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  For Jeffrey

  You never let me lose my head when you stole my heart.

  I love you.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Henry

  The Tudor ballroom glitters like we’re backstage at a Vegas burlesque. It’s too much—the crystal, the diamonds, the people—and there’s not nearly enough champagne.

  As the music switches to a waltz, I pull Catherine into the middle of the dance floor and begin leading her through the steps, through the crowd of masked faces. Even with years of dance training, it doesn’t matter. I always feel out of place at these damn parties.

  My girlfriend’s spine straightens, her body rigid as she scopes out the room, looking for Medina’s most important and influential. She spots our friends dancing toward us and offers a rare smile.

  “You look gorgeous, Cath,” Liz whispers when she and Wyatt are within earshot. And then to me, “A masquerade ball. Your mom’s brilliant, Henry. I feel like a princess.”

  My father would have hated this—the endless stream of feathers, gold leaf, and jewels. I hate it too, but my relentless lessons on etiquette rewind, play back at slow speed: “You certainly look like one,” I reply with a wink.

  “Not one of your better lines,” Catherine says under her breath as Liz dances away, giggling, and Wyatt shoots me a glare. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s upright—less than twenty minutes ago he and the rest of the guys were smoking up behind the pool house. I don’t blame them. If I thought I could get away with it . . .

  “Deadly bored, aren’t you?” Catherine says. The stem of her diamond-encrusted mask pokes into the side of my rib cage. “You should be proud, Henry. I don’t know how your mom did it, but the house looks—”

  Gaudy is the word I think she’s looking for: A red carpet flows down the middle of our central staircase like a river of blood, a shocking contrast to the usual white that frosts everything from the leather sofas to the marble pillars.

  “I’m not looking at the decor,” I say, and slide my hands down Catherine’s back until they’re resting on her ass. The purple gown hugs her hips and her blond hair spills down her shoulders in loose curls. She looks like a fucking queen.

  “Don’t be inappropriate,” she hisses.

  “I thought you wanted me to have a good time,” I say, and shift my gaze so she doesn’t see my grin.

  I catch a glimpse of some juniors circling the chocolate fountain below. One of them pretends to stick his dick in it and the others hoot. I cough out a laugh.

  “You would find that amusing,” Catherine says, her annoyance quickly growing. “How gross.”

  “Loosen up, Cath,” I say, threading my fingers through hers. Jesus, even her skin is cool. I let out a sigh. “Let’s go check in with my mother.”

  At the suggestion, Catherine brightens. “I’ll just freshen up first.”

  “Oh, come on. Why mess with perfection?” My eyebrows rise and fall—twice—and I badly botch a Sean Connery impression. “You’re ravishing, darling.”

  Her mouth forms a line and she tosses my hand aside. “That isn’t the slightest bit sexy.”

  Catherine. Smart and popular, and she gets me, or at least the “me” everyone thinks they know. Plus, she’s an Aragon, which isn’t quite the same as being a Tudor, but since Mom has put herself in charge of finding me an appropriate match in Medina, Catherine tops a very short list.

  She kisses my cheek, leaving me stranded in the middle of the dance floor. Another tune kicks in and I scan the crowd for a new partner. Maybe the senator’s wife or the assistant principal of Medina Academy, anyone who will take my mind off the mounting tension. I turn to—

  My heart catches in my throat.

  She is a raven among doves. Bloodred lipstick forms the shape of a heart, striking against her stark black hair and the simple disguise in her hand. Something stirs in my gut.

  The girl lowers her mask, and I inhale as though sucker punched. Those eyes . . .

  She blinks and the trance dissolves. I scrub my hands over my face to readjust my equilibrium and start making my way across the room, pushing through the crowd, trying to maintain eye contact. My face is flushed by the time I get to her, and I thrust my palm out with a jerk.

  “Henry,” I say. The heart on her lips shifts in an ever-so-slight smirk. I cough out a nervous laugh, and exhaling, add, “I live here.”

