Unmasked. Stefanie London
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South Yarra is showing,” he said. “You might want to cover that up.”
“Not here.” Aaron chuckled. “It’s practically a requirement for entry.”
Jessie rolled her eyes and pushed on, pointing out people across the room. “Oh, and my friend Amelia told me the restaurateur Jerry McPartlin is going to be here. I ate at his new place, Gilt, last week. It was absolutely divine.”
Damian’s ears pricked up, ignoring Aaron, who was giving him a stern look. “Really?”
Suddenly, the evening had gotten a whole lot more interesting. This would be the perfect opportunity for him to chat with the uptight family man in a social setting and try to figure out exactly what he needed to do to secure the guy’s business.
Did he need a girlfriend? A fiancée? Promise to give up his firstborn? Whatever it was, Damian was ready to sign on the dotted line. Snagging McPartlin & Co. would be the best possible thing he could do, because another big-name client was extra security. Relying only on one or two big fish meant your business balanced on a knife’s edge, and keeping the client happy often overtook the uncomfortable but necessary process of crafting the right solution for them.
The fact was, any big client would help him. But he wanted this one.
Signing McPartlin & Co. would give him the closure he needed to finally shut the door on his past. Or rather, slam it in the faces of those who’d broken his heart.
A while later, Damian stood at the edge of the crowd, watching. He felt like a kid at the zoo, his face pressed against the glass of the reptile enclosure. Everything happening in front of him was foreign. Alien. This wasn’t his world...yet.
Sure, he was rich by most people’s standards. He lived in a luxury hotel that cost more per week than what he’d spent on his first car. But that would be nothing to these people.
And he knew that an evening like this could make or break him. Get the right connections and his business would soar. Piss off the wrong person and...well, he could easily be back to doing grunt work for some asshole.
Damian clenched his fists and let the fantasy of punching his ex-boss in the face roll through him like a wave. The betrayal was no less raw today than it had been four years ago when he’d come back to the office late one night to pick up his laptop and found his wife spread-eagled on Ben’s desk.
The Carmina Ball was the key to it all. To revenge. To closure.
If only he could get close to Jerry McPartlin.
The man stood a few metres away, surrounded by a group of women who wore dresses so large they created a barrier around him. And it looked like he was loving the attention, too. Damian could wait. Patience and determination were two of his greatest strengths, and he would find the perfect moment to strike. Before the night was out, he would have a plan.
“I wasn’t expecting to find such good company playing wallflower,” a silky voice said.
A woman sidled up to him, her shimmering mask of white lace studded with gems that winked at him. Black hair flowed over one shoulder in stark contrast to a floor-length white ballgown. Her full lips were painted red and they curved into an inviting smile.
“That depends. What kind of company are you looking for?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Damian.”
“Hannah,” the woman replied. “You have a familiar face.”
Ugh. He could almost guarantee what was coming next, the one sentence that made him cringe every bloody time.
You’re that guy from Australia’s Most Eligible.
But instead she cocked her head, the gems on her mask shimmering, and said nothing.
He was about to respond when a blur of red stole the words from his mouth. Moisture soaked through Damian’s dress shirt and the sound of glass shattering pierced the subtle din of the ballroom. He’d been hit.
“Oh my God.” A woman with blazing-red hair reached out to touch his chest, her fingertips sending fire through his veins. “I am so sorry.”
Damian looked down. Wine streaked his chest, a slash of angry red against the crisp white cotton. The broken glass glittered in a pool of liquid on the floor, its stem rolling across the parquet.
“You got me good.” He brushed his hands over his chest in a futile attempt to clean himself up.
“Excuse me.” The redhead waved to get the attention of a waiter, but there was already a small army descending to clean up the mess.
Her silver gown was bunched in one hand, revealing a finely boned ankle encased in a strappy, high-heeled shoe. She tried to take a step but couldn’t shift her full weight onto her foot.
“You might have some glass in your shoe,” he said, reaching out to her. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She accepted his hand. Her mask was so detailed it was impossible to see much of her face—it covered her entirely from above her brows to above her lips. “I’m so sorry, my hem got caught...”
Damian narrowed his eyes at the sound of her voice. It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Maybe she was a business acquaintance? Or someone he’d met during filming? She seemed the glamorous type who might be part of the entertainment industry. But without seeing her face, it would be impossible to tell, and there couldn’t be too many people he knew who could afford the Carmina Ball’s ticket price.
Plus, he was sure he would have remembered a woman with hair the colour of rubies. A woman whose touch stirred something impossibly primal and strange inside him.
He looped her arm around his neck and supported her slight weight. But a few hobbling steps later, when it was clear she was frightened to put pressure on her foot, he lifted her into his arms and strode through the ballroom with what felt like the whole city watching.
BROKEN GLASS AND bloodshed weren’t supposed to be part of the deal. Not to mention the fact that she’d come precariously close to getting red wine on her borrowed finery. But it was the stupid dress that caused the problem in the first place. Who was tall enough for these damn dresses? Amazonians?
The fabric had gotten caught under her heel and she’d stumbled, the wine splashing across Damian as the glass escaped her grip. She was only supposed to slosh a little over the edge, just enough to interrupt him and the glamorous woman in the white dress who was about to go in for the kill.
But oh no. That would have been too easy, and Lainey never could seem to take the easy route.
So elegant, Kline. Like a drunk baby llama on roller skates.
But being weightless in Damian’s arms was more than she could have hoped for, at least within the first five minutes. Now all she had to do was cross her fingers that she hadn’t embedded glass in her foot.
“You okay?” he asked as they exited the ballroom and headed to the powder rooms.
The mask covered only half of his face, one eye and cheek, Phantom of the Opera–style. That was how she’d spotted him so easily. Tonight he was freshly shaven, his olive skin smooth. By the end of the night he’d have a shadow there, a hint of darkness impressing itself on his clean-cut image. Like a reminder that he was more than he appeared.
“I’m not about to pass out from blood loss, if that’s what you mean,” she replied in the voice she’d been practising all week. She spoke slower and breathier than normal, trying to disguise the very last thing that could give her away.
“I should hope not.” His tone was heavy with amusement. “I doubt they’ll take the tux back if it’s got blood on it.”
A five-thousand-dollar entry price and Damian had rented a tuxedo?