That Night on Thistle Lane
As he started the car, Dylan took a breath, obviously reining in an urge to interrogate Noah. Finally he said, “Olivia’s done a lot of work on her house since you were there in April.”
“That’s good,” Noah said neutrally. Olivia’s house had needed a lot of work.
“We’re tearing down my place,” Dylan added.
“Ah.”
As far as Noah was concerned, it was the only sensible option. He’d been to Knights Bridge just that one time, in early spring, not long after Dylan had received a handwritten note from Olivia Frost demanding he clean up his property, an eyesore for potential visitors to the getaway she was opening down the road from him.
Except her note was the first Dylan had heard of her, Knights Bridge or his ownership of a house there. He’d had no idea his treasure-hunter father had bought the house and left it to him upon his death two years ago. It was built in the 1840s but wasn’t the architectural gem that Olivia’s home was. In fact, it was a rundown wreck.
Dylan hadn’t expected to discover that he had roots of his own in the out-of-the-way Swift River Valley, and he certainly hadn’t expected to fall in love with Olivia Frost.
Despite the miles he had hiked over the past few days, Noah felt restless, frustrated with his situation, even trapped, but at least he didn’t have to keep the players straight in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. He stuck out enough in Southern California but he enjoyed relative anonymity there compared to what he would endure in a small town straight out of Norman Rockwell. Dylan had tried to explain to him that, despite appearances to the contrary, time hadn’t stopped in Knights Bridge.
Maybe it hadn’t, but it was still small.
Really small.
Noah stared out the window as the mountains and woodlands of northern New England gave way to the suburbs of metropolitan Boston. Dylan drove with occasional suspicious glances at him, but Noah didn’t budge. He wasn’t talking.
When the Boston skyline came into view and traffic picked up, he sat up straight, wide-awake.
This was familiar territory.
Dylan valet-parked at the same five-star hotel in Copley Square where the charity event was being held and they each had booked a suite for the night. Their costumes for the evening would be delivered to their rooms.
“Noah,” Dylan said as he climbed out of the car.
Noah knew there was no point denying there was a problem. He shook his head. “Later.”
“Anytime. You know that.”
“I do. Thanks.”
When he reached his suite, Noah dug out his iPhone and stood in the window overlooking the familiar city streets as he dialed Loretta Wrentham’s number in San Diego. Loretta was Dylan’s personal lawyer and friend, a striking woman in her early fifties who recently admitted she’d been his father’s lover, at least briefly. According to Loretta, Duncan McCaffrey had never told her why he’d bought a house in Knights Bridge, either, but it had changed his son’s life.
That was Duncan, Noah thought. He’d been a restless soul, divorcing Dylan’s mother, traveling the world, having adventures. Fifteen years ago, he’d turned up in Boston when Noah was a freshman at MIT. Noah had been homesick, feeling like a misfit even among people just as dedicated to math and science as he was. Duncan McCaffrey had suggested Noah take up a martial art. “Karate, tae kwon do, tai chi, fencing. Something.” Noah had signed up for his first fencing lesson that week. Duncan had already gone off on some expedition.
Noah had known Loretta since she’d started working with Dylan during his early years with the NHL and considered her a friend.
She answered on the first ring. She must have pounced on the phone. “I haven’t found out a thing,” she said. “Not. A. Thing.”
That wasn’t good. Loretta was a hound. One sniff, and she pinned her nose to the trail straight to the end. This one had her stumped.
A few days before Noah flew to Boston for his hike in the White Mountains, he’d spotted a mystery man on his tail in San Diego. Or what he thought was a mystery man on his tail. He’d first noticed the man outside a waterfront restaurant, then at his fencing studio and finally outside the NAK offices in downtown San Diego.
On that third sighting, Noah had raced outside but got there too late. The man was gone. Loretta was on her way into the lobby of NAK’s stylish high-rise. Noah asked her if she’d seen anyone. She said she hadn’t, but offered to find out what she could. As a friend.
“It could just be my imagination that this guy’s following me,” Noah said, as he had a little over a week ago when he’d explained the situation to Loretta in San Diego.
