CHAPTER ONE CLARKE
Chapter One
Clarke
So, Man in the Iron Mask, are you going to go up to her or not?
And if you do?
Mask on or off?
He still had yet to decide.
Leo Clarke was certain of only one thing. He wanted her to feel what it’s like when someone else is in the driver’s seat.
Clarke crossed his arms as he eyed the woman across the ballroom. It didn’t matter that she was in costume, he recognized her immediately.
If you leave the mask on, it’ll be easier. She won’t know it’s you. You could be anybody.
He sighed. Then again …
If you leave it on, it’ll be easier. She won’t know it’s you. You could be anybody.
So what would be the point?
But then what was the point of any of this?
Angry with himself, he fisted his hands.
Why did I agree to this stupid bet?
If he could channel that guy that had sent those DMs, he would have approached her already.
But he wasn’t that guy. Maybe once. Not now.
He still couldn’t get over the fact that he’d sent those messages. Especially that last one. And to her of all people. He wished he could take it back.
He drew a deep breath. It didn’t calm him any. It felt more like the match that lit the detonating cord on a stick of dynamite. And he was that stick.
She called him Sir Stick. Well, Sir Stick Up His Ass.
What the hell is Ceci Rivers doing here? At a masquerade party in the English countryside? This isn’t an F1 event.
The season ended weeks ago.
At Silverstone.
My home turf. Where all my fans, friends, and family came to root for me. And once again I bombed. No win. No trophy.
But he couldn’t say the end to the season hadn’t been stunning.
He’d flopped in glorious jaw-dropping fashion, via a crash with fucking Ian Anker, who’d gone on to win, not only the race, but the drivers’ trophy for the season.
Everyone expected the wanker to do so again this upcoming season in what was stacking up to be a spectacular career.
That had been Leo Clarke. Once upon a time. In what now seemed like a galaxy far, far away.
It had been years since he’d hoisted that trophy, and he knew exactly whom to blame for it.
Right there. Ceci Rivers.
He felt a pinch in his gut at that thought. A vague and hazy image of a snow-covered mountain in Aspen took form in his brain, but he stubbornly shoved it aside, fixing his attention on the woman across the room.
No. His losing streak began when Ceci Rivers took control of rival team Blue Jet Lightning as team principal and signed up Anker, developing him into the hot young phenom Clarke had been when he’d first hit the F1 track.
Sometimes looking at her, he was reminded of those whimsical creatures in the fairy tales his mother had read to him as a child. The ones that played pranks and created chaos in the forest. Seemingly cute, sweet and endearing, they were anything but.
Why does she draw so much attention whenever she enters a room?
All the features of her face seemed out of alignment. There was no order, no harmony; a feature he considered necessary for beauty.
Maybe it’s the hair.
Every year it was a different color—auburn, blue, purple, even green.
When he’d last seen her at Silverstone, it was red. And what a shade of red. He only called it red because you had to call it something. Was there even a name for that color?
Now, she’d changed it again. It was blonde … sort of.
He shook his shoulders as if he were shaking off a shiver. Except he insisted to himself he had not shivered.
There was something disjointed, unsettling about her face. He might go so far as to say it disturbed him. But even he had to admit, he couldn’t find another one to compare.
The unexpected nature of it was only matched and possibly even surpassed by the unexpected nature of her behavior.
He never felt at ease in her presence.
She made sure of that.
The woman relished making him uncomfortable. Especially ever since he’d been knighted.
If it’d been up to me, I never would have gone through with it.
But it was hard to say no when his father had known the perfect card to play—Your mother would be so proud were she here to see it.
He sighed, watching Ceci Rivers laugh.
Her eyes sparkled when she laughed, and okay, so she had a dazzling smile, even though it looked more like a smirk when she directed it at him.
That turn in her upper lip … he rubbed his fingertips together, feeling a strange urge to grab it and hold it between his thumb and forefinger.
He wondered which of those men swarming around her was her date. They were all young and handsome; tall and broad shouldered. They wore elegant black suits rather than costumes. No doubt so as not to mask their strikingly pretty faces.
He blinked hearing the rush of blood echo in his ears as he watched them leave her, one by one.
She’s alone.
