Page 12 of Unmasked

“So not Ruby or Scarlett or Rose?”

“Nope.” She tucked a strand of fiery-red hair behind her ear.

“That doesn’t really narrow it down. Can I get a letter?”

“This isn’t Wheel of Fortune.”

His lip quirked. “How about a year of birth?”

“Tsk, tsk.” She waggled a finger at him. “That’s the one thing you should never ask a lady.”

He thought for a moment, cycling through some options that would be appropriate for someone in her age group—which was tough to narrow down without being able to see most of her face. But from the smooth, unblemished skin and the way she sat, comfortable and swinging her feet...he’d put her at her midtwenties. Maybe less, although he didn’t want to think about her being over a decade younger than him.

“You’re holding all the cards.”

She grinned. “Which is exactly how I like it.”

“You’re not a negotiator, are you?”

“No. I’m a romantic and a dreamer.”

“Ah, so you’re unemployed?”

She threw her head back and laughed, the sound striking him right in the chest. But it cut off before he could grasp hold of something that flickered out of reach. A memory.

“Do we know each other?” he asked, looking closer.

“No.” The answer was immediate, her reaction drawing a line between them that made him curious as hell.

“Will you take your mask off before I guess?” He cocked his head. “Help me even the playing field a little?”

“Tonight is all about the mystery, don’t you think? Strangers without faces.”

Ah, so she was looking for something anonymous. He wasn’t sure why that unsettled him—hell, he’d looked for exactly that on countless occasions. No names, no phone numbers. No repeats.

And certainly no fucking regrets.

Maybe it was because Jerry McPartlin had gotten Damian’s head all messed up, but he accepted her terms. “Okay, three guesses it is.”

She drew her bottom lip between her teeth, as though stifling a grin. The mysterious redhead knew she was going to win, little minx. She held up three fingers. “Go on.”

“Is it...Samantha?”

One finger curled down toward her palm. “Strike one.”

“How about...Natalie?”

She shook her head. “Strike two.”

“Lucky last guess.” He blew out a breath, enjoying the way she shifted on the countertop, a faint flush colouring her chest. “Amanda?”

She made a buzzer noise and dropped her hand down. “You owe me a drink now.”

He wanted something else. No doubt she would taste better than the top-shelf stuff they were serving in the ballroom. A drink seemed far too tame for her lush, full lips and creamy skin. For that bold, flaming hair and the dress that was cut to a deep V at her chest. For the slit that flashed a shapely leg and hinted at sex and sinfulness.

He stood in front of her, his hands falling to the countertop on either side of her thighs, hemming her in. He watched her pupils flare—no fear, just desire. Her chest rose and fell with quickened breath, and her lips eased open a fraction. Taunting him. Inviting him in.

Lust battled with logic—telling him to stay and kiss her. To leave and go after Jerry McPartlin.

---