I own her.
Could take her at will.
She turned to face me and peered up, her eyes settling on my lips, enticing me to lean in and satisfy her need to be kissed, kissed like we had back at the café. It had been me instigating it last time. Here, now, it was Anya begging with her eyes for another.
She was intoxicating.
“I’m sure you’re capable of putting the rest on,” I said firmly.
“Don’t.” Her words were barely a whisper.
I was already heading for the door and refused to look back.
A pang of arousal thrummed inside me, as I tried to put as much distance between us as possible.
I soon made it to my bedroom so I could change, too.
She wouldn’t be the only one dressed in costume—I’d gone for a three-piece suit with a waistcoat and tails. My own masquerade mask was simpler than hers.
Waiting in the foyer, I counted the minutes until I saw her at the top of the staircase.
She began the slow descent, picking up her hem as she headed toward me, the masquerade mask in her other hand ready to wear. Her eyes were heavily highlighted as though to make up for the disguise she’d soon wear. Her lips were a defiant red that begged to be kissed.
She came down the stairs with the gown flowing around her feet.
Stunning was the only word to describe her.
If only this was a different time, a different place, if only she wasn’t her.
The peacock design on the bodice twinkled beneath the foyer lights. It hugged her curves, showing off her body.
I pivoted. I didn’t want her to see my reaction, whatever the hell that was.
There was a visceral need rushing through me to grab her and take her in my arms, and for a moment, the veil of hate had lifted, and I saw her differently.
I drank in her exotic features, those wide-set eyes that set her apart, and as my gaze stayed on her, I tried to decipher who she looked like more, which parent’s genes dominated hers.
It struck me when looking closer. She had neither.
Yes, she had the same rich brown hair, the slender height, the same striking beauty, but now looking at her, that’s where it ended.
Her eyes fluttered in wonder, taking in my costume and the mask I was wearing.
“Put it on,” I demanded of her.
Not waiting to see her do it, I headed for the door.
Outside, sucking in a lung-full of fresh warm air, I tried to cleanse myself from these filthy thoughts of what I wanted to do to her.
My hate was twisting and morphing into something new. I didn’t like the way it made me doubt every action I’d ever taken, doubt the decisions I’d made, the way I dealt with the nightmares as though there was an alternative.
As I left the house, I cursed the woman who followed for bewitching me.
Still, if I knew anything about this town, spells could be broken. Hearts shattered. Lives desecrated. All it took was time. The patience to see the inevitable strike at what was sacred.
Even the air seemed to still for her. I didn’t need to turn to see she was behind me. The hair on my nape prickled, letting me know Anya wasn’t resisting what the night had to offer.
I opened the passenger door to the BMW. “In.”
Anya ducked her head and elegantly lifted her hem to climb inside.
There was no surprise she ignored me during the drive there. She was probably plotting her escape. Or maybe she was mulling over how much she’d miss her mother’s float in the parade.
I, on the other hand, was questioning how she’d cope if she saw it.
I parked the BMW on Camp Street, and we headed out on foot.
As we turned onto Bourbon Street, the noise became almost deafening. People had amassed from all over New Orleans for the biggest night of the year—of course, this was a month of celebrations, but tonight, the city came alive.
Heaving crowds moved as one as they headed in one continuous throng along Bourbon Street. The aromas of sweets, barbecued food, and beer mingled with the multitudes, some drunk and some just lively with the thrill of night swarming the pavements.
Pulling Anya behind me, I held her hand tight in mine. We sank into the revelers, many of them, like us, costumed partygoers.
Saxophones, trumpets, and trombones played off one another in a harmonious rhythm, setting alight the night with that familiar backdrop of music, the upbeat notes eliciting vibrant dancing all around us. The air thick with a wet heat that cleaved to us.
Shouting over the hecklers, I said, “This way.”
With my arm wrapped around Anya’s waist to keep her close, we nudged our way through the marauding crowd toward the edge of the parade.
Multicolored floats were passing us by in a slow-moving, controlled procession. Those who rode them joyfully called out to those who’d gathered, throwing down beads to the frantic hands waving for them.
We stood side by side, watching more floats glide by. Unlike those around us, though, we stood silently watching as though merely witnesses.
“Is this your idea of fun?” snapped Anya.
She shouted something else, but it was lost in the din.
The bright flowers covering a float stood out from the others with their natural flair. Three women aboard the floating stage threw out colored beaded necklaces to the audience. One of the women looked middle-aged and was easily familiar.
Although I suspected she’d be here, seeing her celebrate today, seeing her ability to offer genuine smiles as though nothing was amiss in her life, sent a shockwave of disgust through me. Soon, Anya would see the tall brunette too, the strikingly stunning middle-aged woman from the suburbs—her mother.
The flowered float drew closer.
Anya’s face was aghast. Her gasp was heard even over the noise. She shot a wary glance my way.
Pressed in tightly, we rocked against the multitude of bodies around us. My grip weakened around her waist, and Anya pulled away, moving forward and ducking beneath the tape that separated us from the floats.
She hurried toward the float and reached up. “Momma!”
This was why we were here. The reason I’d brought her out tonight, to dangle Anya before her mother. A savage attempt to cause nothing but pain to Victoria Glassman, to see her like she was now, frantic to reach her daughter.
Anya hurried alongside the float with her fingers close to touching her mother’s. Her mom meeting her halfway, leaning over the balustrade, to brush her daughter’s fingertips.
I stepped forward, ready to snatch Anya back into my arms.
A shoulder struck against me hard, knocking me backward. He was one of the revelers; he threw a wave to apologize and then disappeared from view.
Glancing back toward where I’d last saw Anya—seeing her scrambling to climb the float. My gut twisted that I’d let her get that close.
My focus gliding back to Victoria, who was imminently about to whisk up her daughter to safety. It was in Victoria’s eyes that I first read doubt. Her expression was morphing into confusion, eyes darkening as her hand drew back.
Victoria straightened and flung a string of beads into the fray.
Turning away.
Turning her back on her daughter.
The flowered heavy float continuing on. . .
Confusion flashed across Anya’s face, raw and endearing.
She seemed to be playing out in her mind what had just happened. From across the crowd, I watched as she started to search faces.
She was looking for someone.
She was looking for me.