  Jesus Christ. I live here? I will the floor to open up and swallow me whole.

  Her stare betrays nothing. If only she would just giggle or shake her head, something, anything, to save me from further humiliation. But she remains emotionless, blank.

  Almost.

  She slides her top teeth over her lower lip, scraping off the bottom half of the heart. Sweat beads at the base of my neck.

  “Would you like to dance?” she says.

  There’s a certain amusement in her voice that puts me on alert. Her eyes crinkle at the edges and I’m sure she’s laughing at me. I should back off, but damn it if I don’t enjoy a challenge.

  I hold out my hand and pull her close. She presses the stem of her mask into my palm—our skin touches. And for one disconcerting moment I’ve forgotten the steps, lost the ability to dance at all. She reaches up and holds my shoulder as we move across the floor.

  My fingers itch to snake through the long tangles of her hair. I focus on the steps instead, the twirls and dips, working hard not to stumble. Son of a bitch. I’m all jacked up, my world spinning forward and back, suddenly off-kilter. I can’t take my eyes off her haunting face, but even without looking, I know everyone is watching us.

  She twirls just out of reach and I yank her back. Whispering in her ear, I say, “Who are you?”

  The music stops and a smattering of applause breaks the spell before she can answer. Next thing I know, she’s disappearing into the crowd without so much as a backward glance.

  I blow out a breath.

  Catherine’s fingers suddenly intertwine with mine. “And who was that?” The slight lift in her voice reveals her jealousy.

  I grit my teeth and swallow a knee-jerk response, because I’m pissed off—confused, maybe—by my reaction to that girl.

  “Henry? Did you hear me?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, letting go of Catherine’s hand and loosening the collar of my tuxedo. It’s one thing for my girlfriend’s insecurities to bubble over at school. Another entirely to make a scene here, where the sheriff’s wife stands just a few feet away, ears perked and ready for gossip.

  Catherine’s eyes dim. “She must be new.”

  “Seems that way.” As a new waltz begins, I make a motion like I want to dance again. But it’s not Catherine I’m thinking about as I pull her close, and from the corner of my eye, I spot the girl. She catches me staring and I count the seconds, breaths, heartbeats, before she slowly lifts her disguise.

  Fuck me.

  As Catherine twirls around, she sees the girl too and freezes midstep. “That’s her with your mother and the architect for the creative center,” she says. “What’s his name? Terry? Travis?”

  “Thomas,” I mutter, not glancing back. “Thomas Harris.”

  Catherine clucks her tongue. “She’s a bit . . . harsh looking, don’t you think?”

  The comment is classic Catherine. Classic Medina, I guess. The whole damn town is crammed onto a tiny pedestal, pushing a
nd shoving, jockeying for position as they claw their way to the top.

  “I guess we should introduce ourselves,” I say.

  Catherine fakes a smile. “Of course. But only for a minute, right?” She rubs her hand along my biceps and squeezes. “Charles and Marie are sneaking a bottle of champagne out to the dock. I promised we’d join them.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “I can’t wait to slip out of these shoes—they’re killing me.”

  Catherine’s long gown hides five-inch heels, an effort to disguise her height. At six-foot-two, I tower over her. “Trust me, a million other places I’d rather be too.”

  Which is turning out to be a bold-faced lie.

  The closer we get to the girl, the louder my mother’s cackle echoes over the white noise of laughter, small talk, and music. Life without Dad and my brother hasn’t been easy for her the past year—hell, it hasn’t been easy for either of us. But somehow she’s managed to rise from the ashes of grief like a fiery phoenix, this evening’s gala the final step to full-on resurrection. Me? I’m still buried under the wreckage.

  Catherine hangs on to me. This new girl has shoved her right out of her comfort zone. I feel guilty about it—because even though I shouldn’t be staring, I am.

  What’s left of the painted heart on the girl’s lips cracks on our approach, revealing a small gap between her teeth.

