“Christ,” he muttered. He should just leave. He hadn’t seen the lady since that first night. No one else sparked even an interest in him, despite the copious offers he’d received for scandalous acts of pleasure.
“Sir.”
He turned and found the owner of the establishment had come to stand with him along the wall. Marcus Rivers was a giant of a man, almost as big as Matthew’s cousin Ewan, who was the largest of their group. He was thick with muscle and one of the few not wearing a mask.
Of course, he didn’t need one.
“Mr. Rivers,” Matthew said, extending a hand. He’d met Rivers the night he got his membership, and though their interaction had been brief, he’d liked the man. He was shrewd and focused, driven. Matthew appreciated that in a person.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Rivers said, careful not to address Matthew by a title so his true identity wouldn’t be exposed. He’d decided to go by a simple fabricated name, Mr. Wallace—a tip of the hat to his name, without revealing it.
“Thank you,” he said, staring back out at the raucous crowd. “It’s a busy night.”
Rivers glanced at the crowd with a shrug. “It’s always busy. People come, they get what they want, they stagger out.” He wrinkled his brow at Matthew. “Except you.”
Matthew shifted. “Me? What do you mean?”
“You’ve come here for three nights. You stand at my wall, you do not drink, you do not gamble, you do not…partake.” He smiled knowingly. “You’re waiting. I only wonder what for.”
Matthew blinked in shock at this man, this stranger who could apparently see so clearly. “I’m surprised you put so much thought into one patron.”
Rivers shrugged. “It’s my job. I’m always watching. So if there is something you need, how can I help you find it?”
Matthew backed up a step. “Nothing, there is nothing that I—”
He broke off, for in that moment he saw the masked woman over Rivers’ shoulder. She walked into the room, her slender hand reaching up to touch her mask reflexively. Matthew lost the ability to speak, to think, even to breathe as he gawked at her.
Rivers looked behind himself and laughed. “Ah, I see. Well, I shall leave you to it, then. Good evening.”
Matthew muttered something—he wasn’t even certain it was a coherent word—and moved past Rivers toward the siren he’d been dreaming about for days.
The siren he could not resist for even a moment more.
Chapter Four
Isabel was aware of the masked man coming toward her from the moment she stepped into the main hall of the masquerade. She’d found him the second she let her eyes sweep the place, almost as if she were drawn to him like a beacon. Still, she tried to remain calm as he elbowed his way through the crowd in a focused line to her.
Toher.
Oh, but her heart was pounding as if it would burst. When he reached her side, she feared he could hear it above all the other din.
“You ran away,” he said, without any preamble. As if they were picking up from the very moment they parted three nights before.
She swallowed hard. “I—yes,” she admitted, shocked by how shaky her tone of voice was. She was struggling to even find the barest breath now.
He must have sensed it, for he reached out and caught her elbow, his warm fingers all but searing her sensitive flesh. “Are you quite well?” he asked, his voice low and rough. “You’ve gone pale.”
“I am, I just…I am…”
“Would you like to get some air?” he suggested.
She found herself nodding, though that wasn’t at all what she wanted. Still, it could do her good, clear her head, at least. Right now she seemed to need a clear head.
He drew her through the crowd, dodging the writhing couples and the rowdy gamblers with the precision of a man who came here all the time. Now she wondered if he did. She’d thought him a newcomer when she first saw him, but it was possible he wasn’t.
It was possible he played this same game with a dozen other willing women that he was now playing with her. She didn’t like that idea, even though that was the point of the Donville Masquerade after all.
To pursue pleasure.
