Masquerade Read online

  “What is wrong with a woman wanting what a man wants?” she challenged.

  “Absolutely nothing,” Durand said.

  Asha leaned forward even more, revealing more of the top curve of her golden-tan breasts, her skin the color of a perfect creamy latte. He tried to avoid her neckline, but found himself drawn to it again and again. By design. She knew what men liked. That much was obvious. He studied it all: the ridge of her collarbone made him want to lay feather kisses on it, the flawless golden-tinted skin, the cleavage—plunging. Still, of the traps he’d seen laid for him, this was a truly, beautiful trap. He could see why so many men fell for it. The woman’s body begged to be touched. Begged to be explored.

  “Well, then. We know each other at least,” he added, and with great strength of will stopped staring at her flesh. He hated that it had such an effect on him. Yet he wondered if her appetites could match his. He was a man who liked to explore every crevice of a woman, who felt sex wasn’t sex unless it was a complete mind and body experience. Would she be able to meet him? Keep up? He wondered.

  “As much as I’d love to talk about me, I believe we have business to discuss,” Asha said, shifting gears. “I’d like to be a member of the Sphinx Society.”

  “Yes, well, there’s one problem with that,” Durand said as he moved from his desk and sat in the Queen Anne chair opposite her own. Now, face-to-face, it was her beautiful, watchful brown eyes that distracted him and not her delicate tan shoulders and beautiful skin. She was so very small, so very delicate, even her hands, which she kept neatly folded on her knees. “You need an invitation to join, and I’m afraid you do not have one of those.” He cleared his throat, his gaze never leaving hers. “You seem to have a problem with always showing up uninvited.”

  Annoyance tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Do I? Well, I’m not the kind of woman who waits around hoping to be rescued,” she said. “I’m a woman who goes after what she wants.”

  “Indeed.” One of her sexiest qualities, he thought. Like so many brash Americans, she seemed to believe that sheer force of will could make anything happen. Except there was wishful thinking, and then there was brutal reality. The French knew all about brutal reality. “But in this case, I’m afraid, you can’t just muscle your way in. No matter how American, nor how rich you may be.”

  “My lawyers say...”

  “Your lawyers have no sway here. This is a private club. I am its owner, and I decide who joins. Period. C’est comme ça.” Durand leaned back in his chair.

  She reached out and put her hand on his knee, the meaning and invitation impossible to miss. He felt a jolt from the top of his knee to the pads of his feet, as if her very touch was electrified. His whole body hummed with nervous energy, every nerve ending acutely aware of the woman’s hands, of where else he’d like them to be on his body. A hunger came to life in his belly, a hunger for this woman. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to persuade you?”

  For a second, he couldn’t respond. His brain had shut off, and in its place was just primitive, base need. A need for this woman’s hands on his body. A need to put his hands on hers, a primal hunger pervading his being to taste her, to taste all of her. He wanted badly to kiss her again, to have her breathless in his arms, to make her moan.

  No. To make her beg.

  If she’d had so many men before him, then he’d make damn sure he was the one she’d never forget. It almost felt like a challenge he couldn’t ignore. A ripe, perfect grape in need of plucking.

  He studied her hand on his knee, hoping she couldn’t know the effect it was having on him right now, the unsettling need she’d awakened, the yawning need.

  “We could...how do you say...fuck? Right here?” He spread out his hands to show the expensive Persian rug beneath their feet. He had no intention whatsoever of taking her here, on his office floor, in full range of Madelyn and her army of attorneys, but she did not know that. She assumed he was an uncouth playboy relic, so he’d act like one.

  The offer took Asha by surprise. He saw the flicker of—was it panic?—cross her face. She withdrew her hand from his knee. Interesting, then. The woman who supposedly had no shame, with a reputation for being the world’s most vicious man-eater, might actually be...shy? When he called her on her advances...she withdrew? Perhaps that meant she wasn’t as confident as she appeared. Maybe she was bluffing. Maybe all that bluster about being a woman unashamed about her appetite might not be completely true? It would explain her unease when he’d mentioned her reputation.

