An Extravagant Tryst: A Prologue (The Extravagant) Read online

  “Who make their own choices. Who are independent and strong,” I say, and I mean it. Our company has always provided equal pay for men and women, and many of our European properties are run by our newest business partner, Scarlett. We brought her on board a year ago, and she’s whip-smart, relentless, and brilliant.

  But bets like this aren’t between business partners, per se. The wagers between Daniel and me are only between us, and they’re born from years of friendship. And also, more recently for me, from pain. From the need to move past it. And what better way to move beyond pain than through games?

  I raise my glass. “And so, once again we drink to lady’s choice?”

  “We bet on lady’s choice,” he adds, raising his glass, stretching his arm across the space between us and clinking it to mine.

  I take a drink, then reach into the inside pocket of my coat, running a thumb over a chip. I take it out, showing it to him. “Five thousand.”

  “Make it ten.”

  We shake on it as we reach Aria, then head inside to the masquerade.

  Eyes open.

  Ready to find just the right woman.

  3

  Sage

  The ballroom glitters.

  A kaleidoscope of lights swirls from the ceiling, with rays of sapphire, fuchsia, and ruby skating across the dance floor, illuminating it, then darkening it.

  It’s a mix of nightclub and ball, a cocktail of the two.

  Sometimes the music is a waltz, other times it’s R & B or hip-hop. Couples twirl and glide, sway, and press.

  From my post at the corner of the dance floor, my eyes eat up the feast of sights. The beautiful people, spinning in tandem. The music reverberating throughout the sumptuous room, accented in gold and marble. And the clothes. Dear God, the clothes. I want to memorize the outfits, to snap photos of the costumes, and gaze at them when I need a hit of beauty. All the gorgeous satins, rustling taffetas, silk tuxes and tails.

  But there are no photos allowed here.

  Phones were checked at the door so we can be present in the moment, rather than on our devices.

  And the moments unfurling in front of me are intoxicating.

  All the dancing, all the touching, all the laughing.

  Men and women.

  Women and women.

  Men and men.

  Such lushness.

  Eliza and I have already indulged in several dances with unknown men in Venetian masks. We’ve made small talk, chatting about the music, the party, the vibe, the decadence of it all. I’m practically floating from the high of the party, vibrating at a higher frequency of pleasure, my skin tingling from this shimmering spectacle in front of me, all my senses alive.

  As a new wave of couples moves on the floor, I imagine the words falling from their lips. Whispered promises of pleasure fluttering across bare skin. Dirty words teased from lush mouths.

  Someone out there on the dance floor, maybe several someones, will slip away soon, find a dark corner for dark deeds.

  The prospect sparks a wave of longing in me. It’s been a while since I felt that kind of sizzle from another person. My skin is craving it, hungry for connection, for touch.

  Maybe tonight?

  Is that so much to want?

  But I haven’t danced with anyone yet who’s lit me up, who’s set my skin to flames.

  And the night is turning old, the clock ticking closer to midnight.

  Prince Wicked is nowhere in sight.

  Shame, that.

  But so it goes. Life doesn’t always give you what you want. Mostly, you have to fight for what you need.

  For now, I’ll take one last glass of the delicious champagne before I make my way out of here. Now seems like a good time as Eliza glides off the dance floor, having just finished a tango-esque dance with a burly man with a beard.

  Not the quarterback.

  “One last drink?” I ask my friend.

  “I’m always up for a final nightcap.”

  I nod toward the man she left behind. “Anyone you like?”

  “He’s not too shabby. I don’t mind a little fur on the face.”

  “How good of you.”

  “I thought so too,” she says playfully, and I know she’s trying to keep her mind open to new men, since risking a play with the athlete on her team roster would be too risky. “I have an early meeting at the stadium, chatting with Nadia and the other team stakeholders about the salary cap, so I might let myself enjoy one or two more dances, then I need my beauty sleep.”

  We head to the bar and ask for champagne.

