Warren had indeed chosen a perfect dress and perfect shoes. And she would wear them tonight without complaint. Her hair, on the other hand? She’d spent over an hour on this updo. She would not be taking it down and restyling it for anyone, not even him.
Chapter Eight
Seated in the back of the luxury sedan Warren had sent for her, Jenna stared at the five-story town house the driver had pulled up to in the West Village. It looked to have been recently remodeled, faced with pale, reddish-brown brick and topped with a terrace that probably provided quite a view of the city.
Was this it? Was this the club?
“Ms. Spencer?” the driver said before getting out to open the door for her.
Her head snapped around. She’d almost forgotten he was there. “Yes?”
“Mr. Donovan left something for you in the center console.”
The dress, the shoes, the instructions for how he wanted her to wear her hair? What else could there be?
She opened the console and pulled out a matte black masquerade mask.
The driver met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Donovan asked me to tell you to put it on before you leave the car.”
“He did, did he?” She eyed the mask, intrigued.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Biting back a grin, Jenna lifted the mask to her eyes, then tied the satin strings in a bow at the back of her head. Did this mean that he, too, would be wearing a mask?
Sir Donovan did think of everything, didn’t he?
She was beginning to think he would never let her see his face.
Once the mask was secure, the driver got out and opened the door for her.
Dressed to kill and feeling fine, she strolled up the walk to the front door. Here went nothing.
She was met in the foyer by a statuesque brunette wearing a delicately filigreed silver mask and a black, floor-length sheath that fit her proportions so perfectly it appeared painted on.
“Hi, I’m meeting Warren Donovan.”
“Yes, Ms. Spencer.” The woman smiled like the perfect hostess. “Mr. Donovan is expecting you.” She gestured toward a side room off the foyer and began to lead her that way.
Jenna followed, only to stop when a tall man with dark hair and wide shoulders stepped into the doorway. He was wearing black slacks, polished Ferragamos, a black silk button-up with the collar open . . . and a black mask that matched her own and covered the top two thirds of his face.
The woman stopped, then stepped to the side, head slightly bowed. “Mr. Donovan, your guest has arrived.”
“Thank you, Cynthia. I’ll take it from here.”
Just hearing his voice made Jenna’s pulse quicken.
Her gaze traveled slowly up and down, studying the lines and angles of his body and the way his shirt loosely embraced his firm chest and full biceps.
This was the man who went with the voice. The man who took her breath away with a simple “Hello.” It almost didn’t feel real that she was here . . . seeing him for the first time. She’d gotten so used to only talking to him on the phone that she wasn’t quite sure what to say or do now that he stood directly in front of her, the power emanating out of him like an otherworldly force.
She just wanted to admire him some more, which was easy to do, because he was more striking than she had imagined.
He had a long, tapered waist and broad, straight shoulders. The mask hid most of his face, but what she could see made her heart skip a beat. Slightly pursed lips, strong chin and chiseled jaw, dark, trimmed scruff, and fierce, smoke-green eyes that sized her up in one smooth up-and-down sweep.
He stepped aside and motioned for her to join him.
She entered the small room, and he closed the door behind her, walling them into silence, away from the quiet music and conversational chatter she had heard farther back in the house.
“You look beautiful,” he said, his gaze scanning her from head to toe, pausing to take in her hair.
A cold chill rippled through her. Making the bold decision to defy him and leave her hair up had felt right at the time. Now that she was face to face with him and he was staring sternly at her updo, she wished she could go back to the moment when she had thought disobeying him was a good idea and do as he’d asked.
He blinked and admired how the dress draped over her curves. “Do you like the dress?”
She looked down at the most expensive garment she had ever worn. “Yes, it’s lovely. Thank you.”
He took a step closer. “Does it suit your tastes?”
She swallowed thickly at the shadowy undertones in his voice. “Yes.”
“And the shoes?” He dropped his gaze to her feet. “Are they to your liking?”
She held her clutch in front of her lower abdomen with both hands, trying not to squirm under his appraising stare. “Yes.”
His gaze leaped back up to hers. “And the fit? Are they comfortable?”
Her heart raced, but she couldn’t say exactly why? Excitement? Fear? Apprehension? She knew him well enough from their phone calls to know that he wouldn’t let her defiance over her hair go unmentioned, but the fact that he had yet to say anything about it was unnerving.
“Everything fits perfectly,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
The corners of his mouth quirked upward as if he knew the effect his restraint was having on her. He turned and walked to the window that overlooked the street, parting the horizontal slats almost nonchalantly to peer outside.
“Francis told you that I wanted you to wear your hair down tonight, did she not?” he said calmly, his emotions unreadable, his voice an easy drawl.
Jenna’s mouth had gone dry. “Yes.”
He continued to face away from her, gazing out the window. The tips of his thick wavy hair brushed the top of his nape.
“Then why did you put it up?”
She didn’t have an answer for him.
He turned, facing her. “You purposely disobeyed, didn’t you?”
Pressing her glossed lips together, she
