THE CRAZY PROPOSITION

The Sullivan Foundation Masquerade was not a party.

It was a battlefield in black tie.

The ballroom at the Fullerton Hotel had been transformed into Versailles after dark — dripping crystal, black marble, gold leaf everywhere, a string quartet playing something dark and slow, waiters in white gloves moving like ghosts with trays of champagne, and three hundred of Singapore's richest, most ruthless people in masks and fantasy costumes, all pretending they weren't there to judge each other.

Brett walked in on Lance's arm and the music didn't stop — but the conversation did.

Heads turned. Masks tilted. A woman in a Marie Antoinette wig actually gasped.

Because Brett wasn't just wearing a costume.

He was the costume.

The black satin corset cinched his twenty-three inch waist until he could barely breathe, until his D cup breasts spilled over the sweetheart neckline like cream, until every inhale made the white lace trim shiver. The skirt — that impossibly short, frilly, layered thing of black organza and white lace — bounced with every step in those seven-inch patent ankle-breakers, flashing the dark lace tops of his stockings and the black satin garter belt underneath.

His honey blonde hair was piled high under the perky white lace maid's cap, a few curled tendrils escaping to brush his bare shoulders. The black velvet choker with its single pearl sat snug in the hollow of his throat. The white lace wrist cuffs made his hands look small and delicate around the feather duster he carried like a scepter.

He looked obscene. He looked perfect. He looked made for this.

Lance, in his Phantom mask and flawless tuxedo, felt his hand tighten convulsively on Brett's corseted waist, his thumb stroking over the boning through the satin.

"Breathe," Lance murmured low, for Brett's ears only, as they paused at the top of the stairs. "You're shaking."

"I'm not scared," Brett whispered back, his cherry-red lips curving into a smile that didn't reach his terrified, exhilarated blue eyes. His soft alto was steady, practiced. "I'm ready."

He was lying. He was terrified. He was also more turned on than he'd ever been in his life — not by the looks, but by the power of them.

Because for the first time since Montana, since the hormones, since the first time he'd tucked and prayed, Brett wasn't trying to pass as a pretty girl.

He was performing as a fantasy — and he was winning.

They descended the stairs and the crowd parted.

Richard Sullivan was the first to approach, in a gold-trimmed Louis XIV coat and mask, a glass of scotch in his hand, his eyes raking over Brett from head to toe, lingering on the corset, on the stockings, on the heels that made Brett tower over most of the women in the room.

"Brielle," Richard said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough for the people nearest to hear. "How... domestic of you."

It was meant to cut. It was meant to remind Brett of the cabana, of being caught half-naked, of being less than.

Brett didn't flinch. He dropped into the deepest, most perfect curtsy his seven-inch heels would allow, the frilly skirt flaring out, the corset pushing his breasts up obscenely, his head bowed demurely — and then looked up through his lashes, his blue eyes dark and daring.

"Good evening, sir," Brett purred in his best French-maid voice, light and breathy and just a little bit filthy, tapping Richard lightly on the chest with his feather duster. "Have you been a good boy? Or do I need to punish you?"

A collective intake of breath rippled through the circle around them. Someone choked on champagne.

Richard's smile froze. Then, slowly, it sharpened into something real — amusement, respect, and something darker underneath.

Lance made a low, warning sound in his throat, his hand sliding possessively to the small of Brett's back, right over the big white bow of the apron.

"Careful, maid," Lance murmured, but his eyes were blazing with pride, with heat, with absolute adoration. "That's my father you're teasing."

Brett turned his face up to Lance, his cherry lips parted, his cheeks flushed from the corset, from the attention, from the sheer adrenaline of it all.

"And you're my Master, aren't you?" Brett whispered, loud enough for Richard to hear, loud enough for Eleanor — who had just appeared in a silver Ice Queen gown — to hear, loud enough for the whole room to hear. He swayed closer, the feather duster trailing down Lance's tuxedo lapel. "Tell me what you need dusted, sir. I'm here to serve."

It was a line. It was a role. It was also the most honest thing Brett had ever said.

Because in that moment, in that ridiculous, frilly, corseted French maid costume with dark nylons cutting into his thighs and skyscraper heels killing his feet, Brett finally understood.

He hadn't been made into a woman by hormones and surgery and a million-dollar contract.

He had been made for this — to be looked at, to be wanted, to be adored, to take a room full of people who would have laughed at Brett from Montana and make them ache.

To take Lance Sullivan — billionaire, heir, Phantom — and bring him to his knees with a curtsy and a feather duster.

Lance stared down at him, his mask hiding most of his expression but not the way his jaw clenched, not the way his hands shook where they gripped Brett's waist.

"Later," Lance promised, his voice so low it was a growl, his thumb brushing the lace top of Brett's stocking under the tablecloth where no one could see. "When we're home, maid, I'm going to make you earn every inch of that corset."

Brett's breath hitched, his knees nearly buckling in those ankle-breakers, a rush of heat flooding his belly despite the brutal tuck, despite the crowd, despite everything.

"Yes, Master," Brett breathed, his blue eyes shining with tears that weren't from fear anymore — they were from triumph, from love, from the sheer, overwhelming rightness of being exactly where he was meant to be.

Eleanor stepped forward then, her ice-queen mask tilted, and for the first time since they'd met, she smiled at Brett — a real smile, small and sharp and approving.

"Well," she said, lifting her champagne flute to Brett. "It seems our Brielle was made for French service after all."

Brett curtsied again, deeper this time, the white lace apron bouncing, the corset creaking, his heart hammering so hard he was sure the whole ballroom could hear it.

He wasn't Brett the boy from Kalispell anymore.

He wasn't even Brielle the fiancée.

Tonight, he was the maid — frilly, sexy, corseted, French — and he had never felt more powerful in his life.…