Читать книгу That Night on Thistle Lane - Carla Neggers - Страница 9

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Three

Phoebe couldn’t take her eyes off the man coming toward her as if they were the only two people in the crowded, glittering ballroom. As if nothing could stop him and he was determined to reach her.

She was standing by a pillar, next to a table of empty champagne glasses. She’d arrived twenty minutes ago, wanting just to watch the festivities with a glass of champagne. Olivia had left one of Dylan’s extra tickets behind in case Phoebe decided to go after all, but she’d been so adamant about not going that now she didn’t want to have to explain why she’d changed her mind. Because she was captivated by a dress, by the fantasy of an elegant masquerade ball?

Best just to be the proverbial fly on the wall, then go back home with no one being the wiser. Let Olivia and Maggie enjoy their evening without worrying about her.

She adjusted her mask. Of the half-dozen masks Ava and Ruby had made for tonight, this one provided the most coverage. Her eyes and the line of her jaw were all that anyone could see of her face.

Perfect.

With this swordfighter gliding toward her, Phoebe appreciated the anonymity.

And he really was gliding. He moved with such smoothness, such an air of masculine purpose and self-control. He didn’t pull away to the bar or meet up with another woman. His mask covered most of his face, as hers did, and he was tall and lean, wearing a black cape over sleek black trousers and shirt, with a sheathed costume sword at his side. He looked as if he could handle the sword, fake or not.

His eyes locked with hers.

Phoebe started to duck away, but she was transfixed.

Why not stay?

There was a lull in the live music provided by a small, eclectic band near the separate dance floor. Her swordfighter continued toward her, his eyes still on her. She stared right back at him, ignoring the quickening of her heartbeat, the rush of self-consciousness.

Do I know him?

She shook her head. Impossible.

So far she’d managed to avoid running into Maggie and Olivia. It definitely helped that she knew what they were wearing. Even so, she’d almost turned back several times before arriving at her pillar. First, when she’d started onto Storrow Drive into the heart of Boston. Then when she’d eased her car into a tight space in the parking garage. Finally on the escalator up to the ballroom. She’d glanced down at the hotel lobby, full of giant urns of fresh flowers and artfully arranged sofas and chairs. Above her, she could hear people gathering outside the ballroom.

If she hadn’t been on an escalator, she’d have bolted then, for sure.

Once she reached the ballroom, she got caught up in the crowd, the music, the lights, the laughter and especially the costumes. Her mysterious Edwardian dress passed muster—she’d known it would—striking just the right note of elegance and daring.

The swashbuckler stopped a few yards from her. His eyes were a clear, striking blue, sexy and captivating. It wasn’t just the contrast with his black mask or the glow of the chandeliers or even her few sips of champagne at work. They were great eyes. Fantastic eyes.

She held her glass motionless in one hand as a couple passed in front of her, blocking her swashbuckler from her view. When they were gone, he was right in front of her.

Phoebe didn’t breathe.

I don’t belong here.

Then she remembered she was alone, anonymous and dressed as an Edwardian princess. Why not play the part? Why not be a little bold, even a little reckless?

With a deliberate smile, she raised her champagne glass in a flirtatious toast, hoping the man couldn’t tell that her heart was hammering in her chest.

Next thing she knew, he was at her side, an arm around her waist. “Dance with me,” he said, his voice low, deep and impossibly sexy.

Phoebe nodded without saying a word. He took her glass and set it on the table, then swept her onto the dance floor. His movements were sure, fluid and strong. He’d obviously known what he’d do the second he reached her.

She stifled a jolt of panic. A real princess would know how to dance better than she did. At least she had on strappy sandals that had seen her through several weddings and library events, and she managed not to stumble.

“Just follow my lead,” he whispered into her ear.

She licked her lips. “All right.”

Somehow he got her arm in position on his shoulder before she realized she had moved. She felt the ripple of lean muscle under his black cape and noticed the stubble of tawny beard around the edges of his mask. She had no idea who he was and expected it was the same for him with her. She’d followed the instructions her younger sisters had given to Olivia and Maggie in applying her makeup, but she’d had to figure out her hat and wig on her own. They felt secure, and she refused to consider what would happen if they flew off, revealing her pinned-up strawberry-blond curls.

