Masquerade Page 4

  “H-how did you...” Her father sputtered on the line, truly amazed. Well, let him be amazed. He’d been so wrapped up in trying to get her to take a more prominent role in his company that he’d not noticed she’d already struck out on her own. She didn’t want to carry on his legacy. She wanted to forge her own path. She just wasn’t sure what that might be—yet. If she took over her father’s company, she’d just be a legacy kid for her whole life. She wanted to have something that was uniquely her own.

  “Because I worked hard, Dad. I learned that from you.” She glanced upwards at the roof of the private jet.

  “You are making money from the social media...things you do?” Her father still sounded shocked.

  “Yes. Those things make money. So do the cosmetics I sell.”

  Her father made a frustrated sound. “But the woman on your accounts...that is not you, Asha.”

  Asha sighed. “It’s a persona. Nothing more. And it’s very, very profitable.”

  “I don’t understand why you have to be someone else to make money. I am always myself. I do not pretend to be someone else.”

  “You’re you, Dad.”

  “Yes. That’s the whole point.” Her father sucked in a frustrated breath. “I want you to take a bigger role in The Skycloud, Asha. You know this. Please. Do it for me, if not for the money.”

  Her father’s voice had softened, and she did realize how much this meant to him. On some level, she understood this. Knew that he only wanted to make sure the business he’d created lived on in the family. Yet this wasn’t her dream, and she had to somehow make him understand that.

  “Dad, I really can’t...”

  “No. Don’t tell me a final no. Think about it.”

  “Dad.” Asha sighed in frustration.

  “Just think about it. Do that for me.”

  “Fine,” she said, relenting, even though she knew this only delayed the inevitable. Asha had thought about it. Her answer was no, but she was still working out a way to tell her father this. He’d built the company from the ground up, and she was his only natural heir. But tech stocks and new ways to track user data online just didn’t appeal to her. She wanted to do something else with her life. She just wasn’t sure what yet.

  “What’s to think about? I want you by my side.”

  “Yes, but...” She wanted to walk her own path. Yet she was having trouble breaking the news to her father. She would. One of these days. Just not now. “We’ll just talk about it later. By the way, have you ever heard of the Sphinx Society?”

  “No. What is it? A restaurant?”

  Asha laughed. “It’s a club. For the elite.”

  Her father clucked his tongue, sounding disapproving. “Sounds like a reason for rich people to pat themselves on the back.” Her father didn’t believe in status or the look of things. He was too busy taking over the world, one single-day delivery at a time.

  “So you’re not a member?” she prodded.

  “No. Why waste my time with vanity projects? I have real work to do.”

  Somehow, the fact that her father wasn’t a member made her want membership even more. It would be one more step to staking out her little claim on the world. Besides, she wanted nothing better than to somehow get the best of Durand. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Boarding school had taught her that you either fight for your rightful place in the world or you just let the world walk all over you.

  Not to mention, reporting from one of his invite-only parties was exactly what her followers would go crazy over. She’d be even more popular. She’d sell even more mascaras. Win-win.

  Then she hung up and began thinking about just how she was going to get past security at the next Sphinx Society party that next evening at the British Museum in London. She knew this because she’d managed to plant a bug on Madelyn’s computer during her little meeting with Durand. Turns out, it wasn’t all a bust.

  To London, she planned to go. And she couldn’t wait to see the look of shock on Durand’s face when she showed up uninvited. Again.

  * * *

  The Egyptian sculpture gallery at the British Museum the next evening was awash in low purple light and filled with guests—in masks—wearing the trademark white and black, as they sipped champagne and chatted among themselves. Asha wondered why everyone was required to be black and white, and told herself she’d file away the question for Durand later. Was he allergic to color? Still, this time, she came prepared, wearing a tight-fitting, shimmering black dress with a plunging neckline and a matching black glittering mask across her eyes, but all she could do was gape at the surroundings: massive Egyptian sculptures dotted the exhibit, making her feel small. Ramesses II, among others, and then...the main attraction at the center of the room, the Rosetta Stone standing in a large glass display case, the very stone that made translation of the hieroglyphics possible. History here was impossible to ignore. It screamed from every glassed-in exhibit, from the statues of the Parthenon to upstairs, where Cleopatra’s mummy lay entombed in a display case. Treasures lay here from all over the world, history shouting from every corner. No wonder Durand picked this place, Asha thought. He and his obsession with history.

  Asha had never been to the British Museum before, and certainly not after hours where all the rich and glittering guests wore formal designer clothes. She scanned the crowd for Durand, but failed to find him amid the many dozens of men with dark hair swept back, masks across their faces that hid most of the true identities as they moved past the giant six-feet-tall golden vases, palm fronds splayed at the top, like the world’s most expensive palm trees. She stared at the enormous bust of Ramesses II, and the old black-and-white photos of the original archeologists about two hundred years ago, taking the statue from a temple. Asha wondered who gave them the right to take the statues. Why was Ramesses here at all, and not in a museum in Cairo?

  “Impressive, isn’t he?” a familiar voice whispered in her ear, the French accent faint but unmistakable.

