Moonlight Scandals

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Sounds like a marvelous plan,” Rosie said as they neared the bar.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” Sarah said in a voice that just dripped with Southern sugar. “May we scoot in?”

  Two of the men closest turned and damn if their stares weren’t as blatant as the woman in the foyer. “Of course,” one of the men murmured. He stepped aside, as did the other. Both had fair hair and brown eyes, strong jaws and nice smiles. With half of their faces obscured, that was all she could make out of their features. They were handsome, she decided as she smiled at them, because most men were handsome when they wore a mask.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “What are you boys drinking?” Sarah asked, and as they answered, Rosie caught the attention of the bartender. Or her breasts did. Whatever worked. She ordered their drinks and then turned to the two men, resting her hip against the bar.

  “I want you to find that happiness you had with Ian.”

  Her mother’s words crept into her thoughts, unwanted but there and annoyingly loud, too. Did she want that again? Yeah, she did, but she didn’t—realizing one of the men was speaking to her, she pulled herself out of her thoughts. “I’m sorry?”

  “It’s okay.” His smile was warm. “I was saying my name is Theo. Yours?”

  “Rosie,” she answered, accepting her glass of pink, sparkling wine.

  “I like it. Are you from here, Rosie?”

  Sipping her wine, she peeked over at Sarah. Her friend was well on the way to forgetting about her ex. “Born and raised. How about you?”

  “From Baton Rouge, but I like to think I was adopted by New Orleans,” he answered. “Been here for four years.”

  “Well, you know what they say about New Orleans? She either accepts you with open arms or spits you right out.”

  “No truer words have ever been spoken.” Theo toasted to that.

  Rosie was about to ask what brought him to New Orleans when it happened—the sensation of warm fingers traveling down her spine. It came out of nowhere, and before she knew what she was doing, she looked over her shoulder. Her gaze had landed on him with unnerving accuracy.

  The man leaned against the bar, his legs crossed at the ankles and his arm resting on the top of the bar. He was drinking some sort of amber-colored liquor from a short glass and he was staring straight at her. Their gazes met, and the strangest awareness whipped through Rosie, causing goose bumps to spread across her flesh despite the long sleeves.

  Wait a second. . . .

  Even with a black mask and being too far away to see his eye color, she recognized the perfectly smoothed-back black hair and granite jaw.

  Crap on a crusty cracker, it was Devlin de Vincent.

  She couldn’t believe it. At no point did she really believe that he’d be here. Nothing about him gave the indication that he’d be at a Masquerade and wearing a mask, but that was him and he looked . . .

  Her gaze dropped. He was wearing black breeches and he looked . . . A shiver whipped its way through her, but this one was feverish, as if she was standing too close to a flame.

  Oh dear Lord, why was God so cruel? With great effort, she lifted her gaze. In that mask and those pants, he looked like something straight out of a fantasy.

  One side of his lips twisted into a smirk as he raised his glass in her direction.

  Honest to God, she had the absolute worst luck. She really didn’t want to see him, especially after what he’d said to her at his house.

  Before she turned away from him, she lifted her glass of wine and extended her middle finger along the glass, flipping him off.

  Rosie refocused on . . . hell, what was his name? She couldn’t remember, and he was now staring at her in a way that said he’d been talking again and she hadn’t been listening. How could she? Even with her back to Devlin, she could feel him, staring at her.

  She couldn’t be in this room, and besides, she didn’t come here to flirt with handsome men whose names she couldn’t recall or to have holes drilled into her back.

  Murmuring her apologies to the man before her, she caught Sarah’s eyes. With one look, she knew where Rosie was off to. Ignoring Devlin’s presence at the end of the bar, she walked as slowly as possible from the room, hoping her ass swayed in an enticing way and not like she had a limp.

  The only good thing about seeing him tonight was what he got to see. Her and the amazing dress that made her breasts look absolutely divine, so at least there was that.

  Determined to not spend one moment stressing over Devlin’s unexpected appearance, she entered the still-packed foyer. There was something going on toward the back of the house, where a band played. She slipped past a group standing near the grand staircase. With her glass of wine in hand, she walked up the steps just like her mother would’ve taught her to do.

  Walk like she had every reason to be where she was, and like always, it worked. No one stopped her. No one called out as she trailed a hand along the beautiful wood. She made it to the second floor with a smug smile.

  She could totally be a spy.

  Or a ninja.

  Better yet, a ninja-spy.

  Turning to the right, her foot caught on the edge of a runner. She tripped, throwing her free hand out to catch herself. A miracle occurred and she didn’t spill her drink.

  Okay, she definitely could not be a spy or a ninja.

  Shaking her head, she made her way down the hall that led to the back of the house. Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked. She reached for the handle on the last bedroom to the left. The door swung open, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  She flipped on the light and got a look at the room as she stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. It was pretty small and sparsely decorated. There was just a bed and a nightstand against one wall, a dresser against the one near the door. A standing mirror stood next to a curtained window. Everything was new so, for some reason, she didn’t feel that bad when she placed her wineglass on the nightstand.

