Then…
Jessie
As my new heels sank into the red carpet draped over the marble steps of the eighteenth-century Palais Theatre on that late-summer evening in Paris, I felt like a princess for the first time in my life.
Cinderella, eat your heart out!
I reached into my clutch purse to retrieve the invitation which I’d ‘liberated’ from my cousin Belle and showed it to the doorman. My heart bounced into my throat, but the beefy guy simply smiled, and handed back the gold-embossed card—instead of declaring me an imposter and kicking me back down the marble staircase.
So far. So fabulous. Now breathe.
I sucked in an unsteady breath as I headed through the entrance hall with the rest of the glittering in-crowd and into an enormous ballroom showered with light from crystal chandeliers suspended from a painted ceiling four stories above my head.
My gaze roamed over the splendour surrounding me. Marble columns and golden statues flanked the room, while a fleet of waitstaff dressed in elegant black uniforms descended from huge twin rococo staircases, holding trays of champagne flutes and cordon bleu canapés.
Wow.
I’d left Belle and her son Cai in Nice to travel to Paris two weeks ago on the spur of the moment—I knew she needed some alone time to deal with Cai’s father, Alexi Galanti—but in the past two weeks, I had also realised, now the racing team owner was back in her life, I needed to start figuring out my own future.
Belle and I had been a unit for the past four years, ever since she had turned up on my doorstep in London alone and pregnant. When her son Cai was born, we’d become a family. The first proper family I’d ever had since my mother had disappeared from my life when I was still a teenager.
But I was twenty years old now. And while I loved my job as a chef—which was something I’d trained hard at ever since I was sixteen—the long hours and complete lack of a social life had become more and more isolated. And now Belle and Cai had moved from London to Nice permanently, I knew I could no longer rely on them for company.
We would always be family. But I couldn’t live vicariously through them forever.
When I had spotted the invitation to the famous masquerade ball Belle’s former boss Renzo Camaro held in Paris every year, sitting discarded on her dressing table, I had popped it into my backpack on a whim—with some vague idea of using it to jump-start that process.
Belle wouldn’t miss it. She’d already told me she didn’t have the time, or the inclination to attend Camaro’s lavish event to celebrate the start of motor racing’s Super League season. And I had had some vague notion of pushing myself out of my comfort zone at last, and doing some networking, with the elite crowd Belle was a part of, because of her job as a research and development expert in the Super League. We’d talked often about me starting my own catering business, being my own boss, but I’d never had the guts to consider touting for business until now.
But as I stood under the shimmer of glittering lights, and listened to the hum of conversation as the crowd of people posed and preened in their masked finery—the vintage red satin dress I had found that afternoon after scouring every second-hand shop in the Marais cinching around my breasts and the new business cards I’d had printed burning a hole in my clutch purse—I wondered what on earth I thought I was doing here?
I was a chef. And while I might want to make a career out of cooking for people like this—one day—I’d always been on the periphery of Belle’s glamorous career for a reason. Because I was the mousy cousin, who had always been happy to stay home and babysit Cai whenever Belle attended events like this one.
You’re not a princess, you idiot. Or even a businesswoman. Yet. You’re a fraud.
The strains of an orchestra played a Mozart serenade to welcome the guests, while the clink of champagne flutes and fine china covered the rising buzz of small talk. But the noise did nothing to drown out my thundering heartbeat. I searched the crowd – my gaze partially obscured by the gossamer mask made from scraps of antique lace – for someone I might actually know, to ease the feeling of inadequacy suddenly making my chest feel tight.
But as I looked around, even I could tell I had miscalculated. Badly. This was not the sort of place where people made business connections, or talked about them. The party vibe was far too louche and loud and—exhilarating.
Then my gaze found Renzo Camaro—our host—and Belle’s former boss, the guy who had never noticed me the few times he’d met me with my beautiful cousin. And the feeling of inadequacy threatened to crush my ribs.
He stood on the balcony above, looking like a king in his expertly tailored tuxedo. His dark hair gleamed in the sparkle of light. Lorenzo Camaro, the ‘gutter rat made good’ as the racing press had insisted on dubbing him ten years ago, when his Destiny Team had appeared from nowhere and taken their first Super League title.
He was still only thirty years old, even though Destiny have been at the top of the sport—vying with Alexi’s Galanti team for the championship title—for over a decade. As he watched the crowd, he seemed detached and jaded, even though the stunning women on either side of him—one a supermodel, another a Hollywood starlet, both of whom I recognised—were busy flirting with him as if their lives depended on it…
Camaro was the only person not wearing a mask, making no attempt to hide the mysterious scar on his left cheek—probably because it was all part of the myth he had constructed for himself as the charming and dangerous bad boy of racing, whose notorious but vague origins in an unknown Italian slum had been whispered about for years.
The black tuxedo accentuated his height and the hard, graceful line of his muscular physique to perfection. But it was the stunning masculine beauty of his face—only made more dangerous and exciting by the scar—which captured all my attention.
