Masked Possession. Alana Delacroix

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      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Copyright

      Lyrical Press books are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017 by Lanna Crucefix

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      Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

      First Electronic Edition: August 2017

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0361-4

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0361-0

      First Print Edition: August 2017

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0364-5

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0364-5

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      For N

      Chapter 1

      Caro Yeats entered the lobby cursing her new stilettos. Sure, they were sexy as hell and made her legs look a mile long but they were terrible for, say, walking. It had been a mistake to wear them, but they’d sat at the back of her closet for weeks and she’d grabbed them in a moment of uncharacteristic boldness brought on by the perfect spring day.

      Estelle, receptionist at Julien D’Aurant Public Relations, gave a low whistle as Caro strutted past her desk. The strutting wasn’t deliberate; it was impossible to walk any other way in the damn shoes. “What’s the occasion? Hot date tonight? It’s sure not for any of us here.”

      “Not true,” Caro said. “I wore my mouthwatering baggy jeans and stained sweatshirt ensemble to impress you last week.”

      Estelle winced. “Forgot about that. Anyway, you clean up nice. The boss will be impressed.”

      Caro rolled her eyes. Julien D’Aurant was so stereotypically French that she suspected it had to be an act. “Why do you not dress plus comme une femme?” was a question she’d had to dodge on multiple occasions. Her usual wardrobe of jeans and ballet flats seemed to cause him real anguish.

      “Speak of the devil,” Estelle muttered.

      Julien strolled into the lobby, his crisp, pressed, blue button-down tucked into his perfectly creased gray dress pants. The caramel-brown belt was the exact shade of his casual summer loafers, which he naturally wore without socks. In his hand—Estelle had told Caro that he went for weekly manicures and she’d never been able to look at his buffed and shiny nails again—he held his phone, regarding it as warily as he would a snake coiled to strike.

      He glanced up, then back at the phone. After a moment, his head flew up in such a comical double take that Estelle burst out laughing and Caro felt a bit insulted.

      “Mon ange. This is what I mean by dressing like a woman.” He strode over and grasped Caro by the shoulders, giving her a lingering kiss on both cheeks before stepping back and looking her over in admiration. “Quelle différence. Dress like this every day. You must.” His expensive Hermès cologne wafted over her.

      Although it was nice to have her efforts appreciated, Caro suddenly had the impression that her black pencil skirt was a little too tight and definitely too short. Time to deflect his attention. “Good morning, Julien. What were you frowning about?”

      “Ah. Yes, that.” He waved the phone at her. “Emergency meeting in the boardroom in an hour. New client.”

      “Who?” She didn’t particularly care, but knew enough to feign enthusiasm once in a while. Or at least interest.

      The phone rang out with the opening bars of Nina Simone’s “I Put a Spell on You.” Instead of answering, Julien pointed a single, pampered finger at her before murmuring “Allô?” and breaking into rapid French.

      Caro raised an eyebrow and looked over at Estelle, who shrugged and shook her short, black, Louise Brooks bob into place. Caro caught a quick glimpse of Estelle’s wickedly pointed fangs. How the vampire avoided slicing up her own lip was something Caro always wondered but was afraid to ask. Friendly as she was, Estelle could bring on the predator when she wanted. She called it her resting-death bitch face and Caro had seen it reduce grown men to inarticulate lumps.

      When Caro СКАЧАТЬ