For the Love of Family (2 page)

She hesitated. That was a strange reaction. For the first time she wondered whether he might be drunk.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll bite. How do you know he’s stupid?”

Zorro leaned his head to one side again. Just a fraction of an inch, but it was lethally cute. She grew subtly warmer.

“False modesty doesn’t really go with that costume.” He smiled. “You know how I know.”

She laughed, though some remote part of her mind wondered whether she ought to be flirting with a new man already. Surely Emily Post would insist that there was some requisite period of mourning, even for a faithless baboon like Andy.

Belle decided that she’d given it at least ninety
seconds, which seemed like plenty. There was something about this guy…

“It is just a costume, though. Underneath all this stuff, I might be…” She hesitated. “Boring.”

He shook his head slowly.

“Stupid.”

He kept shaking.

“Bitchy.”

“Okay, maybe a little. I did notice that you intended to kickbox me into next week if I dared to come too close.” He laughed. “But I like bitchy. In the Malone family we call it starch. My grandmother would shoot me if I so much as talked to a woman without starch.”

Belle wanted to say something clever, but was momentarily speechless.

He was a Malone?

He liked bitchy?

He wedged the half-empty beer bottle carefully into the dirt of the potted palm. Then he held out his hand. “Dance with me.”

She smiled.
He liked bitchy
.

She couldn’t have said no if she tried.

She didn’t try.

She hadn’t realized how late it had grown. The DJ had moved to slow songs, and someone had turned down the lights. As she and Zorro made their way to the dance floor, she noticed that children all over the room were falling asleep over their mother’s shoulders, on their laps, across carefully arranged chairs, with their daddy’s coats rolled up as pillows.

It felt illogically natural to walk into this man’s arms, which were every bit as strong and leanly muscled as she had imagined. He smelled fresh, like limes, with a smoky undercurrent of beer. Now and then her costume jingled softly, a light note under the music.

He was graceful, and he made her graceful, though she had always believed she was a terrible dancer. She felt as light as one of the silver balloons.

They didn’t talk until the third song. It was as if they’d already found each other in words, and now they wanted to learn each other by touch. Legs braiding easily, never tangling. Her cheek against his chin, and then, gradually, lowering to his shoulder.

She knew that her lips left a red mark on his shoulder, though it was invisible against the Zorro black. She wondered if he would notice, if he would have it dry-cleaned away tomorrow, when the magic wore off.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly, his low voice rumbling against her chest.

She raised her head to look at him. “For what?”

“For this. I didn’t expect to be happy tonight.”

“Why not?” She glanced around. “It’s a lovely party.”

His strong mouth was somber, and she realized that, because of the mask that cloaked his eyes, she had learned to read the man’s moods by his lips.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m supposed to be celebrating. I just got my MBA, and last week I landed a new job. It’s a great job. All kinds of zeros on the paycheck, and a corner office with picture windows thrown in for good measure.”

She watched him. It didn’t occur to her to wonder
why he was telling her this. The intimacy between them might be illogical, but it was real.

“A great job. I guess that means there’s a ‘but…’”

He nodded. “
But
…I’m an ungrateful son of a bitch, and I don’t want it. I feel pretty damn sure that within a year I’m going to sit at that corner window seriously thinking about jumping out of it.”

“So don’t take it.”

For the first time, he missed a step. Their legs came together awkwardly for a split second, and then he recovered. “It’s not that simple.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Because nothing ever is.” He tightened his arms around her waist and dipped her lightly to a swell in the music. “Except this, right now. With you.”

She knew that, as abruptly as he’d begun, he was through talking. And she accepted his silence, because the whole night was strange and magical, and didn’t follow any of the rules she’d ever known.

She didn’t know him, and yet she felt her soul touching his. She hadn’t been invited to this party, and yet she had never felt more at home anywhere. Not even at the house that really was her home.

Especially not there.

They danced two more dances. They kept moving subtly, still entwined, even between songs, when there was no music. The clock was ticking, but she intended to savor every minute she had left.

Finally the DJ announced that the next song would be the last. A sleepy protest went up from the dance floor, from the people drowsing at the tables and the
stragglers at the buffet. She had to bite back her own protest, and her Zorro stiffened as if he, too, disliked the idea of midnight tolling.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Let me take you to my place.”

She drew back. She opened her lips but wasn’t sure what to say.

He touched the corner of her mouth with one finger. “Don’t look like that,” he said. “Don’t be afraid. You can trust me.”

She hesitated. It was one thing to dance with him here, in this ballroom full of sleepy families and silly costumes and a sign on the door that said Private and kept the world at bay. It would be quite another to leave this place with…whoever he was.

Somebody Malone.

Hands on her shoulders, he swiveled her around. “See that gorgeous old lady over there, dressed like Marie Antoinette? That’s my grandmother, Angelina. The guy in the bear suit is my brother Red. The ballerina is his girlfriend, Patty, unless she’s come to her senses in the past hour and ditched him. My name is Matthew Malone, and, as I already mentioned, my totally unthreatening sword came straight from Toys
 Us.”

He rotated her gently, until she faced him again. “If you come with me, I can’t promise I won’t kiss you. I want that. I want more than that. But I promise I won’t do anything unless you tell me it’s all right.”

She was a fool to consider it, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care. She felt as if she’d entered this ballroom as a child playing games, and she was leaving it utterly
changed. She had never made love to anyone, but she knew it was possible…likely…that she would make love to this man tonight.

To Matthew Malone. It seemed strange to know his name. Strange, too, that he hadn’t asked for hers.