He told himself to move forward, but his legs remained rooted to the ground. Suddenly, he spied another man approaching her.
Damn it.
Something was familiar about him, even in costume. It took Clarke a moment, but soon enough he recognized him.
Fuck.
This night couldn’t get any worse. It’s Downton Abbey meets Mad Max. Chaos with your crumpets.
Tilney.
Fucking Tilney.
He’d recognize those perfectly aligned Anglican features and slick smile anywhere. Not to mention the tilt of the chin, which left that nose perpetually perched in the air.
Tilney and Clarke had grown up together, their families inhabiting the same circles.
Tilney had been awkward and scrawny as a kid, and Clarke had looked out for him when people bullied him.
But when the kid hit his growth spurt, it wasn’t only his body that grew but his ego. From then on, he was an asshole.
Clarke could imagine what his interest in Ceci Rivers was. Tilney was racing at the F2 level. He’d do anything to move up to F1.
Well, good luck. Ceci Rivers isn’t some inexperienced, innocent, and trusting teenage girl.
Clarke blinked when three other men dressed as The Three Musketeers swooped in and overtook Tilney—the largest of the three nearly knocking him down. They blocked his path, not to mention his view. The three of them formed an impenetrable wall. There was no way Tilney could get past them.
Clarke chuckled as he watched him storm off, but went suddenly silent when he turned his gaze back on her.
He told himself to move, but his body remained fixed.
He felt like a stone. Stuck to this very spot.
He would need a force outside himself like gravity to nudge his feet.
But then he heard the echo of the beat in his chest. His heart was racing.
Let that be the thing that drives me forward.
He swallowed.
Mask on or off?
He bit his lip.
On. At least for now.
Adjusting the mask, making sure it was secure, he drew a deep breath, and ventured close enough to listen.
She had her back to him and was unaware of his presence.
The man standing in the center bowed. “Madam, allow me to introduce myself. I am Athos.”
“Annie Oakley,” she replied, repositioning the rifle she had slung over her shoulder and holding out her hand.
He lifted it to his lips and kissed it. “A divine pleasure. Would you do us the great honor of dancing with us?”
She looked from Athos to the other two.
The man on his right, more pretty than handsome, executed a graceful bow with a playful glint in his eye. “Aramis, milady.”
The third man, broad in both width and height and easily the largest of the three, stepped forward. “Porthos at your service, fair maiden.”
She looked at each of them in turn. “I can hardly dance with all of you at the same time.”
The men turned to one another, nodding gravely, as if this complication had only now occurred to them.
“Well,” said Athos, “given I was the first to request the honor and the pleasure, I shall be the first to partake of both.”
Aramis placed his hand on Athos’s shoulder. “I believe I should take the lead. A dance with Aramis is a thrill not only for the body but for the soul.” He turned to her and grinned. “I can promise you, milady, it will be nothing short of a religious experience.”
“Pray tell, Aramis,” said Athos, “is it Byron or the story of Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife from the Old Testament you intend to recite to the fair lady as you gavotte about the dance floor?”
“My dear, sir. The gavotte wasn’t invented until 1690.
By that time, if by the will of God, you and I are still alive, we shall be fortunate if we can manage to walk without any assistance from one end of the dance floor to the other.
And as for Byron, I know not of this fellow, given I was born around the year 1600 and he was not to arrive until 1788. ”
Porthos, booming with laughter, shoved them both aside with enough force to make them stumble. “Gentlemen! I believe the honor should be mine. A dance with Porthos guarantees merriment, and an experience the lady shall not forget!”
“Indeed,” said Athos, “if she were a sack of potatoes that must be hastily transported from one side of the room to the other. Unfortunately, your penchant for maximum momentum and stepping on a lady’s toes, while an experience the lady shall not forget, is one she would soon forget if only she could. ”
“True,” said Aramis, “but an experience in direct opposition to an overly energetic one is hardly to be sought after either, Athos. It is possible to be too composed in one’s comportment.
” He turned to Ceci. “With Aramis, milady, you will find the experience neither boring nor trying. Trust me when I tell you, I am neither too hot or cold, neither too soft”—he paused, winking—“or too hard.”
