era of your dress, but the mask is much more modern. Edgy. Exquisite, really.”
She fingered her mask, hesitating before taking his offered hand. It was a simple handshake he offered. She shouldn’t be feeling so nervous.
But as her fingers touched his and he closed his hand around hers, she knew she shouldn’t have come to the party. She wasn’t ready for men. She wasn’t ready for parties. But he held her hand firmly, waiting for her reply.
His snug-fitting costume told her he had a magnificent body. She could see enough of his face to know that it matched his exquisite physique. Long-pent-up and unwelcome desire tingled in her. Desire and foolishness had led her to that horrid night long ago. She wouldn’t allow unbridled emotions to mislead her ever again.
“Tasha,” she finally stammered out. She couldn’t think of a name other than her own. The sounds of the party flooded her mind. His scent wafted to her, blocking thought. Vetiver. Surely he smelled of vetiver. And a spice she couldn’t name. Frankincense or myrrh or some other exotic spice. But through the teasing scents, another pressed in on her, stronger and more insistent. Male.
She pulled her hand free and stepped back, but only succeeded in creating a better view of the man’s honed body. She grasped her plate of dumplings and clutched it to her chest like a shield.
Chapter Four
THE WOMAN INTRIGUED ADRIAN. BUT Dumas? What a stupid name. No wonder she pulled her hand away and looked at him like he was half-crocked.
“Let’s get you some real food, Tasha,” he said. “There’s a buffet at the other end of all this madness.”
“I’d like that,” Tasha said.
Her words said yes but the way she held her body said no. She seemed fragile, skittish. Uncomfortable. God knew he felt plenty ridiculous in the costume Parker had foisted on him; maybe she felt uncomfortable in hers too.
But there was nothing ridiculous about the flowing lines of the enticing gown she wore. The costume looked as though it had been made especially for her. The deep blue velvet set off the creamy ivory of her skin, and the mask, rather than hiding her beauty, accentuated her gold-flecked hazel eyes, deepening the green in them. Even through the lace of the mask he could see that she was an exceptional beauty. And though she appeared to wear no lipstick, her lips were the deep pink of the roses his mother once grew in their family estate in Rome.
He offered his arm.
“Allow me to escort you. You never know what wolves are hiding under innocent costumes at an affair like this.”
Her eyes widened for a moment, and he suddenly felt self-conscious. What did they say? That clothes make the man? Well, he was taking this playacting to the extreme. He wasn’t an eighteenth-century swashbuckler and she wasn’t a Renaissance countess.
Maybe his lack of sleep had affected him more than he’d realized. He’d played a mighty poor six chukkers of polo that afternoon. Or maybe the stress of dealing with the local growers yesterday had set him off his game and muddled his mind. Although why the local vintners couldn’t grasp that having employees prosper was good for business was beyond him. One irate vintner had gone so far as to accuse him of being the Karl Marx of wine country. If Coco hadn’t been at the meeting and used her sisterly influence to keep him in his seat and remind him to tamp down his temper, he might’ve said something he’d have regretted.
Whatever the cause of his oddly altered state, he’d better ratchet back to reality before he made a total fool of himself.
Just as he was about to pull his arm back, Tasha laughed and put her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“And how am I to know you aren’t one of them?” Her eyes glittered in the soft light. “A wolf in costume, I mean.”
“I can assure you that he’s far from it.”
Adrian heard the mirth in Coco’s voice as she approached from behind. She circled and then waved the wand she held in their direction. “I do love eavesdropping; you hear the most preposterous things.” She looked at her wand and then at Adrian. “Do you think this thing works? Because if it does, I could cause all sorts of trouble.”
Adrian couldn’t miss the twinkle in Coco’s eyes. The fairy costume suited his mischievous sister perfectly.
Tasha took in Coco and her frothy, low-cut costume. She pulled her hand from his arm, so gently that the movement was almost a whisper. But it was clearly a retreat in the face of Coco’s antics. Adrian suddenly felt the need to put Tasha at ease.
“This is my—”
“Ah, ah, ah.” Coco wagged a finger and interrupted him. “Thousand-dollar fine if you give identity hints. And I will tell on you.” She smiled at Natasha and tilted her head toward Adrian. “This one’s always been horrible at following the rules of games. Despicable, really.” With a last sly smile, she disappeared into the crowd.
“She’s lovely.”
“Yes,” Adrian admitted. “And there’s a string of other descriptives that can be applied to her.”
Like meddlesome and unstoppable.
“We were headed for the buffet before the fairy of the land interrupted us,” he said. “I can promise you the food will be delicious. Parker hired the best caterer in the Bay Area. He always does.”
