Page 27

Leo left to meet our IT administrator, taking his laptop with him. I stayed behind to check that the remaining staff interviews wouldn't run into the luncheon. Cillian turned his own computer toward me, showing me a simple list of departments and times. I leaned over the table, reading through the names.

“The client services interview needs to happen before eleven,” I said. “Jenna's helping with the luncheon after that.”

“Then I'll move her to the top.”

He reached across to slide the paper schedule out from beneath my tablet. His right hand rested against the edge of the table, thumb angled toward me.

A thin, pale crescent crossed its base.

For a moment I forgot what I'd been saying.

On Saturday, I'd kissed that scar. I'd asked the man wearing the black mask whether it hurt, and he'd told me it didn't anymore. I remembered his palm against my cheek, the exact curve of the mark beneath my lips, and the way he'd watched me afterward.

I stared at Cillian's hand until he shifted it away.

“Everly?”

The voice was the same. I'd heard it across a conference table before Saturday. I'd also heard it beside my ear on a crowded dance floor and in a quiet hotel suite, lower and rougher, saying things I hadn't expected any man to say to me.

I looked up at him. Dark-blond hair. Strong jaw. The silver ring in his lower lip. The man at the Grand had kept his black mask on, but it hadn't hidden his mouth, his height, or the dry amusement in his voice.

I'd noticed the resemblance and explained it away because I hadn't believed I had any reason to connect them.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

I couldn't answer that with Leo due back at any moment and two employees working just outside the door.

“Could you come to my office?” I asked. “I'd like to speak with you privately.”

Cillian glanced at my face. Whatever he saw there wiped the amusement from his expression.

“Of course.”

I picked up my tablet and walked ahead of him. I kept my pace even through the corridor, nodded to Jenna at her desk, and waited until we'd entered my office before closing the door.

Cillian remained near it, giving me the space between us. In the polished office light, he looked exactly as he had on Friday, except for his different shirt. Without the mask or enormous feathers, there was nothing remotely supernatural about him.

“Show me your right hand,” I said.

He looked at me for a long moment, then raised it without argument. I stepped close enough to see the scar again. There was no chance I'd mistaken it for some other mark.

“Saturday night,” I said. “At the Grand. That was you.”

“Yes.”

The simplicity of his answer knocked the next question out of my mouth. I'd braced for confusion or a denial, for him to tell me I'd had a wonderful night and imagined a resemblance afterward. He didn't even try.

“You knew it was me?”

“From the moment I saw you.”

I stepped back. The edge of my desk pressed against my hand, and I caught it to steady myself.

I remembered standing beside the ballroom window, deciding to be bold for once. I'd crossed the dance floor toward a stranger who'd smiled at me as though he'd been hoping I would. He hadn't been a stranger at all.

“When I asked you not to exchange names,” I said, “you already knew mine.”

“I did. And I knew you didn't recognize me.”