Tessa Radley - The Saxon Brides

If he only knew .

“A little,” she confessed in a low voice.

He bent his head closer. “Does that mean this is the first spring masquerade you’ve attended?”

“Yes.”

“That explains why you’re not wearing a costume.”

She let her gaze linger pointedly on his dinner jacket. “You’re not in costume, either.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t have time to plan it this year.”

A busy man, then. But he didn’t need the trappings of a Robin Hood or a regency rake, she decided. He was commanding enough in his own right.

“Most women live to dress up.”

His comment set her teeth on edge. “I am not most women.”

He laughed softly. “I’ll be even more intrigued to meet you face-to-face at midnight. So Alice, you don’t like to dress up, but are you like all the Cinderellas—” he waved a dismissive hand at the beautiful women around them “—here to find a wealthy Prince Charming?” A tinge of cynicism coloured his deep voice.

“Definitely not here to find Prince Charming, wealthy or otherwise.” But she shivered at his percipience. She was certainly here to find someone.

“You’re not given to much conversation.” He sounded far too curious for her liking.

“All these people,” she simpered. “I’m not used to it.”

His gaze raked her. “I’d peg you as a sophisticated city girl—not someone who’d be nervous around people.”

Alyssa glanced down at the plunging V-neckline of her ruby-red dress. She’d better take care … he was altogether too astute. Her pulse pounded in her head. She couldn’t afford to be thrown out—this was her best chance. “Perhaps it’s the excitement. The music … the beautiful people, the handsome masked man.” Her voice was sweeter than syrup. She glanced up through the satin strip of her mask to see how the flattery was going down and caught a white flash of teeth.

“As long as you’re not nervous, Alice,” he whispered. “That’s not allowed.”

Alyssa shuddered as his warm breath skimmed her sensitive ear and arousal shot unexpectedly through her.

“You are nervous. You’re trembling.”

She couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had had such an immediate effect on her. Safer to say nothing.

“You’re the most silent woman I’ve ever met,” he growled, and pulled her closer to avoid a couple dancing with far too much enthusiasm in the mass of bodies.

“Not always.” Not when she wasn’t watching every word—her normal stock-in-trade—in case she slipped up. This disturbing stranger was far too confident … and she was not in the frame of mind to handle him.

Not tonight.

A flash of red hair caused her head to whip around, and reality came crashing in.

Roland! She couldn’t mistake him, not even with a rakish pirate’s eye patch. The red hair was a giveaway. He held a slim, dark-haired sprite in his arms. Across the crowded room Alyssa followed the couple’s progress over her partner’s broad shoulder, saw Roland say something to the brunette and watched her reply.

Alyssa had read that her name was Amy … and she was Roland’s fiancée. The two of them slowed and left the dance floor.

Panic surged through Alyssa. She couldn’t lose them—him. Not when she’d come so close.

“I’m parched, I need a drink,” she said, not caring how abrupt she sounded, and freed herself unceremoniously from her partner’s hold.

“What would you like?” Her stranger showed every sign of coming with her.

“I’ll find myself something.” Alyssa glanced anxiously after her quarry and back to the partner she’d failed to shake.

She mustn’t give herself away.

He was much too distracting, too perceptive. She didn’t want any third parties overhearing what she had to say to Roland. This was private. Too important. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m sure there are other people you should be mingling with … dancing with.”

He wouldn’t lack for partners. He danced like a dream … confident … moving with rhythmic grace, a man aware of his attraction and power. She jerked away from him.

His sensuous mouth twisted. “None as interesting as you, Alice. What would you like to drink? A glass of Saxon’s Folly Sauvignon Blanc? I can recommend last season’s vintage.”

Perhaps letting him get her a drink would get rid of him. “Just water, please.”

He beckoned to a waiter who arrived at breakneck speed.

So much for getting rid of him. Alyssa resisted the urge to swear.

“Just water?” His eyes gleamed through the mask. At her nod, he turned to the waiter. “Two bottles of Perrier.”

Alyssa forced herself not to look for Roland, but she was anxiously aware that if she didn’t find him now, she might lose him again.

“I need the cloakroom,” she improvised. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she flung over her shoulder, and dived into the crowd.

A glance back showed that her Mr. Tall, Dark and Probably Handsome had been detained by two women who each kissed him enthusiastically on both cheeks, the mask clearly an ineffective disguise to the ambitious Cinderellas. Impatience was carved into every line of his tall, muscular body, but he murmured a polite response.

Good, he wasn’t following.

Then Alyssa put him out of her mind as she wove her way between men in tuxedos, women in silk and satin dresses, intent on finding the man she’d come to confront.

But Roland—and his fiancée—had vanished.

Alyssa hurried out onto the balcony outside, brushing past Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara flirting in the shadows, and a couple of men smoking alone.

She peered over the white wrought iron railing, through the criss-cross shadows cast by a clump of tall Nikau palms, into the well-lit garden below. Two couples stood under the trees. Her breath caught. But neither man sported that distinctive red hair. Her pulse quickening with urgency, Alyssa hurried along the wide balcony and down a set of steep narrow stairs and slipped through the side door back into the homestead.

Sweeping up the long skirts of her dress, she hurried, peering into rooms she passed. A quick scan of the large dining room with tables laden with finger food failed to reveal Roland.

Roland must’ve taken his fiancée—Amy—upstairs. Alyssa hesitated, eyeing a staircase that appeared to lead to another wing. The bedrooms must be up there. What if she disturbed them in an … intimate moment?

Her teeth played with her bottom lip. She’d come so far, she couldn’t chicken out now. Drawing a deep breath, she moved toward the stairs.

But before she got there, the door on her right swung open and a brunette burst out. Amy. Her colour was high, her hair mussed. Alyssa stopped, and then Roland came rushing into the corridor, his eye patch in his hand, his expression determined.

“Amy, listen to—”

“Roland?” Like a sleepwalker Alyssa reached out and touched his arm. “Roland Saxon?”

She knew exactly who he was but she couldn’t help enunciating the name that had been imprinted on her mind for years.

He gave her an impatient glance. “Yes?”

“I’m—” She hesitated, her mind suddenly blank. Everything she’d planned to say withered under the attack of doubt devils. Dare she reveal herself as Alice McKay? He hadn’t responded to any of her letters or e-mails, so why should he be any more welcoming now?

He glanced past her to where the brunette had taken the main stairs and disappeared in the direction of the ballroom.

Concerned that he would brush by her and vanish again, Alyssa thrust out her hand and said, “I’m Alyssa Blake. I’m—”

Recognition flared in the eyes that met hers in astonishment. “The journalist who did that hatchet job on Saxon’s Folly. Yes, I know who you are.”