The Ultimate Seduction (2 page)

Entering the pub-style reception lounge, he saw roughly thirty people, mostly men in tuxedos and masks. They stood with a handful of gorgeous
petite q’s
wearing the customary red designer gowns.

He accepted the house drink for this session, rum over ice with a squeeze of lime and a sugared rim, then glanced at his watch. At his four o’clock, a collection of dots informed him the small conclave of men to his right included Steel Butterfly.

He had no idea where Zeus came up with these ridiculous nicknames, but he supposed Raptor was apt for him, coming from the Latin meaning to seize or take by force. The bones of several dinosaurs in that category had been uncovered in his homeland of Bregnovia, too.

Eyeing the group, he wondered which one was his contact. One accepted a drink from a
petit q
and handed her his watch. It didn’t matter, he decided. He wasn’t interested in beginning a conversation in public that he was scheduled to have in private tomorrow. He waited until he was out of range in the gambling hall to activate his identity on his own watch. This resulted in an immediate invitation to join the blackjack table.

He sat so he could read the screen mounted near the ceiling in the corner. It subtly manifested and dissolved with blurbs on presentations and entertainment to be held over the course of the
Q Virtus
Quarterly. Tastemakers, trendsetters and thought leaders were flown in to provide rich, powerful, political forces such as himself with the absolute cutting-edge information and samples of global economics and technology. Meanwhile, at tables such as this one, he would pick up the other side of the coin: gossip about a royal’s addiction, a cover-up of a coup attempt on a head of state, a lie that would be accepted as truth to stem international panic.

He could only imagine what was said about him, but he didn’t let himself dwell on what was likely disapproval and distrust. His people were free, his country independent. That was the important thing.

Still, thoughts of what it had cost him crept in, threatening to inject disappointment and guilt into an otherwise pleasant if staid evening. He folded his hand, left the table and lifted a rum off a passing waiter’s tray as he moved outside in search of entertainment.

CHAPTER TWO

T
IFFANY
WAS
STUCK
and it was a sickeningly familiar situation, the kind she’d sworn she’d never wind up in again.

She’d love to blame Christian. He had urged her to step through the door when he’d been refused entry.
Go in and ask,
he’d hissed, annoyed.

Since her worst nightmare these days was being stared at, she’d forgone arguing on the stoop and stepped through the entranceway. Inside, pixies in designer nightgowns had fawned over the arriving men in masks. She’d looked around for a bell desk, and a stud named Julio had come forward to introduce himself as a
petite q.

She, a seasoned socialite, had become tongue-tied over the strapping young man in a red footman’s uniform. It was more than two years since she’d been widowed on her wedding day. Even without the scars, that would be bad mojo. Men didn’t call, didn’t ask her out. If she was in a room with a live one, they rarely looked her in the eye, always averting their gaze. She didn’t exist for them as a potential mate.

Julio didn’t attract her so much as astonish her. He didn’t know what lurked beneath the mask and was all solicitous manners as he offered his services. “I see this is your first visit with us,” he said after a brief glance at his tablet. “Please allow me to orient you.”

She was completely out of practice with his type—the valet who never overstepped his station, but still managed to convey that he appreciated being in the presence of beauty. She’d haltingly fielded his questions about whether her travel had been pleasant as he smoothly escorted her into an elevator.

When he asked if she had any specific needs he could attend to while she was here, she’d come back to reality. “My brother needs a hall pass, or a mask. Whatever. Can you make that happen?”

“I’ll send the request to Zeus, but the doors will be closing in a few minutes. Once we’re in lockdown, no one comes or goes. Unless it’s an emergency, of course.” He’d lifted his head from tapping his tablet.

Lockdown? Alarmed, she’d tried to text Christian only to be informed that external service was cut off while inside the club.

“Cell phones and other cameras are discouraged, as is the sending of photos outside the club. Security will locate him and communicate his options,” Julio assured her, then explained that if her requested meeting was accepted, the time and location would be sent to her Inspector Gadget watch.

“Where
are
we? A hollowed-out volcano?” she asked as he set up her thumbprint entry to her room.

“No, but we’re working on obtaining one,” he said, deadpan. “Now, you’ll want to wear your watch throughout your stay. It tells a lot more than time. May I show you?”

Hearing that her scheduled meeting with the Bregnovian dictator wasn’t a sure thing was a relief. Her father would be furious if she didn’t go in Christian’s place, but if the request was rejected, she would be off the hook. Still, she hoped her brother would be granted entry and save her worrying about any of it. She pressed Julio out of her suite with instructions to inform her about Christian as soon as possible.

