my deepest wish came true; you finally came to see me and brought with you a man whom I believe will love you and care for you as you deserve. And now comes the most difficult part of this letter, for I have a confession to make that will not endear me to you.
Your marriage to that boy was never annulled, and my legal counsel informs me that despite my best efforts, you are still legally wed. I didn’t tell you this earlier, because I thought that if you knew, you might return to him. But now that you are over him, and in the event that you plan to marry again, you need to know the truth.
Please know that I only want your happiness.
Forgive me.
Your father,
Brent Whitfield
Lara dropped the letter into her lap and gave a small huff of laughter. Even at the end, her father had refused to call Graeme anything except that boy, as if by doing so he somehow diminished Graeme, both in his own mind and in Lara’s eyes.
The news that she and Graeme were still married had hit her like a physical blow. She’d tried so hard to forget him, but the letter had brought all the emotions back in sharp relief—the longing for what might have been and the regrets for what would never be. Worse, she’d begun dreaming of Graeme again, and certain things had come back to her in startling clarity; his laugh, his smell …his taste.
Christopher had no idea she’d once been married, and Lara didn’t relish telling him, even if that marriage had only lasted for two amazing, unforgettable nights. And if she was honest with herself, one of the reasons she was so reluctant to tell him was because a part of her realized that after five years, she shouldn’t still be thinking about those two nights as often as she did.
Almost absently, Lara reached inside the open collar of her blouse and withdrew the small, round locket that lay nestled between her breasts. The silver was warm from her skin and she ran her finger over the delicate open-face filigree on the front, in the shape of a Celtic love knot. Helpless to resist and knowing she was a true glutton for punishment, she flicked the locket open.
On one side nestled a tiny photo of Graeme. His lips curved in the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes gleamed with suppressed laughter. Lara recalled the day the picture had been taken. She and Graeme had been walking along the Thames, arms wound around each other, when a peddler with a Polaroid had offered to take their photo for five pounds. Graeme hadn’t been interested, but Lara had insisted. She’d wanted a photo of Graeme, and had tormented him until he’d finally capitulated. He’d encircled her in his arms with his chin resting on the top of her head.
Afterwards, he’d taken one look at the photo and declared it unfit to keep, although Lara hadn’t missed how he gave the peddler ten pounds instead of five. She’d tried unsuccessfully to wrestle the photo from him until they were both breathless and laughing, and then the photo had been forgotten altogether.
Lara hadn’t thought of the picture again until the day Graeme had given her the locket. He’d carefully snipped her face from the photo and had tucked it into one side of the locket, facing his picture. Lara had liked to think of their images, closed in the snug space, eternally kissing.
The locket had been her wedding gift from Graeme. Snapping the locket closed, Lara dropped it back beneath her blouse. Despite everything, she’d never been able to put the locket away. She wore it every day, like a talisman. It represented all the dreams she’d once had, the dreams that would never come true, thanks to her father. Even at his bedside, knowing he would die soon, she’d been unable to speak the words that she knew he’d longed to hear.
I forgive you.
You did the right thing.
I’m happy with the way my life has turned out.
After her father had died, Lara had come to the bitter realization that if her life hadn’t turned out exactly as she’d hoped, then she had only herself to blame. She needed to forgive her father, cut her losses and move on. Getting Graeme to sign the divorce papers would be the first step.
Unzipping the outer compartment of her suitcase, Lara withdrew the bulky envelope that contained her costume. She’d ordered it just two days before leaving Chicago and had almost given up on receiving it in time to bring it with her to the convention. In fact, the UPS delivery truck had arrived at her townhouse at about the same time as her taxi had arrived to take her to the airport. She’d shoved the package into her suitcase and hadn’t yet had an opportunity to look at the costume. Now she turned the lumpy packet over in her hands, noting the return address.
Dressed to Thrill, Chicago.
Lara had ordered costumes and accessories from the small shop before, but only to support the children’s theater program. The nonprofit venture had a small staff and an even smaller budget, but the expressions on the kids’ faces when they saw their new costumes made it worthwhile.
The envelope that contained her own costume was lumpy and hard in places, and Lara knew without opening the package that it didn’t contain the shaman robe and hood that she’d requested. Of course, she hadn’t specifically ordered the shaman costume. She’d indicated that any costume from the Galaxy’s End television series would fit the bill, so long as it concealed her identity. What had the costume shop sent her instead? Turning the envelope over in her hand, Lara tore it open and dumped the contents onto the bed, ripping aside the lavender tissue paper.
What the—?
Lara gingerly picked up a piece of the costume and inspected it. No. There was absolutely no freaking way she could wear this outfit. She’d asked for a costume that concealed her identity, one that would let her blend in with the crowd and enjoy the festival, secure in her own anonymity. Instead the costume shop had sent her …a skimpy slave-girl outfit!
And not just any slave-girl costume, either. It looked suspiciously like the one that Princess Leia had worn in the Star Wars movie.
Pushing aside the remnants of tissue paper, Lara spread the bits and pieces of the costume out on the flowered bedspread.
Yep, there was no doubt about it.
There in front of her was a perfect replica of the famous metal bikini with its wrought-gold top and bottom, the delicate, curved slave bracelets for her upper arms, the chunky slave collar and chain, and the tiny suede booties, cleverly designed with straps and Velcro to conform to any foot.
The only difference was that this ensemble also contained a gold mask, reminiscent of the Venetian Renaissance. Covering everything but the mouth and chin, the mask curved elegantly along the sides of the wearer’s head and locked into place at the back.
How could the costume shop have made such a colossal mistake? There was no way she could wear this outfit, of course, and she felt a pang of regret that she would have to miss the masquerade ball.
Lara picked the mask up, turning it over in her hands and admiring it in spite of herself. Finely crafted, the mask was a work of art. How would it feel to wear such a gorgeous creation? Hesitating only briefly, she slid the mask over her face and fastened the closure. The lightweight metal felt cool against her skin.
When she peered at herself in the mirror, it was like looking at someone else. Even the familiarity of her own body, clad in figure-hugging jeans and a turquoise tank top, did little to dispel the sense that she was actually looking at an exotic stranger.
Entranced, she touched her fingers to her lips, exposed beneath the bottom edge of the gold face plate. She’d always considered her mouth too full, but now the gold mask framed her lips and emphasized their plumpness. They looked …hedonistic. Except for the glittering blue of her eyes behind the eye slits and the thick, red-gold hair that fell to her shoulders, she was unrecognizable.
Mysterious.
Lara glanced at the rest of the costume. Did she dare? She’d played a lot of dress-up games as a kid, but nothing like this. She’d never worn anything so risqué in her entire life. She’d asked for a costume