“Do you have an imagination?” She caught her breath. “That didn’t come out right. I don’t mean it as an insult. You’re just so...evidence-oriented. I’m a lawyer. I can relate.”
Noah had learned not to dwell on people’s stereotypes about him but he was tempted to tell Loretta that if he didn’t have an imagination, there would be no NAK, Inc.
Nor would there be a fortune for anyone to scheme and fight over.
If that was what was happening.
He didn’t know if the man’s reasons for tailing him were personal, professional or money related—or even involved him.
“This guy could be a reporter,” she said.
“I suppose,” Noah said, unconvinced. So far, most journalistic interest in him since NAK had taken off had been legitimate, professional. No sneaking around, no following him.
“I wish you’d gotten a better look at him. Tall, gray hair, trim, wearing a dark gray suit. That’s not much. You’re sure you’d recognize him again if you saw him?”
“Yes.”
Loretta sighed. “Maybe he’s looking into one of your Hollywood ex-girlfriends. A paparazzi type.”
Noah grimaced as he watched a young couple run across Boylston Street hand in hand. “All I need is some idiot with a camera popping up out of nowhere and snapping shots of me dressed as a swashbuckler.”
“A swashbuckler?” Loretta gave a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. “That I’d like to see. Dylan says you’re damn good with a sword. Master fencer, right?”
“Something like that,” Noah said. The couple disappeared from his sight. He drew back from the window. “I should get ready for this thing tonight. I really appreciate your help with this situation, Loretta.”
“Happy to do what I can. I dealt with a few crazy stalker fans back in Dylan’s hockey days. I’m not saying that’s what’s going on here, but you might send me a list of your ex-girlfriends.”
It would be quite a list. “I’m not going that far, Loretta. Not without more to go on.”
“See? I said you were evidence-oriented. I’ll pick at a few more possible leads, but I’m not optimistic. Keep your eyes open. If this thing gets serious and I think you have a real threat on your hands, I’ll take additional steps.”
“Such as?”
“Calling the police. Recommending a bodyguard.”
Noah shook his head as if she were in the room with him. “No bodyguard. Not without an actual threat.”
“Have you told Dylan about this guy?” Loretta asked.
“No. I don’t want to distract him. He’s moving on from NAK, as he should.”
“He’s still your friend. What if your mystery man is on your tail because of Dylan? Have you considered that?”
He had. “Now we’re speculating. First things first. If there’s a reason, I’ll talk to Dylan. Right now there isn’t.”
“All right. Fair enough. How was your hike?”
“There were mosquitoes,” Noah said with a smile, then assured Loretta he’d keep his eyes open and let her know if there were any new developments.
After they disconnected, he did a series of stretches. In addition to a master fencer, he was a brown belt in karate. He’d concentrate on advancing to black belt once he got over the nonstop work and pressure of taking NAK public—and the loss of his best friend and closest business ally to New England.
And to pretty, talented Olivia Frost.
She was the love of Dylan’s life. And he of hers.
No question.
Noah centered his mind, focused on his movements, the rhythm, the technique. Everything else—doubts, questions, fears, noise—fell away as he did his basic shorin ryu karate warm-up routine of calisthenics, blocks, punches and kicks, then eased into a series of simple katas.
When he finished, he was sweating and loose, and he felt grounded, aware, in the moment.
His costume arrived. He laid it on the bed as if it were a dead musketeer and took another shower. He debated tripling his donation to the neonatal ICU and bowing out of tonight’s festivities. He could stay in his room and watch movies.
No point. Dylan would just hunt him down. Might as well get on with it.
Still damp from his shower, Noah donned the all-black costume, including the cape and the fake sword. He winced at his reflection. It wasn’t so much that he looked bad or foolish. He just didn’t look like himself.
At least there was a mask. It, too, was black, but fortunately it covered most of his face.
In San Diego, someone might recognize him even with the mask. In Boston?
Unlikely.
“Good,” he muttered, and headed down to the ballroom.
Three
Phoebe couldn’t take her eyes off the man coming toward her as if they were the only two people in the crowded, glittering ballroom. As if nothing could stop him and he was determined to reach her.
