Whatever the case, Veronica Neill’s Instagram-worthy latte art made a damn fine cover for my real job, if I did say so myself, and I fucking loved all things espresso. Win-win.
“Gorgeous skyline,” said a deep voice to my right.
I didn’t need to look; I had already spied this delicious piece of eye-candy the moment I walked in. Everyone did. But I looked anyway, enjoying the man’s features up close.
He had what I liked to call Prince Eric hair; you know the one, falls in love with a mermaid. It was that gorgeous shade of black that resembled the midnight sky between stars. Velvety, making my fingers itch to run through it.
Ay, papi.
His angelic white mask hid most of his features except his sculpted chin and his eyes. Those irises were definitely their own shade—a blue dark enough to look almost black until you saw them up close. Eyes that would be super easy to lose yourself in, as I found myself doing now.
“Enjoying the view?” His lips pursed ever so slightly as he smirked.
He knew he looked good. His black suit jacket hung open, pushed back slightly as he kept one hand casually in his pants pocket. The top of his white button-down shirt opened enough to display a gold cross hanging from a chain.
“I was enjoying the peace and quiet,” I said, turning to face the water again so he couldn’t see the flush rising on my cheeks. It wasn’t a blush; losing myself in his eyes wasn’t embarrassing. But I’d be lying if I said his whole demeanor wasn’t an instant turn-on for me—no sense in letting a smug man like that see the physical evidence.
He leaned his elbows on the railing next to me. “You came to one of Dr. Renauldo’s parties for peace and quiet?”
“You’re telling me you didn’t?” I glanced at him out of my periphery, enjoying the smirk my question earned. The man had deliciously full lips, and I wondered if they would taste as good as they looked.
I drained my champagne in one last gulp. I wasn’t here for the kind of fun his lips promised, at least not until the item I sought was acquired, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t fantasize in the meantime. Maybe we could reconnect later in the evening.
“Are you here alone?” he asked.
I arched an eyebrow. “That’s a creepy question, isn’t it?”
“Not if I’m just trying to determine how good my chances are.”
“Chances of what, exactly?”
“Of dancing with you.” He took my empty glass and placed it on the flat railing. “May I?”
Without waiting for a response, he slipped his arm around my exposed back and ushered me toward the door leading back inside. Now, I normally wouldn’t allow a man—make that anyone—to lead me around like that, as if they owned me. But this man’s touch set my skin on fire, which was saying a lot considering what I am.
I wanted to feel more.
Inside, he swept me in a circle on the ballroom floor, my skirt whirling out around us, before pulling me in close for the slow dance starting up. The warmth of the room brought out the scent of cardamom drifting from the man holding me, a spice that suited him as well as his smirk. His palm pressed against the skin of my back. I could feel each of his fingers as if he were branding me. Scorching, and I craved more of it.
With the trumpet bugling out a solo, my wish was granted. The man lowered his head to place his cheek against mine, avoiding my mask with ease. A wildfire swept from my face down to my manicured toes. Something was different about this guy, and I didn’t mean that in the falling-for-him, he-must-be-the-one kind of way. I meant he was something like me—a member of the Community.
Supernatural.
I pulled back to look into his eyes again, narrowing mine. “What are you?”
He laughed, white teeth shining in the light. Before he could answer, a woman brushed past me to place her delicate hand on his arm.
“There you are,” she said, her green eyes flashing me a warning as she reclaimed what was hers. Except I wasn’t so sure he knew that fact yet.
I withdrew my hand and stepped back. I didn’t fight for men, but I wouldn’t argue against men fighting for me. It seemed romantic and chivalrous. Too bad most men found me unapproachable. Maybe that was why this guy was so attractive; he had dared to approach.
“It gets so stuffy under these things.” She lifted her tiger mask, and instantly, I recognized her.
It would be hard for anyone to forget this woman, with her flawless lily-white skin, almost translucent. She kept her auburn hair cut pixie length—a look that few could pull off as well as she did—which she had slicked back tonight for a dramatic look. The forest-green of her floor-length gown enhanced the sharpness in her similarly colored eyes.
Seeing her here, tonight of all nights, made my skin prickle with paranoia.
“Thank you for the dance,” I murmured as I slipped away into the crowd, not allowing either of them to protest.
That was too close. If she recognized me behind my mask, this night could end badly—end up in a grim prison kind of badly. It was time to get to work before anyone caught on to the real reason I was there.
After waiting until the hallway leading into the bathroom was clear, I ducked inside. The powder room was more than large enough for what I needed. My dress was a two-piece: a floor-length, shimmering gold satin skirt attached to a matching, thin strap top that dove down to my belly button in front. The fabric still covered my ladies, thanks to a bit of boob tape, and left my back open to the breeze—and to scorching hot hands that made my body quiver.
Sonofabitch.
Without a further thought in that direction, I unhooked the skirt and flipped it over to its black satin side before tying it around my neck. With a quick flip, it would hide the golden top well if I needed it to and came down to my thighs. A suitable cape for my alter ego. Not that I was a superhero, by any means—quite the opposite. But it blended in well with this masquerade party.
The pants I had pulled on beneath the skirt were practically painted-on black leather that rode low on my hips and ended an inch above my ankle. My exposed navel piercing featured real diamonds, which would distract anyone from noticing that my top stayed the same. That was the goal, anyway. Flashy jewels, rich people, and gold diggers of any gender or species all went hand in hand.
I rearranged my toolkits, attaching them to the back of my pants and still hidden beneath my cape. The gun strap went in the trash, while the actual holster and gun clipped into my waistband against my right hip. I rarely needed the weapon, but it was better to be safe.
Last, but undeniably not the least, I removed and turned over my red mask, flipped up the back, and replaced it over my face.
I looked in the mirror. The somewhat sinister face of a bird of prey smiled back at me. Red, yellow, and orange feathers swirled together across the front, bringing life to the previously simple mask. Long, thin red quills flared out from the eyebrows, reaching above and behind my hair. Most people would only see the fierce face of a colorful falcon, which was exactly what I needed tonight.
According to my mother, the mask had been in my family for generations—as in thousands of years. I had to take her word for it, though. I’d never met any of my extended family growing up, and now all the family I did have were dead. My smile faltered as the heaviness of grief tried to rear its ugly head.
I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, exhaling the memories with it. I’d grieved already, for years. Now it was time for fun. Making money at the same time was a boon.