Page 8 of Cruel Delights
He presents me with a mask—a much different, less ornate mask than many of the others donned by the privileged partygoers who used the main entrance.
It’s made of delicate black lace with cut-outs for my eyes, only covering the upper half of my face. Barely a disguise at all.
Jael pulls hers out of her purse. At my raised brow, she says, “I kept mine from last time.”
“Your phone,” says the security.
I look away from Jael, then to him, before looking back at her. She shrugs.
“I don’t bother bringing mine. They’re not allowed here. You have to turn it in here and it’s kept in a lockbox ’til the night’s over.”
“Oh… um… okay.”
After another hesitant pause, I present the security guy my phone.
“You may wait here,” he says, escorting us into another room.
We’re not alone. The room is occupied with a handful of others waiting around, wearing the same masks we do. Mostly women, with a couple of men sprinkled in.
Everyone’s beautiful. It’s like I’ve walked into a casting room full of models.
What am I doing here?!
I glance at Jael. “What’s going on? Why do we have to wait here?”
“Because we’reguests. We don’t have a real invite. Paolo should be coming down any second to get us.”
“This isn’t my kind of thing,” I say, pulling my short dress further down my thighs. “I’m going to go.”
Jael grabs my elbow. Her long nails pinch at my skin. “You’re not going anywhere. Youneedthis!”
I’m not sure what ‘this’ Jael is referencing, but a second later, a man with waxy hair that’s slicked down to his scalp appears. He smiles in familiarity, wearing a cream suit and a popped collar.
“Buonasera, Lyra.”
With no other pretense, he steps forward and kisses either of my cheeks.
“I’m sorry… who are you?”
“That’s Francesco. Paolo must’ve sent him down to come get us. Let’s go.”
I’m herded along with the other two into a glass elevator. Francesco presses the fourth floor, then casts a polite smile at me.
“You are very exquisite,” he says in a thick Italian accent.
My face warms. “Oh, err, thanks. You’re, um, very exquisite too. I like your tie.”
There’s a beat of awkward silence as the elevator cranks and we’re being carried up several stories.
“He’s very taken with you,” Jael whispers. “Do your thing and flirt with him. His suit cost more than everything you own.”
I glower at her and then turn back to Francesco. He hasn’t stopped eying me—actually, it’s more of a leer, like I’m a piece of meat to be devoured. I shift uncertainly and search my brain for topics I’d have in common with an Italian businessman who barely speaks a word of English.
“It’s been really warm lately,” I say conversationally.
His brow creases. “Scusi?”
“Hot,” I say again, only louder. “It’s been warm for September.”