Shenanigans (Pretense and Promises Book 2) Page 11

  God. Morgan had to acknowledge her then. Before she pulled a black mask over her eyes, she said, “Hi, Maureen.”

  Pasting a sicky sweet smile on her face, she said, “It’s Morgan. Good to see you, Dominique.”

  Morgan could tell the other woman’s right eye twitched slightly even under the mask. “White’s not exactly your color…but you look nice enough.” Then to Brenda, she said, “What about with the mask?”

  Brenda told Morgan to go ahead and go through the double doors to the rear before she gave Raquel her full attention. Raquel was the kind of woman Morgan would have loved to go toe to toe with verbally back in school. Now, she just found her obnoxious and exhausting.

  The ballroom beyond the doors was already packed with people, more than she’d noticed last night at the cocktail party or this morning at brunch. Hundreds of people. And most of the guys were wearing black-and-white tuxedos just like Conor’s. How would she ever locate him?

  Then again…this might be fun. There were waiters at the event, too, carrying glasses of wine on their trays. “Would you like some merlot, ma’am?” one asked.

  “Of course.”

  Armed with a glass of red wine, Morgan made her way through the crowd, eyeing the men closest to the doors on the other side of where she’d exited. As she brought the glass to her lips to take a sip, two women were laughing and walking past her but not paying attention, and the one nearest her jostled her elbow as she passed—not even noticing or apologizing for it.

  And it would have been okay had she not caused the wine to spill out…all over Morgan’s white dress.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Now…Conor might not have been accused in his life of being the most observant guy, but he normally did all right. He would never be on a par with Sherlock Holmes, but that didn’t mean he was a complete dolt. For instance, color didn’t always register with him, but he was positive Morgan had been wearing white.

  And the dress had hugged her every curve. He couldn’t have forgotten that.

  But the style, the design? No clue. He could only remember that the dress showed a little cleavage. At this point, Conor knew having Morgan play his fiancée had been a bad idea, because he would never be able to look at her the same way again.

  As he looked over the ballroom, he realized the problem was that at least ten women were wearing white. Only three of them were near this side of the room, meaning they would have been more likely candidates, unless Morgan had decided to haul ass as soon as she’d left the room with a mask on her face. As the women’s door opened again and another woman in white exited, he shook his head. Maybe he’d have to leave it up to his trusty assistant who usually had an answer.

  Oh, but this task might not be as difficult as he’d imagined. The woman wearing white who was closest to him had blonde hair, so he could eliminate her immediately—and, if he wasn’t mistaken, the person nearest her wearing a white dress was actually male. His build gave him away. Whether he was wearing the dress to be humorous or in all earnestness, Conor didn’t know and didn’t want to waste time on the question. All he knew was the man wasn’t Morgan, either.

  But…if he approached a woman in white and it was Morgan, maybe she’d recognize him.

  Maybe, though, he should be spending his time looking for Raquel. After all, this was the first time he felt like he might have a real chance.

  Had he ever thought this much with his dick before?

  The woman in white who’d just left the room was looking around, so he thought she could definitely be Morgan. She had brown hair—and it had been up, right? This woman’s was off her shoulders, piled on her head, not short like the woman next to her, and it didn’t look completely like Morgan’s hair, but what did he know?

  As he approached her, he wondered why the damn music was so loud. They were playing classical music to add to the ambience, but they had it cranked as if they were in a dance club. There were no beats thudding in his chest, but that was only because the sweet music had a soft lilting quality.

  “Dance?” he asked the woman in white, ignoring the waiter who approached him with a tray of wine. The woman nodded, and he tried to see through her mask, but the eye slits were too narrow. There was no way to tell if those orbs belonged to Morgan. Conor held out his right hand and she slipped her left in his.

  What did Morgan’s hands feel like?

  Was this woman the right height? The right shape?

  He knew immediately that the woman he’d paired with had a poor sense of rhythm, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t Morgan. That she kept stepping on his toes and not anticipating his next move told him that she’d never danced in this kind of setting before—which could definitely mean it was his employee. He wondered if this woman was trying to control the dancing instead of following his lead, and that could mean his feisty employee as well—although, in fairness, she excelled at taking orders when she needed to.

  This gal, though, danced like she had two left feet, or as if she had her left shoe and right mixed up. They weren’t compatible dance partners, although Conor mused that she might not make a good dance partner for any man.

  The damn song couldn’t end soon enough. Dancing had never left him feeling so frustrated before. If this woman was Morgan, the first thing he’d do when they got back home was to get her some dancing lessons—on his dime.

  When they finished, she curtsied just like a woman hundreds of years ago might have done and then she took a glass of wine from a waiter before disappearing in the crowd. Maybe he and Morgan could laugh about that awkward encounter when riding the plane back home. But it told him one thing for certain—he and Morgan probably had no chemistry, despite his new way of looking at her, a feeling that would fade once they drifted back into the routine.