The room spun as her dance partner whirled her among the hundreds of guests in costumes and masks in various shapes and colors. The feel of his palm on her lower back, the way he held her right arm—the way he moved with her—made dancing easy. He was confident, physical and strong, and Phoebe let herself pretend that he really could fight off bandits and scoundrels.

“Do you know how to use that sword?” she asked.

“I do, but it’s a fake.”

“You’re a fencer?”

He smiled but didn’t answer. The music switched to a faster tune. Phoebe barely paid attention to the actual music as her swashbuckler spun her across the dance floor. She was glad her dress was a good fit. If not, she’d have been bursting buttons and hooks-and-eyes. As it was, the dress revealed more cleavage than was her custom.

She felt sexy, lithe, wanted.

Not herself at all.

When the music ended, Phoebe realized they were on the opposite side of the ballroom. She gave her hat and mask a quick, subtle check to make sure they weren’t about to fall off while her dance partner accepted two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to her.

“Nice dancing with you, Princess,” he said, clicking his glass against hers.

“That was wonderful. Thank you. You’re quite a dancer.”

He laughed. “I watch a lot of movies. You’re not so bad yourself.”

“That’s kind of you to say. What should I call you? D’Artagnan? Are you a king’s musketeer?”

“That works for me.”

Phoebe sipped her champagne, wondering if their dancing had loosened a strawberry curl or two from under her wig. Would her musketeer care that she didn’t really have raven-black hair?

What does it matter? None of this is real.

She shut her eyes a moment, bringing herself back to reality. This was her secret night out on the town. She would be Phoebe O’Dunn again before dawn. Probably before the stroke of midnight.

“What brought you here tonight?” her swashbuckler asked.

Phoebe quickly reminded herself she was playing a part. Flirtatious, confident, rich. An Edwardian princess could afford to pay her own way to a charity masquerade ball and wouldn’t feel bad if she hadn’t. “It’s a great cause,” she said, settling on a vague answer.

“That it is.”

“And you? What brings you here?”

He shrugged. “I owed a friend a favor.” His so-blue eyes narrowed on her as he drank some of his champagne. “And it’s a good cause.”

The music started again, a slow, romantic song. He took her champagne glass from her and set it and his glass on a small table, then drew her into his arms and back onto the dance floor.

Phoebe laughed, feeling light-headed and free. She didn’t want the night to end and yet she knew it would. Her swordfighter would go back to being whatever he was—a pediatrician, a hospital administrator, a lawyer, a Boston businessman, a professor at one of the local colleges. She would go back to Knights Bridge. They lived in the real world. He wasn’t a musketeer and she wasn’t a princess.

Just for tonight...

His hand eased lower, subtly, over the curve of her hip. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Trust me.”

Phoebe did as he asked as he held her even closer. She had one arm around his middle and one on his shoulder, could feel the warmth of his skin through the black fabric of his costume. He wasn’t a man she’d conjured up on a lazy, hot, quiet afternoon at the library. He wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

As they danced, she heard only the music, felt as if they were floating together, as one. When the music finally stopped, he kept her close as she caught her breath and opened her eyes. “That was amazing,” she said with a smile.

His lips brushed hers. “You’re amazing, Princess.”

Phoebe started to tell him that she was no princess, but the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t want the fantasy to end. For a while longer she wanted to be a princess. She lowered her hand from his shoulder and opened her palm on his chest. Who was he, really? Did she even want to know?

Then she saw Dylan, dressed as a cross between Zorro and the Scarlet Pimpernel, standing with Olivia in her Audrey Hepburn dress. They gave no indication they recognized her or even were moving toward her. Phoebe glanced around for Maggie but didn’t see her.

Her swashbuckler released her and stood back a few inches, the muscles in his jaw visibly tensed as his eyes narrowed on something—or someone—behind Phoebe. “Excuse me, I have something I need to do,” he said, shifting back to her. He was enigmatic, decisive. “Will you wait for me?”

“I will. Yes, of course.”

