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I find it hard to believe what I’m about to do and tingles of anxiety travel up my arms. I prefer a quiet room and a book to crowds. I shouldn’t be here and I know it. I shouldn’t have put on this ridiculous outfit or cute, frilly mask and I sure the hell don’t belong standing in the middle of a lavish ballroom clutching a shawl that costs more than my whole wardrobe put together like it’s a life-line. To do what I have no clue. Retreating isn’t an option and I can’t go forward when everything I fought and worked so hard for could be stripped from my future if tonight doesn’t go as my uncle expertly planned as if he and his elite friends are some Ocean’s Eleven crew.
While my uncle may be loaded, I, on the other hand, live off whatever he deems fit to provide. And believe me, he's not a very giving person.
I run my fingers along the embroidered napkin the blonde handed over with the flute of champagne and trace the golden initials M.S.
Mason Savage.
William’s boss.
Even the name strikes fear and makes my heart quiver. Not to mention the stories I’ve heard. Don’t ever be fooled into thinkingthe rich aren’t filthy and underhanded. Money doesn’t buy class, honor, or morals.
Whispers among my uncle’s closest confidants and friends have my stomach rolling from the unknown. The walls were not as thick as my uncle would like to believe and I hear the underhanded schemes he and his flunkies cook up over a bottle of whiskey twice a month like clockwork.
Savage’s name is akin to the Reaper’s in the Shade household. Never said above a whisper and always feared as if were the devil himself. I have no idea who the elusive man is beyond that, but it’s safe to say the reputation that precedes him is a blackened one and I guess you could say as fierce as his name’s sake.
I wish there was another way, but with a friendship base drier than the Sahara and the idea of a warm, welcoming, and safe home to call my own no more than a fantasy, well, let’s just say I’m low on options.
I tighten the shawl around my shoulders and offer a small smile to a handsome couple dressed as a sexy version of Mr. and Mrs. Claus. Not terribly original, but I had to give them props at the added whip in his hand and the studded leash that leads to her slender queen-like neck. Someone was going to have a very nice Christmas tied down.
All I wanted was my freedom.
But didn’t that always come with a price?
I pay for my mother’s sins every day I draw breath and today I am paying not with coinage or anything measurable to many. I am paying the ultimate price—my virginity.
My heart races and every cell in my body tingles with a mixture of fear and anxiety. And for the unknown.
Though I’m legally not supposed to have the drink in my hand it’s the least of my current problems. I swallow the contents of my champagne and place the empty flute on a side table filled with more food than this crowd could possibly eat in one night. Starlets and socialites didn’t eat more than a rabbit’s share of food anyway, always watching their trim waists.
I don’t have that problem, but food is the last thing on my mind.
Debt has me placing one foot in front of the other as I slip beneath an arched exit and find myself standing at the base of a wide marble staircase that leads to my fate. Whatever that may be.
But there’s a catch. And isn’t there always some way failure creeps in? You see, in a little under an hour I’m officially eighteen. In order for my uncle’s blackmailing plan to work, and for me to keep my scholarship, I’ll have to pull this whole scheme off before the clock tolls midnight.
I have no idea what to expect as I take the first step and then the other, my skirt riding high on my thighs.
Mason Savage, I repeat to myself. Bursts of sudden adrenaline spike through me at the allure of elegance and masculine strength in the name. Cool shivers dance the length of my spine and I falter in my step as I climb despite the warmth of his decadent home.
From the second-floor landing, I see a set of wooden doors ajar with a soft golden light spilling out. I take a tentative step forward and my mouth hangs open when I come to stand between the yawning slabs.
I can’t help myself for a moment. The room is dark all for a lamp in the far end and a welcoming fire in the other. Beyond the large desk half of the room is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows hugged by heavy red drapes that lend the room a warm, inviting tone. Through the cracks of the drapes Chicago’s sparkling skyline shines with a quiet beauty off in the far distance. The other half of the room where I stand are countless shelves housing every book I ever imagined reading and then some.
Original leather-bound copies of theBooks of Knowledge, a mint condition ofAlice Through the Looking Glass, theIliad. Gold gilt trim shimmers in the soft lighting from the fire and I’m entranced like a dragon in front of priceless treasure.
I walk the shelves knowing I shouldn’t be in here. No one should.
“Oh!” Slowly, I take a copy ofLittle Womenfrom the shelf, running my fingers over the soft, worn cover. Anyone who has this in their collection can’t be all bad.
“Here I wished for a Christmas of solitude and the Universe sends me an angel.”
I whirl at the sound of a deep, powerful voice and come face to face with a massive black-masked man. My hands tighten around the book as my eyes take in the wall of hardened muscle standing in front of me.
For whatever messed up reason, the first thought in my head isnot a toad.
Not even a little.
Try something along the lines of gorgeously created to tempt a woman into submission with a single glance from his deep brown eyes that hold a haunting darkness.