  “Here?” Asha scoffed. “But my lawyers are right outside...”

  “Let them hear us. Who cares what they think?” Durand pressed. “Surely not a woman as bold as you.”

  Pink crept up into her cheeks. She was blushing. Oh, this was perfect. Truly perfect. He’d put her back on her heels. The way she shifted in her seat made her seem like more of a prude than a party girl. Maybe it had all been an act, the worldly seductress nothing more than a blushing innocent.

  And now that he had her retreating, he’d press his advantage.

  “Yes, well...” Asha’s attention darted to the door, which did not have a lock. So she’d clocked that. And it made her uncomfortable. She definitely wasn’t the wild seductress of her reputation. Yet somehow, that fact made her...even more seductive.

  “Did you not want to make this transaction? I thought that is what you came here for.” He reached out and stroked her cheek, her chin, his finger trailing down the side of her neck. His motive unmistakable.

  “Well, of course I do, but...” She bit her lip. She was trying to come up with an excuse. He would let her try.

  “But...?” he prompted.

  “Well, how can we have decent sex here?” She swept her hand across the sunlit room of his office. “And with people hearing.”

  “That makes you embarrassed?”

  “No.” She lied. He could tell by the way her gaze darted away from his.

  “The blush on your cheeks and the way you won’t meet my eye tells me otherwise, I’m afraid.”

  Asha coughed and stood, turning her back to him so she could glare at the Eiffel Tower. “I am not embarrassed.”

  “Do you always lie about such things?” This was extraordinary. A seductress with shame. A man-eater with performance anxiety. Oh, my, my. What would he discover about her next?

  “No,” she snapped. “If you want sex for the membership then, fine.” She whirled, eyes furious, as she angrily tugged at the side zipper of her sundress, as if she planned to peel off her clothes and get this over with. As if it were a bothersome exercise. That was a bit insulting, to be honest. Durand didn’t want to be a chore. He’d make sure he wasn’t. Not to her or anyone else.

  “No, no, no, ma chère.” He stood and stopped her from undressing herself in a rage. “I tease you. I do not mean to make you give yourself to me.”

  “You don’t?” Now she was utterly confused.

  “I told you that I do not accept gifts of this nature in exchange for membership.”

  “Then...” She blinked fast, her brain catching up to the reality. “You are just teasing me? Playing with me?”

  He was. “I am just having a bit of fun.”

  “At my expense.” She tugged up her zipper and angrily crossed her arms on her chest. “So I am wasting my time, then? You won’t give me a membership?”

  “I did not say that.” He grinned. “But there might be one thing you could do.” He leaned even closer to her, so now they were less than a foot apart. Her eyes grew wide, excited even, at the prospect of her trap working.

  “Anything,” she murmured, voice low but cautious. Her perfume filled his nose and drove him a little bit wild. How he’d love to get beneath that designer scent to her skin. Her real self.

  He smiled slowly. “You are willing to do...whatever I ask?”

  “Yes,” she
nodded frantically. “Whatever you want.”

  “You could say ‘please.’”

  She laughed, a sexy, throaty laugh. But he didn’t join her. It was time to teach this impatient, brash, full-of-herself American some manners. When she realized he was serious, the laugh died in her throat.

  “You mean it?” she managed.

  Durand cocked his head to one side but said nothing. “Those are my terms.” He shrugged one shoulder. “How do you Americans say? Take them...or leave them?”

  “You mock me.” Now Asha’s lips flattened in disapproval. Anger danced once more in her eyes.

  “On the contrary, Ms. Patel. I’m only trying to see if you have any humility.”

  Asha stood, sweeping her white skirt across his knee. “I’ll not be insulted like this,” she said. “Next you’ll ask me to beg.”

