That Night on Thistle Lane

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.”