CHAPTER TWO CECI
Chapter Two
Ceci
What do you think you’re doing?” Ceci demanded.
Her breath caught on the beat of her heart, making her sound like—what?
This man has left me breathless?
Swept me off my feet?
Ugh. No.
Cliché much?
“I asked you,” she said, this time her voice steadier and more forceful, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“I should have thought it obvious.”
His voice was low, deep … sexy. And … familiar?
That thought was followed by another thought. An unexpected thought. A bizarre thought. A disturbing thought.
Sir Stick Up His Ass?
It can’t be.
She hadn’t seen or heard from him since their conversation via direct message. After that last one of his, it had been radio silence between them.
The ironing board dance like this guy?
Not possible.
Speak with a voice that could hit a girl’s G-spot?
Not. Possible.
Effortlessly he swept her across the dance floor, making it feel like her feet never touched the marble floor.
This guy knew how to lead. No hesitation where to go next. No moment when his body told her body she would have to take over.
And she did. She always did.
If I tried with him, I bet he wouldn’t let me.
That thought made her furious.
She peered up at him. She could tell by the tilt of that mask he was looking down at her chest because her heart had suddenly decided to do its own rendition of “Flight of the Bumblebee.”
His hands swallowed hers and held her firm. But not too tight. Now she wished she’d taken off her gloves so she could feel his skin.
If his hands were like his dancing, they would be smooth, polished and elegant. But if they were like his voice, they would be rough and calloused—hands with a history … of … doing … things.
“I’m not that bad, am I?” he asked. “I haven’t danced in a while, but it’s like riding a bike, right? Or driving a car.”
She stiffened and frowned. “Driving a car?”
“Sure. I have to maneuver you around the floor.”
She tried to detect some inflection, some tone that would suggest a deeper significance to that last comment, but as she did, he made a sudden move left to avoid colliding with another couple, and she slammed into his chest, her chin brushing against the suede of his tunic.
“I don’t need you to come to my rescue,” she snapped.
She’d almost made the mistake of adding Sir Stick Up His Ass.
She wasn’t about to reveal she knew who he was. At least not yet.
What if I’m wrong?
“Perhaps,” he said, “I did it for their protection rather than yours.”
A chuckle burst from her gut and she pulled back, feeling her breath catch. She bit her lip to stop her laughter.
“You’ll have to get it back,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“The rifle.”
“Oh, of course.”
“And you’ll have to be careful.”
She felt him stiffen. “Careful? Is it”—he paused—“loaded?”
Now why would he go there?
Her lip curled. “It could be.”
He remained silent.
“Of course, you’d have to pull the trigger to find out,” she added.
“I could just open the chamber.”
She shrugged. “You could. But my way’s more interesting.”
“It’s also more dangerous.”
She grinned.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you, Sir Stick.
She sighed. “Are you always so gullible?”
“I never said I believed it was loaded. But I can see you wanted me to believe it.”
He pulled her in closer.
His eyes looked like two nuggets of coal behind those slits.
She followed his gaze as it drifted down her throat and chest, not stopping until it reached her cleavage, where it slowed its pace as it slunk lower until it morphed into something that felt like fingers grazing her nipples.
That woke up Hansel and Gretel who pebbled, puckered, and pushed against her stiff leather vest. It was bad enough they wanted to escape.
They might at least have stuck to the script.
But no. Rather than leave a trail of breadcrumbs, the cheeky brats tossed lit matches and scorched the earth, leaving a trail of flames in their wake, which spread like wildfire all the way down under and into the bush.
Say something.
“The rifle isn’t mine. It belongs to my father. I didn’t ask if I could take it. I knew the answer would be no.”
You didn’t have to tell him all that.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get it back.”
“Do you know those guys?”
She could feel him hesitate.
“I’m, uh, acquainted with them.”
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“No,” he said, emphatically. And then added, sounding less certain. “I don’t think so.”
She pulled away to release herself from his grip, but he didn’t let go.
“The music’s stopped,” she said.
He looked around as though he needed to verify her claim.
“Oh. You’re right.”
For some reason, this struck her as funny and she burst out laughing. And then he did as well. His laughter made her laugh even more. Maybe because it sounded so genuine. Even from behind that iron wall.
The orchestra began playing another song, “Moon River.”
She stiffened.
