Coming tonight had been a mistake. She didnât belong here, Lily Miller told herself as she stood at the door of the ballroom and stared at the elegantly dressed men and women. From the looks of the crowd and the amount of diamonds on display, every member of Eastwick, Connecticut society had turned out for the black-and-white ball. And she certainly didnât belong with them.
She should leave now before she started crying and made a fool of herself. But she couldnât leave yetânot without telling Bunny Baldwin. After all, it had been Bunny who had insisted Lily attend the masquerade ball in the first place. Bunny had even gone to the trouble of providing her with a proper gown to wear to the fund-raising event.
Remembering the gown, Lily smoothed the skirt with her gloved fingertips. The strapless black confection with the tulle petticoat was the most beautiful thing sheâd ever seen. It was a dress for a princess. Only she wasnât a princess. She was no oneânot even someoneâs daughter. Fighting back tears, Lily tried not to think of the detectiveâs phone call an hour ago, informing her that heâd hit another dead end in the search for her mother.
Face it, Lily. If the woman had wanted you, she never would have left you in that church all those years ago. Itâs time to stop wasting time and money searching for someone who doesnât want you, who never wanted you.
âDance with me.â
Lily blinked, then found herself staring up into the blue eyes of a tall, dark-haired stranger. He was dressed in a tuxedo and wearing a black mask, and for a moment she wondered whether he was real or if she had imagined him. âPardon?â
âCome dance with me,â he said and extended his hand.
âThank you, but Iâm notââ
âHow can you say no when theyâre playing our song?â
âOur song?â Lily repeated and recognized the first chords of âMusic of the Nightâ from Phantom of the Opera. âHow can we have a song when we donât even know one another?â
âWhy donât we change that?â he said and, taking her hand, he led her to the dance floor.
Lily didnât resist. And the moment he took her into his arms, it was as though a magical web engulfed her. All the pain seemed to dissolve. All she could see were those unwavering blue eyes, looking at her as though she were the only person in the world. All she could feel was the warmth of his body pressed against hers, the heat of his breath on her neck. There was something exciting yet safe about the masks. With the mask, she wasnât unwanted, unloved Lily Miller. With the mask, she was a woman who was desired, a woman for whom there was no past, no future, only now.
One dance spun into another and another and another still. And when he led her outdoors onto the terrace and kissed her, she didnât feel the chill in the air. All she felt was the strength of his arms, the hunger in his kiss.
âItâs almost midnight. The ball will be over soon,â he whispered.
âI know.â
âI donât want the night to end.â
âNeither do I,â she admitted and he kissed her again. He tasted of champagne. He tasted of desire and every nerve in her body sang beneath the feel of his mouth.
âThen donât let it,â he told her. Reaching into his pocket, he removed a hotel key card. âIâm staying in the hotel tonight. Room 503. Meet me.â
Nervous, Lily reached for the gold locket at her throat, the disc bearing the initial L, that sheâd been wearing when the nun had found her in the church. Only the locket wasnât there. Sheâd taken it off after the detectiveâs call, she remembered. And for the first time in her life she didnât have her locket to hold on to, to remind her that she was reliable, sensible Lily Miller.
âWill you come?â he asked.
Taking the key card, she said, âYes.â
Her secret was safe, Lily Miller reminded herself again as she stared past the sea of mourners to the casket. A crack of thunder sounded overhead and clouds darkened the Eastwick skyline, causing the mid-May temperatures to dip below the fifty-degree mark.
âAshes to ashes. Dust to dust,â the minister began.
Tears welled in Lilyâs eyes and she reached into her coat pocket to retrieve a tissue. Dabbing at her eyes, she thought of the woman she had come to mournâLucinda âBunnyâ Baldwin, the darling of Eastwick, Connecticut, society, the editor of the titillating Eastwick Social Diary and the woman who, oddly enough, had been her friend. How was it possible that she was dead, the victim of a heart attack at age fifty-two?
Lily thought back to the last time she had seen Bunnyâonly two days ago. She had been so vibrant, all excited about some juicy new tidbit of gossip that, no doubt, would have appeared in one of her upcoming issues of the Diary.