That Night on Thistle Lane

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.”

Phoebe stiffened but didn’t move from her position by the door.

Who’s we? What kind of action?

“You should have seen him dancing. The guy can move. He was with some woman dressed up like she was about to board the Titanic.” Another pause, then a sigh. “No, I don’t know who she is. I’ll find out. It shouldn’t be hard.”

He snapped his phone shut.

Phoebe bolted down the hall and into the ladies’ room, the door still swinging behind her as she ducked into a stall. She let out a breath. Should she try to find her swashbuckler and tell him what she’d just overheard?

What had she just overheard?

She wasn’t used to this kind of night. The crowds, the glitter, the elegance. She was out of her element. How could she judge the snippet of one-sided conversation with any clarity? For all she knew, her swashbuckler was in the middle of a divorce and tonight was his night to cut loose with a perfect stranger.

In which case it really was time to get back to Knights Bridge.

Phoebe left the stall and washed her hands at the sink, avoiding her reflection in the mirror, grateful she was alone in the ladies’ room. Should she peel off as much of her costume as possible before venturing back into the corridor?

No.

She didn’t have another outfit to change into, and if the man she’d eavesdropped on saw her, he could recognize her dress, snap a picture of her with his phone and there she’d be, strawberry curls, freckles and all. He’d have her name and address in a heartbeat.

Best just to make her exit now.

She’d planned to drive home tonight, anyway. She’d only had a few sips of champagne and was wide-awake. Dylan and Olivia were staying at the hotel, Maggie at Olivia’s small apartment in town. Phoebe could join her sister, but that would mean telling her what she’d done.

What I’ve done is gone completely mad.

Easier just to stick to her plan and stay anonymous.

The dress had come with a tiny matching purse that hooked onto the waist. She pulled out the bright red lipstick that she had chosen from Ava and Ruby’s theatrical makeup kit and reapplied it, noticing that her hand was shaking. What a night. She could be home with a nice cup of lemon-chamomile tea and a good book, or tucked on her couch watching a summer rerun of a favorite television show. Instead she was in Boston, dodging a stranger, her friends, her own sister.

Dancing with another stranger.

A sexy stranger at that.

Had he spotted the man in the coatroom? Was that why he’d left her so abruptly?

What was he hiding?

Phoebe tucked her lipstick back in her purse and pulled out her car keys as she finally took in her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed. Brandon hadn’t been lying about that.

The dress and the hat and the elegant mask really were amazing.

She had no regrets, she realized. Even if someone recognized her now, as she made her exit, the night was worth any possible embarrassment. So what if her friends and sister discovered she was the one who’d danced with the swashbuckler?

She’d had a blast.

Phoebe returned to the corridor and made it to the escalators without running into the man in the black suit, or anyone else.

As she stepped off the escalator, she glanced around the hotel lobby, half wishing that her dance partner would appear and sweep her into his arms again.

Maybe more than half wishing.

She kept putting one foot in front of the other until she was in the parking garage unlocking her car door. She kicked off her sandals and threw them in the back. She’d tossed gym socks and a pair of sneakers onto the passenger seat. She slipped them on, feeling more normal as she settled behind the wheel and pulled off her wig. It wouldn’t fool anyone now, anyway. At this point, if the man she’d overheard spotted her, he had only to jot down her license plate to find out who she was.

The same with her swordfighter.

Her car started without any trouble. She’d visited Maggie, and even Olivia, often enough during their time in Boston that she had no trouble finding her way back to Storrow Drive. When she reached Route 2, she finally let out a long, cathartic breath.

She’d done it.

Now her coach could turn back into a pumpkin and she could get back to her life in Knights Bridge.

Four

Maggie would have sworn the woman who had danced with Noah Kendrick was her sister Phoebe, but that just wasn’t possible. It was wishful O’Dunn thinking at its craziest.

Even crazier was thinking the pirate sauntering through the crowd was her husband.

She gulped more champagne than she should have. She was letting herself get upset over nothing. No way would any Sloan, and especially Brandon Sloan, show up for a masquerade ball.

Of course, if Brandon did show up, it would be dressed as a pirate. She needed to get a better look at him.