Page 68 of Unmasking Mr. Crown

"Darling,” Roman said, “this is my dear friend, Natalia Powell."

"Nice to meet you." Natalie held out her hand in shock, unable to focus on anything other than the pregnant belly of the woman on Roman's arm.

"Bronwyn DeLuca," the woman said, smiling thinly through her raccoon mask.

Holy shit. She's his wife.

Natalie heard nothing after that.

They're expecting a baby? The man who swore he never wanted kids?

Look at her. A supermodel in her last trimester while I’m the human equivalent of a drippy vanilla ice cream cone.

"I must go. Nice to meet you, Bronwyn."

Roman kissed his wife's hand. "Darling, you go ahead. I'll be right there."

Natalie turned and pushed into the crowd, but she didn’t get far. Roman called her name.

“Natalia! Natalia, wait!”

She ignored him. But seconds later he grabbed her arm, firmly enough that she had no choice but to stop.

"Please," he said. “There’s more I need to tell you.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but shock silenced her words. Her eyes caught sight of a man across the tuxedoed crowd—the only man with a mask dangling from his hand instead of concealing his face. A fox mask. He walked toward the entrance of the reception area, stopping every few steps to cough into his elbow. Even sick, he still looked like something out of a movie. A Steve McQueen movie.

Oh. My. God.

The sick guest was Mr. Crown!

A scene of them wrapped up in conversation, Egyptian cotton sheets, and each other's arms ricocheted through her mind. Roman turned his head, following Natalie’s gaze.

“Natalia? Who is that?”

She tried to step away, but Roman’s grip tightened.

“Natalia, listen to me,” he begged.

“I need to—Roman, let go!”

She yanked free, losing her balance and stumbling into another guest. The man's glass slipped and a wave of red wine crashed against her. A quick apology and she was off, as fast as her heeled feet could carry her.

"Thomas!" she called. “Thomas Crown!”

Gala noise swallowed her voice. She sprinted through the ballroom to the lobby. By the time she made it to the revolving doors, Mr. Crown was climbing into a cab. She watched it disappear down Michigan Avenue. She flagged down the next available cab and gave the proverbial chase. But the most famous thoroughfare in Chicago was filthy with cabs. After a couple of blocks, she reluctantly ended her pursuit.

Her forehead touched the cab’s cool window. A tear slid down her cheek.

He was here.

Right-freaking-here.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

NATALIE

Natalie kicked off her heels and dropped her clutch bag on the floor. Would anyone care if she screamed at the top of her lungs? Tears on her cheeks, she stripped down to the bare essentials, poured herself a drink, and collapsed onto the sofa.