by K S Augustin
“Thanks, George.”
“No problem,” he beamed, slapping her on the shoulder. “No problem at all.”
Chapter Two
Sophie looked up to the top of the stairs and took a breath. Behind her, the taxi door slammed shut and the car tooled away. The scented air-conditioned chill of the vehicle's cabin was replaced by the scent and heat of diesel fumes.
The steps, gleaming marble, loomed above her. There should be no earthly reason for anxiety, she told herself. She had visited this particular five-star hotel many times in the past—for cocktail parties, product launches and banquets.
With Tim.
Yes, that was the difference. On all previous occasions, she'd been here as Tim's wife. Mrs Woodward. Now, she was here by herself. Ms Sophie.
A couple brushed past her, laughing softly, bringing her back to her senses. She squared her shoulders. It was only a social event. For charity, no less. A noble cause.
She started up the stairs, her heels clicking sharply on the polished stone, and smiled at the uniformed doorman as he welcomed her into the lush foyer with a small bow.
Wasn't she on a hunting expedition of her own, hungering for the feel of another's hands on her flesh? The mere idea of it was enough to make her damp and Sophie squeezed her legs together while she contemplated which direction she should take—up the stairs to the elegant conference rooms (how many people were going to be at this thing anyway?), or down to the giant banquet hall.
A small procession of people, dressed even more outrageously than herself, were tripping down the shallow, richly veined steps, and she followed suit, lifting the mask clutched in her left hand and slipping it over her head.
In the end, after two weeks of lip-biting indecision, Sophie had decided to go historical. After all, if she considered herself ancient next to the silken-haired, slim young things that happily pranced around her—and she did—she might as well dress as one.
The costume party shop owners had been more than happy to hire out the Regency-style gown.
“Young people no like,” the older man had told her after pulling out the dress for her to look at. It had been shoved in tight between a couple of harlequin costumes and it was only a flash of the fabric's deep ruby tones that had caught Sophie's eye, prompting her to ask for a closer look at the plastic-bagged frock.
His wife, the co-owner of the small shop along North Bridge Road, had tutted in sympathy from her perch on a tall wooden bar-stool behind the cash register.
“Too little,” she had said, a little opaquely. “Too little. Show not enough leg, not enough thigh.” She mimicked pulling a skirt up to her hip. “Want to show firm skin, what.”
That might have been the case but the gown, whose hem tickled the tops of her feet, was very daring in other ways. The sleeves, for example, threatened to fall off her shoulders, and gave the distinct impression of remaining in place only through sheer will. Sophie immediately realised that she couldn't wear any of her regular bras with the dress. Well, she would just have to go shopping for a new strapless. And not just any strapless bra. The neckline, wide and shaped in a vee, dipped down to just below the line of her nipples, exposing two full globes of shadowed flesh.
She had always been proud of her breasts. They weren't large, but seemed that way when compared to her tidy waist. Of course, in the years since her twenties, Sophie's waist had expanded a little but so had the rest of her. She was still in proportion, a proportion that men had seemed to like, but would that still be true now that she'd aged by more than two decades? Almost three, dammit!
Her mask was a matching feathery concoction of gold sequins, long upright feathers in red and black, and fine threads of gold paint decorating a curved shield that covered the top of her face and her nose, showing only her lips uncovered.
The costume shop owners had given her the choice of a mask that she could hold with a slim rod, much like the ones she saw in historical movies, or the type that fastened around her head with thick, cloth-covered elastic. No matter how much Sophie regarded her attendance at the masquerade ball as an event of fantasy, she was still too practical to insist on the hand-held version. What if she wanted to have a drink and something to nibble?
Pulling herself back to the present, she forced herself not to look down at the creamy expanse of flesh just below her throat as she followed a small party of ball attendees to the giant banquet room. One of the two women was dressed in a black and white catsuit so tight that Sophie couldn't be sure it wasn't painted on. Only her hair, it seemed, was unadorned, a dark waterfall of silk cascading to her waist. Her female companion was dressed in the fashion of the Roaring Twenties, in a flowing dress with spaghetti straps that exposed her creamy shoulders, and a hem that ended high up on her thighs, exposing taut, equally creamy thighs.
My God, Sophie thought to herself with horror, how can I compete with that?
Their male partners had taken a more frivolous approach to the evening, one dressed as a clown and another, from the back and one side at least, dressed as a waiter. She was sure he would be regretting that choice of costume by the end of the evening.
The four of them stopped at the back of a queue that snaked its way to a pair of giant doors, and Sophie stared. There must be hundreds of people attending the ball and she looked to be one of the very few that had attended by herself. Part of her wanted to back out, turn tail and run—wanted to do that even as she had waited for the taxi at the front door of her condo complex—but her sense of practicality kicked in once more. She had spent too much money, from new shoes, to lingerie, to the costume hire, and a make-up session a few hours ago, to turn coward now. Taking a deep breath, she willed her feet to keep still and face forward.
