of that, there’s a strange niggling in the back of my mind. The feeling that something isn’t quite right.
“You’ve seen my face. Why don’t you take your mask off and let me see yours?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t you remember what the phantom looked like under the mask?”
I laugh. “I’m sure you don’t look like that.”
He shrugs one shoulder and spins me. He’s tall and powerfully built with broad shoulders and muscles I can feel beneath my hands. It’s nice holding on to him. And being held by him.
Nice just being held.
God, I’m pathetic.
Or just lonely, I guess.
“How do you know the Constantine family?” I ask.
“Oh, through the grapevine. I actually couldn’t pick Tinsley out if you asked me to.”
“Really? But it’s her party.”
“Really. Do you live nearby?” he asks.
“Not too nearby,” I say, tripping. Stepping on something sharp just then. “Ouch.”
We stop dancing as I bounce on one foot.
He sweeps me up into his arms, making me gasp with surprise. He sets me down on the bench and sits beside me to take both feet into his lap.
“What are you doing?”
“Having a look.”
“Oh, it’s probably nothing. You don’t have to—”
“Shh.” He pushes my dress up a little, his hand warm on my leg. He keeps it there for a moment longer than necessary and I think about my plan. About what I wanted to do. What I wanted to give to someone—anyone—so Salvatore Benedetti wouldn’t be the one to have it.
But I know myself. And I can’t do that. Not with a stranger. Not even this one.
Won’t Salvatore Benedetti be a stranger when he makes you?
I clear my throat, and he moves his hand down to my foot, his touch gentle, and I swear he caresses it as he feels for whatever I stepped on.
“Ah.” He shifts his position to look at the bottom of my foot. “Don’t move.”
A moment later, he holds up a small thorn-like thing.
I touch the tip, see the little bit of blood on his thumb from my foot. “No wonder it hurt.”
He tosses it away and reaches down under the bench and when he comes back up, he’s holding an unopened bottle of champagne.
“Where did you get that?”
“Well, before you came out here, I was going to drink it on my own, but now that you’re here,” he says, popping the cork, sending it flying into the center of the lake. “We can share it.”
He holds the bottle out to me. I reach for it, but he snaps it away.
“Only if you’re old enough to drink, that is.”
Something about the way he looks at me unnerves me. It’s his eyes. I know his eyes. And his voice.
“Do I know you?” I ask.
One side of his mouth curves upward, and my heart races because if his answer is yes, it will be a problem.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Oh. You just seem familiar.”
He nods, holds the bottle out to me again.
This time when I reach for it, he lets me take it and watches me as I lick my lips then lift the bottle, close my mouth around it and tilt it back. I swallow a sip and instantly have to sneeze.
He laughs and takes the bottle. “Are you old enough to drink?”
“I’ll be twenty-one soon.”
“Not for another year.”
That makes me stop. “What did you say?”
He clears his throat. “You don’t look that old, that’s all.”
There it is again, that niggling feeling. But then he holds the bottle out again and this time I take care to drink more slowly and swallow three big gulps.
When I hand it back, he takes it and swigs like a pro.
I see his watch on his wrist and take his arm, twist it so I can see.
“You’re anxious about the time.”
“I just don’t want to keep my ride waiting.” Ten to midnight. Ten minutes to go. I take the bottle and drink the champagne like it’s water.
“Who’s your ride?”
“My father,” I lie.
“Is that so?” I swear his eyes harden a little then. “I’m curious. What is a pretty girl like you doing at a party like this all alone?”
5
Salvatore
She studies me for a long minute, and I know some part of her remembers me. Maybe very vaguely. It’s been four years.
I push the image of her strapped to that table out of my mind. I wish I could forget it, actually. I like this Lucia. This innocent, sweet girl who doesn’t hate me. Who will the instant she realizes who I am.