  “Perhaps.” Durand couldn’t help himself. He chuckled, low in his throat. Making her beg would be so very satisfying.

  “I don’t beg.” Asha set her lips in a thin, determined line.

  “Perhaps you have not met the man strong enough to make you want to beg,” Durand offered. He sat back in his chair and interlaced his fingers across his knee. “Surely, saying please is an easy exchange for a membership you want so much?” Durand almost enjoyed watching her squirm. He could see her fight with herself: her pride on the one side, her desire to get her way on the other. He loved it. Loved watching her inner battle. She was intriguing, and he honestly wasn’t sure at that moment which side of her would win. Durand, who could read people better than anyone he knew, couldn’t predict this little heiress. Maybe that’s why he found her so intriguing.

  “If I say please, what guarantee do I have that you’re serious? That you’ll give me what I want?”

  Durand raised both eyebrows. “Why, none at all. You simply will have to trust me.”

  Asha weighed his offer for just a split second.

  “You’re impossible.” She snatched her bag from the chair and stomped to his door. Durand stood as well, still grinning.

  “No. I believe I am just the one...how do you say...holding all the cards?”

  Asha let out a disgusted grunt and, glaring at him, opened his office door with such force, it banged against the line of first edition books on his shelf. Asha swept out without a backward glance, and her attorneys, surprised, scrambled to their feet to follow her out of the office.

  “How rude,” Madelyn exclaimed in French as she stood, surprised. “I hope she has learned the lesson that she can’t just demand everything she wants.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think she’s learned that at all,” Durand said. “I have a sneaking suspicion I’ll be seeing her again. Sooner rather than later.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ASHA SIPPED CHAMPAGNE from a crystal flute, staring out the window of one of her father’s private jets as they headed upwards to cruising altitude. She stewed in the anger that still bubbled in her belly. How dare Durand toy with her? She wasn’t some dumb socialite, or another kind of woman that likely had no other ambition than to worm her way into his bed. Asha studied the puffy white clouds above Paris and fumed. She’d never been so soundly rejected in all of her life. Never been so dismissed as inconsequential by anyone, and she’d met the Queen of England. If anyone had the right to give her the cold shoulder, it was the Queen. Not Mathis Durand. So what that his family made their fortune in the shipping business: more than a century ago, his father hadn’t earned his money, but inherited it. Her father defied much greater odds to build a tech empire today.

  She understood all too well the tension between old money and new money. She had gone to one of the East Coast’s most revered girls’ boarding schools. Asha knew firsthand that money didn’t solve all problems. Not among the old money elite who felt it was their job to keep newcomers out, especially ones who weren’t the “right” race. She remembered the taunts some of the meaner girls had leveled at her, taunts about the color of her skin, the fact that her family came from India, the horrible nicknames that stuck with her through a whole year. She knew what they were trying to tell her: her skin was brown, she was new money, and she would never be welcomed into their social circles, circles with a legacy that stretched back generations to the families who were now household names, who’d built America. In their eyes, there wasn’t any room for newcomers, especially those who looked different than them. But she’d proved them wrong. She’d survived it all. She’d outmaneuvered the bullies. She’d left that damn school as one of the most popular girls. Hell, she’d been class president. And she wasn’t about to be laid low by the owner of a private club, no matter how entitled he believed he was. She’d come too far for that.

  Asha watched Paris fade as the plane rose higher in the clouds, and the Eiffel Tower grew ever smaller until she could see it no more. The worst part of all was how easily he seemed not to care about her advances, how he seemed immune to her charms. It was insulting on many levels, but most of all because she was most definitely not immune to his. Even now, she remembered the determined and experienced way his lips had moved on hers, the way a simple kiss on the balcony in Sweden had electrified her entire body. But rather than being keen on repeating the experience, Durand seemed not to care. Was that how he kissed every woman he met? Did she really offer him nothing new? She thought of the women who eyed him at that party, as if he were a juicy steak they intended to devour. Maybe not. Maybe she hadn’t made an impression on him.

