Love in the Vineyard (Tavonesi #7)(9)

Music from the tent startled her back from her fantasy. She tugged at the bodice of the gown in an unsuccessful attempt to pull it up. Mary had dusted her with a powder of some sort, and the sparkles emphasized the curves of Natasha’s breasts and the valley between them.

At least she had the cape.

The cape would cover her. She pulled it from the back seat and wrapped it tight, securing it with the faux ruby pin that had come with the costume.

A quick glance in her side mirror told her the mask was in place. Not that she’d be recognized even if it wasn’t—no one knew her here. Even so, the black scrolled lace hiding her identity felt like a security blanket. The invitation had made it clear that there was to be no unmasking or sharing of identities before midnight. Mary had made a show of reading the threat of a steep fine for anyone not heeding the rule.

In spite of her misgivings, a secret thrill shivered through Natasha. Tonight she could be anonymous like the rest of the guests. Tonight she could be anyone she wished to be. She could lose herself in the fantasy and enjoy the evening. Hope blossomed with the thought. It had been a long time since she’d considered the hopes of the woman she’d once dreamed of being. A very, very long time.

But when she entered the tent, her breath stopped.

She’d seen movies with scenes of brief flashes of opulent parties. But the costume-clad throng already gathered in the tent went far beyond any movie portrayal.

Before she could orient herself, the man tending the entrance insisted on taking her cloak and checking it. Without it, even hidden behind her mask, she felt exposed. She stared as the man handed her cape to the coat-check girl. The easy smile on the young woman’s face wasn’t one she’d worn all those years ago when she’d performed the same tasks.

She spied a dark corner guarded by a towering urn overflowing with flowers and flanked by a lush palm. Skirting the edges of the tent and avoiding eye contact, she slipped into the shadows next to the palm. Her secluded sanctuary afforded her a perfect view of the glittering guests.

A waiter came by and offered her a flute of champagne from a silver tray. Evidently she wasn’t as hidden as she’d thought. She accepted a glass and thanked him. The bubbles tickled her throat as she swallowed.

Soon she found herself tapping her toes to the music, her body swaying.

Her longing to dance didn’t surprise her. The few memories she had of her mother were of them dancing together in the living room of their tiny apartment in Manhattan. Her mother had let her wear one of her tutus, part of a costume she’d kept from one of the many ballets she’d danced in. In those days, Natasha had dreamed of being a ballet dancer just like her mother. But that was before a lightning bolt had struck her mother dead while she walked down a Long Island beach. Before five-year-old Natasha had been shuffled from foster family to foster family, each worse than the last. No woman wanted a beautiful orphan under her husband’s nose, especially once she’d reached her teenage years.

The strains of a favorite song sounded from the stage at the far end of the tent. Natasha resisted the urge to dance and watched as the energy of the party swelled with the arrival of more festive and ornately costumed guests. Some men wore only black tie, their masks the only nod to the concept of masquerade. But goddesses, fairies, queens and countesses surrounded them. A few costumes looked like they’d been borrowed from the Star Wars bar scene—maybe they had been.

Her stomach growled. She’d wolfed down a sandwich at Casa del Sole around noon but hadn’t eaten since. Hunger drew her from her sanctuary and out to a curved table that held bamboo baskets filled with delicate dumplings. She set down her glass and piled a few of the hors d’oeuvres onto a plate. She was just headed back to her secluded corner when a hand touched her arm.

“I have it on good authority that the mushroom dumplings at the end of the table are excellent,” a velvet-smooth voice said.

She looked up into dark eyes outlined by a black mask. The midnight-blue eyes belonged to a man with the most beguiling smile she’d ever seen. Perhaps it was the champagne or perhaps it was because the mask made his smile more pronounced, but she could’ve sworn it reached into her most secret heart. The part of her she shared with no one.

Instinctively she stepped away from the man’s touch. And saw that in addition to the simple black mask, he wore a costume that made him look like a cross between a dark angel and some sort of swashbuckling musketeer.

“That good authority being me,” another man, one wearing a wizard’s costume, said with a jolly laugh as he stepped up to them. He nodded to the man with the velvet voice. “Don’t trust his opinion of American food. He’s new to the country.”

“Not that new, Parker,” the man with the unsettling smile said. “And besides, these are Asian dumplings, nothing American about them.”

His easy laugh shouldn’t have sent a warm path of energy flooding through Natasha.

“No names,” said the man outed as Parker. “You are officially fined one thousand dollars.” He turned to Natasha. “You’ll be fined too if you give any identifying information. Any at all.” He wriggled his brows and grinned. “We have agents throughout the room keeping track of rule breakers.” He nudged the other man. “You can pay up now or at the end of the evening. If you don’t want to break my well-crafted spell, you’ll have to wait till midnight.”