Chapter 21
I’m going to kill him.
The slip of fabric hanging in my closet can barely be considered a dress, let alone one I’m expected to wear in public. At this point, I may as well go to this ball in lingerie. It might cover more.
But despite my growing irritation, I can’t help but slide the silky fabric through my fingers. It’s a deep purple-red, like a dark, heavy wine, and it seems to absorb the light rather than reflect it.
Fuck it, I can at least try it on.
After tossing aside my normal clothes, I step into the dress and slide it up over my torso, slipping my arms into the spaghetti straps on either side.
The bodice is tight and subtly flares out just as it meets my hips, though there’s a slit along my right leg that’s downright scandalous. And if that weren’t enough, the neckline plunges in a deep v with the point stopping an inch below my breasts.
Of course this is the dress he’d pick out for me—not something even semi-modest that will allow me to blend in. He probably knew I’d be uncomfortable showing this much skin and bought it to spite me.
The worst part is, I don’t hate it. I swish back and forth in the mirror, watching the hemline skirt across the floor, and look at myself from the side and behind.
I don’t look half-bad, actually.
And if he’s forcing me to go to this event anyway, I may as well make the most of it. Plus, I don’t have another formal dress here, so I have to wear this one. That’s what I’m telling myself to justify this, anyway.
There’s a double-breasted black coat hanging in the closet as well, so that will help cover me for a little while—at least until we’re in public and Ambrose and I won’t be alone together.
I take off the dress, not wanting to accidentally spill makeup on it, and situate myself in front of my mirror. The clock on the wall shows I still have an hour to get ready, so I take my time doing my makeup and twisting my hair up into an elegant updo.
By the time I slip the dress back on, I have to admit, I look pretty damn good. And I don’t have to worry about wearing that damn necklace tonight, either.
With a few minutes to spare, I slip on the new coat and grab the black heels Ambrose had set beneath my dress, carrying them downstairs since there’s no way I’d manage to make it down the steps without breaking an ankle.
“You look absolutely radiant,” Ambrose praises once I reach the landing.
I turn to face him, and he’s standing in the living room straightening his tie. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to ogle him. He’s dressed in an all-black suit, including the shirt beneath, and the only color in his attire is a blood-red tie that matches my dress.
“You don’t look too terrible, either,” I mumble.
His laugh is low and rich, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking—that he perfectly encompasses the look of a handsome, tempting devil.
“I think that’s the nicest compliment I’ve ever gotten from you.”
I roll my eyes and turn toward the front door, mostly to keep him out of eyesight so I don’t allow my thoughts to wander about how handsome he looks. “Are you ready? Let’s get this night over with.”
“Patience, pet. Give me one more moment.”
“I’m not your pet.”
He doesn’t respond, but his footsteps recede into his bedroom before he returns and offers me the black lace mask in his hand. “The last part of your outfit,” he says. “It is a masquerade, after all.”
I snatch it from his outstretched palm and slip my heels on, then risk a glance at him. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, draped slightly over his forehead in a way that looks effortless but probably took a while to perfect.
Ambrose’s eyes glint with mischief at my stare.
“After you,” he says as he opens the front door.
I step outside into the frigid autumn air and rush to the car. It’s barely past 6 p.m., but the sun is already setting behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange that fade into gray.
Ambrose slides into the driver’s seat a few seconds later, and in minutes we’re winding through the serpentine mountain roads toward our destination.
Thankfully, Ambrose doesn’t seem to be in much of a talking mood. We’re both silent for most of the drive, until an hour has passed and my curiosity grows stronger.
“Where exactly are we going?”
“A charity gala. It’s at a mansion out in the mountains not far from Asheville.”
“Have you been here before?”
“Yes, this event happens every year. The man who hosts it is the founder of a large tech company, but he has a lot of important connections in business and government.”
“So why are you invited?” The question isn’t meant to sound rude, but I can’t help but wonder why Ambrose would be going to an exclusive party with tech moguls and government officials. He may be immortal, but he also lives in a small cabin in the woods and generally seems to avoid society.
“As you know, I’ve been around a long time and have my ways of…
persuasion. I’m pretty sure most of them are convinced I’m a member of the CIA or something similar,” he chuckles.