She was standing by a pillar, next to a table of empty champagne glasses. She’d arrived twenty minutes ago, wanting just to watch the festivities with a glass of champagne. Olivia had left one of Dylan’s extra tickets behind in case Phoebe decided to go after all, but she’d been so adamant about not going that now she didn’t want to have to explain why she’d changed her mind. Because she was captivated by a dress, by the fantasy of an elegant masquerade ball?
Best just to be the proverbial fly on the wall, then go back home with no one being the wiser. Let Olivia and Maggie enjoy their evening without worrying about her.
She adjusted her mask. Of the half-dozen masks Ava and Ruby had made for tonight, this one provided the most coverage. Her eyes and the line of her jaw were all that anyone could see of her face.
Perfect.
With this swordfighter gliding toward her, Phoebe appreciated the anonymity.
And he really was gliding. He moved with such smoothness, such an air of masculine purpose and self-control. He didn’t pull away to the bar or meet up with another woman. His mask covered most of his face, as hers did, and he was tall and lean, wearing a black cape over sleek black trousers and shirt, with a sheathed costume sword at his side. He looked as if he could handle the sword, fake or not.
His eyes locked with hers.
Phoebe started to duck away, but she was transfixed.
Why not stay?
There was a lull in the live music provided by a small, eclectic band near the separate dance floor. Her swordfighter continued toward her, his eyes still on her. She stared right back at him, ignoring the quickening of her heartbeat, the rush of self-consciousness.
Do I know him?
She shook her head. Impossible.
So far she’d managed to avoid running into Maggie and Olivia. It definitely helped that she knew what they were wearing. Even so, she’d almost turned back several times before arriving at her pillar. First, when she’d started onto Storrow Drive into the heart of Boston. Then when she’d eased her car into a tight space in the parking garage. Finally on the escalator up to the ballroom. She’d glanced down at the hotel lobby, full of giant urns of fresh flowers and artfully arranged sofas and chairs. Above her, she could hear people gathering outside the ballroom.
If she hadn’t been on an escalator, she’d have bolted then, for sure.
Once she reached the ballroom, she got caught up in the crowd, the music, the lights, the laughter and especially the costumes. Her mysterious Edwardian dress passed muster—she’d known it would—striking just the right note of elegance and daring.
The swashbuckler stopped a few yards from her. His eyes were a clear, striking blue, sexy and captivating. It wasn’t just the contrast with his black mask or the glow of the chandeliers or even her few sips of champagne at work. They were great eyes. Fantastic eyes.
She held her glass motionless in one hand as a couple passed in front of her, blocking her swashbuckler from her view. When they were gone, he was right in front of her.
Phoebe didn’t breathe.
I don’t belong here.
Then she remembered she was alone, anonymous and dressed as an Edwardian princess. Why not play the part? Why not be a little bold, even a little reckless?
With a deliberate smile, she raised her champagne glass in a flirtatious toast, hoping the man couldn’t tell that her heart was hammering in her chest.
Next thing she knew, he was at her side, an arm around her waist. “Dance with me,” he said, his voice low, deep and impossibly sexy.
Phoebe nodded without saying a word. He took her glass and set it on the table, then swept her onto the dance floor. His movements were sure, fluid and strong. He’d obviously known what he’d do the second he reached her.
She stifled a jolt of panic. A real princess would know how to dance better than she did. At least she had on strappy sandals that had seen her through several weddings and library events, and she managed not to stumble.
“Just follow my lead,” he whispered into her ear.
She licked her lips. “All right.”
Somehow he got her arm in position on his shoulder before she realized she had moved. She felt the ripple of lean muscle under his black cape and noticed the stubble of tawny beard around the edges of his mask. She had no idea who he was and expected it was the same for him with her. She’d followed the instructions her younger sisters had given to Olivia and Maggie in applying her makeup, but she’d had to figure out her hat and wig on her own. They felt secure, and she refused to consider what would happen if they flew off, revealing her pinned-up strawberry-blond curls.
The room spun as her dance partner whirled her among the hundreds of guests in costumes and masks in various shapes and colors. The feel of his palm on her lower back, the way he held her right arm—the way he moved with her—made dancing easy. He was confident, physical and strong, and Phoebe let herself pretend that he really could fight off bandits and scoundrels.