  Damn him, then.

  Still, it was the sting of his rejection that burned. He’d hinted he wanted to take her, there in his office, but when she’d finally agreed...he’d told her no. Men didn’t reject her. She rejected them. Did she use sex appeal to get what she wanted? Sure. Had she done that unfortunate fast food commercial naked, wearing only suds and playing up her sex kitten image? Sure she had, but it had just been for fun, a lark. When it came to men actually getting into her bed, she was...picky. Beyond picky. Downright particular.

  Truth be known, she often rejected them long before even the first kiss. Ironic, then, she had such a reputation for sleeping around. It was all her ex-suitors bemoaning her on their social media accounts, implying more happened than did. Just like Connor. Hell, they’d only ever heavy petted across their clothes before he found the need to two-time her with a model. But it worked for his public profile: player plays the player. She didn’t care what people said about her. Besides, being a bad girl had its perks. Typically, she could get away with more.

  Not to mention that it was one way to rebel a little against her tight-fisted father. She didn’t mind that at all.

  She set the almost empty champagne glass down in the round, gold-lined holder in the polished wooden arm of her chair. Asha glanced at her phone. On her father’s plane, the pilot allowed her to keep it on for the duration of the flight. One of the many perks of private travel.

  I expect to see you tomorrow at the board meeting.

  She sighed. She wouldn’t be going to his board meeting in San Jose. She was headed to London. To one of Durand’s next parties. She’d seen the party on his assistant’s computer screen because she’d been too slow to hide it. She had her own priorities, and they didn’t include sitting in on earnings meetings or charming members of the board on her father’s behalf. Besides, her father had long since made it clear that she was to be seen and not heard at the board meetings. He called all the shots. Her father: the control freak.

  I’m not coming. You know why.

  Her phone rang then.

  “Why can’t you come?” Her father’s clipped British accent came through the line crystal clear with his disapproval.

  “Have you considered my proposal about cutting emissions for the entire company?” she asked him.

  He sighed, irritated. “No, you know that our bottom line...”

  “Or...letting our warehouse workers organize?”
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  Her father let out a groan. “You know that would kill our bottom line. We’ve talked about it and we decided.”

  “No, you decided.” This was the problem with trying to work with her father. He made all the rules, and all the decisions, and wasn’t much even in the frame of mind to debate issues, either. He wanted her to be a part of the business, but only as a child at the Thanksgiving table generations ago—to be seen, not heard.

  “Asha. Please. Should I cut off your funds? I don’t want to do it, but if you won’t meet the family obligations...”

  She glanced out her small window as the private plane glided over the fluffy clouds below.

  “Go ahead.” This was met with shocked silence. Good. She wasn’t just a trophy her father got to sit at the board table. She was a smart woman with her own ideas. Her own goals.

  “You can’t be serious. You won’t have the money to do your absurd socializing. All those ridiculous videos you make...all those parties. When are you going to settle down and get serious?”

  “Those videos make a lot of money, Father.” So did her new cosmetics line, and her legion of followers who wanted to know about every new outfit she donned, every new party she went to. They’d make sure she didn’t go hungry. “This image you hate so much funds all those parties.”

  “You couldn’t survive without me and you know it. You do not want me to cut you off.” Her father still couldn’t believe it. But then again, he’d always tried to control her with money.

  “You’re wrong, Dad. I don’t need your money. I’ve not been living on your money for some time.” That felt good to say. After years of trying to work her way out from under his thumb, of dreaming of real independence, she was finally really doing it.

  “The very plane you’re on is my plane.”

  She glanced around the gilded interior. Sure, she’d miss the private jets. But she could still afford to fly first class, commercial. And she would. It wasn’t all that much of a sacrifice. She could forgo his private cars, too. There were such things as rideshares, after all.