  A woman wearing a silky black dress that ended mid-calf emerged from the women’s doors. Her presence wasn’t overbearing, but there was no denying her quiet self-assuredness. Conor was drawn to her, but he noticed as he approached that she didn’t have blonde hair. Well, he could still dance with her until he could find Raquel or Morgan. At some point, they would unmask, right? Before he could close the gap, a shapely woman in red approached him and took him by the hand. Her blonde hair was twisted at the back of her head, making Conor wonder if it was Raquel—but, at this point, he couldn’t wonder anymore. He had to just go with the flow and wait till they could unmask.

  This dance was sweet and coordinated, but he still wondered about his first strange encounter. The woman in his arms now was getting pretty close, but her flowery perfume stung his nose and her sharp red nails kept digging into his hands. Those nails might excite him if she were dragging them down his back while screaming his name, but at the moment they annoyed him.

  Before she left his arms, she stroked his cheek with her hand before running it down his chest. Then she blew him a kiss through ruby red lips and then sauntered into the crowd. Okay, so maybe that lovely lady had potential. But he didn’t have much chance to think about it before a wispy creature in silver whisked him away—and she seemed to be a free spirit, another woman who didn’t want to engage in a traditional waltz.

  Three dances later, and Conor grew bored. He suffered from what he labelled observation fatigue, his brain unwilling to process any more information to try to ascertain who he was dancing with. He didn’t even know if the women he’d led in motion were former classmates or spouses of them, and he’d tired of trying to figure it out.

  Then a woman in black moved in front of him and tilted her head to the side, sweetly inviting him to the next dance. She didn’t say a word, but he could read her body language just the same. Was this the woman who’d emerged from the doors earlier, catching his attention for some strange reason?

  He thought it might be.

  Conor held out his hand to take hers, and she rested her soft warm one in his. The brush of her flesh sent a zap of electricity through his body.

  Holy shit. Who was this woman?

>   Unlike all the dances before this, he felt like he could take this woman and win a dance contest with her. She anticipated his every move, following his footsteps, letting him lead her, intuitively moving as one. But there was more to it than that. She wore a spicy scent that, although soft, wafted into his nostrils, adding to the magnetism he began to feel. And, although there was a good centimeter between their bodies, he could feel her heat, her pulse, her aura, and they seemed to meld together.

  He had to know who this woman was—and find a way to spend more time with her later this evening.

  Ah, the old Conor was back…the man, not the unsure teenage kid.

  Their dance felt almost like foreplay, even though there was no inappropriate touching—but they were on the same wavelength. When they had to go their separate ways, he’d have to commit something about her to memory so he could identify her sans mask.

  But as the music began to fade, he heard a woman’s voice on a microphone near the other end of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said as people on the floor stopped moving, “I hope you’re enjoying the evening thus far. We’d hoped to add a little fun and mystery to the events tonight, but a few folks felt uneasy not being able to locate their significant others—so it’s time to unmask. You don’t have to if you’re feeling a little naughty, but we encourage you to do so.”

  He could see the woman on the microphone at the back of the room, and she removed her mask as if modeling to the dancing crowd how to do it. Kendra King, the gal who seemed to be running the show, revealed herself to everyone else there—and this was the perfect opportunity for him to discover who the hot woman beside him was…unless, of course, she chose to leave hers on. To encourage her, Conor placed his fingers on the right side of his mask and slowly pulled it up.

  The woman in black tilted her head again, but he couldn’t read her facial expression. As he pulled the mask off, though, there was no denying the smile crossing her ruby red lips. Coyly, she took a step back, placing a finger on her mask but shaking her head slowly back and forth.

  Oh, God, this woman—whoever she was—was a hell of a tease.

  He smiled and took a step nearer as she moved back a little as well, as if they were still dancing. That she didn’t turn away from him signaled that she wasn’t shunning him. She pointed at his face before curling her finger toward herself, inviting him to close the tiny gap, and she tapped the side of her mask.

  Was she inviting him to remove it from her eyes?

  Conor raised his eyebrows in question as he placed his hands on either side of her disguise. Jesus—this was like Christmas, like he was unwrapping the most mysterious present under the tree, the one that had taunted him for weeks. That wasn’t unlike this woman who’d begun taunting him in the space of seconds, inviting him to discover who she was underneath the mask she wore.

  He needed to know who she was and, at this point, it didn’t matter. He needed to spend more time with this lovely, sexy creature tonight—no matter who she was. The only thing he was certain of now was that she wasn’t Raquel.

  Peeling off her mask, though, Conor was shocked, because he had never expected to see her face underneath. He’d never had this kind of chemistry with Morgan. What was playing fiancé doing to him?

  Chapter Twelve

  WHEN MORGAN HAD come back to the party in a new dress (thankful that she had never under-packed for a trip in her life), she’d sought out Conor. In her mind, she’d been sure he would be easy to spot. After all, Conor was tall. But there were a few tall men in the crowd with dark brown hair. The tux he’d rented was a pretty generic black-and-white deal, too.

  But when she’d entered the ballroom, she’d looked around, assessing the most likely men and then wandering around a little to try to find out for certain. Taking her best guess, she’d asked this man to dance.

  The dance had been sensual, and it had been like they’d dropped their real masks that they wore everyday—the ones that labeled them boss and employee, older man and younger woman, all the reasons they were able to put barriers and distance between them. Dancing with the masquerade disguises allowed them to drop all those conventions and just be themselves, speak with their bodies, and ultimately discover that maybe there was a whole hell of a lot more chemistry there than they’d expected.