“Do you know how to use that sword?” she asked.
“I do, but it’s a fake.”
“You’re a fencer?”
He smiled but didn’t answer. The music switched to a faster tune. Phoebe barely paid attention to the actual music as her swashbuckler spun her across the dance floor. She was glad her dress was a good fit. If not, she’d have been bursting buttons and hooks-and-eyes. As it was, the dress revealed more cleavage than was her custom.
She felt sexy, lithe, wanted.
Not herself at all.
When the music ended, Phoebe realized they were on the opposite side of the ballroom. She gave her hat and mask a quick, subtle check to make sure they weren’t about to fall off while her dance partner accepted two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to her.
“Nice dancing with you, Princess,” he said, clicking his glass against hers.
“That was wonderful. Thank you. You’re quite a dancer.”
He laughed. “I watch a lot of movies. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“That’s kind of you to say. What should I call you? D’Artagnan? Are you a king’s musketeer?”
“That works for me.”
Phoebe sipped her champagne, wondering if their dancing had loosened a strawberry curl or two from under her wig. Would her musketeer care that she didn’t really have raven-black hair?
What does it matter? None of this is real.
She shut her eyes a moment, bringing herself back to reality. This was her secret night out on the town. She would be Phoebe O’Dunn again before dawn. Probably before the stroke of midnight.
“What brought you here tonight?” her swashbuckler asked.
Phoebe quickly reminded herself she was playing a part. Flirtatious, confident, rich. An Edwardian princess could afford to pay her own way to a charity masquerade ball and wouldn’t feel bad if she hadn’t. “It’s a great cause,” she said, settling on a vague answer.
“That it is.”
“And you? What brings you here?”
He shrugged. “I owed a friend a favor.” His so-blue eyes narrowed on her as he drank some of his champagne. “And it’s a good cause.”
The music started again, a slow, romantic song. He took her champagne glass from her and set it and his glass on a small table, then drew her into his arms and back onto the dance floor.
Phoebe laughed, feeling light-headed and free. She didn’t want the night to end and yet she knew it would. Her swordfighter would go back to being whatever he was—a pediatrician, a hospital administrator, a lawyer, a Boston businessman, a professor at one of the local colleges. She would go back to Knights Bridge. They lived in the real world. He wasn’t a musketeer and she wasn’t a princess.
Just for tonight...
His hand eased lower, subtly, over the curve of her hip. “Close your eyes,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
Phoebe did as he asked as he held her even closer. She had one arm around his middle and one on his shoulder, could feel the warmth of his skin through the black fabric of his costume. He wasn’t a man she’d conjured up on a lazy, hot, quiet afternoon at the library. He wasn’t a figment of her imagination.
As they danced, she heard only the music, felt as if they were floating together, as one. When the music finally stopped, he kept her close as she caught her breath and opened her eyes. “That was amazing,” she said with a smile.
His lips brushed hers. “You’re amazing, Princess.”
Phoebe started to tell him that she was no princess, but the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t want the fantasy to end. For a while longer she wanted to be a princess. She lowered her hand from his shoulder and opened her palm on his chest. Who was he, really? Did she even want to know?
Then she saw Dylan, dressed as a cross between Zorro and the Scarlet Pimpernel, standing with Olivia in her Audrey Hepburn dress. They gave no indication they recognized her or even were moving toward her. Phoebe glanced around for Maggie but didn’t see her.
Her swashbuckler released her and stood back a few inches, the muscles in his jaw visibly tensed as his eyes narrowed on something—or someone—behind Phoebe. “Excuse me, I have something I need to do,” he said, shifting back to her. He was enigmatic, decisive. “Will you wait for me?”
“I will. Yes, of course.”
“Do you have friends with you?”
“I’ll be fine. Please, do what you have to do.”
He touched a fingertip to her lips, then was gone in an instant. Phoebe watched him as he headed quickly through the crowd, his black cape flowing, his movements smooth and controlled.
She hoped he would come back but wasn’t at all sure what she would do if he did.