“Well,” Tasha said, “when in Rome…” Her lips turned up in an uncertain smile.
“I’ve heard that phrase often since my first visit to the States, but I’m never sure what it means,” Adrian said, hoping to draw her out with conversation. He liked the sound of her voice, clear and yet rich and throaty. But more than that, he wanted to know more about her.
“It means…” She hesitated and waved one of her hands through the air.
She had graceful hands, lovely arms. And she moved as if she should be the one holding a magic wand.
“I never really thought about it before,” she added, knitting her brows.
Her intense expression dragged Adrian back from his admiration of her beauty.
“I suppose it means go with the flow,” she said. “Or something like that.”
“Then flow it is. After we sample Parker’s fare, I’d like to claim a dance. That is, if I may.”
“I don’t dance, I—”
“One dance. If I step on your toes, you can flee. And I promise not to stalk you.”
She stiffened
. Something had made this woman very, very skittish. If he wanted to know her better, he’d better take it slow.
They filled their plates and sat at a table with two vacant places. Surrounded by strangers, Adrian felt vaguely uneasy. It wasn’t the costumes. After years in Venice with his grandmother’s family, he’d grown accustomed to being surrounded by carnivale partiers dressed to the nines. What bothered him was that he recognized no one’s voice.
For the first time in ages a sense of loneliness crept through him, nibbling its way into his gut. He had his family around, to be sure, but he’d left close friends behind in Rome, friends he’d had for a lifetime. Setting up Casa del Sole and seeing to its success had kept him busy, but the work didn’t fill the hole that yawned in his quieter hours. Maybe Coco was right. Maybe he did need to get out more.
He turned to Tasha. Following Parker’s rules for anonymity proved harder than he’d imagined. There was little he could discuss that wouldn’t provide identity clues. And unlike the others cavorting around the table, he wasn’t in any mood to pretend he was someone other than who he was.
But as he looked at Tasha, an idea popped into his mind. If they spent time together without sharing their full identities—if she didn’t know who he was and it turned out that she liked him—he’d know that she liked him for himself. Not as an heir to the Tavonesi fortune or for his family’s aristocratic roots, but just for himself.
Beside him, Tasha quietly ate her meal, observing the others as they chattered and laughed.
He picked at his food. Although delicious, the roasted salmon and saffron-laced rice held little appeal. He glanced at Tasha, who listened patiently to a man in a polar bear costume who had obviously had too much to drink.
His idea took hold. And then it took off.
They could go on a series of anonymous dates. They could share their dreams and preferences, get to know each other but without the trappings of circumstance.
But he needed a way to make her comfortable enough in the next couple of hours that she might give him her phone number and agree to a first date.
One of the couples left the table and headed to the dance floor. Women loved to dance; he had that on good authority from his sisters. Amber had once told him that if men realized what seductive power dancing held for women, they would be flooding dance instructors with requests for lessons.
When Tasha finished her meal, he stood and held out his hand.
“A dance, my lady?”
She didn’t take his hand, just stared at it as though she had to weigh the pros and cons of dancing with him. Not a promising start.
“As I said, if I step on your toes, you can flee the dance floor.”
“One misstep and I’m gone,” she said. From her tone he surmised that perhaps she meant more than him stepping on her toes.
But then she smiled and allowed him to close his fingers around hers. He guided her into the colorful throng of already dancing couples. The DJ played a medium tempo swing song, and he tilted his head at Tasha. “Swing?”
“I don’t know this music. Or how to dance to it.”
“Then tonight is your lucky night.”
He put a hand to her waist and with his other hand, he lifted her hand to rest on his shoulder. “Let the world melt away and let me lead.”
He couldn’t know how much she would like to do exactly that.
Yet Natasha’s fears of giving over to the sensations jolting through her at his touch were stronger than her impulse to let go and enjoy the evening, the moment and the man. Her lucky night, he’d said. She didn’t want to think about luck. She’d had the dream again the previous night—always the same sequence of events, always the same words. It wasn’t right. Surely her mother wouldn’t mock her from the grave.
But the man’s firm leading caught her up, and soon she was twirling and dipping and dancing and laughing.
Until the music ended.
And Natasha snapped back into the room.
She stepped away from his hold. A rush of coolness swept between them as if someone had opened a door or a window, but there was neither in sight. He dipped his head toward hers and she panicked, thinking he was going to kiss her.
“One more?” he asked, smiling. “And then we should get something to drink.”
Relieved that all he wanted was a dance, she nodded.