The line moved forward at a fair pace. Before too long, Sophie was at the front, presenting her invitation and giving the female organiser behind the desk a sunny smile. She was ushered into the banquet room with a nod, flanked by the doors and two waiters, each bearing a tray on which sat dozens of flutes containing sparkling wine. Knowing she needed all the help she could get, Sophie grabbed a glass, took a sip, and looked around.
The ballroom was done up lavishly. Thick swatches of cream, black and gold material were draped in folds from the ceiling to various points of the walls. Small high round tables were decorated in a similar colour scheme, with a miniature, ornate golden candelabra set in each centre, filled with slim, white, waxy pillars, their small flames flickering in the air currents that moved through the room. The wine glasses and pearly snack plates that rested on some of the tables caught reflections of the subdued lighting, occasionally glinting and lending an air of mystery to the event. It all looked incredibly romantic yet lushly sinful at the same time.
Sophie squared her shoulders and started walking around. She was here tonight, not as the middle-aged divorced partner of an investment banker, nor as a highly-regarded instructor at a prestigious business academy. She was here as a woman, scouting the talent with a view to breaking a multi-year drought. It would bolster her courage if she could keep that in mind.
Her gaze was caught briefly by the two couples who had been in front of her in the queue. Following the line of their attention, she noticed a group of musicians at the other end of the banquet hall. The string quartet members also wore masks, but much more utilitarian than the frothy fantasy she was wearing. She stood and admired their skill for a while before moving on. Occasionally, a waiter would stop at her side and offer a canapé —a curl of thickly cut, pink salmon on a feather-light cracker, topped with sour cream and a sprinkling of caviar; a dainty sandwich filled with transparent rings of cucumber, accented by peppery watercress; a silky slice of rich p âté sitting atop exquisite slices of freshly-baked, Italian-style bread.
If not entirely comfortable, at least she was used to this environment. Years of accompanying Tim had honed her skills of light conversation and artless smiling. She nibbled and sipped and, behind the cloak of her mask, let her gaze wander over the men
who attended, admiring the tight, shapely buttocks encased in dark trousers, breadth of shoulders tapering down to narrow waists, or the kind of long, elegant masculine fingers she preferred.
Sophie licked her forefinger absently, sucking the remnants of subtly curried egg from her fingers, just as a low voice whispered in her left ear.
“Do you always like to watch?”
She spun around, startled and more than a little guilty. Her hand moved instinctively to her chest and a dark gaze followed its path. Sophie felt as if something tangible had just stroked her bare skin and her nipples puckered. It took two breaths before she could gather her self-control around her once again.
“I'm sorry,” she said, her voice a little husky, “but you startled me.”
The man behind the mask bowed slightly. “In that case, my most profound apologies but you see,” he paused, “I like to watch too.”
Sophie's eyes widened. Oh dear.
The man in front of her—as dark and delectable as chocolate—was also as smooth as finely-woven silk. The old Sophie would have been a little apprehensive around such a character, but the new on-the-prowl Sophie was beginning to think that this man may be exactly what she was looking for. At that moment, she itched to have a lace fan in her hand instead of a flute of wine, just so she could flutter it in front of her. No matter, the mask would have to do.
Coyly, she stared at the floor then lifted her gaze to him. “Then we seem to make an excellent pair.”
And they did. He was half a head taller than her in her heels, which made him very tall for this part of the world. And his voice was low and cultured, yet with a lilt to it that reminded her faintly of an Irish brogue. He was dressed conservatively in a tailored suit, but wore a mask of black and white checks. It didn't cover as much of his face as Sophie's did hers, but it still made him look dark and mysterious. He smiled and she noticed that the bottom edge of his mask wasn't low enough to hide an appealing dimple in his right cheek. Her pulse began to race, sure he had used that smile before to good effect.
She took a breath. Oh my.
“I don't think I've noticed you at previous masquerade balls,” he commented.
Sophie laughed. “And how would you know? We are behind masks, after all.”
He paused, his lips quirking again, and made sure she knew he was taking his time, observing every inch of her from the top of her burnished blonde hair, over the mask, lingering for a moment on her lips, before moving down to rest on her chest. Sophie had the wild urge to throw her glass to one side, push him to the floor and have her wicked way with him.
“Believe me,” he said, “if you had attended any of the others, I would have noticed.”
Hmm, confident too.
“So do you come to these things often?” she asked, turning to face in the same direction as he was looking. She beckoned to a nearby waiter and took a canap é from his tray, although she could not have said afterwards what type it was, or even what it tasted like. Next to her, the handsome stranger did the same, popping the small snack into his mouth with a practised move.
“More than I'd like,” he replied and there was a hint of something in his voice. A tiredness? Maybe resignation? Was attending social events more a duty than pleasure? Suddenly, her curiosity too was piqued.
“And up till now,” he added, “there hasn't been anything of interest to see.”
Sophie's grin this time was unfeigned. “Now that is something I don't believe.”
His answering bark of laughter sounded surprised, and his next words confirmed the supposition.
“You're a very straightforward person, aren't you?”
“I try to be,” Sophie replied.
He took her right hand—the one that wasn't holding a wine glass, the one that had, only seconds ago, been covered with a dollop of canap é topping—and kissed the tips of her fingers.
