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I shouldn’t have come. Why again did I think this would be a good idea?

She forced herself to move deeper into the building. It was truly a spectacular place, looking more like a museum than a home. Kelly couldn’t imagine actually living here, with the majestic, sweeping staircase, crystal chandeliers and elegant furnishings.

Silent and pensive, feeling like something big was about to happen, she followed the distant thrum of the music. If there was one thing she felt natural doing, it was dancing. Thanks to twelve years of dance instruction.

The ballroom sat on one side of a wide corridor, the twin doors propped wide. The dim interior and familiar music beckoned her inside. Ahhh, safety. Comfort. Who would’ve thought she’d feel such things from a semidecent rendition of “Lady Marmalade”?

Feeling the thump of the base in her belly, she shuffled through gyrating bodies, working her way toward the front, looking for a little space in which to dance.

There. By the stage. She wriggled between a couple of guys dancing together and, facing the stage, closed her eyes and let the music carry her away.

Oh yes, she felt relaxed now. Much better. She’d forgotten how great it felt to just let the music pound through her body. Her ex-fiancé, Max Faulkner, hadn’t been much of a dancer. Despite the many balls and parties they’d attended together, she hadn’t danced like this in years. She felt sexy and alive and free…

Somebody caught her hand and pulled. More hands caught her under the armpits, and before she knew it, she was on the stage, standing between the band’s two female singers. The crowd cheered, and her face grew so hot she figured it might blister.

For a moment she thought about hopping back down, but one of the singers gave her a little nudge and her many years of dancing kicked in. A handful of awkward seconds later, she was a part of their act, shaking and kicking and spinning with the singers. When the song ended, the room filled with riotous cheering. The singers each grabbed one of her hands, raised them and, as a threesome, they bowed.

What a rush. She knew she’d never forget this moment. Never.

The singers gave her beaming smiles and one of them led her from the stage. She was met at the bottom of the steps by a tall man she recognized instantly, despite the black mask concealing the upper half of his face.

She was standing nose-to-chest with the host of the party, Rogan Cayne.

“Come with me.” He took her hand in his. Curious and intrigued, she followed him out of bedlam of the ballroom and down the hall. He stopped in a dark corner, beside a single closed door, and circled around her until she was trapped between the wall and his wide, incredibly impressive bulk. “I’m glad to see you accepted my invitation.”

His invitation? Did he remember her? Was she understanding him correctly? This gloriously handsome man—with the dark and dangerous features of a predator, and a reputation that put Hollywood’s most confirmed bachelors to shame—had personally invited her?

Naw, he didn’t remember her. He hadn’t actually said her name yet. That was silly.

His overpaid party organizer had made up the guest list, and she’d ended up on it because…well, she didn’t know how yet. Maybe because of Max’s family. The Masquerade Weekend wasn’t only a party, it was also a fundraiser for charity, of course. And the Faulkners were a very generous family.

The fact was, Rogan Cayne was just…playing with her. Toying. It was part of the game, the fantasy.

“Kelly,” he said, cupping her chin in his hand.

Her stomach dropped to her toes and her gaze shot to his. Ohmygod, he did know her.

He smiled, eyes flashing. Deep dimples dented his cheeks, making him look sweet and wicked at the same time. She had to admit, she was mesmerized. Just like she had been the first time she’d met the infamous Rogan Cayne, over three years ago.

That initial meeting had been a chance encounter, one of those embarrassing things she’d never forgotten. It had been a charity event (naturally), hosted by Max’s family. And she’d met Rogan during an impromptu introduction…after she’d accidentally knocked into his arm, sending a full glass of champagne splashing all over his suit.

She’d been mortified.

But this meeting was very different. There’d been no spilled beverages. (Thank God!) No mortification (yet). And it seemed that Rogan had made sure they’d see each other again, and not by chance.

She was so flattered, thrilled and intimidated she felt dizzy. Somehow, she managed to locate her tongue, which had become wedged in her throat. “It’s good to see you again.” It wasn’t a memorable line. Or sexy. But it was better than incoherent babbling. Or spilled champagne.

He tipped his head, and his tongue skimmed his lower lip. “Why did you come to my masquerade, Kelly?”

“Because I was invited,” she answered, not sure what he was expecting to hear. “And um…”

“No. Why,” he repeated, emphasizing the second word, “did you come?”

Shoot, she’d like to know the same thing. “Well, I’ve heard about your Masquerade Weekend, and um, I was curious.”

“Curious?” He captured one of her corkscrew curls between his finger and thumb, and lifted it to his mouth. The corners of his lips curled up in a sensual smile. “About what, my little Venetian whore?”

Coming from any other man, that term—whore—would’ve totally turned her off. But the way he said it, with that sultry voice of his and those dark, almost menacing eyes, it was like a sweet endearment. This guy could seriously mess with her mind. And that was so not good.

“I had to see if the rumors were true,” she admitted, searching for the truth. “To see if this weekend was the kinky sex-fest it’s purported to be.”

“Then you’re merely here as a casual observer?” he asked, his expression cooling.

She didn’t know how to answer that question. Was he suggesting she participate with him personally? She was kind of getting that vibe.

Yikes.

Giving this man an open invitation to pursue her held its appeal. Yet she was equally scared. If rumors were to be believed, Rogan Cayne regularly (and without remorse) ate women like her up and spit them out.

She studied him for a minute or so. He really did have the most stunning face she’d ever seen. And he gave off this energy, like an invisible electrical charge. Her body felt tingly all over. And warm. Yes, most definitely warm.

If she allowed herself to face the truth, she’d admit that she’d secretly hoped this would happen. That Rogan would notice her, talk to her, take an interest in her. What did you know, he had, and ironically, she wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Finally, she came up with an answer to his question. “Maybe. Then again, maybe not.”

This weekend was supposed to be about letting loose and having fun. When she’d decided to attend, she’d given herself permission to do whatever she felt comfortable with. No guilt. No regrets. She would take things at her own pace. She might watch. She might decide she was ready for more.

Or she might fling herself into a no-holds-barred weekend affair with the richest Dom in Metro Detroit.

Gauging from the interest glittering in his dark eyes, Rogan was intrigued. And she guessed, being the predator he was, he enjoyed a challenging game of cat and mouse.

Maybe this mouse wanted to play.

He brushed a fingertip across the globes of her breasts and leaned in to whisper in her ear, “You’ll play by my rules, my sweet Venetian whore.” Then he turned and left her, reeling, the wall keeping her from literally falling into a quivering heap on the floor.

Oh yes, there could be no doubt. Rogan Cayne was as sinfully wicked as she’d always thought. A womanizing deviant of the best kind. Kelly couldn’t wait to play with him again.

No guilt. No regrets.