Page 3 of Savage Suit
Fuck, I didn’t begrudge him or my sister-in-law, Tina, their happiness. All I’d asked was they withhold hosting this enormous affair in deference to a sacred day in my life.
The room spinning, I leaned my head against the pillow and closed my eyes. After presenting the gift I’d gotten Tina and a check for the family’s favorite charity in her honor, I’d closeted myself away in one of the guest rooms. Photographers and society columnists were in attendance—another thing I’d asked they forgo, and another request denied—so public speculation on a Keegan feud would’ve been rife if I hadn’t shown up. My disguise was a poor cloak to the rabid media always on the hunt for me.
Without warning, the bedroom door opened.
“Get out, little brother,” I growled. True, he preferred this bedroom, but I’d commandeered it. Partly to be a motherfucker, but mainly because of the location in its own corner, the most private of the guestrooms.
Since the door hadn’t closed, I snapped my eyes open, shooting to a sitting position to blast Nate’s intrusion into my solitude.
Instead, I blinked, sure the vision in the doorway was a figment of my imagination. But, no, she remained. Across the room, two lamps were lit. One on the table between the chair and the loveseat and the other on the writing desk. Lights from the hallway flooded in, illuminating the stranger like an angel dropped from heaven.
A blue mask of feathers and crystal covered half her face. Black, bone-straight hair blanketed her shoulders and cradled her face. Full, red lips taunted me. She wore a shimmering long-sleeved blue gown. A deep, plunging neckline stopped inches above her belly button. The intricate décolletage revealed golden skin and teased my senses with glimpses of her tits. The form fit curved into her tiny waist, flared at her luscious hips, then slid down her legs, fabric pooling around her feet.
She stumbled entirely in, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it. Her gaze fell on me, and her beautiful mouth opened in surprise.
“I didn’t know someone occupied the room.”
My fingers touched my mask. I hadn’t removed the thing in case one of my brothers invaded my privacy with someone in tow. But I was shoeless and shirtless.
She turned. “I’ll find another room to rest in.”
Leaning back again, I eyed her. My mouth watered at the sight of her shapely ass, where the tips of her hair flirted. I longed to run my fingers through the thick mass. “Stay,” I told her.
Without further encouragement, she turned and floated to the bed. Instead of sitting on the side near the door, she came to me and plopped on the edge, inches away. She eyed the empty whiskey bottle on the nightstand next to the highball glass I’d used.
“We’ve both drank a lot tonight,” she said gravely.
Although her balance and slurry tone pointed to a large amount, I didn’t know how much she’d had. I remained silent, not in the mood to talk. Not in the mood for anything. It was rare I drank to the point of drunkenness. I didn’t like hangovers, and I hated the foggy memories. My brothers said I wasn’t a drinker.
Fuck, according to them, I wasn’t a fucking human.
“You seem sad,” she said, her observation surprising me. It had been a while since anyone looked closely enough to see anything other than entitlement and assholery. “Are you?” she pressed. “I am. Today has been shittier for me than in a very long time. I don’t think I would’ve come otherwise.”
I hadn’t turned on the lamp on the nightstand, so I couldn’t gauge the color of her eyes, but her light, clean fragrance held hints of coconut and arrowed to my head, awakening my cock.
My sudden lust annoyed me and stirred my temper. I didn’t engage in one-night stands with strangers. Ever.
Once again, I sat up. “If you’ll excuse me,” I said politely and indicated she slide over with a nod of my head.
“You don’t have to leave on my account. Truly. I’ll go back downstairs and wait for my sister.” She waved a slim, manicured hand. “She’s with the Count of Monte Cristo.” She laid a finger on her chin and thought for a moment. “No, I think he’s D’Artagnan.”
“Who?”
“My sister’s date. He’s blond and dressed to the nines.” She paused. “Well, everyone is, and he still stands out. So maybe to the eighteens?”
“He wishes he was D’Artagnan. Think Porthos. Loud, obnoxious, and ostentatious.”
“You’re being unfair,” she chastised around a chuckle. “Porthos turns out to be a profoundly devoted friend and a fearless fighter.”
I nodded. A ridiculous rule for tonight’s masquerade required everyone to remain anonymous, so I stayed silent about my cousin.
She slid over, affording me the room needed to move off the bed. I didn’t. Her sweeping glance settled on my bare chest. “You’re not even in a tuxedo,” she said with disappointment. “I was hoping to guess your musketeer counterpart.”
Relaxing against the pillows, I offered her a heavy-lidded smile. “Why don’t you take a guess anyway?” I challenged, enjoying our simple conversation.
She cocked her head to the side, gazing at my lips and chin, before meeting my eyes again. Her silence stretched. I thought she mightn’t give her opinion, then her mouth curved into a half-smile. “Athos. Definitely Athos.”
“I’m not old,” I said sharply.
