Caught in the Act. Samantha Hunter
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and yard. Squeezing into a parking spot, she took a deep breath, steadying her nerves.
This was it.
Due to the nice weather, several groups of guests congregated outside. That would make it easier to blend in and crash the party. All she had to do was glom on to a group and follow them through the door. Slipping the sparkling mask that covered the upper half of her face into place, she took a deep breath and tried to ignore her doubts. Peering in the slim rearview mirror, she hardly recognized herself.
She looked … exotic. So different from her normal, understated lifestyle. She’d never met Mason Scott, although he was a familiar name in local Tampa–St. Petersburg circles, and known as a ruthless divorce attorney whose clients were never disappointed with his results. She’d also seen him mentioned in the social pages, out on the town with some notable woman or another. She wondered what he’d do when he found his pictures missing?
Second thoughts assailed her as she walked up on the porch. She nearly turned around and left after a swarthy pirate wiggled his glued-on eyebrows at her, giving her a close once-over.
What if Mason did have security? What if she was caught?
“You’re late! Where have you been! I’ve been calling the agency for the last hour!” A woman hissed in her ear, grabbing Gina by the arm and nearly pulling her off her feet.
“I’m sorry?”
“You were supposed to be here by seven! It’s after eight!”
The woman was agitated and confused, and Gina opened her mouth to argue, but found herself pulled along again, behind a tall curtain covered in wispy netting and fake spiders that draped across the hallway.
“The band has been playing, so at least there’s been music, thankfully, but everyone’s expecting a singer. We always have a singer,” the woman continued, not letting Gina get a word in edgewise. “They have your music, and everything is set to go. You go through there to the stage, okay?”
“Wait—no, I’m not who you think I am,” Gina began. “I’m not the singer you hired.”
“What do you mean? Did they screw up at the agency? For their prices? If you can’t do this, you’ll have to take it up with Mr. Scott directly, and see what he wants to do.”
The frazzled older woman was dressed as a witch and more than looked the part in her agitated state. Her hat was crooked, her makeup smudged, and Gina felt bad for her. “I swear, organizing these events is going to be the death of me. Something always goes wrong. Let me go get Mr. Scott, and you can—“
“No!” Gina blurted, panicking. There was no way she could meet face-to-face with Mason. What if he recognized a family resemblance? Rio could have mentioned her, and Gina couldn’t take the chance.
Her options were limited. She could leave as soon as the woman’s back was turned, but then she’d let Tracy down.
Or she could … sing.
Her voice was okay. She’d been in a few school musicals, and she sung around the house, in the shower, on karaoke nights with friends and at holiday gatherings. After a few beers, generally.
Can I do this? she thought breathlessly.
Did she have a choice? The witch was staring holes in her.
“Uh, I meant I’m not the same singer they intended to send. She was, uh, sick. So I don’t know the songs she had lined up.”
“Oh …” The woman put a hand to her forehead. “Okay, then. There are some with Halloween themes, and a few more modern blues numbers. If you don’t know her playlist, you can tell the guys what you want, and they can probably accommodate.”
Gina nodded stiffly, nerves making her so tense she felt brittle. “Can you let them know I’m sort of unprepared?”
“Sure, I’ll be right back.” The woman rushed off through the curtain, ostensibly to talk to the musicians.
Gina cleared her throat and tied to calm down. She’d sing a few tunes and then disappear to find Mason’s office. Maybe being on stage would give her a chance to get the lay of the land and keep track of Mason. This could work, right?
Or it could be a total disaster. When the woman came back, informing her that everything was set, Gina tried to step forward, but couldn’t get her feet to move. She could hardly believe it when the woman actually planted her hands on Gina’s back, shuffling her toward the stage, giving her no choice in the matter.
MASON SCOTT HOPED THE HEAVY makeup and the fake fangs he’d been wearing for the last two hours—with at least four more hours to go—masked the intense boredom he was suffering. Why did he even throw these parties anymore?
Because it was expected. His law firm expected each partner to organize some social event once a year to keep in contact with their clients, old and new, and to allow for social interactions among the increasing number of people in the firm who were now telecommuting. This was the price he paid for working from home most of the time. Dozens of people, among whom it would be a challenge to find a handful he could call real friends, invaded for a few hours once a year.
His brother Ryan, a bartender at a local beach bar, walked up to him in a brightly colored Speedo. The rest of him was bare skin covered in colorful patterns drawn on with body paints.
“This is your costume? Or did you just come from work?” Mason teased.
“Hey. I bet you don’t want to hear another joke about blood-sucking lawyers, but I have a couple I’ve been saving,” Ryan threatened in good humor, raising his beer. They’d always enjoyed razzing each other about the contrast in their lifestyles, but it was all in fun. Mostly.
“Point taken.”
“I thought so. Nice party.”
“Same ol’ same ol'.”
“Where’s Cynthia?”
“She went back to her ex.”
“Tough break, man.”
Mason shrugged. “It was never anything serious.” Though the stupid vampire costume had been her idea, and now he was here stag, suffering one clichéd comment after another about fees sucking people dry, etc., etc.
Mason hadn’t handled Cynthia’s divorce, but he should’ve guessed she’d been using him to make her husband jealous—especially when their last date was at an art gallery showing that her husband managed.
Mason supposed he hadn’t cared enough to … care. It wasn’t as if he had any permanent plans with the woman. Permanent hadn’t ever been a part of any of his relationships thus far in his life.
“You here with anyone?” he asked Ryan.
Ryan, as always, had a sparkle in his eye. “Nope, but hoping I won’t go home alone.”
“You never do.”
“Man, you’ve got plenty to choose from here. How
about Little Miss Muffet over there? She’s got a nice set of, uh … tuffets.”
Mason couldn’t help but laugh. His younger brother was an unapologetic womanizer with absolutely no interest in commitment.
“I’m happy for Cynthia,” he said, meaning it.
“C’mon,” Ryan groaned. “Not that again. How can you be so idealistic about marriage and relationships? You’re a divorce lawyer for crying out loud.”
“Hey, Mom and Dad have been together, what? Forty years this year? Plenty of people do it. It’s a good thing when it works, Ryan.”
“Yeah, and you see how often it doesn’t. Hell, I can see how often it doesn’t. Who do you think keeps our bar going but most of the divorcées in the Tampa area?”
“True. But we can’t see how often it does,