Love's Masquerade Read online

  Synopsis

  Plunged into the often indistinguishable realms of fiction, fantasy, and hidden desires, Auden Frost discovers a shifting landscape that will force her to question everything she has believed to be true about herself and the nature of love. It began one winter morning when Auden set out to interview for a much-needed position as an editor in the nonfiction division of Palmer Publishing. Haydon Palmer, however, the powerful young head of the company, offers Auden something far different—something that ultimately forces them both to confront their deepest fears and utmost desires. Unable to resist Hays's challenge and unaware of the charismatic woman's closely-guarded secrets, Auden soon finds herself on a journey that will transform both their lives.

  Love’s Masquerade

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  Love’s Masquerade

  © 2004 By Radclyffe. All rights reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-286-3

  This electronic book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

  New York, USA

  First Edition: December 2003

  Second Printing: November, 2004 Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  Third Printing: June, 2005 Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Laney Roberts

  Executive Editor: Stacia Seaman

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Romances

  Innocent Hearts

  Love’s Melody Lost

  Love’s Tender Warriors

  Tomorrow’s Promise

  Love’s Masquerade

  shadowland

  Fated Love

  Turn Back Time

  Promising Hearts

  When Dreams Tremble

  The Lonely Hearts Club

  Night Call

  Secrets in the Stone

  The Provincetown Tales

  Safe Harbor

  Beyond the Breakwater

  Distant Shores, Silent Thunder

  Storms of Change

  Winds of Fortune

  Honor Series

  Above All, Honor

  Honor Bound

  Love & Honor

  Honor Guards

  Honor Reclaimed

  Honor Under Siege

  Word of Honor

  Justice Series

  A Matter of Trust (prequel)

  Shield of Justice

  In Pursuit of Justice

  Justice in the Shadows

  Justice Served

  Justice For All

  Erotic Interludes: Change of Pace

  (A Short Story Collection)

  Radical Encounters

  (A Erotic Short Story Collection)

  Stacia Seaman and Radclyffe, eds.

  Erotic Interludes 2: Stolen Moments

  Erotic Interludes 3: Lessons in Love

  Erotic Interludes 4: Extreme Passions

  Erotic Interludes 5: Road Games

  Romantic Interludes 1: Discovery

  Acknowledgments

  Creating a book is a many-faceted and fascinating process. This one began, as all of mine do, with a mental snapshot of two women in a particular setting. When I began the Honor series, I thought, “Oh, it would be fun to write about a secret service agent and the president’s daughter,” and I pictured them sequestered together in the back of a fortified vehicle. That set the tone for the entire series. When I began Love’s Masquerade, I imagined a woman leaning across a desk piled high with manuscripts in disorderly piles debating some issue with the woman seated on the other side. The words on those pages that lay between them, and all they revealed about those who wrote and read them, forged their relationship. This book is my homage to the power of the written word and the critical place that writing holds in my life.

  I owe special thanks to Katlyn for allowing me to excerpt several scenes from Storm Surge for inclusion in this work.

  Thanks to my editors, Laney Roberts and Stacia Seaman, for dealing with the particularly difficult editing challenge presented by the format of this work with good humor and their usual thoroughness; to my beta readers, Athos, Eva, Diane, Denise, JB, and Tomboy, for their review of the early manuscript and proofing of the final one; and to HS and the members of the Radlist for their incredible enthusiasm and inspiration during the posting of the Web version.

  The cover presented a challenge in that Sheri, like all artists, had a particular image in her mind of a very specific mask. We finally found the hand-painted Venetian mask— where else—on the Internet, and I purchased it and had it shipped to me. Lee photographed it and from a single image of a mask against a plain white background, Sheri made magic once again.

  It was through the written word that Lee and I met, and sharing this passion with her is the joy of my life. Every word is for her. Amo te.

  Radclyffe 2004

  Dedication

  For Lee

  For All the Days to Come

  Chapter One

  Auden Frost read the form letter again.

  Dear Ms. Frost:

  Your interview has been scheduled for Monday, March 17th, at 10:00 a.m. in Suite 4000, the Palmer Building, 1900 Rittenhouse Square.

  We look forward to the opportunity to meet with you.

  Sincerely,

  Abelard H. Pritchard

  Director of Operations

  Palmer Publishing, Inc.

  It was eight-thirty. If she walked slowly, stopped at Starbucks, and read the morning Inquirer, she’d only be half an hour early. Her destination in one of the elegant stone edifices that bordered the historic square was five blocks from her three-story brownstone on St. James Place.

  Early is good. Early shows interest; early shows reliability. Early shows...punctuality. She grimaced. Early is desperate. And I’m not desperate...yet.

  She still had a few thousand dollars left in her savings account, and she had resumes out to every publishing house, magazine, and press in the tri-state area. Thank God for Great-Aunt Sophie and the long, rain-filled winters.