  What she was doing up in the room without permission was pretty unethical, but no one in her position would’ve passed up the chance. Both Lance and Jilly had done it—multiple times and they’d been caught a lot.

  Opening her clutch, she reached inside for the voice recorder.

  “Rosie” came a deep, all-too-familiar voice. “What a surprise.”

  Chapter 13

  Dev had recognized her the moment she walked into the grand room with the tall blonde, before she even became aware of his presence. How could he not? Every woman at the ball was dressed either to entice or impress, but no one—not a single woman here—carried it off as well as Rosie. She was walking temptation and eyes followed her.

  That dress . . .

  God. Unlike most of the women here, she didn’t wear the ridiculous underdress that increased the volume of the skirt. Her dress was more of a sheath of red and black, clinging to her round hips and thighs with every step, and it was cut low and cinched at the waist by a corset. That dress . . .

  Fuck.

  He wanted to find a burlap sack and cover her with it.

  He also wanted to rip that dress off her with his teeth.

  The bourbon he drank had scorched his throat as his gaze lingered on the voluptuous swell above the delicate black lace. He’d only seen Rosie in loose shirts, but the brief moments that their bodies had been pressed together, he’d felt enough to know her breasts were plump and ample. Seeing her in that dress made it nearly impossible to ignore how beautiful her body must be, with all those hidden, soft curves.

  It hadn’t helped when he was finally able to drag his gaze up to her face. Her full lips were painted a soft red and those eyes were striking behind the simple red-and-black mask. She was going against the trend in many ways. Her hair was down instead of swept up in some complicated style. Those thick curls brushed her heart-shaped face and fell past her shoulders, longer than he’d expected. Rosie wore no jewelry except the gold chain—the chain that held her deceased husband’s ring—and th
at made her more elegant than those with thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds adorning their necks and ears.

  Rosie was simply breathtaking.

  Not that he hadn’t noticed that about her before, even when she wore loose clothing and had her hair pulled back. From the moment he’d seen her in her apartment, he’d thought she was beautiful, but he recognized now how utterly stunning she was. And he’d known a lot of beautiful women, those born that way and those who achieved it through a gifted surgeon’s hands. None of them could hold a candle to Rosie, because she was a fire.

  His senses sparked alive and his body burned just by seeing her, and he knew that had nothing to do with their often volatile conversations or what he suspected about her.

  Dev simply reacted to everything that was her, and damn, that was rare and he didn’t like it. At all.

  That he was surprised that she was at the Masquerade would be an understatement to say the least, but he was learning that Rosie had a habit of popping up unexpectedly.

  He thought about what Gabe had said to him and a twinge of guilt surfaced, but Dev doubted her appearances were so random. Possibly more like extremely calculated, because how could she not think he would be here?

  When she left the room, he followed even though he knew he shouldn’t. He had no idea what Rosie was up to, but he was sure it involved that damn journalist and that meant he needed to stay the hell away from her, but curiosity had quickly taken hold when she climbed the cypress staircase and made her way to a smaller bedroom in the back of the house. What in the world was she up to? Nothing good if he was to judge the wide-eyed stare now meeting his. She looked like she’d just been caught trying to steal the queen’s jewels.

  “What are you doing up here?” she demanded, pulling her hand out of the clutch.

  “I have a better question.” Holding on to the glass of bourbon, he leaned against the door he closed behind him. “What are you doing at the Masquerade?”

  “Attempting to have a nice, lovely evening without any drama,” she retorted, and that lovely and rather distracting chest of hers swelled when she took a deep breath. “But apparently that’s not going to happen.”

  He smirked. “That’s not what I meant by the question, and you know that.” He paused. “You’ve never been at this event before. I would’ve noticed.”

  “Oh really?” She snapped her clutch shut.

  Dev nodded.

  “There are hundreds of people down there. How would you know if I’ve been to this event before and you just haven’t noticed?”

  “There is no way I would not have noticed you. Not if you were dressed like that.”

  She was quiet as she appeared to decipher what he meant. “I’m not sure if that was a compliment, but knowing you, it was probably an insult.”

  “It wasn’t an insult,” he replied. “You look beautiful. Stunning, really. If you’d been to this event before and looked like this, I would’ve noticed you right away.”

  Rosie’s lips parted, drawing his attention. He’d never been much of a kisser. Hell, he never once kissed Sabrina, mainly because he hadn’t wanted that woman’s mouth anywhere near his, but he’d never wanted to know more what a woman’s mouth tasted and felt like than he did in that moment.

  “Are you drunk?” she asked.

  He arched a brow. “I wish.”

  She looked around the room before her gaze drifted back to his. A moment passed and then she said, “My friend had an extra ticket and she knew that I’ve always wanted to attend the Masquerade, so she invited me.”

  Interesting. “The blonde you walked in with?”

  Rosie eyed him as she nodded.

  “But that doesn’t answer why you’re in this room instead of with your friend and enjoying the party.”

  “I am enjoying the party.”

  “Alone? In a bedroom upstairs where I’m sure guests were not expected to roam?” he queried.

