Unmasked. Stefanie London
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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? For some reason that made her grin like an idiot. No matter how rich he got, there would always be a hint of where he came from lurking beneath. And damn if that didn’t make her heart swell.
No hearts, no flowers, no chocolates. Cut that shit out right now. This is a fantasy. Nothing more.
“At least you’d have a story to tell.”
“I have a lot of stories to tell. That’s not my problem.”
“What is your problem?” Her heartbeat kicked up a notch when his eyes shifted down to hers. With the black surrounds of the mask, the sharp blue of his irises was even more stark and breathtaking. “Maybe I can help.”
The corner of his lip quirked. “You’ll do the opposite of that, I’m afraid.”
“Try me. You never know when a stranger might be exactly what you need.”
A little seed of guilt unfurled in her stomach. She was no stranger and everything about this encounter was for her own selfish gain—to appease the fantasy that’d plagued her for years.
You’re not forcing him to do anything. If this goes somewhere, it’ll be because he accepts your offer, not because you held a gun to his head.
They reached the private powder rooms. There were no cubicles for the guests of Patterson House, that was for damn sure. Each powder room was spacious, with a single private sink and toilet. Lainey thanked her lucky stars for the diva-like needs of the rich, because it would afford them some privacy.
Holding her, Damian nudged the door open with his foot and let it swing shut behind him. The click of the automatic latch was like a single firework in the quiet room, the sound echoing off the tiles and rattling around in her brain. He set her on the marble countertop. Lainey glanced around. The room was like no other bathroom she’d ever seen—the taps were gold and ornate, and fresh flowers sat in a vase that was most likely crystal. They even had a fancy hand soap dispenser that resembled a Fabergé egg.
“Let’s have a look at the damage.” He crouched in front of her, pushing her dress up so he could get to her foot. His fingers made quick work of the strap on her sandal, and with one hand bracing her ankle, he slipped the shoe off.
The action was so soft and caring that Lainey’s heart caught in her throat. The warmth of his fingers was like an aphrodisiac, potent. Intoxicating. Her blood hummed at the contrast of it all—the firmness of his grip mixed with the careful, tender touch.
“I think you can keep the foot,” he said, his tone serious. But the twinkle in his eye gave him away.
It appeared Damian did still have a sense of humour, much to her delight.
“You think?” Lainey peered down and wriggled her toes. The light glinted off the shimmery black nail polish she’d chosen because it reminded her of the stars against a night sky. “The word think isn’t something I want to hear when we’re discussing amputation.”
He chuckled and lifted her foot higher to inspect the sole. “I’m going to rub my thumb across the ball of your foot. If you feel any pain, then there could be glass under the skin.”
She nodded, her breath stuttering like a car engine failing to turn over. Lainey wasn’t sure she’d be able to detect pain—or anything else—as Damian inspected her. For an encounter that shouldn’t have been in the least bit sexual, every nerve ending in her body was singing as though it was Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve and every other damn holiday all at once.
“Do you feel anything?” He looked up.
Seeing a big man like him on his knees, looking up at her through that sexier-than-sin mask, touching her as though she were the most precious thing in all the world...
“I think I’d be a statue not to feel something,” she said, her voice low and soft. “But I’m not in pain.”
He held on to her foot for a moment, his eyes fixed on her. Her calf was cradled in his palm, the heat from his skin working its way through her, turning her veins to threads of fire. Thank God she had a mask on so he couldn’t see her face heating up. They stayed there—locked in that moment, frozen by intimacy—until he cleared his throat and slipped the shoe back onto her foot.
“So I’ll be alright, Doc?”
“Better than alright.” He stood. The tuxedo fit him perfectly, hugging his shoulders and tapering down to his waist in a line so mouthwateringly divine, it stole Lainey’s breath. The only thing ruining the effect was the red wine stain. “I’m glad we checked—the last thing you want is a glass splinter.”
“Exactly. Cinderella had glass on her feet, and look how that turned out.”
He raised a brow. “She got the prince, didn’t she?”
“The prince had to rely on the fit of a shoe.” Lainey shook her head. “What she got was a dude with a bad memory and a foot fetish.”
Damian chuckled. “Not into fairy tales, then?”
“Oh, I am.” She swung her feet, relishing the swish of the beaded material around her ankles. “But Cinderella isn’t my favourite. What woman wants a man who can’t remember her face?”
“Good point.” He pulled a hand towel out of a small basket beside the sink and ran it under water. “They’re all kind of messed up when you think about it. Sleeping Beauty, especially.”
“I prefer my romances a little more grounded in reality.” Lainey swallowed as Damian dabbed at the stain on his shirt, turning the fabric damp so that it clung to his chest muscles.
If bodies were supposed to be temples, his was the Parthenon.
Maybe if you’d been able to recall that kind of crap during exams instead of checking out a hot guy, you would have done better at school.
“Do you mean the kind of movies where the woman splashes the man with red wine and seduces him in a bathroom?” He caught her gaze in the mirror.
“I haven’t seduced you yet.”
“Yet.” His smile turned from amused to wolfish, his lips revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “So there’s still hope.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
* * *
No, he didn’t know her name. And he was supposed to be focused on seducing his client, not a mysterious redhead. But having her alone, feeling her energy sparking all around him put him in his element. Not like out there, where he was an anomaly.
If she’s here, then she’s one of them. A rich princess type who’ll be more trouble than she’s worth.
Just like his ex.
But something gave him pause. There was an inkling, more the potential for a feeling than a feeling itself, that said he was wrong. When she’d dropped her glass, the first thing out of her mouth had been an apology—not an excuse or accusation. When he’d offered her help, she’d graciously accepted. And