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but in the four hours since my cousin received a text from my bride’s best friend explaining that the love of my life wasn’t going to be showing up to our wedding, I’ve had to endure more platitudes and Saffron-defending than I can stand.

      ‘Well, she’s…’ Antoinette Rothsmore struggles to describe Saffron. There are any number of words I could offer. Suitable. Wealthy. Privileged. Appropriate. Beautiful. Cultured. Words that describe why my parents introduced us and cheered from the sidelines as we hooked up. But the reason we got engaged is simple.

      I love her. And she’s left me.

      ‘Nice,’ my mother finishes, lamely.

      Saffron is nice.

      Too nice for me?

      Perhaps.

      I haven’t seen her in three days, but when I did, she was in full preparation mode for our wedding, reminding me that the photographer from OK! magazine would be coming to take pictures of the party so not to let my groomsmen get too messed up on Scotch before the ceremony.

      I throw back the single malt and grip the glass tightly. How many have I had? Not enough to make this feel like a distant dream.

      ‘Nobody does this to a Rothsmore.’ My father’s face has turned a deep shade of puce. I’d think it’s sweet that he cares so much except I don’t for a second imagine he cares about the fact I just had my heart handed to me in tatters in front of five hundred of Europe’s elite. Princes, dukes, CEOs—everyone.

      Not that I care about the embarrassment. I care about Saffy. I care about the fact we were supposed to be married and she’s sent me a ‘Dear John’ text via a friend and my cousin.

      ‘What would you like to do, Father? Sue her?’

      ‘If only,’ he snaps, then shakes his head. ‘Though the last thing this family wants is a scandal. Damn it, Nicholas. What did you do to her?’

      I blink, his question something I haven’t considered.

      What did I do to her?

      Is it possible I said or did something to turn her away?

      No.

      This isn’t about me.

      This is pure Saffron. Passionate, affectionate, changeable.

      I grimace, rubbing a hand over my jaw, neatly trimmed just the way Saffron likes.

      I fix Gerald with a firm stare. ‘I did nothing, Father, except agree to marry the woman you chose for me.’ I don’t say the rest. That I fell head over heels in love with her as well.

      We used to laugh about the nature of our relationship—how we both knew it was a heavy-handed set-up from our parents. How their interference was like something out of a nursery rhyme. Except we were going to have the last laugh, because we were in love.

      We were in love.

      When had I started believing in love? What kind of goddamned idiot fool have I become to worship at the altar of something so childish?

      I snap the Scotch glass down against the table, a little louder and harder than I intend, and I see my mother jump in my peripheral vision.

      I’ve been an idiot.

      There’s no such thing as love. No such thing as ‘happily ever after’. No such thing as ‘meant for each other’.

      And suddenly, all I want is to get away from this. From my parents and their expectations, from this life I’ve been groomed all my life to lead. I want to get away from Saffy, from our wedding, from my damned broken heart.

      I want to get drunk, and then I want to get laid—one way or another I’m going to forget Saffy ever existed.

      I stumble a little as I head for the door. ‘Where are you going?’ My mother, behind me, is anxious-sounding.

      ‘Get Alf to fire up the jet.’ I hear my own words, slightly slurred.

      ‘But why? You can’t leave. What if Saffron comes looking for you?’

      I prop an arm on the doorjamb for support, blinking at my mother for several long seconds. ‘Then I won’t fucking be here.’

       CHAPTER ONE

      Five years later, Sydney, Australia

      OH, MY GOD. Oh, my God, Oh, my God. There’s an ancient grandfather clock against the far wall and it ticks loudly, but I can barely hear it over the desperate rushing of blood in my ears. Am I really going to do this?

      The intimate rooms are perfectly climate controlled—it’s cool in here but that’s not why my skin is marked with delicate goose bumps. I run my hands over my naked legs, waxed and oiled so they’re smooth and soft in honour of this assignation.

      It’s not too late to change your mind, my brain shouts at me.

      But I don’t really want to change my mind. I made the decision to do this months ago, meticulously planning every detail in order to give myself one night of passion. To give myself a life—even just for one night. It’s been too long since I’ve had anything even remotely resembling a life. Too long since I’ve let go and enjoyed myself.

      I still have too much to do, too much to achieve and, despite the tremendous growth and success of the charity, I want more. I need more. Faster, bigger. My charity is my all, and I’m happy with that.

      But my body. Oh, my body. Lately, something seems to have awoken in me, a curiosity, a need I no longer seem able to deny. I want to get laid. No, I want to have sex. Really fantastic sex, and then I want to change back into my signature gown, swan out of this room and become, once more, the woman the world expects me to be.

      I flick my gaze to the clock across the room. There are three minutes to go. Three minutes until Nicholas Rothsmore the Third arrives to seduce me.

      My heart bounces against my ribs. I swallow. I need more champagne. No. No more champagne. I only had two sips at the party—I know better than to get drunk at something like this.

      It’s work for me, not play—though I have perfected the art of looking as if I’m playing when I’m not.

      But this? Being here in Room Six, the sumptuous décor the last word in elegance and sophistication, dressed only in lingerie, waiting for a man I know solely through the club’s exclusive, private online forum?

      My pulse notches up a gear.

      I’m waiting to have sex with a stranger.

      Not just a stranger.

      I lie back against the bed, my eyes sweeping shut as I picture the man in question. Nicholas Rothsmore the Third isn’t just a man. He’s unbelievably sexy, all tousled hair and rock-hard abs, and a firmly committed playboy. Who better to have one delicious sexual encounter with, no questions asked, before going back to my real life?

      I lift a hand to check the bright pink wig is firmly in place, tucked all around the hairline as my stylist showed me, so there’s no risk of movement. It’s soft and silky, the hair falling in waves to my shoulders. My mask is bright silver and covers not just my eyes, but lower on my face as well, stopping just above my lips, in keeping with the masquerade ball theme downstairs. Of course, I have a separate mask stashed in the wardrobe across the room, as well as my distinctive couture gown, to avoid any likelihood that Nicholas recognises me, after.

      After.

      Such a delicious word loaded with promise. After this. After sex.

      My heart is hammering so hard now I’m surprised it hasn’t beaten a hole through the wall of my chest.

      I can’t have anyone know I’m doing this.

      I never get

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