  Those tantalizing lips thinned. “Did you think that maybe I saw you and was attempting to hide?”

  “Not for one second do I believe you would ever run from me.”

  Rosie rolled her eyes.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I’m measuring the door space for beaded curtains. What are you doing?”

  A surprised laugh burst from him, the sound unfamiliar even to his own ears. “I’m sure the homeowners will be appreciative of the additional decor, but I seriously doubt that’s what you’re doing, or at least I hope not.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You didn’t answer my question. Why are you up here?”

  “I followed you,” he admitted.

  She blinked. “Well, not only is that creepy, that’s also annoying.”

  “Why is that?” He took a sip of the bourbon, watching her through half-open eyes.

  “Because I’m sure you followed me just so you can insult me, and I’m not going to give you that luxury.” She picked up her wineglass and stepped forward, lifting her chin. “So, could you move away from the door?”

  “I didn’t follow you so I could insult you. Pretty sure we’ve established that when I said you looked beautiful.”

  “Really?” came her dry response. “Considering every conversation I’ve had with you, with the exception of the day in the cemetery, has ended with you insulting me. Why would tonight be any different?”

  Tonight was different. He didn’t know why he knew this. Maybe it was instinct, but he knew tonight was like no other that came before. “Are you always this argumentative?”

  “Are you always such a douche canoe?” she snapped back. “Oh wait. Don’t answer that. I already know. You are.”

  “Douche canoe? I haven’t heard that word since I was . . . thirteen.”

  “So?”

  “So who still says that?”

  “Me.” She smiled then, and it went straight to his dick, hardening him. “I’m bringing it back in style.”

  He smiled faintly at that. “Thought I was a dickhead.”

  “You’re both. A dickhead and a douche canoe.”

  “That’s rather impressive.”

  “Not really.” She took a drink of her wine.

  He watched her run her finger along the stem of the wineglass and found himself oddly jealous of the wineglass. He wanted her to touch him like that, but considering the fact she most likely hated him, that wasn’t going to happen . . . then again, she’d felt him the morning in her apartment, and he would swear that he saw arousal in her eyes and in her shallow, short breaths.

  “I think . . . I think I should apologize to you,” he said, lifting his gaze to hers.

  “For what?” she asked, taking another sip of her wine.

  He felt his dick harden when her tongue darted out, catching a droplet of wine on her lower lip. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

  “Is the sky blue? Yeah.” She smiled tightly. “Because when you said ‘apologize,’ it sounded like you were choking.”

  “It did not.”

  “Choking on your arrogance,” she added.

  “Okay. I acted like a dick.”

  “Which time? In my apartment when you insulted my interior design or when you suggested that I had ulterior motives for giving you flowers at the cemetery?”

  He opened his mouth, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything, because apparently Rosie was not done.

  “Or when you insinuated that I was out to do something nefarious to your family just because I introduced my friend to a guy?” She stepped toward him, lowering her glass, and for a second he thought she might throw the contents at him. “Or are you apologizing for making me move my car and feel completely unwelcome while visiting my friend? Wait. There’s more. Are you apologizing for saying that the mere idea of having sex with me was laughable?”

  He was learning Rosie had a remarkable memory. “Yes. I am apologizing for all of that. I’m . . . sorry.”

  She tilted her head. “You could not sound less genuine if you tri
ed.”

  “It was genuine.” And that was—well, it was true. Maybe he’d misread Rosie? Maybe he was making her guilty by association? He wasn’t sure, but he did . . . feel guilt, and he didn’t feel guilt about a lot of things. “I was a dick to you.”

  “Yeah, you were, but you can’t undick yourself.”

  He blinked. “Undick myself?”

  A giggle snuck out of her, and he didn’t even fight it. Didn’t hesitate. He grinned in response to the sound, surprising himself.

  “Yeah, undick yourself.” She finished off her wine and then lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

  “Anything is possible when I put effort into it.”

  She snorted.

  He tipped his head back against the door. “So you don’t accept my apology?”

  “Not really. Words are meaningless. Actions are everything.”

  “That I will agree with.” He raised his glass to her and then finished it off, welcoming the bite of bourbon. “You’re a mystery to me, and that’s . . . different,” he admitted, setting his glass on the dresser. “I could find out everything I ever wanted to know about you by making a single phone call, and yet, I haven’t. That alone is a mystery.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, “Okay. I don’t even know where to start with all that, so I will just go with wow, that would be a huge violation of privacy.”

  “It would be.”

  Rosie stared at him for a moment. “And that’s all you have to say about that?”

  “It is,” he replied, straightening and pulling away from the door. “But I haven’t done it.”

  “Do you think you deserve a gold star by your name for not being a stalker?”

  It happened again. The smile he couldn’t stop and didn’t even try to. “I think so.”

  “Wow.” Rosie laughed, and it wasn’t bitter or cold sounding. “You are . . . something else.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Of course you would.” She lifted a shoulder. “Well, if you did make that creepy phone call, you’re not going to find out anything interesting. I’ve lived a pretty boring life.”