He dipped his head, and a curl of dark hair fell over his mask and into his eyes. “What sort of job isit?”
“I told you. I don’t want to discuss it inhere.”
He locked eyes with Tristan who suggested, “We could go into yourstudy.”
“You have five minutes of my time,Leigh.” He emphasized my name. Instead oflay, the single-syllable came out asleh,which meant ugly in French. Was that his intent? To cut me with my ownname?
Tristan laid his palm on my forearm that was still speared through his. “Come.”
“She surely doesn’t need your assistance to walk, Tristan,” Jarodsaid.
“Surely,” he responded with a defiance and ease that had me pondering the nature of theirrelationship.
Cousins? Best friends? Did a man like Jarod havefriends?
Jarod turned and took off at a clipped pace through the crowded room, sidestepping a couple eating each other’s faces off. At least, that couple still had most of their clotheson.
As we trekked across the dark room, I focused on the line of Jarod’s body, taut and lean. “Are you related?” I found myselfinquiring.
“Do you find we lookalike?”
“No, but everyone around here seems to know you. And the way you talk tohim. . .”
Tristan’s gaze settled on the back of Jarod’s head. “We grew up together, but we’re notrelated.”
I was curious to know more, but we’d caught up with Jarod, so I stowed my questions for later. Jarod opened a set of doors that led to a black-and-white checkered marble hallway with a wide, curved staircase. Did he live on the floor above, or was this just his place ofbusiness?
A bodyguard stood beside the doors we’d just come through, and another guard stood by the ones Jarod was wrenchingopen.
He flicked a switch. Floor lamps and copper sconces flared to life in the markedly masculine space that smelled of antiquated vellum and wood varnish. Sculpted mahogany bookshelves lined every wall and forest-green velvet covered the four plush armchairs that stood at the center of the room with no coffee table to separatethem.
Jarod dropped down into one of them, then gestured to the one across from him. I detached myself from Tristan to ease myself gracefully into the proffered seat, a feat considering my straitjacket of adress.
“Take off your mask,” hesaid.
Even though apleasewould’ve been nice, I removed it and placed it on my lap where my satin dress stretched so tight I worried the fabric mightrip.
Jarod inspected me through his black mask. “Tristan, pour our guest adrink.”
“I don’t drink,” Isaid.
“We’re not going to drug you, Leigh,” Jarod said, bruising my nameagain.
My fingers clenched around the ties of my mask. “Still, I don’tdrink.”
Jarod stared at me again, his gaze seeming to harden behind hismask.
“And my name is pronouncedlay.”
“Wasn’t that how I was sayingit?”
“No, you were saying itdifferently.”
The smile ghosting over his lips proved he knew full well how he’d been pronouncing it. “Tell me about yourproject.”
I twirled the silk ribbon around my index finger. “Will you take off your mask? It’s making meuncomfortable.”
Jarod leaned back, his tuxedo sleeves straining, gleaming violet-black in the low lighting. “No.”