Her suite was enough of an oasis to calm her nerves. Her privileged upbringing had exposed her to some seriously nice digs, but she had to admit this was above and beyond. No expense had been spared on the gold fixtures, original art or silk bedding. The new clothes in the wardrobe were a pleasant distraction. Christian had said something about samples of prototypes being handed out to members.
If you don’t want them, I do.

She supposed he was referring to the spy watch Julio had shown her, but she was more interested in the designer gowns. Discreet labels informed her they were from the best of the best throughout South America, all in stunning colors and fabrics. Several were off-the-shoulder, figure-enhancing styles that would cover her scars.

Interesting.

Not that she had anywhere to wear them. She didn’t intend to leave her room, but she would make the most of the in-suite amenities, she decided. Call it a vacation from her family. She’d work in peace for a few days.

Work, however, was next to impossible without Wi-Fi service to the external world, and besides, a calypso band was calling to her from below her open French doors. She
loved
dancing.

Full darkness had fallen, so she sidled into the shadows behind a potted fern on her balcony and gazed longingly at the party below, feeling rather like Audrey Hepburn in that old black-and-white. It was such a world beyond her. The pool’s glow lit up ice sculptures on the buffet tables. Bartenders juggled open bottles, putting on a cocktail show as they poured fast and free while women in red gowns cha-cha’d with men in tuxedos and masks.

This whole mask thing was weird. As they’d flown south in the company jet, Christian had explained it allowed the world’s elite to rub shoulders in a discreet way. Sometimes it was best for the biggest players to take their meetings in secret, so as not to cause speculative dips in the stock exchange. Certain celebrities stole these few days to relax without interruption by fans.
Q Virtus
catered to whatever the obscenely rich needed.

I need a new face,
she thought sourly, but even the cavernous pockets her husband had left her weren’t deep enough to buy a miracle.

She looked to where she’d left her mask dangling off a chair back’s spire.

Despite her anxiety with the abrupt change of plans when she arrived, she had felt blessedly anonymous behind her mask as she had walked through the lobby and halls to her room. It had been an extraordinary experience to feel normal again. No one had stared. She had looked exactly like everyone else.

Hmm. That meant she didn’t have to stay here like Rapunzel, trapped in the tower with the real world three stories below and out of her reach.

With her heart tripping somewhere between excitement and trepidation, she fingered through the gowns hanging in the wardrobe. The silk crepe in Caribbean blue would expose her good right leg, but not so high as to reveal where her grafts had been taken. After months of physiotherapy, she’d moved back into her old workout routine of yoga, weights and treadmill. She possessed all of her mother’s vanity along with the genetic jackpot in the figure department. Only family saw her these days, and she hardly dressed to impress, but she was actually very fit.

Alone in the suite, she held the gown up to her body, then, without her mother there to discourage her, dared to try it on.

Whoever this Zeus guy was, he sure knew how to dress a woman. Especially one with defects to hide. The single sleeve went past her wrist in a point that ended in a loop of thread that hooked over her middle finger. The bodice clung to her waist and torso, plumping breasts that remained two of her best original features. She had to give her backside the credit it deserved, too. When she buckled on new shoes that were little more than sky-high heels and a pair of saucy blue-green straps, it was like being hugged by old friends. She almost wept.

Filtering her image through her lashes as she looked in the mirror, she saw her old self.
Hi, Tiff. It’s nice to see you again. ’Bout time, too.

Makeup didn’t completely cover her scars, nothing could, but she enjoyed going through her old ritual after using the concealer, taking her time to layer on shadow and liner, girling herself up to the max. By the time she was rolling spirals into her strawberry blond hair, she was so lost in the good ol’ days, she caught herself thinking,
I wonder what Paulie will say.

The curling iron tagged her cheek where she would never feel it, and she nearly broke down.
You’re not Cinderella, anymore, remember? You’re the ugly stepsister.

No. Not tonight. Not when she felt confident and beautiful for the first time since her wedding day. Had she been happy then? She couldn’t remember.

Don’t go there.

Gathering the top half of her hair over her crown, she tied the mask into place, then let her loose curls fall to hide the strap that circled her skull. Oddly, the mask wasn’t as traumatic to wear as she’d feared. It didn’t suction onto her face and make her feel trapped in a body that writhed in agony. It stood cocked like a fascinator to cover the left side of her face, while the feathers arranged around her eyes gave an impression of overly long lashes that layered backward to cover her forehead and hairline. She had expected it to be heavy, but it was as light as, well, feathers. They tickled the edges of her scars, where her skin was extra sensitive, making her feel feminine and pretty.