  “Hello again,” I say, warmth spreading across my cheeks.

  She nods, stares. My face goes hot and I’m at a loss for words.

  Catherine’s fingers move from my elbow to my shoulder, and tighten with a possessive squeeze. She crooks her neck, leans into me, and her blond hair spills over my tux.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into my boyfriend tonight. Must be the alcohol in the punch.” She smiles, but even from my view it looks more like a sneer. “I’m Catherine.”

  The girl’s lips part and I catch a flash of something silver in her mouth. My throat dries to sandpaper. Is that a tongue piercing? Jesus. Everything about this girl is sexy as hell.

  Catherine clears her throat, squeezes too tight. “And you are?”

  “Anne.” The girl smiles a little. “Anne Boleyn.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Anne

  I can’t help but stare as Henry shifts awkwardly at his Barbie girlfriend’s obvious unease. He seems cocky and pretentious. Really not my type.

  I’ve got eyes, though.

  “You just moved here?” Barbie says, flashing me another make-believe smile. Fitting, since this whole mansion looks like it belongs in a fairy tale.

  “Oh good, you’ve all met,” Mrs. Tudor’s voice coos before I can bite off a sarcastic response. She lowers her ruby-lined mask and rests a hand on her son’s forearm. “Come, Henry. Mr. Harris has the plans for the new center with him. You’ll want to take a look.” She leans forward and, to me, adds, “Your father is so talented.”

  “Stepfather,” I correct.

  Her smile falters only a second. “Of course. My apologies. We’re just so thrilled to have the country’s most celebrated architect here at our gala.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  Mrs. Tudor leads her son away, her head bent toward his ear in a hushed whisper. Lagging behind, I can’t make out all the words—something about my mother being a former waitress—but I can read between the lines.

  Bitch.

  Henry shakes my stepfather’s hand. “I’ve seen your preliminary work, sir,” he says, all gushing and cute. “It’s impressive. I wish I could perform on that stage. I know my way around the old theater.”

  My skin prickles a little at the lame admission and I study Henry’s build, the way his tux shows off his broad chest, lean legs. No doubt about it, the guy’s got a great ass. But an actor? I don’t see it.

  “Art is a skill best practiced,” my stepfather says, and this time, I do roll my eyes. “What are your plans next year? We could use some experienced help when things get up and running.”

  “Henry has applied to Harvard,” Mrs. Tudor says, a little too quickly.

  My mother swoops in from the sidelines, her smile of approval all glittery. “A business tycoon in the making?”

  “He’ll be senator one day,” Mrs. Tudor says. She’s in her element now, obviously well versed in the role of political cheerleader. “My late husband passed his acumen on to his sons. Henry has already started his career.”

  “Interesting,” I say, though I’m bored as shit. “So, you’re on Student Council or something?”

  Henry stands taller, proud, poised to impress, his chest puffed out like he’s solved world poverty. “President, actually. Have a question for council?”

  Mischief tugs at the corners of my lips. “I heard I can’t park my motorcycle on school property. Afraid it might clash with your precious Jaguar?”

  Henry’s eyes twinkle. “Audi.”

  “That’s enough, Anne,” my stepfather growls.

  “I’m sure you’ll agree with the rule when you see the school grounds, dear,” Mrs. Tudor says. “They’re quite stunning.” She glances back at Barbie, who adds, “You get a great view of Lake Washington from almost every classroom. It’s a beautiful place for prom. Are you a senior, Anne?”

  “Junior,” I say. Not like she cares.

  “Perfect. You’ll have two years to get used to the place before graduation.” She offers me a coy sneer so subtle no one else would notice. “Maybe even fall in love. Find your own Prince Charming.”

  I almost laugh aloud.

  “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous,” my stepfather says, oblivious to the tension, the message Barbie is sending. He drapes his arm around my shoulder and I tense up. “I really want Anne and her mother to fit in here. Would you be willing to give her a tour of the school? Maybe pick her up tomorrow on her first day and show her the way?”