  “Coming right up,” the bartender in the bow tie says, pouring a flute for me then one for her and handing them to us. I leave him a hundred-dollar tip. “Thank you so much,” he says, startled, but clearly delighted too.

  “You are most welcome.” We step away from the bar, standing against a marble column, regarding the sumptuous tableau in front of us, hundreds of the glitterati here in Vegas.

  “Have I told you how fabulous this ball is?” I say to Eliza, bumping my shoulder to hers.

  She pretends to consider this, then nods thoughtfully. “I believe you have. About a half dozen times, was it?” A sly smirk curves her lips.

  I swat her arm. “Hush. You love it when I tell you you’re brilliant. So I’ll tell you again. Because I’m glad you insisted that I come.”

  “Insisted? You make it seem like it was akin to twisting your arm. You were pretty game, if memory serves.”

  “Of course I was. There was no arm twisting involved. I’m just grateful. Sheesh. Could you be more difficult?” I tease her.

  “I could be, but I’ll relent.” She takes a drink, then scans the room. “Because I think you’ve discovered your new passion.”

  I tilt my head to the side, curious. “And what’s that? Beyond the ones you know I have—fashion, dogs, and spicy food.”

  “Masquerades. Make-believe. Costume parties, and all the surprises and secrets they offer you.”

  She says it like she’s offering me a silver platter of candy confections that will melt on my tongue. “Yes, I do seem to like these parties.” I run a hand down my black satin skirt. “And dressing up.”

  “At the last few, you’ve kind of come alive. It makes me happy to see,” she says, her tone genuine, her gaze earnest. All the teasing has been stripped away.

  “And I feel happier. So, thank you, and I vote for a party a month,” I tell her. I lift my glass, clinking the edge to hers.

  “Please. I say once a week.”

  “Count me in.” And even though my Prince Wicked is nowhere to be found, I am so glad I came here tonight. “This party is everything I need. It makes me feel good again. Even if I haven’t met someone to take my mind off . . . well, all the things we like our minds taken off of.”

  Eliza shakes her head, tsking. “You spent far too long feeling bad after Derek, Sage. You shouldn’t feel bad. Your ex was a cad.”

  “Derek was the living, breathing manifestation of one.”

  She sets a soft hand on mine. “But I know you’re not just talking about your ex when you mention things you want to take your mind off of. You still miss your parents.”

  A sad smile tugs at my lips as I think of them and their passing a few years ago. That pain pulls on my heart, while the missing surrounds me. You can never truly escape that type of loss. You just learn to live with it. “I do miss them. I miss them a lot. I sometimes still wish I could turn to them for advice.”

  Eliza squares her shoulders, looking like a loving queen. “Your mother would tell you that you’ve done a damn fine job moving on from that cad of an ex, and to keep moving on.”

  I grin, hearing my mother say those words too. She was always so strong, so certain. She believed wholeheartedly in the conquering power of love, and the precious necessity of self-worth too. “You know what? She would. She never wanted me to be with someone who didn’t deserve me.”

  Eliza scoffs. “Life is far too short for men who
don’t deserve us.”

  “Truer words.”

  The music shifts to a low, pulsing beat.

  “And you know what I say?” she continues. “I say you only live once. Embrace it. Life is a cherry. Bite into it.”

  I laugh, tossing my head back, the mask moving with me. It’s a little heavy against my face, but I’ve become used to the weight of it. “And is that your rule to live by? Eat cherries?”

  Eliza nods vigorously. “It is. Because cherries are delish.”

  She turns in the direction of a handsome man who’s tapping her shoulder. The bearded guy. “May I have another dance?”

  “Yes, you may, but I have to leave in a little while. I turn into a pumpkin soon,” she says coyly.

  “Then let’s make the dance worth it before the clock strikes midnight,” he says, and she waves goodbye to me with her fingers and heads to the edge of the dance floor. I take a sip of my bubbly, glancing around. On the other side of the room, a black-masked, dark-haired man in tails lifts a glass of champagne, takes a drink, and sets it down on the table. The blond man next to him—at least I think his hair is lighter, but it’s hard to see behind the Phantom mask he’s wearing—gestures to the dance floor, then leans against a marble column.