“Do you have friends with you?”

“I’ll be fine. Please, do what you have to do.”

He touched a fingertip to her lips, then was gone in an instant. Phoebe watched him as he headed quickly through the crowd, his black cape flowing, his movements smooth and controlled.

She hoped he would come back but wasn’t at all sure what she would do if he did.

She dipped out of Dylan and Olivia’s line of sight and stopped at an hors d’oeuvres table. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her sister at the far end of the table in her gorgeous Grace Kelly gown. As a professional caterer, Maggie always liked to check out the food offerings at an event. Before Phoebe could decide what to do, her sister abruptly abandoned the hors d’oeuvres and whirled back toward Olivia and Dylan. At first Phoebe had no idea why. Then she saw a man dressed as a rogue of a pirate and she knew.

Brandon.

Phoebe immediately recognized her brother-in-law—Maggie’s soon-to-be-ex-husband—as he stopped at a tray piled high with miniature brownies. She tried not to react to his unexpected presence or call attention to herself in any way, but she was too late. His eyes met hers and then he grinned that grin that Phoebe had first seen in nursery school and her sister had fallen for at fifteen.

She groaned inwardly. It just figured Brandon Sloan would turn up as a pirate, and that he would have no trouble recognizing her in her Edwardian costume.

Phoebe didn’t dare bolt. That would only draw more attention to her. Instead, pretending to be casual, she helped herself to a bit of apple and cheese and moved down the table to him.

“Oh, this is too good,” Brandon said. “Phoebe O’Dunn in sequins and a feathered hat.”

“Maggie and Olivia don’t know I’m here,” Phoebe said through her clenched teeth.

“Dylan?”

“No.”

Brandon polished off a tiny brownie in one bite. “I didn’t think you were the type to sneak into a charity ball. I’m proud of you, Phoebe.”

“Do not make fun of me, Brandon.”

His dark eyes softened behind his mask. “Okay, I won’t. You’re shaking. Is everything all right? I saw you dancing—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“All right. We won’t talk about it. Why are you here on the sly?”

“Just because.”

“You’ve been doing too many kids’ story hours. You sound like Aidan and Tyler.”

Phoebe ignored his teasing her and peered into the crowd. She didn’t see her swashbuckler. Everything she hadn’t noticed while she was dancing she noticed now. A cluster of people here. Another one there. A woman shrieking with laughter. A man spilling a drink down his front.

Clinking glasses.

Waiters with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

Reading materials and displays about the neonatal ICU.

What was I thinking, coming here tonight?

How had she let herself get caught up in dancing with a perfect stranger?

They were both playing a role.

“Phoebe?” Brandon took her by the elbow. “You look wobbly. Do you need to get out of here?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I have my car.”

He grinned. “You drove? Good for you.”

She glared at him. “Brandon—”

“I’m not patronizing you. I meant it. Driving in Boston is no picnic even for someone used to it. Do you have your cell phone on you? Call me if you need help. Got that? Maggie would kill me if I knew you were sneaking out of here alone and didn’t look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after. Really. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Phoebe started to leave, but stopped and turned back to him. “Brandon, if you see the man I danced with...” Was she completely mad? “Never mind.”

She spun into the crowd before he could respond. As she came to the large exit doors, she scanned a knot of people gathered there but didn’t see her swashbuckler. When she reached the relative quiet of the ballroom lobby, she hesitated instead of plunging straight onto the escalators. Maybe she should go back to the ballroom and find him. Olivia and Maggie would understand that the only way she could have come tonight was exactly the way she had—on her own, without telling anyone.

If she hadn’t been on her own, hadn’t been anonymous, she never would have danced with her swashbuckler. He might never have noticed her—or she him—if she’d been hanging out with Maggie, Olivia and Dylan.

Suddenly her head itched under the raven-colored wig, her makeup felt like paste and her feet hurt in her strappy sandals. She turned away from the escalator. She’d freshen up, get her bearings, before heading to her car.

As she started down a carpeted corridor to the restrooms, she heard a man’s voice and realized it was coming from a coatroom. “He’s here,” the man said. “I saw him with my own eyes. He’s dressed head to toe in black as a swordfighter or some damn thing.”

