Unmasked. Stefanie London

It’s not a very romantic one.” Her legs swung back and forth over the edge of the marble countertop. Though they didn’t know each other, she seemed completely at ease. “But you can try. I’ll give you three guesses, and if you lose...” She tapped a finger against her chin. “You have to share a drink with me on the balcony upstairs.”

      He braced his hands against the countertop, leaning toward her. She smelled like vanilla and peaches. The black beads on her mask glittered, reflecting his hungry expression in miniature, over and over.

      “How many names are there in the world? I’d be a fool to take such a bet.” He grinned. “Do I get any clues?”

      “You don’t look like a man who needs a clue.”

      “Some might argue that,” he said drily. Damian himself thought a clue would be good right about now—one that would give him the hint to leave this woman alone and head back out to the ballroom so he could corner Jerry McPartlin.

      She turned to look in the mirror for a moment. “My name has nothing to do with my hair colour.”

      “So not Ruby or Scarlett or Rose?”

      “Nope.” She tucked a strand of fiery-red hair behind her ear.

      “That doesn’t really narrow it down. Can I get a letter?”

      “This isn’t Wheel of Fortune.”

      His lip quirked. “How about a year of birth?”

      “Tsk, tsk.” She waggled a finger at him. “That’s the one thing you should never ask a lady.”

      He thought for a moment, cycling through some options that would be appropriate for someone in her age group—which was tough to narrow down without being able to see most of her face. But from the smooth, unblemished skin and the way she sat, comfortable and swinging her feet...he’d put her at her midtwenties. Maybe less, although he didn’t want to think about her being over a decade younger than him.

      “You’re holding all the cards.”

      She grinned. “Which is exactly how I like it.”

      “You’re not a negotiator, are you?”

      “No. I’m a romantic and a dreamer.”

      “Ah, so you’re unemployed?”

      She threw her head back and laughed, the sound striking him right in the chest. But it cut off before he could grasp hold of something that flickered out of reach. A memory.

      “Do we know each other?” he asked, looking closer.

      “No.” The answer was immediate, her reaction drawing a line between them that made him curious as hell.

      “Will you take your mask off before I guess?” He cocked his head. “Help me even the playing field a little?”

      “Tonight is all about the mystery, don’t you think? Strangers without faces.”

      Ah, so she was looking for something anonymous. He wasn’t sure why that unsettled him—hell, he’d looked for exactly that on countless occasions. No names, no phone numbers. No repeats.

      And certainly no fucking regrets.

      Maybe it was because Jerry McPartlin had gotten Damian’s head all messed up, but he accepted her terms. “Okay, three guesses it is.”

      She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, as though stifling a grin. The mysterious redhead knew she was going to win, little minx. She held up three fingers. “Go on.”

      “Is it...Samantha?”

      One finger curled down toward her palm. “Strike one.”

      “How about...Natalie?”

      She shook her head. “Strike two.”

      “Lucky last guess.” He blew out a breath, enjoying the way she shifted on the countertop, a faint flush colouring her chest. “Amanda?”

      She made a buzzer noise and dropped her hand down. “You owe me a drink now.”

      He wanted something else. No doubt she would taste better than the top-shelf stuff they were serving in the ballroom. A drink seemed far too tame for her lush, full lips and creamy skin. For that bold, flaming hair and the dress that was cut to a deep V at her chest. For the slit that flashed a shapely leg and hinted at sex and sinfulness.

      He stood in front of her, his hands falling to the countertop on either side of her thighs, hemming her in. He watched her pupils flare—no fear, just desire. Her chest rose and fell with quickened breath, and her lips eased open a fraction. Taunting him. Inviting him in.

      Lust battled with logic—telling him to stay and kiss her. To leave and go after Jerry McPartlin.

      A series of thumps rattled the door to the bathroom, frantic and quick. “Excuse me? Is anyone in there?”

      Damian stepped back and helped the redhead down from the countertop. “Looks like that’s our cue to go. Can you walk okay now?”

      She nodded. “Yeah.”

      He opened the door, allowing the redhead to exit before him. A man in an elaborate gold mask bounced up and down on the spot, clutching his stomach. He pushed past Damian and the redhead with an angry huff. “You know these bathrooms aren’t for fooling around. Some people have to use them.”

      Giggling, the redhead grabbed his hand and pulled him down the corridor, away from the ballroom, to a grand curving staircase. “Come on, this way.”

      “I don’t think there’s anything up there, Ariel.”

      “So that’s my name now?” The hazel of her irises shifted in the light, making the small amber flecks look like gold dust. “Ariel?”

      “Seems fitting. Long red hair, mysteriously showing up out of nowhere.” His eyes dropped down. “Great legs.”

      She laughed and tugged him farther along. The back of the corridor was deserted, but the sound of clanging grew louder. Just before they hit the staircase, a waiter exited from a swinging door, his uniform crisply pressed. The redhead marched right into the kitchen, as bold and brazen as anything, and plucked two champagne flutes from a silver tray that was waiting to go out.

      “What are you doing?” he asked as she breezed back into the hallway as though it were totally normal for ball gown–clad guests to steal drinks.

      “There’s no service upstairs.” She handed him a flute. “Come on, you promised me a drink on the balcony.”

      Damian looked toward the entrance to the ballroom, where a group of men in tuxedos were gathered. Their rich, booming laughter floated down the hall, the sound of stuffy voices discussing boring things ringing in the air.

      Last chance. Go back in there and work on your plan. Or be the man McPartlin thinks you are.

      The redhead leaned in close, the beaded strands on her mask brushing his cheek. Warm breath whispered over his skin as the scent of her perfume grabbed hold of his heart. “You know you want to and I know you want to.”

      He turned, his face so close to hers he could have captured her mouth. “Fine,” he said. “One drink.”