Page 4 of Masked Intentions in Pelican Point
His smile is slow, wicked. "And you're still mine to unravel."
Somewhere inside Saltmoor House, laughter and music drift as preparations continue. But beneath the surface, tension winds tight, dangerous and electric. And I know, as surely as I know Nolan Porter is both my greatest irritation and my most magnetic distraction, that this masquerade will be the sort of night people whisper about long after the candles burn out—and the sort that could get us both killed.
CHAPTER 2
NOLAN
Saltmoor House hums with the kind of tension that always comes before something breaks. I've felt it in combat zones during my time as a Navy SEAL, in auction houses where stolen art changes hands, and in the sacred places my grandmother warned me never to approach alone. The Reina de Oro mask carries that same weight—the presence of things that refuse to rest peacefully.
From the moment she stepped onto the grounds, I had pegged her as a complication. Not because she's Cerberus—though that in itself means trouble—but because she carries herself like a woman who refuses to be outmatched. Smart eyes, sharper tongue, and a body that makes rational thought a chore. Dangerous in every way.
I remind myself I'm not here for her. I'm here for the Reina de Oro mask, for the whispers tied to it, for the chain of violence that follows every time someone tries to own it. My briefing with Ryan Murphy was clear: I consult on the historical side, nothing more. But then Allison walks in, dripping sarcasm with that British lilt, and suddenly I'm more interested in watching her than the mask.
The next morning, Candace Murphy is waiting for me in the ballroom, a hurricane of blonde hair and designer silk. She smiles wide, the kind of smile that never touches the eyes when you've grown used to entertaining sharks. She gestures me toward the case.
"Nolan, I trust everything meets your expectations?" she asks, her voice carrying the faintest edge of nervousness, which is odd since Candace has a reputation for being an ice queen. But if she is ice, Ryan is fire. They're perfectly matched.
I glance at the mask, then at her. "The case is sturdy. Sealed glass, reinforced locks. But expectations? That depends on whether you want the academic answer or the truth."
Her smile wavers. "Both."
"Academically speaking, you've displayed the mask well. Correct humidity, correct lighting. Historically speaking..." I let my gaze drift back to the jeweled face. "This mask has a reputation for blood. And reputations like that don't fade easily. Someone will try to take it, if only to prove they can."
Candace snorts, her hand clutching the stem of a wineglass as if it were armor. "That's why Ryan called Fitz and Fitz sent Allison."
My jaw tightens at her mention. Allison, across the room, walks the perimeter with crisp efficiency. She checks doors, directs staff, takes note of every camera angle. She looks like she belongs here, and yet she doesn't. She's too striking against the backdrop of silk curtains and crystal chandeliers, like a blade tucked into velvet. And I can't look away.
"She's thorough," Candace continues, following my line of sight. "Do you know her?"
"Only by reputation. It's the first time I've worked with her." I drag my gaze back to Candace, though it takes effort. "But I know the type. She'll drive everyone mad before the night is through, but she'll still get the job done."
Candace laughs softly. "That's exactly what Ryan said."
Across the hall, Allison catches me watching her. Instead of looking away, she flashes a taunting grin that says she's already inside my head and she's not leaving anytime soon.
Later, when Candace excuses herself, I find myself shadowing Allison as she finishes her sweep. I tell myself it's to make sure she doesn't miss anything, but the truth is simpler and far more dangerous: I want to be near her.
"You missed a blind spot," I say, pointing to a corner where the camera angle doesn't quite cover the corridor.
She doesn't even glance at it. "I didn't miss it. I noted it."
"Noted it?"
Her eyes snap to mine. "Noted it means I already have a contingency. Don't mistake efficiency for oversight."
I chuckle. "Touchy."
"Accurate." She moves past me, her shoulder brushing mine just enough to leave heat in its wake. "Tell me, Porter, do you always follow women around, pointing out things they already know?"
"Only when they pretend they don't need backup."
She stops, turns, and tilts her head with that infuriating grin. "Backup implies you're in charge. Let me be the first to tell you, you're not."
There it is again—that push and pull, the friction that's already driving me mad. I step closer, lowering my voice. "I don't need to earn what's already mine to take."
Her breath hitches, so quick she probably doesn't realize I heard it. But then she recovers, eyes glittering. "Careful, Nolan. I may play a submissive at Baker Street, but I don't play when I'm working. You try to take without asking, and you'll end up bleeding."
I hold her gaze, and for one reckless heartbeat, I imagine testing her promise. Testing her resistance. Testing how far she'll go before she finally yields. My hands itch with the need to find out.