  Soon after Auden had begun her freshman year at Penn, Aunt Sophie had decided that the Philadelphia climate was bad for her arthritis and had precipitously moved to Florida. She’d declared Auden manager of the apartment house she owned and offered her niece the ground-floor apartment with reduced rent as payment for her newly designated duties. Now, seven years later, the Center City enclave west of Rittenhouse Square was so popular with young professionals that the rents had become ridiculously inflated, and Auden never would have been able to afford to live there under other circumstances.

  And I won’t be able to stay here much longer unless I get a job soon.

  Eight-forty. Before stepping outside, she stopped in front of the walnut-framed, full-length mirror just inside the entranceway and checked her appearance. Medium height, medium build, medium-length golden-blond hair. Ordinary in every respect. The pale green suit was well cut if not terribly expensive and the ochre silk blouse, an admitted extravagance, was both.

  The morning news had said unseasonably warm, so she decided to forgo her winter coat, choosing a rainc
oat instead. Outside on the marble steps, she turned sideways to allow the third-floor tenant to pass on the narrow stoop.

  “Hi, Gayle.”

  “Aud, hi. I was going to ca—Shylock! No!” The petite, tawny-skinned woman in a Temple sweatshirt and baggy blue jeans yanked on the lead of the black and brown mixed-breed terrier by her side.

  Laughing, Auden put a hand down to stop the inquisitive nose before it landed unceremoniously between her thighs. “I do not need dog smears today, thank you very much.”

  “Today’s the big interview?”

  “Yep.” Auden agilely circumvented the dog and escaped to the sidewalk. Looking up at her tenant and best friend who lingered on the small landing, one hip braced against the wrought-iron railing, she added, “This is the perfect job. Right location, right division, right...everything. Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need luck,” Gayle stated, juggling leash, a cup of coffee, and a take-out bag as she unlocked the door. “You’ve got brains. Call me later with all the details.”

  “Don’t you have to work?”

  “Just got back. I was the float resident last night.”

  “Okay. I’ll check in this afternoon after you’ve had a nap.”

  “Call me,” Gayle repeated as she disappeared inside. “I want to hear everything.”

  Auden took a deep breath and started off. I just hope there’s something to tell.

  *

  Despite every delaying tactic she could devise, Auden was still fifteen minutes early. When the brass-plated doors of the double-wide elevator slid silently open on the top floor of the Palmer Building, she had hoped to find a lobby or hallway where she could loiter a few more moments before entering the appointed office. No such luck.

  Directly across the wine-colored, carpeted expanse stood a waist-high, dark wood counter that clearly designated the reception area. The executive suite appeared to occupy the entire top floor. As Auden approached, a perfectly coiffed redhead looked up with a practiced smile from behind the adjoining desk.

  “Good morning,” the receptionist purred. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, I have an appointment with Mr. Pritchard.”

  The smallest of frowns, quickly extinguished, marred the flawless forehead for a millisecond. “Your name?”

  “Auden Frost.”

  “Just a moment.” A half-swivel on the leather chair, a flash of fingers flying across a keyboard, a series of entries scrolling down the computer monitor. Another pleasant smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t see your name. Perhaps it’s with another division? I doubt that Mr. Pritchard—”

  “I have the confirmation here,” Auden interrupted smoothly, taking care to keep her voice even. She passed the letter across the wide surface.

  A quick scan and yet another smile. “If you’ll wait just another moment, please,” the redhead said with an inclination of her head toward the sofas and chairs to the right of the reception desk.

  “Of course.”

  Auden settled onto a plush fabric couch, watched as the receptionist made a call, then glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows opposite her. She’d barely had time to take in the breathtaking view of the downtown skyline and the Delaware River twenty blocks south before the redhead got up and silently approached.

  “Please come this way, Ms. Frost.”

  “Thank you,” Auden replied, barely able to keep the relief from her voice.

  She followed through a paneled walnut door into a labyrinth of hallways with smaller rooms opening on either side to yet another set of double doors. There was an intercom discreetly set into the wall.

  The redhead pressed a button and spoke softly. “I have Ms. Frost, Mr. Pritchard.”

  “Come in, please, Alana.”

  After a nearly inaudible click, Alana opened the doors and gestured Auden through ahead of her.

  Once inside, Auden crossed the thick carpet, a deep blue this time, toward another enormous wood desk, behind which stood a tall thin man in a fine gray worsted-wool suit, white shirt, and muted navy tie. He looked to be about fifty, with a full head of dark hair and steel blue eyes. She held out her hand.

  “Mr. Pritchard? Auden Frost.”

  “Ms. Frost.” His voice was a well-modulated baritone. “Please sit down.” Glancing to the door, he said, “Thank you, Alana.”

