to inspect the sole. “I’m going to rub my thumb across the ball of your foot. If you feel any pain, then there could be glass under the skin.”
She nodded, her breath stuttering like a car engine failing to turn over. Lainey wasn’t sure she’d be able to detect pain—or anything else—as Damian inspected her. For an encounter that shouldn’t have been in the least bit sexual, every nerve ending in her body was singing as though it was Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve and every other damn holiday all at once.
“Do you feel anything?” He looked up.
Seeing a big man like him on his knees, looking up at her through that sexier-than-sin mask, touching her as though she were the most precious thing in all the world...
“I think I’d be a statue not to feel something,” she said, her voice low and soft. “But I’m not in pain.”
He held on to her foot for a moment, his eyes fixed on her. Her calf was cradled in his palm, the heat from his skin working its way through her, turning her veins to threads of fire. Thank God she had a mask on so he couldn’t see her face heating up. They stayed there—locked in that moment, frozen by intimacy—until he cleared his throat and slipped the shoe back onto her foot.
“So I’ll be alright, Doc?”
“Better than alright.” He stood. The tuxedo fit him perfectly, hugging his shoulders and tapering down to his waist in a line so mouthwateringly divine, it stole Lainey’s breath. The only thing ruining the effect was the red wine stain. “I’m glad we checked—the last thing you want is a glass splinter.”
“Exactly. Cinderella had glass on her feet, and look how that turned out.”
He raised a brow. “She got the prince, didn’t she?”
“The prince had to rely on the fit of a shoe.” Lainey shook her head. “What she got was a dude with a bad memory and a foot fetish.”
Damian chuckled. “Not into fairy tales, then?”
“Oh, I am.” She swung her feet, relishing the swish of the beaded material around her ankles. “But Cinderella isn’t my favourite. What woman wants a man who can’t remember her face?”
“Good point.” He pulled a hand towel out of a small basket beside the sink and ran it under water. “They’re all kind of messed up when you think about it. Sleeping Beauty, especially.”
“I prefer my romances a little more grounded in reality.” Lainey swallowed as Damian dabbed at the stain on his shirt, turning the fabric damp so that it clung to his chest muscles.
If bodies were supposed to be temples, his was the Parthenon.
Maybe if you’d been able to recall that kind of crap during exams instead of checking out a hot guy, you would have done better at school.
“Do you mean the kind of movies where the woman splashes the man with red wine and seduces him in a bathroom?” He caught her gaze in the mirror.
“I haven’t seduced you yet.”
“Yet.” His smile turned from amused to wolfish, his lips revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “So there’s still hope.”
“You don’t even know my name.”
* * *
No, he didn’t know her name. And he was supposed to be focused on seducing his client, not a mysterious redhead. But having her alone, feeling her energy sparking all around him put him in his element. Not like out there, where he was an anomaly.
If she’s here, then she’s one of them. A rich princess type who’ll be more trouble than she’s worth.
Just like his ex.
But something gave him pause. There was an inkling, more the potential for a feeling than a feeling itself, that said he was wrong. When she’d dropped her glass, the first thing out of her mouth had been an apology—not an excuse or accusation. When he’d offered her help, she’d graciously accepted. And now she was teasing him. Playing with him.
The redhead was like him, an outsider looking in. He knew it.
“Maybe I can guess your name,” he said, giving up on the stained shirt and throwing the face towel into the basket below the sink. “Wasn’t that in a fairy tale?”
“Rumpelstiltskin. It’s not a very romantic one.” Her legs swung back and forth over the edge of the marble countertop. Though they didn’t know each other, she seemed completely at ease. “But you can try. I’ll give you three guesses, and if you lose...” She tapped a finger against her chin. “You have to share a drink with me on the balcony upstairs.”
He braced his hands against the countertop, leaning toward her. She smelled like vanilla and peaches. The black beads on her mask glittered, reflecting his hungry expression in miniature, over and over.
“How many names are there in the world? I’d be a fool to take such a bet.” He grinned. “Do I get any clues?”
“You don’t look like a man who needs a clue.”
“Some might argue that,” he said drily. Damian himself thought a clue would be good right about now—one that would give him the hint to leave this woman alone and head back out to the ballroom so he could corner Jerry McPartlin.
She turned to look in the mirror for a moment. “My name has nothing to do with my hair colour.”
“So not Ruby or Scarlett or Rose?”
“Nope.” She tucked a strand of fiery-red hair behind her ear.
“That doesn’t really narrow it down. Can I get a letter?”
“This isn’t Wheel of Fortune.”
His lip quirked. “How about a year of birth?”
“Tsk, tsk.” She waggled a finger at him. “That’s the one thing you should never ask a lady.”
He thought for a moment, cycling through some options that would be appropriate for someone in her age group—which was tough to narrow down without being able to see most of her face. But from the smooth, unblemished skin and the way she sat, comfortable and swinging her feet...he’d put her at her midtwenties. Maybe less, although he didn’t want to think about her being over a decade younger than him.
“You’re holding all the cards.”
She grinned. “Which is exactly how I like it.”
“You’re not a negotiator, are you?”
“No. I’m a romantic and a dreamer.”
“Ah, so you’re unemployed?”
She threw her head back and laughed, the sound striking him right in the chest. But it cut off before he could grasp hold of something that flickered out of reach. A memory.
“Do we know each other?” he asked, looking closer.
“No.”
