Masked Stranger Claims His Best Friend's Wife

The grand ballroom of the Ravenwood estate pulsed with candlelight and sin. Crystal chandeliers dripped golden fire over a sea of silk, velvet, and feathered masks, bodies swaying to the low throb of a string quartet that somehow sounded filthy. Bianca stood near the marble staircase in a gown the color of fresh blood, the deep V of the bodice plunging almost to her navel, the slit racing high up one thigh so that every step flashed bare skin. Her own mask was a delicate confection of black lace and gold filigree, covering the upper half of her face yet leaving her full mouth and the elegant line of her throat completely exposed. At twenty-eight she had never looked more fuckable, and she knew it.

Barrett had thrown the masquerade as their fifth-anniversary spectacle, inviting half the city and every business contact worth bleeding dry. He was somewhere across the floor right now, laughing with investors, his own silver wolf mask tilted back so he could drink. Bianca had already smiled and murmured all the right things; now she simply wanted air and a moment without performing.

She slipped toward the shadowed alcove beneath the balcony, the press of perfumed bodies thinning, when a tall figure stepped into her path.

He was solid night. Broad shoulders filled a perfectly cut black tuxedo, the kind of body that looked carved rather than grown. The mask covering his face was sleek, matte black, molded to sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, leaving only a hard mouth and the glint of dark eyes visible. He did not ask permission. He simply closed the distance until the heat of him brushed the front of her gown.