  Was she going to feel like a complete fucking idiot if this man removed his mask to reveal that he wasn’t Conor?

  But then she started questioning herself. Was it Jacob, the man who’d seemed to be crushing on her all night, the washed-up quarterback wanting to take another stab at life? He was about Conor’s height after all—and he’d wanted to strike up something with Morgan. With the mask and tuxedo in the darkened room, his weird hair might not have been noticeable.

  This man didn’t seem to be in any hurry to do so, almost like he was frozen, so Morgan reached up to take his mask off herself. She had to know. The man didn’t flinch, so she wrapped her fingers around the side of the mask and slowly brought it up, reminding herself that those lips looked like Conor’s, the build of his body, the scent of his sandalwood cologne—if this wasn’t Conor, she’d be shocked…but, if she hadn’t been playing his fiancée, she would have considered spending a little alone time with another man. The only thing stopping her was the loyalty she felt to her friend and boss.

  But it was him—his beautiful earth-brown eyes shone as she lifted the mask up over his head, but no smile of recognition crossed his face. Was he angry? Upset? Furious that it was Morgan and not some other woman he’d been hoping to hook up with before they left?

  After all the chatter, she led him to remove her mask, too—and she had no idea what he was thinking. The music had started up again and there was lots of talking now, but time all but stood still with Morgan and Conor. She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Say something, Conor.”

  His eyes searched hers as if seeking the answers to ancient unsolved mysteries. His voice was low and angry-sounding, a quality she’d never heard in his words before. “I think we need to get out of here.”

  She couldn’t disagree but wondered the purpose.

  Taking her hand, Conor led her through the ballroom and through the men’s doors. Morgan stifled a giggle when she saw a couple in the corner making out, as if this were twenty years earlier and their raging hormones had gotten the best of them.

  But wasn’t that what was happening here with her and Conor?

  Well…she knew she’d been finding him more and more attractive as the weekend had progressed, but she’d had a sense that the feeling wasn’t mutual. Just because her stupid brain was latching onto the “we’re engaged” idea didn’t mean Conor’s had. In fact, she had the suspicion that he was angry because he felt like he’d been duped by her—that she wasn’t the woman he’d expected under the mask, and he was going to give her hell about it.

  Maybe she was going to lose her job.

  In the elevator, her stomach flipped multiple times as if it were a trapeze artist. There were strong overpowering vibes pulsing off her boss, and for one of the first times ever, she couldn’t read him. All she knew was that at this moment, he was not the easygoing, casual guy she’d been working for all these years.

  “Conor?”

  He shook his head. “We’ll talk when we get back to our room.”

  “There’s nobody in here.”

  Shaking his head again, he kept his face forward, watching the numbers climb as they experienced weightlessness for a moment. That didn’t help Morgan’s touchy tummy. But when the elevator went ding, the doors slid open and Conor grabbed Morgan’s hand impatiently, leading her down the hall to their room.

  Once inside, Conor asked, “How much did you have to drink tonight?”

  What an odd question. “Before some clumsy ass knocked an entire glass of red wine all over my white dress, I had a sip. I didn’t have any when I came back. Why?”

  She’d seen this look on Conor’s face before. When he had a dilemma or a tough customer problem
he had to work through, his brows would knit and he’d get a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was digging deep into the caverns of his mind. Why he was doing that now was beyond her.

  “I only had a glass.”

  “So? Are the alcohol police coming to get us?”

  Conor didn’t give her his usual barely amused grin. Instead, he said, “Was it just me, Morgan?”

  “Was what just you?”

  “What happened back there.” She was afraid of admitting the feelings that had been growing for this man. If he wasn’t thinking and feeling the same thing, she’d look like an idiot—and things between them would be awkward for a long while.

  But he demanded an answer—one she wasn’t ready to give, so she countered with another question. “What happened back there?”

  He squinted his eyes, scrutinizing her face once more. “I guess it was just me.”

  Oh, fuck. She was at a crossroads now—and she wanted this man desperately, no matter how afraid she was of telling him the truth. And this wasn’t like her at all. Usually, the truth spilled out of her mouth like vomit, and she had no way of stopping it. Why was she now so hesitant?

  Conor was loosening his tie, walking across the room to the door.

  The real Morgan took over, telling this namby-pamby fearful-in-love girl to step aside. “If you’re talking about the strange chemistry between us, it wasn’t just you.”

  Morgan heard the deadbolt click into place before Conor turned, pulling the tie out from his collar. He’d never looked so gorgeous to her before, so appetizing and undeniably hot. She had nothing to lose now. “I can’t explain what was happening, but—”

  Conor placed his finger on her lips, as if to shush her, but his touch was gentle. Swallowing the saliva that had pooled in her mouth, Morgan tried to figure out if he wanted her to shut up so they could pretend it never happened—or if he had some other motive. His eyes continued studying her face, and she wanted to tell him the answers he was looking for weren’t there. There would be no talking, though, because Conor’s face was moving closer to hers—and that could mean only one thing.