  She turned to see Durand, hiding behind a silver mask, his white tuxedo impeccable. Even though half his face was covered, she’d know that crooked smile anywhere. They were the perfect mix, it seemed: he in white and she in black. She felt her heart tock up a notch and hated that the very presence of him sent blood flowing straight to her thighs. She was only glad he couldn’t read her mind.

  “I was just wondering what gave them the right to take all these treasures. Don’t they really belong at home, in Egypt?”

  Durand’s sensual mouth tugged up to a smile. “Ah, you Americans. Still so troubled by colonialism.”

  “Well, we were colonies. The wound’s still a little fresh.”

  “These treasures are well taken care of,” Durand said. “If they were left, they might have been destroyed.”

  “Or maybe it’s because history is written by the victors, so they believe artifacts belong to them, too.”

  “Is that why you don’t like history, Ms. Patel?”

  “Maybe,” Asha said, not even sure herself why seeing these world treasures bothered her so much. After all, they were spectacular, and on display free to the public. Except, of course, during glitzy parties, where the super-rich gathered with their expensive champagne and used the backdrop to socialize. “I just don’t think the British Empire should decide where these treasures reside.”

  “The British aren’t all too blame. Take the Rosetta Stone.” Durand nodded behind them to the tablet in the case, the one with hieroglyphics and Greek. “It was found by French soldiers.”

  “And yet it’s here. In London.”

  Durand shrugged slightly as he took a step closer. “Well, the stone belongs here. But you, Miss Patel, I’m afraid, you’re once again without an invitation.”

  Durand put his hand on the small of her back, just a tiny bit of pressure. His hand felt big and warm and strong, and she had to fight an
urge to lean into his touch. A shiver ran down her spine.

  “Perhaps we should discuss your trespassing in private.”

  “I’d rather discuss how you’ll be approving my membership in private.” Durand smiled, amused.

  “You are an optimist, aren’t you?” Durand moved her away from the Egyptian statues and Asha let him steer her.

  “More like I’m always determined to get my way,” she said, as Durand led her out into the Great Court, the giant open circular heart of the museum, and as a nearby sign proclaimed, the largest enclosed “public square” in Europe. High above them, latticed steel over glass sheltered them from the night air. The stars in the sky were covered by clouds. Soon, he took her directly into the massive cylindrical building at the center, and inside, she found herself in an enormous reading room. Up above, a domed ceiling with a single circular glass window showed the dark night sky. The lights, already dimmed, gave the room a solemn feel, and large drapes across furniture and a scaffolding for construction sat against some of the shelves.

  “This part of the museum has been closed for some time, and they’re renovating it now,” he said. “We won’t be disturbed here.”

  He closed the brass double doors behind them, and a little bolt of excitement traveled from her head to her toes. She was alone with him here in the dim light of the circular room, most of the furniture hidden beneath tarps, and she wondered just what that meant. Could she explore the electric connection with him? Could she—finally—convince him by any means necessary that she deserved a society membership? She felt a tremor of nerves through her arms and down her fingertips. She really wasn’t like her online persona, the one who jumped men on a whim. It was simply a mask she wore, like the one across her eyes right at this moment. Yet neither one was making her feel very brave at the moment. Still, she wanted this. More than she’d wanted most anything she could remember. She wanted the membership, but beyond that, she wanted Durand. His hands on her. She’d happily sacrifice her body to him if that meant getting what she wanted. And part of her knew it would be no sacrifice at all.

  She turned to him and took off her mask, slowly.

  “If you want to get me alone, Mr. Durand, all you needed to do was ask.” She laughed at her own joke as she took a step closer to him. He didn’t move and kept his blue eyes on her. She reached up and took the edges of his mask, and he let her. Might as well play to her reputation. Men loved it. She could do brash and brazen all day.

  His eyes swept her slowly from head to toe, taking in her entire body, lingering at her plunging neckline. She grinned. Men. So predictable. Maybe this wouldn’t be the challenge she thought. She arched her back, ever so slightly, giving him a better angle, glad she’d opted not to wear a bra beneath the thin-strapped dress. Eventually, he pulled his gaze away from her body and studied her eyes.

  “I want a membership,” she said, feeling confident now. “I want an invitation.” Above their heads, in the circular skylight, the moon broke free of the clouds, sending a silver light into the room, brightening the dimness.

  Durand slid his hands into his pockets, rocked back a little on his heels. “You cannot demand either, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m not demanding. I’m asking. Nicely.” She took a step back from him. Now was the time to offer what most men wanted. She didn’t have to give herself, not really, just a little peek, a little tease. Men were usually so easily swayed. Easily distracted. And she could play the role they wanted. She’d just pretend. Like she usually did. “I know you said you do not usually accept gifts, yet would you make an exception?”

  Except, of course, she did expect something in return.