“Ceci!” A man’s voice came from across the room.
It was only then she realized the Man in the Iron Mask still had yet to let go of her, because at the sound of her name he suddenly did. Her hand hung midair, suspended with nothing to hold onto, and the rest of her body quickly followed suit as he took a step back.
She turned to see one of the three guys she’d come with waving at her.
She hardly knew them. They were friends of a friend.
But it had sounded like fun when one of them asked her to join them.
A masquerade ball? At a country estate? Why not, given she would be here in England for a little over a week before returning to New York.
She could use the distraction. Especially after what had happened at Silverstone a couple of weeks back.
Not to mention those DMs from Sir Stick.
She peered at the man wearing the mask. Those DMs had surprised her. Sir Stick had never come back at her like that before. True, it wasn’t in person. He didn’t have to look her in the eye. So that might account for it.
“Ceci!”
He’s coming this way.
Ugh.
All three of them were so damn boring. They’d made her regret coming. That is, until the Man in the Iron Mask showed up.
“Hey, Ceci!”
Now there were two of them.
“Shit,” she muttered. “It’s WP. Or DC.” She paused. “Or maybe STP.”
“What?” the Man in the Iron Mask asked.
Exasperated, she waved her hands.
“Whoopie Pie, Dirt Cake, and Sticky Toffee Pudding!”
She couldn’t see his face. And yet something about his reaction told her to laugh. But she didn’t have time.
She took off to get away from them but then saw the one remaining tool of the trio just up ahead.
“Ceci!”
She made a quick about-face and ran smack into a man’s chest. The impact sent her reeling.
She shut her eyes, waiting for the inevitable hard landing on the unforgiving marble tile, but it never came.
The man’s arms wrapped around her, and he took the hit against the floor as she landed softly, virtually unscathed on top of him.
Although there was something hard beneath her.
Okay, yes his biceps, which she held onto, and his chest, which felt like granite. Not to mention his impressive thighs. But her attention was drawn to what was in between those thighs. A surge of heat rose from his body to hers.
She was thinking she ought to thank the man and was beginning to imagine all the ways in which she might do so, when she caught sight of his face.
The Man in the Iron Mask.
How the hell did that mask stay on?
“Ceci!”
She quickly scrambled to her feet and looked about frantically, trying to figure out which direction to run to escape them when she felt his hand grab hers and pull. Before her brain manifested the thought to follow him, her body had already decided to do so.
Soon they’d traveled the length of the ballroom, and she found herself running down a maze of hallways with so many turns she lost count. The eyes in the portraits hanging on the walls to their left and right staring back at them became a blur. She would never find her way back.
Suddenly she found herself in the midst of a clattering of pots and pans, clouds of steam rising, swiftly moving bodies, and shouts from someone standing at a stove. They were in a large kitchen. But he didn’t slow down. And no one seemed aware of their presence.
These people see us, don’t they?
Ceci was used to having eyes on her when she was in public. Except, of course, whenever she was around her father. Then she knew what it was like to feel invisible.
Suddenly the noise and bodies were gone. A few more steps and she shivered as the cold night sky surrounded them and the only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath their feet.
He stopped then and let go. She could just make out a maze of gardens in the distance.
She waited for him to ask why she’d run. He didn’t.
“Why is the wig you’re wearing white?” he asked. “I thought Annie Oakley’s hair was brown.”
She wasn’t sure what surprised her more—the question or the fact that his voice still had that low throttle to it, even out here.
When he spoke, it felt like the breath that carried his words had gained physical mass and found its way to her flesh, which shivered at its touch. But that was impossible given the heavy leather of her costume. She was still wearing her gloves. Even her hands weren’t exposed.
She swallowed. “In 1901, the Wild West Show train collided with another train and Annie Oakley was paralyzed. They say her dark hair turned white overnight.”
She blinked. She could swear she’d seen something in his eyes, peering at those slits. And his body. There was a stillness to it.
Is he even breathing?
She waited, but he said nothing. How could silence be so loud?
She shrugged. “It’s not true, of course. It’s just a myth. Like a fairy tale.”
She hastily pulled off her gloves. Her hands were sweating.
“Aren’t you hot in that mask?”
“Nice try.” His tone sounded like he was grinning. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“You’re trying to get me to remove this mask.”
Am I?
Once he removes it, I’ll have my answer.