But then the DJ cued a slow song, a song she’d never heard before. As his hand slipped to her back and down to her waist and he drew her close, her heart rumbled a beat far faster than the slow tempo of the lovely ballad.
He ran his other hand along her arm until his fingertips met hers. He twined his fingers in hers, then lifted their joined hands and rested them against his chest. Through the edge of her palm, she felt his heart beating, keeping time with hers, keeping a tempo that had nothing to do with the DJ or the party or the place. She tilted her head back and caught him smiling down at her as he swayed and drew her into the first slow steps of the dance. The music played not only around her but through her, melding with the beat of his heart against her palm and the feel of his other hand at her back, guiding her, meeting her, caressing her.
And she let go. Surrendered to the pulse of energy flowing in her. And danced with the mysterious man with the beguiling smile.
When the music stopped, she felt like a woman waking from a delicious dream. But within seconds her thoughts rushed in, calling her defenses back into place like sentinels that had waited at the ready, unhappy to have been dismissed for even the briefest of moments.
“Let’s get some air,” he said. “There’s a terrace just outside the back of this tent.”
Air. Yes, air would help her return to her senses.
He took two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to her.
The night had turned cool, the perfect drop in temperature that would lead to this season’s best grapes. The fog hadn’t yet come in, but there was a distinct chill in the evening air.
He whisked off the black doublet he wore and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said, finding her voice.
Several couples were seated near heaters at small tables lit by candlelight. Their mingled voices and laughter rippled into Natasha. Had she ever really had fun? She couldn’t remember.
“The stars are especially bright tonight. No moon,” he said.
She looked up, but he wasn’t looking at the stars. He was looking at her.
“Tell me something about you,” he said softly.
“We’re not supposed to exchange information,” she answered.
“Only identifying information is off limits. Tell me about something you love.”
Under normal circumstances she would’ve said Tyler. She sorted through possible responses and found she wanted to answer. Wanted to share some part of her with this mysterious man. But not without a reciprocal exchange.
“If I do, then after, you tell me something. One thing that you love.”
“With pleasure.”
His accent perhaps explained his rather formal English. She liked the way he spoke, the way his words wound together in unusual patterns and his accent made the words stand out, familiar yet not familiar. For so many years she’d honed her ability to listen, to see, to use her senses to make up for her struggles with written words. She was reaping the reward for honing those senses tonight. With this man in this magical setting.
She hugged her elbows close to her chest. “I love plants, everything about them. Their beauty. Tenacity. Fragility. They speak my language.”
He raised a brow, barely visible above his black mask. “Then we have more in common than loving to dance.”
“I didn’t say I loved to dance,” she said, glad that it was dark and he couldn’t see the heat creep into her cheeks.
“You didn’t have to.”
If she’d known how intimate dancing with him would feel, would she have agreed to dance? Already she felt that she’d stepped into a wor
ld with signs and signals she couldn’t read. With sensations that tumbled her thoughts and teased at her carefully held boundaries. But perhaps she was like a prisoner kept too long in a dark cell. She longed for color. For song and dance and laughter. To surrender, if only for a moment.
If only there wouldn’t be consequences.
But there were. There always would be.
“Tasha, I’d like to take you somewhere. Somewhere special to me. I think you’d love this place I have in mind.”
She froze in place. Her breath caught, and she must’ve stiffened, for he stepped away from her as if to give her breathing room. As if to make her feel safe.
“Not now. I mean on a date. To the Asian Botanical Gardens.” He tilted his head and his eyes glittered in the glow shed by hundreds of white lights strung in the nearby trees. “But perhaps you’ve already visited?”
She’d love to visit a botanical garden, Asian, American or any kind. She hadn’t known there was such a place nearby. But she wasn’t ready to open herself to all that an outing with him would likely entail. Not yet. Maybe never would be if the trauma counselor she’d met with before Tyler’s birth was right. And it wasn’t just that she wasn’t ready. She would never be in the league that this man played in. She shouldn’t even be here with him now. He was in his element. She certainly wasn’t.
“I’m not dating right now,” she said, marshaling her voice and willing it not to hitch with the tension building in her chest. “I’m taking a break.”
Right. A six-year break. Ten, if she were to be honest. The guy she’d dated three times six years ago didn’t really count.
Behind the mask, Dumas’s eyes narrowed.
“Shall we wager? Red, you agree to go on a date with me. Black, no date. I prefer roulette unless you prefer dice?”
He couldn’t know the terror his easy offer of a bet unleashed in her.
“No.” She said the word louder than she’d intended, and several of the people around them looked up. “I mean, thank you, but no,” she said softly. “I don’t gamble.”
Not anymore. She’d never wager on anything, not ever again.