Masquerade by Janet Dailey Read Free Book Online Page A

ostentatious hand. To the undiscerning eye, the glass-domed and marble-floored Salon Royal might resemble a gaudy if stunning piece of costume jewelry, but the one-ton chandelier was nothing less than Baccarat crystal, and the tapestry on the wall was a genuine Gobelin.
    Cole's hand moved to the small of her back, the sensation of it blocking out everything else as he guided her to the registration desk. She was acutely conscious of the sudden longings that ran through her—a desire for intimacy, to touch and be touched. Why? Had it been that long since she'd been with a man?
    "Am I married?" she wondered suddenly.  
    "No." If he found her question unexpected, he gave no sign of it.  
    "Divorced?"  
    "No."
    "Have I ever been close?"
    "To which? Marriage or divorce?" he asked, showing her the first glimpse of his humor.
    "Wouldn't it have to be marriage?" she challenged, a faint smile dimpling her own cheeks. "I understand it comes before divorce."
    "I guess it does," he agreed, then seemed to withdraw from her, a remoteness shuttering his expression. "You were engaged once."
    "What happened?"
    "He drowned in a boating accident on Lake Pontchartrain."
    She immediately felt a sharp twinge of sadness. "What was his name?"
    "Nick Austin."
    Did the name mean anything to her? She couldn't tell. All she had was a vague feeling of something—someone—from long, long ago. Then the curtness of Cole's answer registered, and she looked up, encountering his glance, oddly cool and remote. "You didn't like him."
    "I didn't know him."
    Again he spoke curtly, as if he resented any mention of her late fiancé. Why? Surely he couldn't have been jealous, could he? Jealous that some other man had come first with her? Then another thought occurred to her.
    "Cole, are you married?"
    He shot her a quick look before answering, then abruptly dropped his glance. "No."
    She was stunned by the relief she felt at his answer—and by the swift rise of possessiveness she'd felt just before it. She didn't follow him when he crossed to the desk and spoke to one of the clerks. She was too busy trying to come to terms with the discovery that the possessive feeling had been jealousy.
    Then he was walking back to her. "He hasn't arrived with your passport, so I've arranged for a suite. I didn't think you'd want to wait around the lobby until he comes."
    She stiffened at the hint of sarcasm in his remark, and its implication that she would regard waiting in the lobby as something beneath her. She started to challenge him on it, but the arrival of a bellman deterred her—for the time being.
    In silence she went up in the elevator, down the hall, and into the suite of rooms. There she crossed to the window of the richly furnished sitting room and waited while the bellman went through the ritual of showing Cole all the suite's amenities. Finally she heard the click of the door latch signal his departure, and she swung from the spectacular view of the bay's deep-blue waters.
    Without looking at her, Cole locked the door behind the bellman, then loosened the knot of his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt as he started across the room toward the telephone, which rested on an ebony secretaire. "I'm going to order up some coffee. Do you want anything?"
    "Yes, I'd like to know what you meant by that remark you made downstairs. Or was that some brotherly gibe?"
    "Brotherly?" he stopped, an eyebrow lifting sharply. "I'm not your brother, Remy."
    Her mouth gaped open. She couldn't help it. "But... at the hospital... I thought. ..." She stopped, trying to remember exactly what had been said—and by whom.
    "I am not your brother, Remy," he repeated, his mouth slanting in a hard and cynically amused line.
    "Then who are you?"
    "Exactly who I claim to be—the president of the Crescent Line, Cole Buchanan."
    "Inspector Armand said my brother was coming to take me home," she remembered. "If you aren't my brother, then where is