It’s odd, the comfort that I feel in the wig, glasses and heavy makeup. My Laura Drake get-up is much more than a disguise, it’s a shield—a protective barrier that keeps the world out and the tender Samantha Jansen (the real me) in.
As my eyes drift through the crowd again, they’re drawn to the back of the room, to a latecomer. I feel my jaw go slack and, slowly, the earth stops spinning, grinding to a halt. For a moment, it’s as though the entire world is as breathless and reverent as I am.
My first thought is that someone has managed to find the exact image I have of Mason Strait, the one that’s only ever been in my head and in my darkest dreams, and send him here as a publicity stunt.
Even from this distance, I can see that his eyes are a soft, pale green. They’re framed in thick, jet-black lashes that match his jet-black hair. It’s cut much like I imagined it would be—business short. It’s a little mussed at the moment, like he’s run his fingers through it a few times, but that just makes it look even more like Mason’s.
His lean face is tan and his cheeks are covered in a light dusting of five o’clock shadow even though it’s still early afternoon. His lips are perfectly sculpted and his jaw is square. He even has that engaging dimple in his strong chin.
As my stunned eyes travel away from his face, I’m astonished to find that he’s even dressed like Mason might be when he’s out prowling around—casual, non-threatening. Sexy.
His broad chest is covered in a white button-up shirt that looks like it’s made of expensive brushed cotton. His long, muscular legs are clad in faded blue jeans that look like they were cut and sewn with his body in mind. And on his feet? Nothing less than dusty cowboy boots.
This can’t be happening!
“Next question please.”
Temporarily, Ari’s voice distracts me from the breathtakingly handsome man at the back of the room. I feel a bit disoriented, like I’ve been in a daze. I look around at the small crowd of people, trying to focus. But just before my mind can snap back to attention, my gaze is drawn to him again, as if pulled by a magnet.
But now the doorway is empty.
My heart sinks, so keen is my disappointment. I suppress the urge to jump out of my seat and run through the crowd, out the rear door to see if I can get one more glimpse of him. I feel desperate for just one more look at my Mason.
Ari’s voice brings me back to my purpose here. “You, sir,” he says in his authoritative voice.
Ari Nelson is my friend as well as my publicist. He has strawberry blond hair and a no-nonsense way about him. He makes calm out of chaos, reason out of randomness, and he can wrangle a raucous bunch like nobody’s business. He’s a thousand kinds of wonderful and he prefers his men much like I do—strong and dark.
“Ms. Drake, does inspiration for your stories stem from personal experience?” The smooth voice causes chills to erupt down my arms. I search for the corresponding face among the primarily-female crowd.
My eyes stop on a familiar face. His lips aren’t moving, but I have no doubt whatsoever that the velvety voice belongs to this man—my real-life Mason.
There are a few other men present, but his tall frame makes him easy to spot. He stands inches above everyone around him. I had been so focused on the doorway that seemed to have swallowed him up that I didn’t see him hovering at the far edge of the crowd.
But now, I can’t see anything else, anyone else.
His eyes are locked on mine as he waits. They aren’t smiling or flirtatious, or even curious; they’re just…intense.
When I don’t answer immediately, he asks another question. “Are you Daire Kirby?”
As my mind spins over his words, he watches me. I get the feeling he’s trying to see inside me, trying to find the truth, to find the softest, most vulnerable part of me and expose it. Just like Mason would.
The physical similarities between this man and my fictional leading man leave me breathless. The similarities that seem to float just beneath the surface leave me terrified.
People are always curious about where I get my inspiration, about whether or not it comes from real life. And although I’ve answered his question dozens of times and have memorized a nice, pat spiel to address it, my mind goes blank. It’s as though the only thing I’m aware of is the invisible thread that this man has, within seconds, tied around some battered part of my soul and is using to pull me toward him like a puppet on a string.
It’s quiet around us as the others in the room await my answer. When I give none, “Mason” moves forward. I watch, completely immobilized, as he fluidly weaves his way through the bodies in the crowd until he’s within a couple of feet of me.
He looks up at me where I sit on the stage, his familiar green eyes stripping me bare in front of all these people, and he asks the one question that scares me more than anything else. “Are you looking for your Mason Strait?”
I’ve asked myself that same thing over and over and over again. Do I want to escape my past? To forget it and move on like it never happened, like it hasn’t affected me? Or do I secretly want someone to take me back to it, to explore it with me? To free me inside it?
“Your name, sir?”
I still haven’t said a word when Ari asks the question, bringing me back from…somewhere else.
Translucent jade eyes never leave mine as the stranger leans forward, extending his hand. It seems he’s introducing himself to me rather than answering Ari’s question. What I don’t think this man realizes is that he’s giving my dreams—and my nightmares—a new name.
“Brand. Alec Brand.”
CHAPTER TWO - Alec
I make my way from the room, blending in with the rest of the crowd. I can still picture the look Laura Drake gave me as she was being led from the platform by the man I presume to be her publicist.
There was something about her expression, about the look in her light eyes that seemed incongruous with the sexually progressive woman I would’ve imagined Laura Drake to be. It was only there for a second, like she let her guard down accidentally. That or I just imagined it. Maybe I want there to be more to her than what she seems to be. Maybe I want her to be vulnerable, almost…frightened.
While I find Laura Drake the author fascinating, I might find this Laura Drake, the person, far more intriguing. She wouldn’t be the typical type of woman I’m drawn to, the kind I’m attracted to, but parts of her could be. Obviously, something about her is appealing to me or I wouldn’t still be thinking about her this way.