Propositioned?. Kristin Gabriel
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a moment to get her bearings. It was dark, the long hallway lit by a lone sconce at the far end. She was close enough to the light switch to reach out and flip it on, but she didn’t dare risk calling attention to her presence up here.
Especially with Michael Wolff on the prowl.
FIVE MINUTES TILL MIDNIGHT.
Michael stood off by himself in the crowded ballroom and sipped his fifth glass of champagne. He kept checking the time, watching the seconds drag by.
As usual, many of the guests had approached him for a financial donation. Michael’s growing reputation as a philanthropist made him the target for every get-rich scheme out there. Most people believed he gave his money away for tax purposes—a fallacy he didn’t bother to correct. Michael was no saint, he just didn’t need any more money.
So he gave it to foster-care programs and pediatric research hospitals. Made anonymous donations to local shelters and urban-redevelopment programs. Unfortunately, the size of those gifts had been leaked to the media, whose tenacious digging revealed him as the benefactor.
Now everyone in Denver knew Michael liked to give his money away. Both friends and strangers approached him for donations—to either their favorite charity or, more often, their latest business investment.
Tonight, those solicitations for cash also came with questions about the woman he’d kissed on the dance floor—questions he deftly avoided, not only to protect his privacy, but simply because he didn’t know the answers.
To his surprise, Michael discovered that he wasn’t the only one stumped by Little Red Riding Hood’s true identity. Many of the other guests, especially the single women, kept trying to place her. But, so far, none had been successful, which just made her more intriguing in his eyes. More mysterious.
Four minutes till midnight.
Even Blair had asked him about her. His grandfather’s wife usually paid little attention to his social life, probably because she disliked him as much as he disliked her. No, that wasn’t true. Michael didn’t dislike her. He just didn’t trust her. With good reason.
His gaze moved slowly over the ballroom until he spotted Mrs. Seamus Wolff, resplendent in her elaborate Cleopatra costume. A former hand model, she was tall and slender, with long, sleek black hair that fit perfectly with her exotic costume.
He didn’t have any actual proof that she’d arranged that accident on the stairs. Yet. But it wasn’t the first accident to befall his grandfather in the six weeks since he’d changed his will. Seamus had also careened into a ditch with his vintage Packard, thanks to a faulty brake line. Either accident could have been fatal—which would have made Blair Wolff a very rich woman.
Only thirty-four, Blair Ballingham Wolff had been married to his seventy-year-old grandfather for almost three years. She was wife number six. Seamus jokingly described himself as a serial husband, divorcing his wives when they got too old for him.
But the truth was that Seamus’s first five wives had taken the easy escape route after only a few months of matrimony, collecting the one-hundred-thousand dollars promised them in the premarital agreement. An unusual agreement in that they only received the money if the marriage lasted less than one year. If it lasted more than a year, they received nothing. So far, all of them had preferred taking the cash to living with an extremely cranky, albeit very rich, old man.
All of them except Blair. Her loyalty had impressed Seamus so much that he’d actually changed his will recently, leaving her a sizable portion of the Wolff estate, certainly much more than a measly hundred grand. But was Blair truly loyal to Seamus or just greedier—and deadlier—than his other wives? That’s what Michael intended to find out—before it was too late.
Three minutes till midnight.
He drained his glass, aware once again that the Wolff fortune proved both a blessing and a curse. He had more money than he could ever spend. Unlimited opportunities. Yet, just like his grandfather, he could never afford the one thing that every person on the planet sought. Love. Because he’d never know for certain if a woman truly loved him or just his well-padded wallet.
That didn’t mean he’d given up on women entirely. He definitely enjoyed female companionship, especially in his bed. As long as they understood that sex didn’t equal love or commitment. He always made that perfectly clear before embarking on any new relationship, though most women still believed they could trap a Wolff. So far, he’d proven them all wrong.
Two minutes till midnight.
His wolf costume prickled against the bare skin of his back. He resisted the urge to squirm against the wall, desperate for relief from the agonizing itch that had been aggravated by the heat-inducing dance with Red. He’d stared into her mossy green eyes—eyes as lush and mysterious as a virgin forest. And he’d been the one in danger of getting lost there.
He longed for another slow dance with Red. A private slow dance.
Michael let his gaze wander around the ballroom, but he didn’t see her scarlet cape anywhere. What kind of body did that cape hide? What color hair under that hood? What secrets behind her smile?
One minute till midnight.
Michael pushed himself off the wall and headed toward the bandstand, slipping unobtrusively through the raucous crowd of guests. He wanted to see her face during the unveiling. To formally meet the woman who had turned down the invitation to his lair. He’d been half joking at the time, but her refusal had enthralled him. Maybe she truly didn’t recognize him. Or she simply wasn’t impressed by his wealth. Maybe money didn’t matter to her.
Michael wished he could still believe in fairy tales.
At last the clock struck midnight. He turned in a slow circle, his heart beating double time. Colorful balloons and confetti floated down from the ceiling to celebrate the dawn of the New Year. Couples embraced around him. Champagne corks popped. He removed his mask, but he couldn’t see his Red anywhere.
Maybe she’d gotten lost in his woods after all.
MIDNIGHT.
The first deep gong reverberated through the mansion. Sarah froze, her hand on the doorknob of the room containing the safe. Michael would be in front of the bandstand now, watching for her. Waiting. But how long would he wait?
The second gong sounded a heartbeat later and Sarah knew she didn’t have time to waste. She bent down to jimmy the lock, a trick taught to her by her grandfather. On the third gong, she slipped inside the room, quietly closing the door behind her. She locked it, then turned around, her pulse racing.
Her leather boots sunk into the deep, plush carpet as the fourth gong rang out. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood, but the room itself was pitch-black, without even a hint of moonlight.
The thick darkness unnerved her as the sound of the fifth gong echoed through the mansion. She fumbled inside the picnic basket for the miniature flashlight she’d purchased just this afternoon. At last she found it and switched it on.
The sixth gong drowned out her groan when nothing happened. She rapidly flipped the flashlight switch back and forth, hoping for a miracle. But no such luck. Either the new flashlight or the new batteries she’d purchased for it were defective. She wanted to kick herself for not testing it before now.
At the seventh gong, she skimmed one hand blindly along the wall for a light switch, then turned it on for the length of the eighth, ninth and tenth gongs, just long enough for her gaze to sweep along the wall, taking note of the small marble table and the chaise lounge shaped like a chariot underneath the window. In the middle of the room stood a gold tent. Odd. But Sarah didn’t have time to satisfy her curiosity by taking a closer look.
At the eleventh gong, she flipped off the wall switch, fearing someone passing by might see the light filtering under the door and become suspicious. She was probably more paranoid than necessary, but Sarah simply couldn’t stand the thought of discovery.
The twelfth gong rang out as she considered the consequences of what she was