  They’re a handsome pair, perhaps wingmanning each other?

  My eyes roam around the party. If the evening ends right now at eleven thirty, I’m content.

  But, truth be told, I do wish for a little more. A little something extra. Something exciting for the next half hour.

  I sigh, wishing.

  “This makes me wish I knew how to fox-trot.”

  I blink as the voice rumbles, sending a shiver across my bare shoulders. Can a voice do that? Well, the voice just did, and I turn in the direction of it.

  Oh.

  Oh, yes.

  No wonder my body reacted that way. I drink in the view of a tall, well-built creature who fills out his tux and tails deliciously. The material hugs his frame in all the right places, and the shirt lies enticingly flat against his stomach. My eyes roam shamelessly. What can I say? I’m an abs woman, and he looks like he’s rocking a washboard.

  The dark-haired man with the glass of champagne. The man who set it down so he could make a beeline for me perhaps.

  “Fox-trot. Tango. Rumba, maybe. Are you wishing you took cotillion?” I ask playfully, as I check out his lips. Full lips. A five-o’clock shadow. Yum.

  “I am. Maybe I would’ve learned the polka too.”

  “Polka is vital for Vegas nightlife. But is cotillion still a thing?”

  He gives a simple shrug of what looks like a very strong shoulder. “I don’t know. All I know is I can’t waltz for shit.”

  The corners of my lips curve up. “I know how to waltz.”

  He gives me a flirty smile. “Show-off,” he whispers, that growly tone sending a fresh flurry of tingles down my chest.

  “Don’t you want to know my waltzing secret?”

  He inches closer, his tone dark and decadent as he says, “I do want to know. Tell me. What is your secret?”

  My breasts tingle, my nipples hardening just from the way he looks at me from behind his mask. From his voice too.

  I lick my lips, answering him, “If you want to waltz, you just improvise.”

  He scrubs a hand across his stubbled jaw, dark like his midnight hair. “Ah, the old make-it-up-as-you-go-along routine.”

  I give a playful lift of my shoulder. “Sometimes you have to let go and take a chance.”

  “Give up control?” he asks, and I can see an eyebrow rise above his mask. Or maybe I can feel it. The arch of it. The question in it. The way he’s asking something else entirely.

  “Yes, sometimes I do that,” I say, my voice feathery as I imagine him having his way with me. As I imagine he’d want to. I bet he likes taking just enough control. The same amount I want to relinquish.

  He hums approvingly. “Good to know.”

  That heady feeling winds through my body, that sense that we’re on all the same wavelengths. Still, I toss out a question. “And why’s that? Do you like having control, then?”

  The man takes his time before he answers, almost as if the reply is taking shape seductively on his tongue. “Sometimes I do.”

  A shiver dances down my spine, the sparks of pleasure zipping through me. I study his gaze, trying to read his eyes behind that mask. They’re dark brown. Chocolate. Rich. Gorgeous. “Sometimes? I doubt that. You seem like an all-the-time control guy.”

  He gives a light laugh. “Do I?”

  “Yes. You do.”

  He steps closer again, raising a hand, running it down my arm. Oh, holy hell. His touch is electric, and my breath catches as he says, “By day, I like having control. Often by night too. But it’s not a requirement.”

  His voice is seductive, dreamy, and a little gruff too. It’s sandpaper and stubble. It’s whiskey and cigars. His confidence is like an enticing cologne—one I want to inhale.

  He brushes a strand of hair off my shoulder, reminding me why I left it down. For this—for touch. He takes a beat, then asks, “And by night, what do you like?”

  My pulse spikes, shooting all the way through the roof. “By night, I like what we all like,” I say, wildly turned on from the conversation. From his . . . obvious seduction. One I don’t want to end.

  He runs a finger along the feathers in my mask. “And what’s that, lovely bird?”

  I look at his full lips, wondering how they taste, how they’d feel on my skin. “At night, I like to be surprised.”