Athos slapped Aramis’s shoulder with his leather glove. “Invoking the Goldilocks principle? Come, my good man, you are not a bowl of porridge!”
“Indeed,” boomed Porthos. “Although there is that matter of a bed in the fairy tale, is there not?”
Now both Athos and Aramis turned on Porthos.
“Sir!” Aramis cried, “Are you impugning the lady’s honor? I demand you take that back.”
“Indeed,” Athos replied, “or you shall meet my blade!”
All three pulled their swords from their sheaths.
Ceci raised her rifle. “Gentlemen, do not force me to use this.”
The Three Musketeers turned and stared at her.
Athos’s eyes gleamed. “Well, is this not an interesting turn? I know not of any occasion in which a musketeer has dueled with a lady. But it is a most intriguing and tempting prospect.”
Ceci cocked her ear to her shoulder. “Need I remind you that you are outgunned? Your swords are hardly a match for this. A bullet will pierce your skin before the tip of your swords can brush even one lock of my hair.”
Grinning, Clarke tried to suppress a chuckle but failed.
She swung around.
He was grateful for the mask. It covered his entire face in iron, leaving only two slits for his eyes and one for his mouth.
He peered into her eyes. He’d never seen them up close.
Whenever he was in her presence, she always made him so uncomfortable he fixed his eyes on his feet.
When he did get the chance to gaze at them from a distance, they were sparkly and bright, no matter the room or the time of day.
They were a blue that fizzed and bubbled like fine champagne, and that’s what he expected to see.
But he didn’t. They were more gray than blue.
She was staring back at him, clearly waiting for him to say something.
Remember the mask. She doesn’t know it’s you.
“I suspect your aim will need to be precise to stop any of these three,” he said, extending his arm in the direction of the men.
Ceci lifted one shoulder, tilting her head. “Well, then it’s fortunate I’m a good shot. Just name your target. I could hit north of the equator and blow their brains out. Though it’s unclear whether or not I would impart any real damage in doing so.”
Clarke grinned. “Gentlemen, it appears the lady needs neither rifle nor sword.” He turned his attention back to her. “A hit, milady, acknowledged. And might I add, very good.”
She smiled.
How was it that a smile on her face could operate a lever in his body—pushing his heart to pump with more force so that he felt the blood not only flood his cheeks but race like rapids to that southernmost point of his core?
Then he reminded himself this particular woman had been more than just a thorn in his side. More like an anvil dropped on his head.
That’s what accounts for my reaction—it’s my anger fueling that fire I feel now.
Porthos frowned. “Was that an insult?”
“Don’t concern yourself, Porthos,” Athos assured him. “She did not disparage your most coveted appendage.”
Clarke leaned in and murmured. “Why not then aim lower?”
He held his breath as she stared back at him. It was those eyes.
Does she recognize my voice?
No, he thought. But she recognizes something.
He cursed his husky tone. He’d meant to keep it light. But her eyes suggested his voice had betrayed him.
“That can be arranged.” She placed the butt of the rifle up against Porthos’ chest.
Aramis shrugged. “The heart? He does not hold much regard for that either.”
“Not so!” Porthos complained, while Athos chuckled.
“Well then.” She grinned, as she let the tip of the butt slide down his torso, landing directly beneath his belt buckle.
Aramis shook his head, laughing. “My, ’tis a saucy wench!”
Porthos beamed at Athos and Aramis. “The lady has made her choice clear.”
Aramis clucked his tongue. “And once she is done with you and you are lying prostrate on the floor, Athos and I will see which of us can walk over you fastest to vie for her hand.”
“Indeed,” added Athos, “you will be at best a corpse, Porthos, and at worse, a eunuch.” Athos threw his cape in dramatic fashion over his shoulder.
“But this is getting us nowhere. Seeing as none of us, including the lady, has been able to decide which of us she shall dance with first, why not let the Man in the Iron Mask settle the matter.”
Clarke hesitated but then remembered that bet.
In one swift movement, catching her unaware, he grabbed the rifle and tossed it toward the men, counting on one of them to catch it. Slipping his arm around her waist, he pulled her out onto the dance floor.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” he heard Porthos bellow just before Clarke had swept her too far away to hear any more.