She took a glass of champagne a waiter handed her and sipped it lightly from beneath the half-mask she wore. The top of the purple mask was ornate, decorated with white feathers and sparkling jewels. The lower half was gone, revealing a plump set of cotton-candy pink lips.
Her gaze surveyed the crowd, but he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. A man approached, putting his hand against her back, and disappointment thrummed in Ian’s veins. She was indeed taken. And not Natasha.
He recognized the man, despite the red and white paper maché mask he wore on the top half of his face. Tommaso Leone was the son of Ennio Leone, a Roman who’d built a fortune in plastics and ranked near the top of billionaire lists the world over. Ennio had never been linked to illegal activities, but Tommaso was seen quite frequently in the company of arms dealers and traffickers.
The son might be doing the father’s bidding, or the father turned a blind eye to his activities. Ian hadn’t figured it out yet, but it was unlikely Ennio had no idea what was going on in any case. It wasn’t an important distinction to Ian. The Leones were represented here, and that was enough.
Tommaso bent to whisper something in the woman’s ear. He slid a hand down her back and over her ass.
Ian was about to turn away when Tommaso yelped. The woman removed his hand from her body, twisting Tommaso’s wrist and shoving it between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t do anything but stand on tiptoe as he tried to relieve the pressure. He was clearly in pain, and cussing her loudly. If anything, she jacked his arm higher until his voice became a whine.
Ian started toward them, intending to rescue—who? Her? Him?
But she said something to Tommaso before shoving him away. The crowd swallowed the Italian up and the woman took a delicate sip of her champagne, feathers completely unruffled as people murmured.
She’d managed everything without spilling a drop.
His interest was piqued. She could be anyone.
He plucked a champagne glass from a tray and strode toward her.
Chapter Two
Natasha had told herself more than once that coming to Ian’s palazzo was a bad idea, and yet she’d done it anyway. As she sipped her champagne and glared at the retreating form of the man who’d dared to put his hand on her ass—as if she were his for the taking—she felt a disturbance in the air around her.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in warning, but it wasn’t the warning she got when danger was imminent. More like a warning that a predator was at hand and moving closer. In this crowd, it could be anyone.
And yet she knew who it was before he arrived. She’d been looking for him when she’d entered, certain she’d find him without too much trouble. She’d felt him then, too, but she hadn’t seen him.
Ian Black moved toward her with the lethal grace she’d come to expect. He was a tall man, his body beneath his suit lean and taut. Not that she’d ever seen his body, but she knew. She’d felt it when he’d pressed her against him a few months ago and kissed her.
She hadn’t expected that kiss, and yet a day hadn’t gone by since that she hadn’t relived it at least once. Usually more often, though. She sometimes went to sleep with the ghost of that kiss on her lips, and woke with the phantom touch of his body against hers.
It was maddening. And it was the reason she was here. Part of the reason.
She had to get him out of her head. He claimed to want to protect her, to save her.
But she didn’t need protecting, and no one could save her. Certainly not him.
He was one of the reasons she’d gone to prison in the first place. He’d admitted as much to her the first time they’d met. If not for him, if not for his involvement with her parents and their stupidity in turning against their mother country, they wouldn’t have been arrested. And neither would she.
She’d still be in Russia, her parents would be alive, and Nikolai would be there too. Her family would be whole. And who would protect Daria now if you’d never gone to prison?
Who indeed?
Natasha sipped her champagne carefully, coolly, as if she were made of ice crystals. Inside, her heart thrummed harder than she liked. He was nearly there, his focus on her alone. She’d expected it, dressed to attract him, and yet she’d worked hard to disguise herself too. She didn’t want him to know who she was. She wanted to talk to him, survey him in his habitat. And she wanted to do it anonymously.
She’d covered her arms, put on a dark wig, and inserted contacts that took her eyes from their usual hazel to a piercing blue. She’d plumped her lips with a makeup gloss that contained an irritant to swell them. Not too irritating, of course. Even now she could feel the tingle of the gloss, though she also wondered if part of it was the memory of kissing him.
Her pulse fluttered in her throat, but there was nothing she could do about that. Her heels made her seem taller than her five-feet-four-and-a-half inches did. Her body was unencumbered by padding or inserts, however. Her form tonight was all her. She’d considered wrapping her breasts to seem skinnier, but ultimately had not done so. Everything she had was on display for him, and her ears grew hot at the thought of all that scrutiny.
Scrutiny that even now was happening. His eyes gleamed hot and dark from his mask, and she wondered if they were his real eyes or not. She’d seen him with different colors every time, so she did not know. Like her, he wore disguises. So many disguises.
It was why she did not trust him. Which Ian Black was the real one?
A small puff of air forced out between her lips reminded her that she did not care. She wasn’t there to find the real Ian. She was there to kill him.
Eventually, anyway.
Once she’d punished all those responsible for what’d happened to her in prison, she might be satisfied. She wouldn’t go so far as to say she would be happy, but anything was possible.
The list she’d kept in her head for so long had only one name left. His.
Yet still she hesitated. Why?
That was the question she could not answer.
“Signorina,” Ian said, his voice like warm honey dripping down her spine. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. She let him.
“Signor,” she replied in a breathy voice, pitching it into a lower register than her own.
“Is everything okay?”
“Of course.”
He studied her, still holding her hand near his mouth. “It’s just that I thought someone was bothering you.”
“Not at all, I assure you.”
“You seem to be alone. Allow me to be your escort tonight.”
“I am not alone,” she lied. “I have simply not found my date yet. He told me to be here at this time, but I do not see him.”
She could speak English without an accent, but she put on a slight one that could be vaguely Italian or Spanish. She also made sure not to use contractions very often. These were the sort of minor details that could make or break a disguise.
Ian tucked her arm into his and led her into another room, toward the massive buffet that was laid out against one wall. “Until he arrives then.”
Natasha told herself to play harder to get, but Ian was already guiding her where he wanted her to go. She didn’t feel like resisting anyway. “Very well.”
“My name is Ian,” he said as he picked up a plate and put a few choice delicacies on it.