Sophie wasn't sure whether to faint from delight or embarrassment. The gesture itself was as light as the flutter of a butterfly's wings, but she felt the warmth of his hand beneath hers, a rock-solid support holding her while his lips grazed her skin with a fleeting caress. A zinging started somewhere in her abdomen and shot up to her nipples, hardening them instantly. She wanted this man so badly, her mouth was actually watering! She swallowed and returned his smile a little tremulously when he straightened.
“And did my straightforward lady from the past,” he said, alluding to her costume, “come to the ball with a partner?”
“No.” Her voice was husky. “What about you?”
“The same.” And she heard it again, that tug of reluctance, of exhaustion, in his voice.
“Then why attend at all?” she asked, curiosity driving her boldness.
He shrugged. “The organiser is a good friend of mine. And it's for charity. I could ask the same question. Why did you come?”
It was the moment of truth for Sophie. Dare she tell this dashing stranger why she decided to attend? She wavered, caught between playing it safe and risking it all.
“I,” she hesitated, “I came looking for some fun,” she finished in a rush, then held her breath.
What would he think? Would he be the one to have some “fun” with her or would he walk away with an apologetic, yet utterly charming and otherwise meaningless, gesture?
When he looked to one side and scanned the rest of the partygoers—the noise level of the surrounding conversations had risen but, to Sophie's disgust, she hadn't even noticed until her mystery man had broken eye contact—she felt a deep stab of disappointment.
He's going to walk away. I should go home.
“Is this the first ball you've attended?”
Sophie wasn't sure where his question was leading, but she nodded. “Yes.”
“Arnold outdoes himself every year,” he commented, speaking softly, almost to himself. Despite that, Sophie knew there were other thoughts whizzing through the brain hidden behind that simple mask. That much was obvious from the stillness of his stance. He seemed to come to a decision, because he locked gazes with her again.
“It's all very impressive, isn't it?”
“Yes,” she replied, unable to look away.
“And are you enjoying yourself?”
“For the time being.”
His lips quirked again. “It would be irresponsible of me to whisk you away from all this, wouldn't it?”
Sophie's heart skipped a beat.
“The evening will only get better, if I know Arnold,” he continued.
Was he really offering what she thought he was? Buck up old stick, she told herself. You have a wonderful opportunity here. Don't mess it all up now.
“There's always next year,” she added in a breathy tone. “And I'm sure Arnold will manage to come up with some way of topping this event.”
The sexy stranger chuckled. “You're right. He will. In which case, could I tempt you away by offering you a quiet drink? Champagne?”
Sparkling wine of all stripes was dreadfully expensive in the city-state, and nobody mentioned it without meaning it...or without having scads of money. Sophie briefly wondered what her mysterious partner did for a living, but the thought was gone as soon as it came. She was going to enjoy the night, regardless of the consequences.
She smiled at him. “Why not?”
Chapter Three
Sophie thought she would be led to a quiet corner of the hotel. Instead, her companion led her to the lifts. Her steps faltered briefly as revelation hit, but his hand was warm and firm at her elbow and it had been so long since somebody, anybody, had touched her with even a speck of appreciation.
She watched as he drew a plastic card from his jacket pocket and slotted it into a thin black seam above the bank of floor buttons. Then, he pressed a button. There were no other numbers above it, which meant...the penthouse suite.
She turned to stare at him, mute, but he said nothing, and the rest of the journey was made in silence.
When the doors slid open, they stepped into a
n opulent foyer. Sophie couldn't help it. She froze. She couldn't move a muscle of her legs if her life depended on it. Beyond the bevelled-edge glass frames of the foyer, carried on an expanse of creamy polished granite and thick exotic rugs, intricately carved wooden furniture gleamed beneath crystal-clad lights. At the far end of the floor, the lights from Singapore's high-rise landscape twinkled white, yellow and red dots through the floor-to-ceiling windows. If Sophie could somehow conjure a fantasy version of her condo unit, it wouldn't even approach the grandeur in front of her eyes. What exactly did her masked companion do for a living?
He started to walk into the huge living room, then stopped and turned when he realised that she had not followed him.
“Is there a problem?”
“I,” she swept her arm in an expansive gesture and stepped forward. “This is all a bit overwhelming.”
He cocked his head to one side, seemingly considering her words.
“Yes, I imagine it is. Although, if it's any consolation, I normally don't operate like this.”
He hesitated slightly, then removed his mask, putting it down with a small click on a polished, glossy-topped sofa table.
He was classically beautiful, with his high cheekbones, full lips and dark, heavy-lidded eyes. A lean, Greek statue brought to life and washed with a tincture of brewed tea leaves from some cloud-laden mountainside.
“Perhaps we're getting ahead of ourselves a bit,” he offered. “My name is—”
Sophie moved then, stepping quickly up to him and lifting a finger to lay it across his lips. His breath blew over the tip of her finger, warming its sudden chillness.
“No, no names,” she told him. “Or maybe, only our first names. Nothing more.”
“Are you sure?” he asked in disbelief, lifting her finger and stroking it with his own.
“For tonight,” she said, “I'd prefer it that way.”