it would not happen again. If anyone was going to lose their head tonight, it was going to be him.
ALEX HAD BEEN dimly aware of the fact that Gabriella was a princess. He had originally fooled himself that she was not attractive, but now was exceedingly aware of the fact that she was beautiful. But what he had not realized was that, even behind the little gold mask that covered her eyes and part of her nose, her regal bearing would shine through.
What he had not realized was that, even with most of her face covered, her beauty would be undeniable. What he had not realized was that, in a designer gown that clung to her generous curves, she would be a temptation he was not sure he had the strength to resist.
He hadn’t realized that manner of temptation still existed for him.
Her dark hair was left loose, styled in dark curls, full lips painted red, the only part of her face that was visible. Her dress was a bright blue, the neckline high, covering more of her golden skin than he would like. But it hinted at a figure more spectacular than he had thought it could be. It clung to her hips and thighs before flaring out at the knee and billowing about her feet.
She was, in truth, a much more elegant creature than he had ever imagined. It was like looking at a stranger, and yet someone familiar at the same time.
Then she took a step forward, turning her foot sideways, and tripping slightly on her heel. “Drat!” she said, straightening and fussing with the bottom of her dress.
He smiled, because there was the Gabriella he had grown to know over the past few days.
“You look beautiful,” he said, the compliment rolling effortlessly off his tongue. She did look beautiful. She was more than beautiful.
“You don’t have to say things like that,” she said.
His chest tightened. He had wounded her earlier, and he bitterly regretted that. Still, he wasn’t entirely certain it was bad if she didn’t truly believe him attracted to her. He would never be like his father. He would never be the sort of man who simply took what he wanted without considering the feelings of others.
As a young man he had fixated on that little boy standing outside of the manor that night, the bastard child of his father who’d caused the car accident that killed his parents.
He had spent a great many years blaming that little boy. Hiding that little boy’s existence. Something he bitterly regretted later on in his life. Something he had done his very best to make right. But it had been too late. Nate’s life had been broken beyond recognition. Rejected by the only family he might have had, because of his birth.
Alex had brought Nate back into the family’s life when his grandfather had needed a bone marrow transplant and no one else had been a match. He hadn’t regretted it, but he and his half brother had never made much of a relationship with each other.
As an adult his memory of the events of that night had expanded. Not just to his mother, and her distress. Not just to the boy. But to the other woman, who was equally broken. Who had been brought into his father’s web somehow, who had born his child and received no support. Yes, more and more he thought about her. He thought about every single person who had been damaged by his father’s selfishness. By his unchecked lust.
The more the years passed, the more he realized his father was the villain.
Alex was a great many things, but he refused to become that manner of monster.
And that meant he would never touch Gabriella. She was so very different than anyone he’d ever known. So untouched by the ugly things in the world. She had seen the way her parents had behaved, and she had managed to retain a kind of simple, open view of the world he could never remember possessing. She had retained her hope. He would be damned if he were the one to take that from her.
One thing was certain, while he might be able to give her physical pleasure, he would never be able to offer anything beyond that. Nothing more than pain.
His family was stuck with him. The damage to Nate was done.
He would extend that damage no further.
“Shall we go to the ball, Cinderella?”
He extended his hand and she looked at it as though it might bite her. “If I’m Cinderella,” she said, keeping her hands fixed firmly to her sides, “does that make you my fairy godmother?”
“Never. Fairy godmothers are endlessly giving. They live to bestow gifts with no hope of receiving anything in return.” He smiled. “I’m not so selfless.”
“And what exactly do you hope to get in return for your gifts?”
“I’m getting it. Right now. As I told you, you look beautiful.”
He could see pink color bleeding beneath her skin, spreading outside the edges of the mask, revealing her blush to him. Reviewing the pleasure she took in his compliment. “And you... You look like the Phantom of the Opera.”
He touched the white mask on his face. “That’s kind of the point.”
“Except you aren’t hideously scarred.”
“My scars are metaphorical in nature.”
“The same can be said for most of us, I suppose. Though scarring is kept to a minimum when you spend most of your time in the library.”
“I knew my lack of a library would become problematic one day.”
“Right now, the only problem we have is a lack of a painting,” she said, gently steering the conversation back to the reason for all of this.
She was good at that. He was losing the plot. Completely. For a moment he had forgotten that he had a goal that extended beyond dancing with her tonight. A goal that went past seeing her in this gown and that mask.
Time moved a strange pace here. It was slower. Being away from his phone, his desk, being outside of his world, was doing strange things to him. He wasn’t entirely certain he disliked it.
“Then I suggest we get a move on. The painting will wait for no man. Except it has done exactly that for the past fifty-plus years.”
This time, she did take his hand. And he was the one tempted to pull away. From the heat. From the silken quality of her touch. He didn’t. He was the experienced party. The touch of a woman’s hand against his should not be cause for any reaction whatsoever.
He knew that. Repeated it over and over as he led her from their quarters down the long hall and toward the ballroom.
No matter how committed he was to understanding it on an intellectual level, he could not convince his body to agree.
So he did his best to concentrate on the feeling of his feet making contact with the marble floor. One step, then another. When he focused on that, the burn, where her skin made contact with his, lessened.
A bit.
They approached the doors to the ballroom and two elegantly appointed staff, not wearing masks, opened