  Those lips spread into a mischievous smile as he holds out a hand. “Dance with me.”

  “That’s not a surprise,” I toss back saucily.

  “But maybe it’ll become one,” he says, his voice gliding over my skin as his seduction clearly continues.

  Maybe it will.

  Maybe I want it to.

  I take his hand, and he leads me to the dance floor.

  He sets one palm on my waist, and we waltz to the music, joining the other couples moving elegantly around us under the lights, sophistication, and smoke. Eliza is nowhere to be seen. She’s gone, and so is the man with the beard.

  But I’ve no time to think of Eliza when my dance partner spins me, then dips me, letting my back curve into an arch. “You fibbed,” I say, pouting.

  “Did I?” he asks, a naughty tone of mischief in his voice. He keeps me in this position, bent back, under his control, waiting.

  I don’t hate it.

  In fact, I rather like it.

  My skin turns hotter. My heart rate races.

  “Yes. You lied. Because you waltz perfectly,” I say as he tugs me up and draws me close, flush against his hard frame. My God, he is hard everywhere, and I mean everywhere.

  He strokes his fingers along my bare shoulders. “Perhaps I’m improvising. Or maybe I sensed that you wanted to be surprised.”

  I want to be touched. Judging from the way my skin sings under his fingertips, I want to be touched everywhere. Still, I manage to keep up the banter, saying, “You have me there.”

  “I’d like to have you in many places.”

  Tingles burst through me. Confidence is so sexy. So alluring. Confidence is the ultimate aphrodisiac. “Would you?”

  “I absolutely would,” he says, as the music shifts to something simpler. Not quite a bump and grind but a tune that’s easy to sway and move to.

  This time, he brings me closer, and I am giddy, lit up. I am drunk on this night. And maybe even getting a little tipsy on him when he stares at my lips, then says, “Your smile is radiant.”

  “So is yours.” I lift a finger, feeling daring, tracing it along the top of his lip. A shudder moves through him as I touch him.

  “You’re quite bold,” he says, nipping at my finger, then moaning lightly around it before letting go.

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Not in the least. But maybe I’d like to be bold with you.” He tightens his gr
ip on my waist, his fingers playing, moving across my corseted costume. I swallow roughly. He must know what he’s doing to me. “Maybe I’d like to kiss this radiant smile right off of your beautiful face, make you hot and bothered, gasping, begging me to touch you more.”

  “You’d do that to me?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  I shake my head, my body buzzing, my head hazy, the taste of possibility on my lips. “No. It turns me on.”

  “Good. That’s what I want to do to you. And I’m a man who knows what he wants.”

  I expect him to say, I want you. That’s the next logical statement.

  But he doesn’t, because a tall blond man cuts in, tapping on my shoulder. I turn in his direction. He’s the man with the Phantom mask. Up close, his jaw is chiseled, his face clean-shaven, his lips kissable. “May I have this dance?”

  My throat is dry. And my skin hums all over. From the first man, and now the second one. They are opposites—one has dark hair, one light. One’s voice is gruff and raspy, and the other’s is deep, melodic, and British.

  But both are panty-melting.

  Two Prince Wickeds.

  As the English one draws me against him, the American man moves behind me ever so briefly, pressing his chest against my back before he steps away.

  Suddenly, my mind is racing to lands I never thought I’d want to explore.

  In a flash, in a heartbeat, I do.

  4

  Daniel

  A Few Minutes Earlier

  Some might call me a gamesman.

  They wouldn’t be wrong. Anything with a bit of strategy or a touch of cunning holds a particular appeal.

  A bet, a night, an opportunity—it’s almost as if I’m drawing a bow across a violin, teasing out a lovely melody.

  The start of a symphony.

  One that begins with spotting a beautiful woman, admiring the waves of her hair, the cut of her jaw, the curves of her body.

  But that’s not all.

  That’s not even what interests me the most about the fairer sex. Everything that matters is found in the eyes. And in the lips.