“The rumors usually go back to something secretive involving the government, which is exactly what I hope for, because then it makes sense to them that I can’t reveal much about my job.
I stay on their radars just enough to continue to receive invitations, but not enough that they can pry into my life. ”
“Smart. But why do you go to things like this in the first place? You don’t exactly strike me as the high society social type.”
I catch Ambrose’s subtle smile in my periphery.
“Going to events like this helps me know what’s happening behind closed doors.
I like to be informed about who and what to keep an eye on.
And as surprising as it may be, I don’t mind being in social environments from time to time.
When you’ve lived as long as I have, you find ways to keep life interesting. ”
Like forcing random women into magical bargains where they can’t escape you, I think, but I say nothing.
When Ambrose pulls into a driveway half an hour later, my eyebrows shoot up.
Holy shit. He wasn’t lying when he said it was a mansion.
The stone building towers over the front lawn, and the semi-circle driveway is lined with flickering lanterns.
Warm, yellow light shines through the windows, and silhouettes from those inside cast shadows on the grass.
Ambrose parks alongside a long row of cars that probably cost more than everything I’ve ever owned in my life times one thousand.
“This is insane,” I say.
“It’s a beautiful estate,” Ambrose agrees as he shuts off the car and slips his keys into his pocket. Understatement of the century. “Do you have your mask?”
I lift it, secure the strap behind my head, then pull down the mirror to glance at my reflection.
The elegant Venetian-style design covers only the area around my eyes and curves up to points on either side of my face, but it grants me a slight comfort in the anonymity it provides, even though I’m certain I won’t know anyone here.
I’ve barely opened my car door when Ambrose appears in front of me in his own matching mask—though slightly more masculine in its design—holding out his hand to help me step out.
I begrudgingly take it.
“Shall we?” He asks, offering me his arm once I’ve shut my door behind me. When I simply glare at him, he says, “If we’re going to be convincing tonight, I need you to act like you like me.”
“Fine.” I wrap my hand around his arm just above the crook of his elbow, trying not to think about the swell of his bicep under my fingers or the way I suddenly feel invincible with him by my side in our matching black and red attire.
“Why am I here again?” I whisper as we approach the massive double doors at the front of the mansion.
I ask not only because of the fact that Ambrose could definitely handle all of this on his own, but also because I already know I won’t fit in with the type of people who attend charity galas in fancy mansions.
“Because having you here will make it easier for me to find the information I need. And because you look exquisite on my arm.”
His praise, as insincere as it may be, still stirs something dark inside of me. I’m about to ask more about how me being here will help his cause, but the front door opens before I have the chance.
The man on the other side is briefly startled by our proximity, but he quickly regains his composure and shoves the pack of cigarettes he’s holding back into his pocket.
“Ambrose! I was wondering if you’d be attending.” He claps Ambrose on the shoulder as if they’re best friends, and it reminds me of the way Brett used to greet Joel.
“Nice to see you again, Mordecai.”
The man—Mordecai—shifts his attention to me.
“And who’s this lovely lady you’ve brought with you?” He asks, not looking away from my masked face.
Ambrose wraps an arm around my waist, and I resist the urge to pull away. “This is my girlfriend, Bri,” is the only introduction he offers, and I don’t miss the way he shortens my name, as if he doesn’t want the man to fully know who I am.
Fine by me.
“A pleasure to meet you.”
“You too.” I flash him my practiced polite smile.
As soon as we step inside while Mordecai heads out for a cigarette, I whisper to Ambrose, “Girlfriend, huh?”
His breath is warm against my ear when he whispers back, “Just for tonight. Unless…”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
His low, dark chuckle electrifies me in a way that’s uncomfortable, but in an entirely too pleasant way, and I try to ignore the way his touch seems to burn through the thin fabric of the dress right to the skin of my hip.
My jaw drops when we make our way into the foyer of the mansion. It’s even more impressive in the main room, with dark wood floors and parallel staircases curving up to the second level on either side.
The lighting is dim, and low classical music reverberates from the open ballroom ahead. A man offers to take my coat, and I slip it off before handing it to him.