A strange yearning swept through me—and the crushing weight of inadequacy dropped into my abdomen like a stone.
A hot, glowing, insistent stone.
Where the hell was that even coming from?
Camaro was so far out of my league he was practically on Mars. Forget Mars, make that Saturn, the farthest planet from planet Jessie. And he’d never had an effect like that on me before. Probably because I had been busy fading into the furniture whenever we’d met.
And anyway, I wasn’t here looking for romance. Precisely. I was here to try and kick-start a business I’d always dreamed about, but never had the guts to act on, until now.
But somehow the hot stone refused to stop glowing, and throbbing.
And a little voice in my brain began to whisper in my ear—questioning all my motivations for being here. And making the feeling of being a total imposter increase tenfold.
Had I really gone to all this trouble for professional reasons, or had it all been a naive excuse to play dress-up… And have Renzo Camaro notice me at last?
The thought was mortifying. And yet I couldn’t quite dismiss it. Which only made it more mortifying, frankly.
Perhaps I should head back to the quaint bed and breakfast I’d splurged on in Montmartre? But then his hooded gaze caught mine… And stopped roaming.
My heartbeat hammered my throat and pumped wildfire deep into my abdomen, turning the damn stone into a rock of burning lava.
Oh, for pity’s sake.
But even as I squirmed, far too aware of the cold satin rubbing against my oversensitized skin like sandpaper, I couldn’t seem to detach my gaze from his. His eyes narrowed, and for one horrifying and unbearably exhilarating moment, as the adrenaline continued to power through my system, I thought he had actually seen me at last. And it meant something. Although I hated to think exactly what that was.
Maybe that Jessie Burton was as needy and pathetic as her mother, after all.
But before I could freak out completely, the supermodel beside Camaro broke the strange spell he seemed to have over my body by clasping his cheek and turning his face towards her. He grinned at something she said. Then tipped her chin up and placed his mouth over hers. His lips plundered, roaming over hers with an arrogant entitlement which had the breath I’d been holding releasing in a rush.
Apparently, I had been forgotten. So much for our moment of connection. It had all been in my head.
I tore my gaze away at last, feeling like the worse kind of voyeur, as he continued to devour the supermodel while enjoying the attention of the throng—who were cheering and clapping around me, having noticed the pornographic display on the balcony.
Embarrassment scoured my throat as unwanted heat made my nipples tighten painfully and my face feel as if it had been set alight.
What was that even about?
Renzo Camaro might be the hottest guy this side of Saturn, but he was also a playboy and an absolute jerk—who was well known for seducing every beautiful woman within a five-hundred-mile radius of his collossal ego.
You are not your mum. So why on earth would you want to be noticed by someone like him?
A waiter travelled through the whooping crowd carrying a tray of champagne glasses. Whipping a full glass off the tray, I took a fortifying gulp. The bubbles burst on my tongue as I ignored the cacophony around me and refused to watch Camaro and his latest conquest. From the raucous way the crowd was cheering they were obviously putting on quite a show.
Weirdly, the last thing my mother had ever said to me—before she disappeared from my life when I was fifteen—chose that precise moment to flit through my consciousness: Never trust a good-looking man, especially one with money, baby, because you’ll never be able to hold their interest for long.
I’d always dismissed that caustic comment, because I knew she had been referring to my ‘deadbeat dad’—a man she’d told me I was better off not knowing, but whom I had still always yearned to meet. But as I swallowed down the champagne, I began to wonder, perhaps that was the only honest thing she had ever told me.
Not that I wanted to attract a playboy like Camaro. Not at all. But maybe it was good to know my mum and I could agree on that much at least.
The lights dimmed and the chamber music faded, to be replaced by the bass beat of a famous rap band beginning their set in the adjoining ballroom. As people headed towards the sound, I couldn’t seem to stop myself glancing back up at the balcony, but Camaro and the supermodel had disappeared.
No doubt they’d gone off to finish what they had started in the private suite he owned on the top three floors of the historic building, I decided resentfully.
Well, good riddance.
The champagne I’d drunk too fast fizzed through my bloodstream and my disappointment in Renzo and my dad, and every other guy who had failed to notice me, morphed into disgust—with myself, as much as any of them.
I placed the half-empty glass on a passing tray with trembling fingers.
You’re not here to attract a guy. You’re here to kick-start your catering business. And while handing out my new cards might not be the done thing, I could still at least get a close-up look at what an event like this really entailed.
I was here to do important research—and possibly some networking if the opportunity arose—for Jessie Burton Catering. But as the pounding of the bass beat began to throb in my veins and I tasted one of the canapés—a delicious roulade of spinach and smoked trout that melted on my tongue—a daring, and surprisingly exhilarating, thought bloomed inside me.
Why not enjoy myself tonight? And live the high life for a change? After all, when would I ever get the chance to attend an event like this again, with free-flowing vintage booze, an exclusive set from a band who had topped the charts twice in the last year and deluxe canapés which I hadn’t spent hours painstakingly constructing myself?