  My stomach clenches. Is he kidding?

  “Oh, I couldn’t.” Barbie presses her hand against her chest. “I mean, I’d love to, of course. But I have cheerleading practice tomorrow.” She seems to regain her composure, as though she’s just dodged an unwieldy arrow. “I’m the squad leader.”

  Of course.

  There’s a beat of awkward silence, a slight hesitation in time, and then—

  “I’ll do it.” Henry’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Give me your address. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  My stomach clamps like I’ve been drop-kicked, and the chill of Barbie’s gaze is enough to give me frostbite. “Don’t you have football practice, Henry?” she says through clenched teeth. And then to me whispers, “He’s the quarterback.”

  All so very cliché.

  “Afternoon practice,” Henry says.

  Based on the slight slur in his voice, I’m not sure he’s up to play morning tour guide, but I keep my mouth shut. Frankly, I’m shocked they’re serving drinks to minors, even if it is just champagne. Maybe Medina isn’t as prissy as I thought.

  My stepfather pats Henry on the arm, my mother breathes some kind of thank-you, and while they slide into easy banter about the Seahawks and politics, my pained silence stretches into eternity.

  “We should get back to our friends,” Barbie says, looping her gloved hand through Henry’s arm, steering him away from me, clinging to some kind of fairy tale romance.

  Yeah, I believed in it once, too.

  My mother makes nice with Mrs. Tudor, bending her head forward to whisper and compliment, to tell tall tales. It’s like she already thinks she belongs here, fits right in. She doesn’t.

  Neither of us do.

  My new world is etched in diamonds and sealed in gold, drowning in pretension. With each insignificant hour that I spend here, my dreadful past blurs and fades.

  Disappears.

  With any luck, soon I won’t remember it at all.

  A thread of resentment coils around my neck. Thomas may have saved us from poverty and shame, but the rescue comes with expectations. How am I supposed to blend in with all of—

  This?
r />   A masked waiter hands me a champagne flute. I sip, roll it around with my tongue. Swallow. Repeat. I’d kill for something stronger. “I’ll be at the buffet if anyone needs me,” I say, my eyes on the volcano erupting with chocolate lava.

  Before I can escape, Mrs. Tudor says, “Your mother tells me you’ve had a rough past. It’s a shame Henry and Catherine didn’t take time to introduce you to some of their friends.” Her eyes glisten with the illusion of sincerity. She sizes up my dress, the curve of flesh that rises from the low-cut bodice. “Feel free to mingle. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble getting around.”

  Fuck her.

  I swallow the last of the liquid in one gulp, but the lump of unease in my throat doesn’t move. It grows and swells, daring me to say something in my own defense.

  Thomas has made it clear that this party, these people, are important.

  I ease away from Mrs. Tudor, my mother, and the suffocating expectation of putting on a good show.

  Four guys about my age stand at the end of the dining table, laughing, talking, raising their flutes in raucous cheer. I consider saying hi, getting the tough stuff out of the way—I’ve never been great at introductions. But Mrs. Tudor’s voice echoes in my ear and I hesitate. I pull up the top of my dress, cover a bit of skin, mask cleavage, and hover behind the chocolate fountain, just out of sight. Sudden insecurity sinks its teeth in, vicious and biting.

  Why the hell am I already letting these people get to me?

  A male voice rises over the white noise of chatter, obnoxious, maybe drunk. “Hey John, did you check out the new chick?”

  Are they talking about me? I peer around the fountain. Another voice, less obnoxious, less drunk: “I heard her mother is shacked up with the architect.”

  “Just another gold digger, then.”

  The thump in my chest fades to a dull ache. My ears prick up anxiously. I hear them all the way at the end of the table—the whole room probably can.

  “She looks like she’s got a chip on her shoulder,” another says, and I wonder if he’s John.