Modern Romance February Books 1-4. Maisey Yates

mask.

      Time moved a strange pace here. It was slower. Being away from his phone, his desk, being outside of his world, was doing strange things to him. He wasn’t entirely certain he disliked it.

      “Then I suggest we get a move on. The painting will wait for no man. Except it has done exactly that for the past fifty-plus years.”

      This time, she did take his hand. And he was the one tempted to pull away. From the heat. From the silken quality of her touch. He didn’t. He was the experienced party. The touch of a woman’s hand against his should not be cause for any reaction whatsoever.

      He knew that. Repeated it over and over as he led her from their quarters down the long hall and toward the ballroom.

      No matter how committed he was to understanding it on an intellectual level, he could not convince his body to agree.

      So he did his best to concentrate on the feeling of his feet making contact with the marble floor. One step, then another. When he focused on that, the burn, where her skin made contact with his, lessened.

      A bit.

      They approached the doors to the ballroom and two elegantly appointed staff, not wearing masks, opened the double doors for both of them. “I feel like I should bow,” he said, leaning in to whisper the words in her ear. “But at my age it might be bad for my back.”

      She looked up at him, dark eyes glinting from behind the mask. “Stop that.”

      “But it’s so much fun.”

      She rolled her eyes and he led her into the ballroom where couples were already dancing. “This room... It’s amazing,” she said, looking about them at the high, painted ceiling before her eyes fell to the pale walls, made ornate by sconces and crisp white molding.

      Nothing about the designer dresses the other women were wearing. Of course not. Gabriella preferred art and architecture. Always.

      “Gabby,” he said, drawing her attention back to him. She didn’t look nearly as annoyed as she typically did when he used the nickname. She looked... There was something strange in her expression. Something he feared he understood. Something he wished he hadn’t seen. “If you keep staring at the walls with more admiration than you afford me no one will believe it when we slip away.”

      He led her deeper into the ballroom, toward the dance floor, and her attention drifted from him as she continued to stare at the walls, at the art, probably at particularly historically significant dust motes, knowing her.

      “That could be a problem,” she said, distracted.

      “Yes. One I will correct.”

      He chose that moment to pull her into his arms, into a closed hold. Her attention snapped back to him. “What are we doing?”

      “Dancing,” he said as he led her into the first step.

      “So we are,” she said, one hand caught up in his, the other resting on his shoulder.

      She curled her fingers in a fist, as though she were afraid to touch him too much so she needed to minimize the amount of skin making contact with his jacket.

      “I feel tonight we might be very rude.”

      “Will we?”

      “Yes. We should socialize with everyone. You should approach the women and ask them who they are wearing and I should try and forge as many business connections as I possibly can with everyone in attendance. But I’m not going to. And neither are you. Because tonight we are only going to look at each other. We are only going to stay for the minimum amount of time and we’re going to make the world believe that I could not wait one more moment to have you in my arms.”

      He could feel the breath leave her entire body, could feel her limbs go stiff. “I’m in your arms right now.”

      “No. Not like this. It would be different.”

      “How?” she asked, her voice a hushed whisper, her dark eyes full of fear, curiosity and excitement.

      “It would be different because we would be alone. Because if there was nothing around us but all of these beautiful walls and I were to take you into my arms you would know that there were no limits to what might happen next. Everything would be different. It would be quiet, there would be no music. Only our breathing. The air around us would be different.”

      She swallowed visibly. “That’s what...that’s what everyone will think is going to happen?”

      “Yes. By the end of this dance no one will be in any doubt that the moment I have you alone we will not be discussing art, let alone looking at paintings.”

      He drew her closer as the music changed, not releasing her between songs, but rather continuing to sway gently with her. “But we are,” she said, “looking at paintings.”

      “Of course,” he said, never taking his eyes from her. “Touch my face, Gabriella.”

      “Wh-what?”

      “I want you to lift your hand from my shoulder, and rest your palm against my face. I want you to take your fingertips and trace my jaw, down to my chin, then bring your hand to rest on my chest.”

      “Why?” she asked, her expression almost frantic.

      “It’s for the painting.” He ignored the dull beating of his heart—it was for a lot more than that. That reminded him there were other ways to do this.

      She obeyed his command, even while her expression remained frightened. Soft skin made contact with his face, the light drift of her fingertips along his cheek, down his jaw and then, just as he had told her to, she brought it to rest against his chest. He was certain that she could feel his heart, beating hard beneath her palm.

      He never took his eyes off hers as he slipped his arm slowly from around her waist and reached for her wrist, curling his fingers around it and drawing her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.

      “That wasn’t... You didn’t...”

      He released his hold on her, raising his hand to capture her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I suppose I didn’t. How many ‘Hail Marys’ do you suppose I have to say to atone for that?”

      “I don’t know,” she said, her voice raspy, scraped raw.

      “It has been longer than I care to remember since my last confession. But for you, I would gladly get on my knees.”

      Gabriella straightened, as though bolts of lightning had just shot straight down her spine, as though she had been hit with a thought so real, so strong, it had manifested itself physically. “You’re very good at empty flirtation, Alex.” She moved her arm around his neck, placing her fingers on his skin. “I wonder what might happen if you had to make good on any of your promises.”

      “Why don’t you try to hold me to them, Gabriella?”

      “Say something real,” she said, moving closer to him, slowly, as though it were taking great effort for her to move nearer to him, as though it took everything she had in her to keep herself from running away. “You’ve been playing a game with me from the moment we met. So now, if you want this to go on, I want you to tell me something and I want you to say it without that mocking gleam in your eye, or that wicked curve to your mouth. I want you to be real for one moment. Just one.”

      “And what do I get in return?”

      “Whatever you want.”

      He could tell that the words had left her lips before she had given them her full permission. He could also tell that she wished she could call them back.

      “A very dangerous gift to offer to a man like me.”

      “I have no doubt.” But, to her credit, she didn’t rescind the offer.

      “A real kiss for a real confession,” he said, “it’s only fair.”