“There were mosquitoes,” Noah said with a smile, then assured Loretta he’d keep his eyes open and let her know if there were any new developments.
After they disconnected, he did a series of stretches. In addition to a master fencer, he was a brown belt in karate. He’d concentrate on advancing to black belt once he got over the nonstop work and pressure of taking NAK public—and the loss of his best friend and closest business ally to New England.
And to pretty, talented Olivia Frost.
She was the love of Dylan’s life. And he of hers.
No question.
Noah centered his mind, focused on his movements, the rhythm, the technique. Everything else—doubts, questions, fears, noise—fell away as he did his basic shorin ryu karate warm-up routine of calisthenics, blocks, punches and kicks, then eased into a series of simple katas.
When he finished, he was sweating and loose, and he felt grounded, aware, in the moment.
His costume arrived. He laid it on the bed as if it were a dead musketeer and took another shower. He debated tripling his donation to the neonatal ICU and bowing out of tonight’s festivities. He could stay in his room and watch movies.
No point. Dylan would just hunt him down. Might as well get on with it.
Still damp from his shower, Noah donned the all-black costume, including the cape and the fake sword. He winced at his reflection. It wasn’t so much that he looked bad or foolish. He just didn’t look like himself.
At least there was a mask. It, too, was black, but fortunately it covered most of his face.
In San Diego, someone might recognize him even with the mask. In Boston?
Unlikely.
“Good,” he muttered, and headed down to the ballroom.
Three
Phoebe couldn’t take her eyes off the man coming toward her as if they were the only two people in the crowded, glittering ballroom. As if nothing could stop him and he was determined to reach her.
She was standing by a pillar, next to a table of empty champagne glasses. She’d arrived twenty minutes ago, wanting just to watch the festivities with a glass of champagne. Olivia had left one of Dylan’s extra tickets behind in case Phoebe decided to go after all, but she’d been so adamant about not going that now she didn’t want to have to explain why she’d changed her mind. Because she was captivated by a dress, by the fantasy of an elegant masquerade ball?
Best just to be the proverbial fly on the wall, then go back home with no one being the wiser. Let Olivia and Maggie enjoy their evening without worrying about her.
She adjusted her mask. Of the half-dozen masks Ava and Ruby had made for tonight, this one provided the most coverage. Her eyes and the line of her jaw were all that anyone could see of her face.
Perfect.
With this swordfighter gliding toward her, Phoebe appreciated the anonymity.
And he really was gliding. He moved with such smoothness, such an air of masculine purpose and self-control. He didn’t pull away to the bar or meet up with another woman. His mask covered most of his face, as hers did, and he was tall and lean, wearing a black cape over sleek black trousers and shirt, with a sheathed costume sword at his side. He looked as if he could handle the sword, fake or not.
His eyes locked with hers.
Phoebe started to duck away, but she was transfixed.
Why not stay?
There was a lull in the live music provided by a small, eclectic band near the separate dance floor. Her swordfighter continued toward her, his eyes still on her. She stared right back at him, ignoring the quickening of her heartbeat, the rush of selfconsciousness.
Do I know him?
She shook her head. Impossible.
So far she’d managed to avoid running into Maggie and Olivia. It definitely helped that she knew what they were wearing. Even so, she’d almost turned back several times before arriving at her pillar. First, when she’d started onto Storrow Drive into the heart of Boston. Then when she’d eased her car into a tight space in the parking garage. Finally on the escalator up to the ballroom. She’d glanced down at the hotel lobby, full of giant urns of fresh flowers and artfully arranged sofas and chairs. Above her, she could hear people gathering outside the ballroom.
If she hadn’t been on an escalator, she’d have bolted then, for sure.
Once she reached the ballroom, she got caught up in the crowd, the music, the lights, the laughter and especially the costumes. Her mysterious Edwardian dress passed muster—she’d known it would—striking just the right note of elegance and daring.
The swashbuckler stopped a few yards from her. His eyes were a clear, striking blue, sexy and captivating. It wasn’t just the contrast with his black mask or the glow of the chandeliers or even her few sips of champagne at work. They were great eyes. Fantastic eyes.
She held her glass motionless in one hand as a couple passed in front of her, blocking her swashbuckler from her view. When they were gone, he was right in front of her.
Phoebe didn’t breathe.