Page 26 of A Touch Wicked
“My apologies.” James took a step back. “I thought you were someone else.”
She said something, then, in a voice that only confirmed what he knew, but James had already bowed and started away.
He would not find Selene here. Dreams had a habit of fading in the light.
Chapter 15
Emma walked into the room at the Masquerade and found James at the window, staring out at the streets of Mayfair.
He was in his shirtsleeves, leaning against the wall with a hand in his trouser pocket. Something squeezed in Emma’s chest at the domestic sight of it — until she noticed the glass of brandy in his hand. He didn’t turn when she shut the door behind her.
“Rebonjour,” she said. When he didn’t respond, she frowned. “Is everything all right?”
His response was so quiet, she barely heard it. “It’s my birthday.”
Was that cause for such a dark mood? “Happy birthday,” she told him, hesitating to approach.
He seemed too moody there in the darkness. She didn’t fear him, no. But this was a side of him she had yet to experience.
“Is it?” his question cut across the air like a whip.
“Is it what?”
“Happy.” His laugh was like a scrape of a blade over stone. “That is an excellent question.”
Emma’s heart quickened in her chest. “James?”
He lifted the glass and downed his brandy. In his profile, Emma noticed how weary he looked. When was the last time he’d slept?
“Tell me about your husband,” he said quietly. “I need to know why you come. Does he not seek you out?”
Emma sucked in a breath and shut her eyes. She considered lying to him; it should be so simple after all this time. She was a natural at it, wasn’t she? Each falsehood came easily, an intricate web created from past lovers, her father, her life. Every lie had to have solid foundation on which to build.
What they had was like a sandcastle, not constructed to last. The moment a storm hit, it would collapse and wash away, with no trace of it having existed at all. So delicate.
She had this choice to lie and save what they shared, but the foundation would always crumble with time. Nothing stood forever, certainly not structures of sand — built only to be destroyed.
“I lied to you. I have no husband,” Emma whispered. The first hint of the oncoming tide, licking at the base of the castle. “And before you ask, I’m not widowed, either.”
James turned to her, his face expressionless. “I see.”
“What does that mean?” She didn’t like the look he gave her. As if he were coming to a conclusion that was all wrong. “James?”
He didn’t reply as he set his glass down on the table with a hard rap. Then he shocked her by tearing off his mask and tossing it to the carpet.
His expression, unencumbered by the mask, made Emma retreat until her back touched the door. His blue eyes were blazing, blond hair mussed. He looked beautiful and brutal, like an angel readying for battle.
When he reached her, James quietly set about unbuttoning her cloak. His mouth was in a grim line — as if he found it a chore — but when Emma tried to grasp his hands, he shook her off. Her cloak fell to the floor, and he continued with her dress.
Oh, how she both hated and loved how practiced his hands had become, how deft and skillful his fingers.
“Say something,” she breathed when he roughly turned her to unlace her corset. It was easier this way, not facing him. Not seeing his expression.
“What would you like me to say?” His voice was low. How could French sound like that? So cold? So impersonal?
“Anything.” The word almost stuck in her throat. “Yell at me. Demand answers. Ask me why I lied.”
His laugh was darker than before. It stuck her like a blade to the heart. “Why would I do that? This place is built on lies, is it not? Why should I have expected any different from you?”