  Another second and they were alone. Auden resisted the urge to survey her surroundings and kept her gaze steadfastly on Pritchard’s face. It was impossible to read anything behind his studied expression.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a miscommunication, Ms. Frost,” he advised as he settled behind his desk. “Our records indicate that you were initially scheduled to interview for a position in the nonfiction division.”

  “That’s correct.” Perplexed, Auden raised an eyebrow. “And I take it there’s a problem?”

  “An embarrassing one—for me.” He folded his hands and leaned forward. “It seems that the positi—”

  “Abel?” A door on the far side of the office opened suddenly and a woman walked in. “Have you got—”

  Both Auden and Abelard Pritchard turned in the direction of the interruption. The woman who stood in the open doorway was taller than average, with unruly jet black hair and obsidian eyes that appeared fathomless in contrast to her pale complexion. Her gaze locked with Auden’s, and for a moment, the silence in the room made the very air seem heavy. Without moving her eyes from Auden’s face, she murmured in a throaty tenor, “I’m sorry, Abel. I didn’t realize you had an appointment.”

  “Neither, apparently, did I.” Pritchard looked from one woman to the other, startled by the intensity of their expressions. “I’m afraid I failed to inform Ms. Frost that the position for which she was scheduled to interview had already been filled.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you,” the woman commented, a frown line forming between her finely drawn brows. She finally released Auden’s gaze and looked directly at Pritchard. There was a faint edge to her voice, but it seemed to be one of curiosity rather than censure. “How did that happen?”

  “At the moment, I’m not certain.”

  “What position?”

  Auden cleared her throat, more annoyed at being talked about in the third person than she was disappointed to learn that the job for which she had held such hope was no longer available. “An editor in the nonfiction division.”

  “Editor?” The dark gaze returned to study Auden as the newcomer leaned a shoulder gracefully against the highly polished woodwork of the door frame. “Have you experience?”

  The sudden scrutiny from the penetrating eyes was as tangible as a touch, and Auden found her throat unexpectedly tight as she replied. “Yes.”

  “Perhaps we should talk.”

  “I’m sorry?” Auden gave a visible start. Who is this woman?

  “Abel, would you please assemble the necessary paperwork and show Ms. Frost into my office?”

  “Hays, I’m not certain—”

  The woman turned away. “Thank you, Mr. Pritchard.”

  Pritchard rose stiffly, then quickly regained his professional equanimity. With a slight sweep of his arm, he indicated the doorway through which the dark-haired woman had disappeared. “If you please, Ms. Frost.”

  Auden had no choice but to follow. A moment later, she found herself in yet another richly appointed office, larger than the one she had just left. The floor was dark hardwood, highly glossed, with a thick Oriental rug in the center of the room. The desk, with several leather chairs facing it, sat in front of another wall of windows; a sitting area complete with sofa, coffee table, and more chairs filled the far corner.

  One entire wall was comprised of bookcases, the shelves filled to capacity. The paperbacks interspersed with the hardcovers all appeared to be reader’s copies, rather than the standard bound sets that were often little more than decoration. At first glance, Auden didn’t recognize many of the titles, but that didn’t surprise her. She wasn’t much of a fiction reader. And des
pite the opulent surroundings, it wasn’t the décor that interested her.

  Mr. Pritchard handed a slim file folder, which Auden presumed held her job application and resume, to the woman standing beside her. After he discreetly left, Auden found herself looking once again into those dark eyes. Up close, she realized that what she had thought initially to be solid dark pupils were actually nearly black irises flecked with bits of silver and gold. Lovely, hypnotically beautiful. Like the woman.

  Auden’s heart beat loudly in her ears.

  “I’m Haydon Palmer, Ms. Frost.”

  Auden blinked, and the spell was broken. Once again she held out her hand, and the returned grip this time was just as firm as Mr. Pritchard’s, but the skin cooler and very soft. “I’m happy to meet you.”

  “Please, have a seat,” Hays said as she gently released Auden’s hand. She moved behind her desk and gestured to the file. “If you’ll just give me a moment?”

  “Of course.” Auden tried not to look as shell-shocked as she felt. She hadn’t expected an interview with the president of the publishing company, nor had she expected Haydon Palmer to be quite so...well, so...Young? Commanding? Stunning?

  While the other woman flipped pages, Auden took advantage of the opportunity to study her. She didn’t look much older than Auden’s twenty-five, although her pale flawless skin, elegantly chiseled cheekbones, and sculpted jaw made it difficult to delve beneath the beauty for the usual clues. From where she sat, Auden could make out a few faint lines at the corners of deep-set eyes, but these could have been from laughter as well as years. Only the barest hint of shadows bruising nearly translucent lower lids marred the otherwise perfect face.