Masked Desires by Elizabeth Coldwell Read Free Book Online Page B

the men in simple dinner suits but the women wearing much more lavish outfits than my own, into the hotel ballroom. A table plan stood by the door, and Eddie gave it a cursory check.
    ‘Table 13. Lucky for some,’ he commented.
    ‘Lucky?’ I queried.
    ‘Yeah, Heather and Phillip look to be sitting on the other side of the room to us.’
    A waiter went by, carrying a tray laden with glasses of champagne. Eddie snagged a couple as he passed, handed one to me, and clinked his glass against mine, proposing a toast. ‘Here’s to being whatever – and whoever – we want to be tonight.’
    ‘I’ll drink to that,’ I replied, a pulse beating hard between my legs as my body flooded with heat. In this exotic atmosphere, identity suddenly became very fluid. Given the masks that covered everyone’s faces, no one had any idea whether they were standing next to a top executive who earned a seven-figure salary, or a lowly sales clerk. It felt like anything could happen tonight.
    I took a good look round the room, trying to print as many of the details as I could on my memory so I could share them with Delia the next time I saw her. Of course, what I really wanted to tell her was not that a seven-piece band occupied a raised dais, playing cover versions of songs by Lady Gaga and Britney Spears, or that guests were able to help themselves to shots from a vodka luge, its ice sculpted in the form of the Statue of Liberty. No, I was more concerned with watching Eddie as he ran a hand through his hair, keeping a wary eye out for the possible approach of Heather. Despite his complaints, he looked comfortable in his tuxedo; I supposed the outfit appealed to the lurking belief every guy has that, in the right circumstances, he’d make the perfect secret agent.
    The evening’s MC, a local TV newsreader whose voice was instantly recognisable even if his face was partially disguised, made an announcement asking us to take our places at the dinner table. Eddie and I found ourselves sitting with a party from one of the big law firms on Lexington Avenue. Luckily for us, they didn’t want to talk shop all night. Instead, they seemed more interested in learning from Eddie what it took to run a bar. He regaled them with stories of some of the strangest customers he’d had to deal with over the years, from the guy who bought a round for everyone in the bar to celebrate the fact his divorce was final to the couple who’d started off with a spot of dirty dancing to the jukebox and had to be stopped from outright fucking on the pool table. Occasionally, he’d brush my palm with his fingers, or turn and fix me with a gaze from behind his mask, keeping up the illusion that we really were a long-time couple. Whenever he did, a shivery heat ran through me, and I found it hard to concentrate on whatever was being said.
    The food was delicious – a delicate smoked fish mousse to start, followed by Cornish game hens served with wild rice and roasted vegetables, and strawberry cake with white chocolate ice cream for dessert – and the wine was a cut above anything Eddie sold in the bar. During the meal, entertainers moved between the tables: caricaturists drew lightning-quick sketches of the guests, and magicians performed tricks involving cards and coins, working their sleight of hand to a rapturous reception. Even though Eddie and Heather appeared not to be particularly close, which only served to prejudice me against her, I couldn’t help but admire the effort she and her colleagues on the charity committee had put into organising the event.
    As waiters appeared to remove the dessert plates and serve coffee to those who wanted it, Eddie excused himself to go to the restroom. Almost before I was aware of it, a woman took his seat. Like the rest of the entertainers, she wasn’t masked. She wore a blue chiffon top with voluminous sleeves, and silver half-moons dangled from her earlobes. I pegged her as a fortune teller before she even opened