had been a safe haven for her, a few peaceful hours away from home. There, here, Rose had survived and thrived, grown hard and strong.
Her chin lifted, perfectly parallel to the ground, and she pivoted smoothly, slow and elegant, and the entire room watched her leave.
As they made their way out the doors, her heel caught on the step and when her foot moved on the shoe stayed behind. Remy—happy, smiling, gloriously rich Remy—swooped down and brandished it with a romantic flourish. “You did this on purpose?” he asked, as if she could be that clever.
He bent down, dark hair gleaming in the light, and placed the shoe on her foot. It should have been enchanting.
“Do you believe in fairy tales, Remy?” she asked curiously. If you lived within the invulnerability of the castle walls, did the myth of ever-after seem a big con on the rest of the world?
“Do you think this night is magic?” he countered, rising to his feet, and she saw a flash of something in his eyes. Something that she’d seen when she kissed the stranger. Hope. On New Year’s, everyone wanted to believe.
“I think people deserve one night of magic,” she answered, almost the truth.
It was his cue, his moment, and Remy was not stupid. He leaned closer and took her mouth, and Rose was too determined to pull back. Remy was a lot more viable than a fairy tale. He was everything she’d worked for, and his kiss was every bit as accomplished as it should be. So where was the triumph? No triumph, only the persistent taste of a hot hunger that even a fourth-generation Sinclair couldn’t ease.
Patiently she waited for the thrill of victory, the absoluteness of her control. Perhaps she hadn’t won the war, but this battle belonged to her. So why did she feel the same as before, the same as yesterday, the same as she’d felt all her life—
Numb.
As his hand moved purposefully toward her waist, Rose realized the hot hunger wasn’t going to return. It couldn’t be forced, it couldn’t be tricked.
Damn.
Deliberately, her hand covered his, and she raised her head, gave him her nicest smile—a pretend smile designed to make people believe she had a heart.
“I can’t.”
“Too quick?” he asked.
“Yes,” she told him, regret in her voice. “I’m sorry, Remy.” And she was, disappointed in herself, in her trickster mind. Sometimes she saw monsters where there were none, and sometimes she felt nothing when she should be pulsing with life.
“Soon,” she promised. “I’m still not there, yet.”
Remy thought her heart was involved elsewhere, that Rose was pining for a man who was desperately unworthy of her affections. A failed love affair had been Sylvia’s idea, but Rose had approved because it solved a lot more problems than it created.
“I can wait,” he said gallantly, not wanting to imagine a woman would be stupid enough to turn him down forever. Someday, Rose wouldn’t turn him down, but not tonight.
“Can I see you home?”
“I’ll manage. It’s not far.” Another big fat lie.
He took her hand, as if she were a princess, and kissed it once. If she were being honest with herself, she’d stop playing this game and get on with the life that she had planned. Instead, she stood there watching him go, a worried smile on her face.
After Remy had left, Rose hoofed it on aching feet to the number six train, which would take her to the Bronx. The Bronx was home, but not for too much longer. Rose had big goals for her life. She was grown, a woman fully formed, and stronger than her parents had ever guessed that Little Mary Poofster could be.
Rose wouldn’t live on false hopes and broken dreams. She didn’t have to worry about whether fairy tales or magic truly existed because they didn’t; all she had to do was foster the illusion. Rose had long ago mastered the art of the illusion. Money was security, money was real, money made you invulnerable to whatever the Fates chose to throw your way.
After she got off at her stop, she walked past the pet store boxed between the bodega and the OTB site. It was an odd place for animals, and she liked to stand outside the glass, watching the puppies from a safe distance.
The puppies always fascinated her, confined to a small pen that they didn’t seem to mind. Five tiny black fur balls with twinkling brown eyes that saw only the best in the world. They always looked carefree and content and safe behind that store window. The Hildebrandes never had a pet. Not even a fish. And Rose hadn’t missed them. Dogs were smelly and loud and dirty and could rip a hole in pink satin, quick as you could say boo.
But she liked watching from behind the window, and she wondered what they thought while they played behind the pane. Sometimes she’d put her hand on the glass and leave it there, waiting to see if they’d come to her, but they never did. Animals didn’t like her, knowing things that people never would.
Tonight, there were no puppies, only a big black monster dog with huge jaws, but tired eyes. He was curled up on the hay, with absolutely no faith that tonight was the start of something new. Lazily he opened an eye, squinted at her, and Rose squinted back. She placed her hand to the window, because from behind the glass, there was nothing he could do to her.
The dog growled.
Rose quivered, her hand falling to her side.
However, she did defiantly stare him down, until he realized she was no threat and shut his eyes, prepared to sleep once again.
Yup, animals knew things that people never would.
Before she climbed the steps to her building, Rose looked one last time at the lights of the skyline, the late-night partygoers making their way home, shouts of happiness ringing in the air, as if all was right with the world.
For a second, for one heart-stopping second, she had felt that way, too. Rose pressed a finger to her lips, remembering his kiss.
Somewhere he was out there. Was he alone? Was he thinking about her?
My prosperous Prince Charming.
The words whispered inside her, seductive and golden and warm. Quickly Rose shushed them away.
She turned and went inside.
It was New Year’s Eve, and all she wanted to do was be alone, let down her hair and slip into a pair of cushy polka-dot socks. Bright lights and a polished world might put stars in her eyes, but it sure was hell on the feet.
Chapter Three
THE HOME OF COUNT ANTON Simonov and his lovely, Brooklyn-born wife, Sylvia, was a stately twelve-room penthouse with soaring painted ceilings, a bank of windows overlooking Central Park and frame after gilt frame of stony-faced Old Masters. In the count’s private offices was a set of ornate cabinets that displayed his most treasured possessions—glass shelves full of Imperial eggs, handcrafted by Fabergé.
Every morning, a truckload of fresh flowers was brought in, all in white, because Sylvia adored
