“This is so gorgeous, Sevastyan!” I eagerly gave him my back when he moved to tie it on. “Is this for a masquerade?” In the last novel I’d read from Jess’s collection, a historical romance by some author with a weird first name, there’d been a courtesans’ masked ball. The French heroine and her Scottish hero had attended, naughtiness ensuing. “Are we going to one?”

“Of a sort,” Sevastyan muttered.

Before I could ask about his odd tone, he’d tied my mask and turned me to face him.

“You’re incomparable,” he said with such solemnity that I blushed.

Who could resist falling for a man like this?

A better woman than I?

Then he pulled a silky onyx domino out of his coat pocket, tying it on.

My mind . . . went . . . temporarily . . . blank.

Once my brain sputtered back to life, a tangle of thoughts hit me. Sexy. Rogue. Lava hot. Spontaneous orgasm.

He couldn’t possibly look more wicked. “Come along.”

As he squired me forward, I kept sneaking glances up at his face.

“It’s not far now, pet.”

I was nearly overwhelmed with curiosity as we made our way toward the end of the foggy alley, the click, click of my heels echoing.

“Here.” He stopped in front of an arched iron gate that looked like it was from the Middle Ages.

“What’s behind there?”

“Our destination.” He turned a lever and opened the gate, ushering me inside a damp tunnel. A torch lit the way deeper within.

“Uh, we’re going in there?”

“Second thoughts?”

I’d asked for this. I was prepared for a free fall with this man. “You won’t lose me that easily, Siberian.”

Was there a whisper of surprise in his expression? Had he thought I’d back out? Or hoped I would?

“At least give me a hint about where we’re going.”

“It’s a place I’ve been before.”

As we followed the tunnel, I realized we were descending below the city. I’d read about catacombs underneath the streets of Paris and was itching to investigate my surroundings, yet he led me ever forward.

Ahead was a circular chamber with more torches. In the center, a fountain bubbled, flames dancing across the surface of the water. Firelight flickered over the rounded walls, illuminating mosaics. The tiles depicted lusty satyrs and maidens in coitus, the flames making it look like the satyrs were moving, thrusting.

Next to a formal entrance, a shining brass plaque was embossed with four words:

LE LIBERTIN

CLUB PRIVÉ

I murmured to him, “Is this some sort of . . . sex club?” Wasn’t sex club synonymous with swingers’ club? My heart fell. The idea of sharing him—or being shared—stopped me in my tracks.

“Lost your nerve?” he asked, detecting my tension.

“I don’t want either of us to be with anyone else.”

He backed me against the wall under one of those torches. Firelight captured his face; behind his mask, his eyes were molten gold. “You are my woman. Mine. And I learned very early in life not to share what’s mine. You think I’ll ever let another touch you?”

I lifted my chin. “I won’t be sharing you either.”

This seemed to gratify him. “Then we’re in agreement. Any other hard limits I should be made aware of?”

I thought he was amusing himself with me, so I rolled my eyes, grumbling, “Just take me into the freaking club before I die of curiosity.”

Inside, a woman greeted us from behind a large secretary. She too wore a formal gown and a mask, an owl one. Though it obscured some of her features, her olive skin, lithe figure, and sloe eyes were arresting. “Welcome,” she said with a thick French accent as she helped me from my stole. Once she’d stored it, she told Sevastyan, “Your private room is this way, Monsieur S.”

How many times had Sevastyan been here?

He said something to her in French, then ushered me forward with his possessive hand back on my hip. As we followed her down an arcade, strains of lively classical music grew more distinct. We approached a set of double doors manned by liveried footmen, expressionless as they granted us entry.

Past the doors was a dazzling ballroom with a soaring ceiling, filled with formally dressed attendees.

We are no longer in the Corn Belt, folks.

Massive flower arrangements perfumed the air. Rich tapestries graced the walls, depicting more sensual scenes. Matching statues of Venus—which looked like they belonged in museums—flanked a grand staircase. Along the steps, living human statues with skin dusted gold held candelabras to light the way.

The decadent velvets, swathes of silk, and candlelit grandeur made me feel like I’d walked into a French period film. I finally found my voice to murmur, “How old is this place?”

“Centuries.”

With that one word, he might as well have shot me full of adrenaline. Ah, the history—I breathed it in. Endeavoring to note every detail, I gawked all around me.

As we passed through the throng of attractive partygoers, I realized no one was getting down and dirty. There were drinks and laughter and flirting, but nothing different than you’d see in a regular club.

Was it just me, or were we collecting lots of stares? Sevastyan seemed to be growing increasingly agitated.

“What’s wrong?” I asked him.

“They think you’re available. That you don’t belong to me.”