Something started to shiver, deep inside. She took his hand and let him lead her to the double doors. They stopped briefly to talk to a handsome man who introduced himself as Matt’s brother Colby, but subtly managed not to require her name in return.

The men exchanged a few quiet words, which seemed to be about the car, or perhaps who would be driving. She didn’t worry about it. She felt strangely free from worries of all kinds.

By now the clerks at the registration desk must have seen a hundred costumes. No one blinked an eye when Zorro and Cleopatra walked with a quiet urgency through the lobby, hand in hand.

After the warm, crowded room, the San Francisco night air was chilly, but she didn’t want to break the spell by stopping to grab her coat out of her car. He put his arm around her shoulder and tucked her up against his chest. Against his warmth…but it made her shiver more.

He bypassed the valet stand and wound through the parking lot’s long black aisles, half-empty now, with isolated cars shining under the starlight.

He stopped at a silver sedan.

“Do you mind driving?” He held out a pair of keys.

She frowned. “Drive your car? Why?”

“I shouldn’t get behind a wheel. I was drinking pretty hard tonight.”

She was surprised. “You were?”

“Yeah. I knew everyone expected me to be wildly excited about the job, and I just couldn’t face it sober. A couple of six-packs seemed like the quickest way to get there.” He shrugged. “Once I found you, I didn’t need it anymore.”

Though he’d been holding a beer when she met him, she’d assumed that was his first. He didn’t look, talk or dance like a man who was under the influence.

Although…how could she know how he looked when he was drunk? She knew virtually nothing about him, except that he was handsome, and funny and gentle.

And he made her insides turn to liquid silver.

But how many drinks could he possibly have had, and still dance with such seductive grace?

“Too many,” he said, as if he read her mind. “It’s not something I do very often. Tonight was…a bad night.”

A pang of sympathy stabbed her. Underneath the suave looks and easy wit, he was sad. She was shocked by the intensity of her desire to make that sadness go away.

“I’ll be glad to drive.” Taking the keys from his outstretched hand, she unlocked the doors. “I had a couple of drinks, but that was hours ago. I think I’m okay.”

He opened her door, and as she moved to slide in, he suddenly caught her around the waist.

“I wish I’d found you sooner,” he said. “You do things to me that no alcohol could ever do.”

“I’m glad,” she said, feeling the shivers start again. She looked up into his dark eyes, trying to read them behind the mask. She felt deliciously bold, reborn as a
woman to whom courage came naturally. “If you’re going to be wildly excited tonight, I want it to be because of me.”

He groaned softly. He bent his head toward hers, his gaze hard on her mouth. She made a low sound and shut her eyes, waiting for the lovely pressure of his lips closing over hers.

“You have to tell me,” he said with a low thrum of urgency. “Tell me you want this.”

Couldn’t he see that she did? She opened her eyes, knowing they were dazed, unfocused under the heavy Egyptian makeup.

“I want this,” she whispered. “I want this. I want—”

And then finally, with a half laugh, he claimed her, driving away the cold air with his hot, hard lips. He covered her parted mouth, indifferent to the red lipstick that she knew would end up all over both of them.

She reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, bringing him closer. Her lips opened under his exploring tongue, and she felt her whole body opening, too. She was melting, ripening, blooming as if she were a rose in the noonday sun, not a half-clad Cleopatra on a cold October night.

His mouth tasted like mint and beer and sugar cookies, and he filled her with a fiery sweetness. She let go of his hair and ran her hands up and down his back, learning the contours of him, the long lean muscles on either side of his spine, the firm hollows at the small of his back.

It was more than she could stand. She wished they had already reached wherever he was taking her. She
wished they could shed these silly costumes and lie together on silky sheets. She wanted to touch the bare skin beneath the black cloth and satin mask.

She could feel his arousal, and she wanted it inside her, though she only half understood what that would really mean.

She pulled away. “Let’s go,” she said. “Hurry.”

He nodded. His lips were almost as red as hers, and the sight was strangely sexy. She reached up to touch their swollen curves, which she’d painted with her passion.

His voice husky, he gave her directions to his house. Then he climbed into the passenger’s side of the car. When she turned the key in the ignition, music came on in the darkness—low, murmuring music that wasn’t quite wild enough for her mood. But she didn’t know how to change it, and she didn’t want to waste any time anyhow. So she let it play on.

When she shivered, he dialed up the heater and laid his hand against her thigh, rubbing warmth into the chilled, bare skin. She heard him sigh, and caught the glint of moonlight along his jaw as he tilted his head back and shut his eyes.

Maybe, she thought later, it was Fate, intervening at the last minute.

Saving her from herself.

Or maybe it was just too dark. Or too hot. Or too far.

Or too many beers, finally catching up with even the strongest head.

She’d never know for sure. All she knew was that somewhere in the warm darkness, with the rhythmic purr of the expensive engine and the lulling sound of
Chopin filling the air, the man she had chosen to be her first lover fell asleep.

He didn’t wake up when she stopped the car in front of his elegant town house, a three-story brownstone with potted yellow flowers on the stairs. He slept on, his head against the window, when she got out and called a cab from her cell phone.

He didn’t wake even when she leaned across the seat and kissed him goodbye.

When the cab arrived, she climbed in and gave the driver the name of the hotel, so she could get her abandoned car. As he streaked away, she allowed herself one last look behind.

She wondered what she would do if the silver sedan’s door suddenly opened and he rushed out, calling her name.

But Zorro slept on.