Thanking Tobias for holding my door open, I appreciated his strong hand taking mine to help me out of the car.
We strolled up to the front door, which loomed grandly above. Taking those stone steps beneath the elaborate archway highlighting the Roman-themed grandeur.
I straightened my dress. “Why do we have to be out by midnight?”
“Not we, you.” His lips curled into a smile. “I need to protect your innocence.”
I flashed a smile back. “Oh, it’s that old-fashioned tradition where the men retreat to the smoking room in some kind of archaic sexist ritual.”
He wrapped his fingers around my left upper arm. “No, Zara, it’s because that’s when the fucking starts.”
The front door opened—
And I’d given up breathing.
Tobias ignored my death glare and gave a nod of greeting to the butler, and said, “Vis-v-vis.”
He removed a cream envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to him.
The door opened wider.
Tobias’s ironclad grip led me in and past the stocky young butler who probably doubled as a bouncer.
A young waitress stepped forward too. She extended a silver tray with crystal flutes of champagne. I tried to keep my gaze on the bubbly and not stare at her nakedness. She wore a black thong, and that was it, unless you counted the nipple clamps. She was petite, and her pretty eyes narrowed with intrigue from behind her mask.
Tobias thanked her for the drinks and lifted them off the tray. He handed one to me. I resisted gulping it down and turned to face him.
“Ms. Ruby Ryan?” The butler looked up from the invite he’d peeled open and held my gaze.
Tobias gave a nod. “Which way?”
“Welcome.” The butler nodded left.
Tobias’s grip tightened on my arm and he led us off in that direction.
“Black tie, sir,” shouted the butler after us.
Tobias threw me a look of apology and removed his jacket from my shoulders. He shrugged back into it, rounding out his dashing, moneyed appearance.
My thoughts raced with confusion for what Tobias was getting us into, and I almost tripped when we hurried by Pierre-Auguste Renoir’s painting of Les Grandes Baigneuses, depicting nude women bathing. The impressionist painter had a gift for capturing the dreaminess of his subjects.
His work stirring controversy even today for his promiscuity with color—oh the scandal—or the way he ignored lines and composition.
This was a taste of what Renoir must have felt with his decadent, impetuous behavior in Paris.
No, I reasoned, I’ve stepped inside a Picasso.
This was more like Pablo Picasso’s 1903 La Douceur, the erotic oil on canvas with its delicate watercolors of a woman going down on a man as he leisurely lay back and enjoyed the moment, watching himself in the mirror.
And I was smack-dab in the middle of this explicit fantasy.
My heels clipped on stone, the cold a welcome relief to reduce the burn of embarrassment that scorched my face.
When we reached a door, he knocked once.
With no answer, Tobias headed on in and pulled me with him.
A quick glance around at the wood-paneled room made me realize what this was. Not a coatroom, no, but a room for the dresses that the female guests had worn to this event and then removed and safely placed on chrome free-standing racks. From the number of dresses, hundreds of women had already arrived and stripped down to their underwear.
My Coco de Mer lingerie now made sense. Evidently, Marks and Spencer’s panties didn’t make the grade. Addled, I silently thanked Tobias for his forethought.
Careful not to spill my drink on my dress or the plush burgundy carpet, I set it down on a coaster on a corner table.
Tobias took a sip from his glass. And then another. “This is a Krug Clos d’Ambonnay. Very nice.” He placed his glass next to mine.
What the fuck.
I went for the door.
Tobias wrapped his hands around my waist and spun me around and nudged me gently until my back pressed against the wall.
His mask made him look edgier and sexy as hell. I went to take mine off—
He stopped me. “Before you say anything.” He gestured for me to be quiet. “I need you to listen.”
“What is this place?”
“We have a mission. To view a painting. Authenticate it. And get out. Whatever else you see has nothing to do with us.”
“Is this a secret society?”
He pressed his body against mine. “Keep your voice down. Let’s not stand out any more than we did when we arrived.”
“Who is Ruby Ryan? And why did he think that’s me?”
“She’s a friend who pulled some serious strings to get us in here.” He turned his head toward the door as though listening. “Think of the invite as the equivalent of a golden ticket.”
It was hard to suppress my sarcasm. “Like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? Only instead of chocolate...”
He looked amused. “Yes, if you like.”
“So you’re not a member?” I studied his face for the truth.
“No, otherwise it’d be my name on the invite.”
I tried to think straight but it was difficult being this close to him. “The painting still belongs to the owners?” I grabbed his biceps, and his firm muscles flexed beneath my touch, rousing a sense of safety.
“It’s due to go up for auction in a few weeks,” he said. “Sotheby’s doesn’t allow for anyone else to authenticate a piece other than their own staff. I don’t want to outbid the room only to end up with a forgery.”
“You should trust them, they’re the best—”
“I’ve been burned once before. Never again.”
“Isn’t what we’re doing illegal?”
“We’re merely guests at a party. We just happen to come across a painting and admire it. No one needs to know. Trust me, everyone, including the hosts, will be otherwise distracted.”
“Is this an orgy?”
“No, Zara, it’s a tea party.” He looked amused.
“I hope you don’t think—”
“Please.” He rolled his eyes. “I need you focused. You nearly gave us away back there.”
“How?”
“Your response to the waitress.”
“She’s buck naked.”
“I noticed a thong.”
I glared at him. “A warning would have been nice.”
“This opportunity can’t be lost.”
And right now I was hard pushed to recommend any staff at Huntly Pierre who’d raise their hand when invited to an orgy. I hadn’t worked there long enough to know who’d be up for a mass banging.
“Do