  She’d hadn’t forgotten the debacle of his office, where he’d called her bluff about sex. This time, she was ready. She wouldn’t be blindsided, because this time she’d be the one to make the first move, the one to keep him off guard. Asha moved one strap of her dress down her right shoulder, slipping her arm out of it. Then, she eased the left strap down. She let the top half of the dress fall to her hips, the cool air of the room brushing across her chest, making her brown nipples stand at attention. Asha stood, topless, watching him as his eyes roved her bare skin, as his mouth tightened with want. She saw his arms stiffen, as if he were trying to fight the urge to touch her. Let him fight. It was a fight he would lose. She knew men enjoyed her body. Knew what her gravity-defying breasts did to their libidos. She knew her best angles and strongest assets and exactly how to use them. She also knew that a mere touch, a mere glimpse, and most men were putty in her hands. Men, in her experience, were simple and predicable.

  Now, she stepped closer, reaching out her hand and grasping his wrist. She pulled his hand upwards to her right breast, putting his hand beneath it. He didn’t fight her. Couldn’t seem to fight her, as he touched her, firmly, but gently, cupping her. He flicked his thumb across her nipple, causing it to harden even more.

  “Please?” she whispered then, as he stared at her pointed nipple. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Me to beg?”

  Her voice was so low, almost a hoarse whisper, that she wasn’t sure at first if he’d heard her. But then, he looked up at her face. She could read him like an open book, a book that spelled out want. Desire. Need. She could feel it thrumming in him, a live wire, snapping with electric power. Want was a dangerous thing, she knew. Want made people do things against their interests, made them make foolish decisions. Hadn’t her father told her a thousand times that the key to being successful in business was not to let emotions rule? Durand was fighting his own desire. She could see it in his face as he struggled to keep it completely expressionless. He held her as if weighing his options, knowing the route he’d take might just be inevitable.

  Then, he shook his head slowly. He lowered his hand and backed away from her.

  She couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows in surprise. This wasn’t what she expected. Not at all. She was supposed to be the one in control, not him. Never him.

  “You can’t use your body to get what you want, Ms. Patel,” Durand said after a beat, but his voice came out a little bit hoarse, a little strained, as if the effort of holding himself back took every bit of willpower he had. “I will not make an exception.”

  She moved to him, trailing a fingernail down the front of his shirt, and brushed the fly of his white tuxedo pants.

  “Oh, it’s not my body I plan to use to get what I want.” A tempting smile curved the edges of her red lips. “It’s yours.”

  She flattened her palm against the front of his fly, feeling him very much alive, very much ready for more. Some men needed more persuasion, and perhaps he was that kind of man. A hand job, then, she thought. Easy enough. As she rubbed him, she fanned the flames of his desire. She could see it in his eyes, the struggle. Could see how much effort it took for him not to move. Yet the only way for him to stop this, she knew, was to leave her in this room. Leave her, bare chested, her hand on the fabric against his cock, and she didn’t know any man with that kind of willpower. She rubbed him harder, feeling him come alive, strain against the fabric. She knew exactly what would drive him wild. What drove every man wild. She undid the latch of his pants, sliding his zipper down. Her heart thudded in her chest, but she could do this. Just because she was used to playacting, flirting from afar, didn’t mean she was a virgin with no skills. She reached in and found him bare, found him ready, found him so very, very thick.

  She wrapped her hand around him and his lips parted, his pupils growing big and dark. She knew what she needed to do. Knew that despite his apparent sophistication, Durand, in the end, was like any other man, led by his cock. This was going to be easier than she thought. She’d have the membership in no time, and she’d be able to file Durand under one of many challenges met and answered. She worked him with her hand, delighting in how much her touch affected him. Soon he’d been begging her to join the society. She had no doubt about that. Good, she though
t. All according to plan. A few more minutes, and the society membership would be hers.

  But then, he took her by the wrist, freezing her motion. She glanced up at him, surprised, but before she could protest, he’d lowered his mouth to hers, hungry. She matched his appetite, her mouth open to his, her tongue lashing his. He tasted like champagne, and something more dangerous, a power she hadn’t anticipated. But somewhere in the kiss, her game became serious. She was no longer the one in control. He deepened the kiss, pulling her to him with a strong hand to the small of her back. Her nipples pressed against his stiff tuxedo jacket, and his hardness against her lower abdomen pressed against the shimmering, thin fabric of her dress. Now he was taking off his jacket, shrugging out of it, lips still on hers. And she found herself forgetting, for a minute, what she was doing here, why she was here, and all she wanted was his hands on her.

  Maybe she’d need more than a hand job. Hell, maybe she’d even enjoy it. A dirty little quickie right here in the dark. It went against her usual strategy, but this was an unusual situation. Maybe she could let herself go enough to enjoy it. Her few real lovers hadn’t always been able to make her come, and too often, she’d been left unsatisfied. That’s why she preferred to reject them first, before she found that her body wouldn’t cooperate with her own mind, that she couldn’t reach the finish line, even as her partners sprinted right past it. The irony of the fact that Ms. Party Girl couldn’t really climax wasn’t lost on her. She realized how ridiculous the situation was, but it was the truth. She’d worked hard to craft her persona, the face she showed to the world. But it wasn’t her true self.

  Durand’s kiss told her that he wouldn’t be fooled. He demanded her whole mouth, hell, her whole body in that kiss. He wouldn’t let her hide. Wouldn’t let her pretend. Maybe Durand would be different than other men. Maybe she’d even let him try.