The condoms I’d had since catering college—but never had the guts to use—were burning a hole in my jewelled clutch purse alongside the business cards. I wasn’t even sure why I had popped them in there this evening, except that I’d had it drummed into me at a young age never to take a chance.
But after my weird reaction to seeing Camaro kiss the supermodel, I began to wonder. Perhaps I needed to kick-start more than just my future career prospects?
Belle had a wonderful child. An amazing career. A gorgeous billionaire who I suspected was already halfway in love with her… And she was probably having the best sex of her life right about now… While I had never even had a boyfriend.
Which surely totally explained why had I got all hot and bothered over having a sex god like Camaro lock gazes with me.
And whose fault was that, exactly?
It’s your fault, Jess. For always being so terrified of taking a risk.
I’d come to Paris alone, and snuck in here tonight, with the goal of beginning a new career path for myself. But maybe rather than touting for business what I needed to do was use this opportunity to stop hiding from life.
So go for it already!
Nerves fizzed alongside the vintage bubbles. If I didn’t finally manage to lose my virginity tonight, I could at least put my spectacular vintage Dior dress to good use and take a crash course in flirting 101.
I’d show Renzo Camaro. And everyone else here, I added hastily.
And the best way to do that was to make my first, and probably only, masquerade ball a night to remember.
No one here knew who I was. Which meant if I kept my newly minted business cards in my purse, I could be whoever I wanted to be tonight. Not the tomboy virgin who left her foster home at sixteen to pursue a career in catering… Not the unnoticed mousy cousin of one of the Super League’s top R&D experts who needed to schmooze for business tonight. But a mysterious femme fatale in red satin.
Cinderella, hold my beer.
Renzo
Who is the girl in red?
And why the heck had she been captivating me all evening? Because the unfamiliar mix of jealously and arousal which pulsed in my gut every time I glimpsed her dancing, with a variety of increasingly unsuitable men, was driving me wild.
Something about her had reminded me vaguely of my former R&D expert, Belle Simpson, when I had first spotted her from the balcony as I greeted the guests. But that didn’t explain the need which had coursed over my skin and made me ache. Or why I felt motivated to kiss Edina in front of everyone—because I knew she was watching us.
It had been a long time since I’d needed, or wanted to make a woman jealous. And I’d certainly never had to work to attract one. Because all I usually had to do was wait for them to come to me… Just ask Edina.
And that vague similarity to Belle should be a turn-off too.
Belle had always had unattainable written all over her. And I had never been the kind of man who cared to sleep with women who came with strings attached. Because that sounded like far too much work.
‘Renzo, why don’t we sneak away to your suite, you know you want me, darling?’
I turned to find Edina pouting at me with that look in her eyes which I’m sure she thought was sultry, but I found boring. When we had hooked up over a month ago, I had told her I never slept with the same woman twice, but she had refused to get the message.
Perhaps you shouldn’t have kissed her then, just to make the girl in red jealous?
I stifled the lowering thought and snagged Edina’s wrist to lift her grasping fingers from my lapel.
‘This is my party, Edina,’ I murmured, holding onto my irritation to avoid a scene. ‘So I cannot simply leave.’
‘Of course, you can.’ She pouted some more. ‘You have your playboy reputation to protect,’ she added with a teasing grin, which failed to amuse me. Especially when I caught a glimpse of the girl in red behind her.
Her lithe body gyrated to the music, her subtle curves mesmerising me in that damn dress which shifted and glowed, clinging to her high firm breasts like a second skin.
The shot of adrenaline careered through me unchecked. Again. And began to annoy me. Why was I holding back? And waiting for her to approach me? I had sensed her awareness of me when our gazes met earlier. So why not approach her? I certainly hadn’t slept with her before, because she would not intrigue me now if I had.
Edina grasped my cheek again, the way she had earlier on the balcony, but my patience was at an end. I jerked my head free. And sent her a tight smile.
‘You force me to be blunt, Edina,’ I said. ‘I told you, I have a rule I never break. Which means I have no desire to bed you again.’
She gasped at the insult, but it was clear she had got the message when she hissed, ‘Why do you have to be such a bastard, Renzo?’
I laughed. ‘Because that is what I was born to be,’ I replied, the familiar insult one which had not bothered me in years. My wealth and success had insulated me from the brutal indignities of my childhood—which was precisely why I had worked like a dog to escape them.
Edina stormed off, but she was instantly forgotten as my gaze tracked back to the girl in red, still dancing alone on the other side of the ballroom. But then one of my reserve drivers—Jack Rogers, a young man with a promising future on the track—swung in behind her and rested one hand lightly on her hip to whisper something in her ear.
She glanced over her shoulder, startled, but then sent him a shy smile.
Fury burst in my chest—bright and brittle and incandescent—galvanising me to storm through the crowd towards them. Rogers’s bright future was about to crash and burn if he didn’t take his hands off her. Because I had just decided, tonight, the girl in red would be mine…
