Chapter 1
KARINA
I should have dressed like the devil.
I read a book once about a Victorian-era prim and proper countess who snuck off to an underground gentlemen’s club and got a job as a scantily clad dancer.
It turned out to be more sex club than burlesque, but the freedom of wearing her bright red stockings and corset was so thrilling, she kept going back.
She fashioned a pair of horns from wire and painted them red, earning her the nickname diavolo femmina—she-devil.
The countess kept her secret life for over a year until her husband finally caught on.
She’d managed to hide her wanton feminine freedom from him for that long…
which is wild, considering I can’t get away with wearing the wrong color lipstick or I get my hand slapped and sent back to my room to change it.
I can’t get away with anything, especially not transforming myself into a diavolo femmina.
I was informed that I’d be dressing as an angel for this masquerade fundraiser, and I know well enough not to argue with him.
Ugh. Just once, I’d like to not be Karina Rossi and be someone who knows the taste of freedom.
Preferably, someone who can pull off the color red.
Readjusting the shimmery halo perched above my braided half bun, I take in the room.
I didn’t want to come to this thing, but what I want rarely matters.
I’ve been tossed into the racing circuit life, forced to watch endless hours of cars zooming in monotonous circles around the track on television to prepare me for the local season.
It’s not something I would have chosen for myself as a pastime, but like most of my life, nothing is up to me.
I assimilate for the sake of my sanity and my survival.
Maybe I’ll come to enjoy racing when I’m watching the real thing.
I guess I’ll find out tomorrow when I attend my first live race.
Like racing, parties are something I haven’t been exposed to. I was commanded to attend, so here I am, in a ridiculous costume. Because rich donors like costume parties, apparently.
My dress is pretty, I suppose. The bodice is cut straight across the chest, low enough to show just a hint of cleavage.
Boning along the ribs is uncomfortably tight thanks to the corset-like ties in the back.
A simple satin skirt hangs to my feet with an overlay of ethereal, iridescent gauze.
No one knows I ditched the ridiculous three-inch heels that came with this getup for flip-flops, and I plan to keep it that way.
A pair of modest, real-feather wings bounce lightly on my back.
The half of my hair that isn’t in a bun is too long, and the curls keep getting stuck in between the feathers.
I wish I’d been allowed to put all my hair up like I’d wanted to.
I’d rather be home, reading, than be here.
Normally I would have brought an old classic just in case I found myself with spare time to fill with the elegantly penned words of the world’s finest early authors.
Unfortunately, none of my top-shelf favorites would fit in my tiny clutch save for a palm-size paperback copy of Alice in Wonderland.
The pavilion is packed with people in elegant costumes. No dollar store plastic hats and fake mustaches here. The glimmer and bold colors of some of the women’s gowns intrigue me. I wander slowly through the venue, studying the costumes and listening to the cacophony of muddled conversation.
The décor is extremely well done. It’s very Roman-esque with large columns adorned in lights and a fountain in the center with a naked woman holding large, tipped-over pots of running water.
Colorful koi swim around in the base of the fountain and peek between fake waterlilies floating on the top.
I peek out the thrown-open back doors and spy a sprawling garden with a path that leads to what looks like a maze crafted from perfectly cut shrubs.
Maybe I’ll snatch a glass of wine and get lost out there until this thing is over. It might be my one chance to escape…
“Ah, Karina-bellina, there you are.”
I wince at the terrible nickname as my cousin Mercutio cuts through the crowd with a champagne glass in each hand.
There go my plans. My cousin has been assigned as my permanent chaperone.
I’m not allowed out of his sight, nor can I go anywhere without him.
I peer around him to see if anyone else is coming, but he’s alone. Thankfully.
He hands me a glass with an exaggerated flourish.
I accept with a sigh. I’ll never slip away now.
There’s a gleam in his brown eyes that I know well, though.
A blip of hope shoots through me. That gleam means the brain in his pants has spotted something pretty and he must pursue.
There are a few different family members who babysit me, but Mercutio is my favorite because he’s easily distracted by a big rack and is susceptible to leaving my side for longer than he’d ever admit.
“Are you having fun?” he asks.
My congenial laugh is forced and sarcastic. “Oh, yes! This is the best.”
He looks to his left, searching the crowd. “Good, good.” Then he downs his entire glass of champagne and thrusts the empty glass at me. “Ah, I see the waitress. Seems I need another drink.”
He moves to leave but turns back to me. “Behave while I’m—”
“Flirting shamelessly?”
His round eyes crinkle at the corners. “Smart girl. I’ll be back.”
He won’t, at least not until he’s gotten that waitress out back for a round of hide the Italian sausage. And off he goes.
I might not be a bad angel, but I probably look like one with a glass in each hand.
I deposit the empty flute on a server’s tray and resume wandering through the room.
A few people nod politely but I don’t know who they are.
Everyone here is connected to the racing circuit in some way…
or connected to the invested parties in other ways.
I stay out of it as much as I can. Glancing over my shoulder, I eye the path through the garden again and move toward it.
The back of my neck tingles as I sense a presence behind me. I turn, expecting to see—
Not him.
Heat rushes up my neck. The tightness of my bodice increases to the point I have a hard time breathing, so I hold my breath and quickly realize that’s a terrible idea. A wave of light-headedness washes over me. My hands forget how to work, and the champagne glass slips from my fingers.
