of the night ahead than the steep uphill hike she’d just taken. Adrenaline pumped through her veins now, warming her from the inside out. She wiggled her frozen toes inside her boots as sharp pinpricks of feeling slowly flowed back into them.
From her vantage point on the mountain, she could see tiny dots of lights marking the city of Denver, which lay twenty miles to the east. That’s where she lived with her grandfather, who assumed Sarah was out celebrating New Year’s Eve with her friends.
Little did he know she was about to follow his footsteps into a life of crime.
She moved swiftly in the shadows toward the mansion, watching as a steady string of shiny black limousines made their way around the circular driveway. Each one stopped briefly at the front entrance to let its costumed passengers disembark.
The Wolffs’ annual masquerade ball was one of the highlights of the Denver social season. Or so she’d heard. Sarah didn’t pay much attention to lives of the rich and famous. She was too busy trying to earn enough money so she could finally pursue her master’s degree in sociology. She was currently working two jobs—as a bank teller during the day and a waitress evenings and weekends.
When Sarah had glimpsed an invitation to the Wolffs’ masquerade ball on the bank president’s desk, she knew it had been a little nudge from fate. It couldn’t have simply been by chance that she’d been given the perfect opportunity to correct a horrible mistake before it came back to haunt her family.
Standing near the front entrance now, hidden behind a massive marble column, Sarah watched as the doorman stood inside the open foyer to welcome the arriving guests. She pulled her long, hooded red cloak more tightly around her, grateful she’d picked a warm costume.
Little Red Riding Hood’s red wool cloak, elbow-length red gloves, and black leather boots were perfect for traipsing around a mountain in the middle of winter. As an added advantage, the gloves would ensure that she left no telltale fingerprints behind.
Peering through the slits of her red mask, she leaned farther around the column to see a commotion in the foyer. One of the arriving guests, a woman dressed as a Las Vegas showgirl, had gotten her tall feather headdress stuck on the crystal chandelier.
As the doorman struggled to untangle the distraught showgirl, Sarah quickly raced up the steps and moved inside the foyer, heading rapidly for the ballroom. The loud band music reverberating down the hallway would have led her there, even if she hadn’t memorized the blueprint of the mansion’s floor plans the night before.
Sarah held her breath as she hurried down the hallway, half-expecting someone to sound an alarm and cut her off before she could lose herself among the crowd of costumed guests milling around the opulent ballroom. But to her surprise, no one tried to stop her. She soon found herself standing at the arched doorway to the ballroom, mercifully anonymous behind her mask.
Relief washed over her, though she knew the greater challenge lay ahead. She let her gaze wander over the ballroom, impressed with the polished marble floor and the crystal chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling. All of the guests wore masks to conceal their identity. According to the party invitation, the grand unveiling was scheduled for midnight.
That’s when Sarah intended to make her move.
She checked her watch, realizing she’d allowed herself plenty of time. Now she simply had to blend in and mingle for the next hour or so, try to act as if she really belonged here. Sarah couldn’t wait until this night was over. Then she could return to her regular life. In a regular house. With regular people.
If she didn’t land herself in prison first.
She sucked a deep breath of air at that thought and tightened her grip on the small wicker picnic basket she carried in the crook of her arm. It wasn’t as if she’d come here tonight to actually steal anything. Just the opposite, in fact. Sarah was here for the express purpose of returning the diamond necklace presently inside her basket to the safe on the third floor of the Wolff mansion, where it belonged.
And she desperately needed to do it before anyone noticed the necklace was missing. Before they could accuse her grandfather, Bertram Hewitt, of stealing it. Again.
Unfortunately, her grandfather was guilty, though he truly believed it was no more than he deserved. Forty years ago, Bertram Hewitt and Seamus Wolff had gone into the estate business together, purchasing entire households of possessions belonging to the recently deceased, then reselling them at a profit. After only two prosperous years, Seamus Wolff had abruptly demanded they close their business and split all the assets in half.
Bertram claimed to this day that Seamus knew about the diamond necklace stashed in one of the old trunks—a trunk Seamus had made certain he received as his part of the business settlement. The man had gone on to become a multimillionaire, using the valuable necklace as collateral to embark on several very successful business ventures. Meanwhile, Bertram had eked out a living in a pawnshop, certain that he’d been cheated by his old friend.
So he’d stolen it with the best of intentions, determined to provide Sarah with her rightful legacy. Not that the police would care. They certainly hadn’t cared eighteen years ago when he’d stolen the necklace the first time, hoping to save his dying wife.
Her grandfather’s bitterness had only grown deeper in prison. He’d vowed to get the necklace back again. And he’d done just that two weeks ago, blending in among a crew of house painters while the Wolff family was in Jamaica over Christmas.
Fortunately, they hadn’t noticed the necklace missing yet, or the police would be at their door once more. That’s why Sarah had to return it now, while there was still a chance to save her grandfather.
“Do you have something in that basket for me?” The deep voice curled around her spine.
Sarah’s heart thumped wildly in her chest as she slowly turned around to see a man-size wolf hovering over her. The shirt and pants of his costume were made of thick, black fur, so plush over his broad chest she had to resist the urge to reach out and stroke it.
“Nothing that would interest you,” she lied. “You might try the buffet table.”
Even if she hadn’t recognized his voice, she’d know those eyes anywhere. Michael Wolff. Ruthless businessman and notorious playboy. Grandson of Seamus Wolff. Natural enemy of the Hewitts.
Did he recognize her? She worked at the bank in the building he owned, but he’d never been one of her customers. Besides, her costume concealed her almost from head to foot. Still, he had mentioned the basket. It hung heavy on her arm and she was suddenly certain he knew the diamond necklace was inside.
Sarah glanced toward the doorway, wondering if she should make a run for it. She was five-six and had run the hurdles in high school, but Michael had a good eight inches on her and a powerful, athletic body. She should know since she’d stared at it often enough when he’d walked through the bank to his private elevator. All the women had stared. Though he’d seemed as oblivious of the drooling female admiration as he had of her.
Until now. Michael stood with his legs wide apart, a long tail hanging between them. The wolf costume hugged his body, looking as if it had been custom-made. It probably had. No, running wasn’t a good idea. He’d probably tackle her before she even made it to the door.
He bared straight, white teeth in a wolfish smile. “These woods are dangerous for such a tasty little morsel like yourself. Did you get lost on your way to grandmother’s house, my dear?”
Sarah
