Page 3 of Red Masquerade

I imagined another evening with this man, with his glancing eyes, his haughtiness. Icouldentertain him. At the very least, I’d get dinner, some time away from the house, perhaps even a whirlwind romance that lasted only hours.

That’s what we were all after, wasn’t it? Chasing the pleasure we could draw from each other in the shortest amount of time possible, before we went on in the daylight like nothing happened.

But with him—no, something about him was unsettling, like he was aftermore.

“No?” he asked. I hadn’t realized I’d shaken my head at the thought.

He seemed taken aback. Dark brows furrowed, but the corner of his lips lifted in humor. Some girls played hard-to-get, and some men liked it. I was not one of those girls, but he seemed to think so.

“Well, no, that’s not what I meant.” I felt my cheeks heating, though whether from the alcohol or from my nonsense, I didn’t know. “I think—”

“Great,” he said, assuming I was agreeable. “Tomorrow evening? When should I pick you up?”

“Oh.” I blinked. “You misunderstand.”

He laughed, white teeth shining in the dim lamplight. “Come now,” he said, and I saw then where his confidence came from; knowing he was attractive, knowing I would say yes. All the other girls did. Yet the twinge of strangeness remained in his eyes. “Just one night, and we’ll see where it goes.”

“No, we had tonight to get to know each other,” I said, firming my voice as much as possible. “But maybe we’ll run into each other again?”

I made to stand, but saw a flash of irritation on his face, the quirk of his lips faltering just slightly.

“Oh,I see,” he said, leaning back further into his seat. “You’re one ofthosegirls?”

I narrowed my eyes. “And what does that mean?”

His gaze wandered around me again, exuding presumption, eyeing my neckline, the skin above my chest. His smirk deepened. “Come on,” he said again, “we can be honest with each other. You came here, wanting certain things, and I came here, wanting the same. And here we are, together.”

The chair beneath me screeched as I stood, but the bar was so loud, it hardly disturbed the scene. The blonde and her men next to us were still caught up in their conversation, one of them with their face buried in her neck.

“Don’t presume, Mr. Brancato,” I said.

“Marcel,” he corrected, and I saw the darkness in his eyes spread. “I’m not my father.”

“Okay,Marcel.” I gave him a closed-lip smile. “Thanks for the drinks.”

It felt all made-up, then, how we happened to run into each other,Marceland I, not thirty minutes prior. A bump of shoulders.A charming smile and an offer for company, a glass of gin that never emptied.

He didn’t appear deterred, a cool smirk still plastered on his face, as he watched me turn to leave.

“Helena!”

I felt a sudden grip on my arm, long nails lightly digging into my flesh, as Flora emerged from the smoke, Dixon in tow. My eyes met his brown ones immediately, and though I said nothing, with one glance at my evening partner, he seemed to understand the irritation I felt. He scowled at the man before slinging an arm over Flora’s shoulders.

Flora, bubbly and drunk, didn’t notice the exchange.

“We lost track of time.” Flora beamed at me, her cheeks flushed. “We have to go now if we don’t want to be too late.”

“Go?”

She giggled. “You know,” she said, slipping away from Dixon and wrapping her arms around me. Her lavender perfume surrounded us like a cloud, chasing away the scent of the smoke permeating the air. “That one party—the house on Long Island!”

She’d mentioned it earlier, on the way to the bar. One of the mad wealthy men on the island threw parties—and wehadto go.

Anything to get away from the dark stare I felt boring into my spine. I nearly shivered as Flora pulled away from me.

“Who is he?” she asked, shouting in a whisper, one hand covering her mouth as though to conceal it.

I rolled my eyes as we disappeared into the crowd of revelers. “Marcel Brancato.”