“Whoa,” he says at the same time he snatches the glass in midair and saves it from certain fracture without spilling a drop. He chuckles lightly and holds it out to me.
“Can you be trusted?” he teases. “Or does this glass need to remain in my hands for safe keeping?”
He has strong, square hands with equally masculine fingers.
He’s quick, nimble. Sexy with denim blue eyes and a perfectly cut jawline.
His thick hair wavers between black and dark brown and is expertly combed back.
He’s wearing a black shirt with an overlay of chainmail, and black jeans with boots that rise almost to his knees. A sword falls from one hip.
My knight in shining armor?
My heart flutters, yet an unexpected calmness blankets my nerves. “I bet everything is safe in your hands.”
The light in his eyes brightens and my cheeks grow hotter. Whoa, am I flirting?
“You’d be right about that. I have very capable fingers.”
Oh, my goodness. This would be a great time to have a book in my hands so I’d have something to do with them. The urge to fidget is nearly overwhelming. He’s so tall, and he’s definitely all man. And he smells good. Like clean, fresh soap and aftershave.
Has my heart ever raced this hard around a man? Never.
I should excuse myself and leave. But I don’t want to. His gaze is strongly intense, almost predatory behind the easy nature—as if he’s sizing me up and appreciates what he sees.
This is a WWJAD moment if I’ve ever had one. What Would Jane Austen Do?
He looks amused now as his gaze sweeps my face. I have cursedly pale skin which does absolutely nothing to hide the entire color wheel of shades of embarrassment that I’m prone to exhibiting. The way my face burns right now, I’m sure my cheeks are bright red.
I’m lost in his eyes when he brushes his fingers over the edge of my right wing. The pressure of the touch is palpable, almost like he touched my flesh instead of the costume piece.
“I’m getting a Juliet vibe,” he whispers.
I arch a brow. “You are?” My voice is breathy. “Juliet didn’t have wings.”
A low murmur of agreement rumbles from deep in his throat.
He trails his hand along my wing, then to the edges of my hair and down my right arm.
The ache that pulses between my legs is potent and primal—an instant reaction to the brief, light contact of his fingertips on my skin.
My insides go tight with a lick of panic.
I’ve never been in this situation before.
Super-hot guy showing interest in me, touching me as if he has all the right in the world while I give him all the rein to think that.
His eyes burn into mine. “A detail poorly overlooked by the author.”
Breathe, Karina. In. Out. In. Out.
Looking away, I prepare to make my exit from this tryst before someone sees me engaging with him. My family will not react well to my being unchaperoned and flirted with. I know this with all my being, but I can’t seem to break away.
“Then you must be my Romeo,” I murmur.
I did it again. Too forward! Too flirty. I look to his hands for a wedding band while absently rubbing my thumb over the ring finger of my left hand. He’s not wearing one.
And my own finger is naked today, too.
I glance over his shoulder and subtly scan the crowd. There’s no one to stop me. What would Jane Austen do? Indulge your imagination in every possible flight.
Thank you, Pride and Prejudice. I will. It’s risky, but I will.
He reaches for my hand and I allow him to take it. Cradling the tips of my fingers on the tips of his, he steps closer and looks down at me. He could completely envelop me with his long, muscular body—just wrap me up and tuck me in. My throat hurts as I swallow hard.
“A good Romeo won’t allow you to drink this drivel.” He plucks the flute I forgot I was holding from my other hand and trades it for a glass of red wine from a passing server. “Here, this is exponentially better. Trust me.”
I’m locked into his eyes again, my breath slow and controlled so I don’t start panting with the desire flooding my veins.
He brings the glass to my lips and gently tips it.
Sweet, red wine flows past my lips. I catch it on my tongue as he lowers the glass, his thumb quickly catching a small drop from my lower lip.
“See? I told you.” He hands me the glass. The coolness of the stem brings me back to reality. What if someone witnessed that? I could be…Christ.
“So…” I try to recenter myself. “What brings you here tonight? Racing or wine?”
“Do I have to choose only one?” He salutes me with his glass and takes a drink. “The truth is, I can take or leave the wine, but racing is in my blood. I’d be lost without my cars.”
“That’s tragic.”
“Isn’t it?” He puts a hand over his heart. “Almost as tragic as young love cut too short, my Juliet.”
I smile. “Does your family disapprove of your love affair with your cars?”
“Most vehemently.”
“Yet, you continue to love them anyway. The cars.”
Now it’s his turn to smile. “Most absolutely. I tend to desire forbidden things.”
He’s standing close to me again. Each rise of his chest nearly rubs his costume against mine. Goosebumps blossom down my arms. I have no idea how to respond to that. He fingers the edges of my brown hair again.
“What brings you here? The racing or the wine?” he asks, repeating my question.
I shuffle back a step. Just in case. “Neither are my forte. I didn’t want to come.”
“Then we never would have met, and that would truly be tragic.”
There’s an edge to his voice that I’m not familiar with. It’s rich, and masculine, and sounds like a spoken caress. I’m about to respond when another man taps him on the shoulder.
A flicker of irritation passes over Romeo’s face before he gives me a parting nod. “I have to go.”
“Wait,” I call after him. He turns back toward me. “Who are you?”
He winks. “Your future husband.”
And then he’s gone.