Staring at herself in the full-length mirror, she allowed that she
was
pretty. After painting on a coat of coral lipstick, she did a slow twirl and caught herself grinning. Smiling felt odd, as if she was using muscles that had atrophied.

She lifted the weighty watch on her wrist, the one that identified her as Steel Butterfly. More like a broken one. Her sides didn’t even match.

It didn’t have to make sense, she assured herself as she tossed her lipstick into her pocketbook then realized she didn’t need either room key or credit card. Such freedom! For a few hours, she would be completely without baggage.

Taking nothing but lighthearted steps, she left to join the party.

* * *

Ryzard could drink with the best of them. He’d spent the older half of his childhood in Munich, had managed vineyards in France and Italy, and had lived in parts of Russia where not finishing a bottle of vodka was a gross insult to the host. He was restless enough to get legless tonight, but so far he’d consumed only enough to become mellow and hungry. The cashmere breeze and the scents of beach and pineapple and roasting pig aroused his appetite—all his appetites. He’d mentally stripped the nearest
petite q’s
and was considering a pass at one of the female members currently being scouted by every other bachelor here—along with some of the married members.

Not Narciso, aka the Warlock of Wall Street, though. He chatted with his friend long enough to see the man wasn’t just here with his wife, but besotted by her. Lucky bastard. Ryzard countered his envy by reminding himself that love was a double-edged sword. He wouldn’t ruin his friend’s happiness by saying so, but he had once looked forward to marital bliss. Luiza had died before they found it, and the anguish was indescribable. No matter how pleased he was for his friend, he would never risk that toll again.

He’d stick to the less permanent associations one found, enjoyed and left at parties such as this one.

Glass panels had been fitted over the lap pool, turning it into a dance floor that glimmered beams of colored light beneath the bouncing feet. People were having a lively time, keeping the band’s quick salsa beat rapping. The drummer stared off to the left, however, his grin male and captivated.

Ryzard followed the man’s gaze and his entire being crackled to attention.

Well beyond the pool’s light, in a corner mostly blocked by a buffet table and ice sculpture, a woman undulated like a cobra, utterly fascinating in her hypnotic movements timed perfectly with the music. Her splayed hands slid down her body with sexy knowledge, her hips popped in time to the beat, and her feet kick-stepped into motion.

She twirled. The motion lifted her brassy curls like a skirt before she planted her feet wide and swayed her weight between them. The flex of her spine gave way to a roll of her hips, and she was back into motion again.

Setting down his drink, Ryzard beelined toward her. He couldn’t tell if the woman had a partner, but it didn’t matter. He was cutting in.

She was alone, lifting her arms to gather her hair, eyes closed as she felt the music as much as heard it. She arched and stretched—

He caught her around the waist and used the shocked press of her hands at his shoulders to push her into accepting his lead, stepping into her space, then retreating, bringing her with him. As he moved her into a side step, she recovered, matching his move while her gaze pinned to his.

He couldn’t tell what color her eyes were. The light was too low, her feathery mask shadowing her gaze into twin glinting lights, but he reacted to the fixation in them. She was deciding whether to accept him.

A rush of excitement for the challenge ran through him. After a few more quick steps, he swung her into half pivots, catching each of her wrists in turn, one bare, one clad in silk, enjoying the flash of her bare knee through the slit of her skirt.

How had she been overlooked by every man here? She was exquisite.

Lifting her hand over her head, he spun her around then clasped her shoulder blades into his chest. Her buttocks—fine, firm, round globes as if heaven had sent him a valentine—pressed into his lap. Bending her before him, he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled, then followed her push to straighten and matched the sway of her hips with his own.

* * *

Tiffany’s heart pounded so hard she thought it would escape her chest. One second she’d been slightly drunk, lost in the joy of letting the salsa rhythm control her muscles. Now a stranger was doing it. And doing it well. He pulled her around into a waltz stance that he quickly shifted so they grazed each other’s sides, left, right, left.

She kicked each time, surprised how easily the movements came back to her. It had been years, but this man knew what he was doing, sliding her slowly behind his back, then catching her hand on the other side. He pushed her to back up a step, bringing one of her arms behind his head, the other behind her own. A few backward steps and they were connected by only one hand, arms outstretched, then he spun her back into him, catching her into his chest.

He stopped.

The conga beat pulsed through her as he ran his hands down her sides. Her own flew to cover his knuckles, but she didn’t stop him. It felt too amazing. His fingertips grazed the sides of her breasts, flexed into the taut muscles of her waist and clasped her hips to push them in a hula circle that he followed with his own, his crotch pressed tight to her buttocks.