She dipped out of Dylan and Olivia’s line of sight and stopped at an hors d’oeuvres table. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her sister at the far end of the table in her gorgeous Grace Kelly gown. As a professional caterer, Maggie always liked to check out the food offerings at an event. Before Phoebe could decide what to do, her sister abruptly abandoned the hors d’oeuvres and whirled back toward Olivia and Dylan. At first Phoebe had no idea why. Then she saw a man dressed as a rogue of a pirate and she knew.
Brandon.
Phoebe immediately recognized her brother-in-law—Maggie’s soon-to-be-ex-husband—as he stopped at a tray piled high with miniature brownies. She tried not to react to his unexpected presence or call attention to herself in any way, but she was too late. His eyes met hers and then he grinned that grin that Phoebe had first seen in nursery school and her sister had fallen for at fifteen.
She groaned inwardly. It just figured Brandon Sloan would turn up as a pirate, and that he would have no trouble recognizing her in her Edwardian costume.
Phoebe didn’t dare bolt. That would only draw more attention to her. Instead, pretending to be casual, she helped herself to a bit of apple and cheese and moved down the table to him.
“Oh, this is too good,” Brandon said. “Phoebe O’Dunn in sequins and a feathered hat.”
“Maggie and Olivia don’t know I’m here,” Phoebe said through her clenched teeth.
“Dylan?”
“No.”
Brandon polished off a tiny brownie in one bite. “I didn’t think you were the type to sneak into a charity ball. I’m proud of you, Phoebe.”
“Do not make fun of me, Brandon.”
His dark eyes softened behind his mask. “Okay, I won’t. You’re shaking. Is everything all right? I saw you dancing—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right. We won’t talk about it. Why are you here on the sly?”
“Just because.”
“You’ve been doing too many kids’ story hours. You sound like Aidan and Tyler.”
Phoebe ignored his teasing her and peered into the crowd. She didn’t see her swashbuckler. Everything she hadn’t noticed while she was dancing she noticed now. A cluster of people here. Another one there. A woman shrieking with laughter. A man spilling a drink down his front.
Clinking glasses.
Waiters with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.
Reading materials and displays about the neonatal ICU.
What was I thinking, coming here tonight?
How had she let herself get caught up in dancing with a perfect stranger?
They were both playing a role.
“Phoebe?” Brandon took her by the elbow. “You look wobbly. Do you need to get out of here?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“How are you getting home?”
“I have my car.”
He grinned. “You drove? Good for you.”
She glared at him. “Brandon—”
“I’m not patronizing you. I meant it. Driving in Boston is no picnic even for someone used to it. Do you have your cell phone on you? Call me if you need help. Got that? Maggie would kill me if I knew you were sneaking out of here alone and didn’t look after you.”
“I don’t need looking after. Really. I’ll be fine. Thank you.” Phoebe started to leave, but stopped and turned back to him. “Brandon, if you see the man I danced with...” Was she completely mad? “Never mind.”
She spun into the crowd before he could respond. As she came to the large exit doors, she scanned a knot of people gathered there but didn’t see her swashbuckler. When she reached the relative quiet of the ballroom lobby, she hesitated instead of plunging straight onto the escalators. Maybe she should go back to the ballroom and find him. Olivia and Maggie would understand that the only way she could have come tonight was exactly the way she had—on her own, without telling anyone.
If she hadn’t been on her own, hadn’t been anonymous, she never would have danced with her swashbuckler. He might never have noticed her—or she him—if she’d been hanging out with Maggie, Olivia and Dylan.
Suddenly her head itched under the raven-colored wig, her makeup felt like paste and her feet hurt in her strappy sandals. She turned away from the escalator. She’d freshen up, get her bearings, before heading to her car.
As she started down a carpeted corridor to the restrooms, she heard a man’s voice and realized it was coming from a coatroom. “He’s here,” the man said. “I saw him with my own eyes. He’s dressed head to toe in black as a swordfighter or some damn thing.”
Phoebe held her breath. Was he talking about her swordfighter? She edged to the wide-open doorway and peeked into the coatroom. A man was there, alone, his back to her as he spoke into a cell phone. He had short, dark hair with gray streaks and wore a black suit. He wasn’t wearing a mask and he wasn’t in costume.
“The bastard spotted me,” he said. “He’s looking for me now. We don’t have enough time to take action. We need more.”