Chapter 47
The masquerade was at its peak — the string quartet had given way to a live jazz band, champagne was flowing like water, the black marble floor of the Fullerton ballroom glittered under crystal, and Brett was still the most dangerous thing in the room.
He stood by the balcony doors in his French maid costume, trying to catch his breath in the brutal black satin corset, his hand resting lightly on Lance's arm, his seven-inch ankle-breakers killing his feet but making his legs look endless in the dark sheer stockings.
Lance hadn't let go of him all night. Not since the curtsy. Not since Brett had purred "Yes, Master" in front of his father.
Richard had been watching from across the room all evening — gold Louis XIV coat, mask pushed up onto his silver hair now, scotch never leaving his hand, eyes never leaving Brett.
Brett felt it every time. That slow, assessing rake from the lace cap down the corseted bodice, over the swell of his D cup breasts, down the frilly skirt to the lace tops of his stockings.
He leaned closer into Lance instinctively, his cherry-red lips near Lance's ear.
"He's staring again," Brett whispered, his soft alto trembling just slightly.
Lance's hand tightened on Brett's waist, his thumb stroking over the boning. "Let him stare. You're mine."
It was then that Lance's phone buzzed. Then again. Then a third time — the sharp, urgent triple-buzz that meant the office, that meant now.
Lance pulled it out, frowned at the screen, his jaw tightening.
"Shit," he muttered, his blue eyes flicking to Brett. "It's Chen. Tokyo deal's blowing up. I have to take this."
Brett's stomach dropped. "Now?"
"Five minutes," Lance promised, already pressing the phone to his ear, already being pulled away by the gravity of being Lance Sullivan. He pressed a quick, hard kiss to Brett's temple, right under the maid's cap. "Don't move. Don't talk to anyone. Especially not—"
"Lance!" Chen's voice barked through the phone. Lance mouthed "sorry" and strode toward the private library off the ballroom, his Phantom mask glinting, already in full billionaire mode.
Brett was alone for exactly eleven seconds.
"Brielle."
Richard's voice was smooth as the scotch in his glass, right behind him.
Brett turned, his heart hammering against the corset, his hand automatically going to the pearl at his throat. Richard stood there, close enough that Brett could smell his cologne — expensive, old money, power.
"Mr. Sullivan," Brett said politely, dropping into a small curtsy out of sheer habit, the skirt flaring, the heels wobbling. "Can I—"
"Dance with me."
It wasn't a question.
The band had just shifted into something slow and dark and smoky, couples drifting onto the floor, masks glinting. Richard held out his hand, palm up, his silver cufflinks catching the light.
Brett's blood went cold, then hot.
He glanced toward the library doors where Lance had disappeared. Closed. He glanced around for Eleanor, for Nico, for anyone — but the crowd had parted around them, watching with hungry, polite interest. The billionaire's father asking the billionaire's fiancée — dressed as a French maid — to dance.
He couldn't say no.
Not here. Not in front of three hundred people. Not to Richard Sullivan, who could end Lance's deal with a phone call, who had already walked in on them in the cabana, who was looking at Brett right now like he knew exactly how tight the corset was, exactly how high the stockings went.
"I..." Brett's voice caught, his soft alto breaking. He forced a smile, his cherry lips trembling. "Of course, sir."
He placed his small, pink-nailed hand in Richard's much larger one.
Richard's fingers closed around his — warm, firm, possessive — and he pulled Brett onto the dance floor in one smooth motion, his other hand landing low on Brett's back, right over the laces of the corset, right above the bow of the apron.
Brett gasped at the contact, at the sheer impropriety of it, at the way Richard's hand splayed wide across his bare skin where the corset dipped low.
"You dance beautifully," Richard murmured, guiding Brett effortlessly through the steps, his body close, too close, the gold embroidery of his coat brushing against Brett's exposed breasts. "Though I imagine those heels make it difficult."
"I'm managing," Brett whispered, his eyes fixed over Richard's shoulder, anywhere but on Richard's face, his whole body rigid inside the corset. The dark nylons whispered with every step, the seven-inch heels forcing him to lean into Richard just to stay upright.
"Managing," Richard repeated, his thumb stroking once, slowly, over the satin lacing at Brett's spine — a touch that was nothing and everything. "That's what you do, isn't it, Brielle? You manage. You manage my son. You manage my wife. You manage to look..." his eyes dropped deliberately to Brett's chest, "...exactly like you were made for that dress."
Brett's cheeks flamed crimson under his makeup, shame and fury and fear tangling in his throat.
"Thank you, sir," he forced out, his voice small.
Richard spun him — expertly, cruelly — and Brett's frilly skirt flared high, flashing the lace tops of his stockings, flashing the garter clips, flashing the fact that there was nothing under that skirt but a very careful tuck and a prayer.
A soft murmur went through the nearest watchers.
Brett stumbled in his ankle-breakers, his hand clutching Richard's shoulder for balance, his breasts heaving against the corset.
Richard caught him easily, pulling him back against his chest, his hand sliding lower, dangerously close to the curve of Brett's ass under the organza.
"Careful," Richard whispered directly into Brett's ear, his breath hot, his voice for Brett alone now, the music swallowing his words. "You wouldn't want to fall. Not in front of everyone. Not dressed like a little fantasy made to be used."
Brett's eyes filled with tears of humiliation, his pink nails digging into Richard's coat. He wanted to slap him. He wanted to run. He wanted Lance.
He did none of those things. He couldn't. He was Brielle, he was the fiancée, he was the maid who couldn't say no.
The song felt like it lasted forever — Richard's hand burning through the satin, his eyes never leaving Brett's face, his body guiding Brett's like Brett was a doll.
When the final note hit, Richard didn't let go immediately. He held Brett a second too long, his eyes dropping to Brett's heaving chest, to the pearl choker, to the trembling cherry lips.
"Thank you for the dance, Brielle," Richard said loudly, for the room, and then, so quietly only Brett could hear: "Next time, wear the white stockings. I prefer a proper French maid."
He released Brett's hand and stepped back, bowing with perfect, mocking gallantry.
Brett stood alone in the middle of the dance floor, shaking in his seven-inch heels, his corset suddenly too tight to breathe in, his dark nylons feeling like armor that had failed, the feather duster crushed in his fist.
The library door opened.
Lance strode out, phone still in his hand, his face dark with the Tokyo call — and froze when he saw Brett.
Saw his fiancée, his maid, his love, standing alone and trembling and wrecked in the middle of a crowd, his makeup perfect but his blue eyes glassy with unshed tears.
Lance crossed the floor in three strides, his Phantom mask forgotten, and pulled Brett hard against his chest, one arm around Brett's corseted waist, his hand covering the spot on Brett's back where his father's hand had been.
"What happened?" Lance demanded, his voice low and lethal, his blue eyes scanning the room and landing instantly on Richard, who raised his scotch in a silent toast from across the ballroom.
Brett couldn't speak. He just buried his face in Lance's tuxedo, his whole body shaking, his lace cap askew, his frilly skirt crushed between them.
He couldn't say no to the dance.
But God help him, he was going to tell Lance everything...