Phoebe held her breath. Was he talking about her swordfighter? She edged to the wide-open doorway and peeked into the coatroom. A man was there, alone, his back to her as he spoke into a cell phone. He had short, dark hair with gray streaks and wore a black suit. He wasn’t wearing a mask and he wasn’t in costume.

“The bastard spotted me,” he said. “He’s looking for me now. We don’t have enough time to take action. We need more.”

Phoebe stiffened but didn’t move from her position by the door.

Who’s we? What kind of action?

“You should have seen him dancing. The guy can move. He was with some woman dressed up like she was about to board the Titanic.” Another pause, then a sigh. “No, I don’t know who she is. I’ll find out. It shouldn’t be hard.”

He snapped his phone shut.

Phoebe bolted down the hall and into the ladies’ room, the door still swinging behind her as she ducked into a stall. She let out a breath. Should she try to find her swashbuckler and tell him what she’d just overheard?

What had she just overheard?

She wasn’t used to this kind of night. The crowds, the glitter, the elegance. She was out of her element. How could she judge the snippet of one-sided conversation with any clarity? For all she knew, her swashbuckler was in the middle of a divorce and tonight was his night to cut loose with a perfect stranger.

In which case it really was time to get back to Knights Bridge.

Phoebe left the stall and washed her hands at the sink, avoiding her reflection in the mirror, grateful she was alone in the ladies’ room. Should she peel off as much of her costume as possible before venturing back into the corridor?

No.

She didn’t have another outfit to change into, and if the man she’d eavesdropped on saw her, he could recognize her dress, snap a picture of her with his phone and there she’d be, strawberry curls, freckles and all. He’d have her name and address in a heartbeat.

Best just to make her exit now.

She’d planned to drive home tonight, anyway. She’d only had a few sips of champagne and was wide-awake. Dylan and Olivia were staying at the hotel, Maggie at Olivia’s small apartment in town. Phoebe could join her sister, but that would mean telling her what she’d done.

What I’ve done is gone completely mad.

Easier just to stick to her plan and stay anonymous.

The dress had come with a tiny matching purse that hooked onto the waist. She pulled out the bright red lipstick that she had chosen from Ava and Ruby’s theatrical makeup kit and reapplied it, noticing that her hand was shaking. What a night. She could be home with a nice cup of lemon-chamomile tea and a good book, or tucked on her couch watching a summer rerun of a favorite television show. Instead she was in Boston, dodging a stranger, her friends, her own sister.

Dancing with another stranger.

A sexy stranger at that.

Had he spotted the man in the coatroom? Was that why he’d left her so abruptly?

What was he hiding?

Phoebe tucked her lipstick back in her purse and pulled out her car keys as she finally took in her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed. Brandon hadn’t been lying about that.

The dress and the hat and the elegant mask really were amazing.

She had no regrets, she realized. Even if someone recognized her now, as she made her exit, the night was worth any possible embarrassment. So what if her friends and sister discovered she was the one who’d danced with the swashbuckler?

She’d had a blast.

Phoebe returned to the corridor and made it to the escalators without running into the man in the black suit, or anyone else.

As she stepped off the escalator, she glanced around the hotel lobby, half wishing that her dance partner would appear and sweep her into his arms again.

Maybe more than half wishing.

She kept putting one foot in front of the other until she was in the parking garage unlocking her car door. She kicked off her sandals and threw them in the back. She’d tossed gym socks and a pair of sneakers onto the passenger seat. She slipped them on, feeling more normal as she settled behind the wheel and pulled off her wig. It wouldn’t fool anyone now, anyway. At this point, if the man she’d overheard spotted her, he had only to jot down her license plate to find out who she was.

The same with her swordfighter.

Her car started without any trouble. She’d visited Maggie, and even Olivia, often enough during their time in Boston that she had no trouble finding her way back to Storrow Drive. When she reached Route 2, she finally let out a long, cathartic breath.

She’d done it.

Now her coach could turn back into a pumpkin and she could get back to her life in Knights Bridge.

That Night on Thistle Lane

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