True Season of Love

By Urenna Sander

After being jilted by her fiance, distraught Journalist, Olivia Moreno, flees the States for France. In Paris, she resides with her fun loving sister, Connie.

On a whim, the reserved Olivia accompanies Connie to a masked charity ball in London, given by an infamous millionaire, known for his wild parties. 

Partygoer, Ptolemy Verenis, was entranced by the tall, masked, statuesque Olivia. Unbeknownst to Olivia, her sister added their names to dine with wealthy charity donors. Ptolemy bidded a large sum to charity, and won a dinner with the Moreno sisters in his suite.

Olivia would never consider a relationship with a stranger. She wanted to forget what happened in London. Europe is vast, she hoped she never see him again. Yet, Ptolemy Verenis was determined to find her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 15, 2009
• ISBN: 9780595601257

Urenna Sander

Urenna Sander was born in Philadelphia and attended Temple University. She is an administrative coordinator at a renowned hospital in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where she lives with her family.

Book preview

Chapter 1 

In 1962, at eighteen, Olivia Moreno learned how to drive. Her sister, Connie, drove onto the Schuylkill Expressway, parked the car on the shoulder of the road, and told Olivia to get into the driver’s seat while she and her boyfriend, Jesse, sat in back.

With clammy hands, Olivia clutched the wheel. Her eyes widened as she watched cars roar, rip, and careen down the highway at high speeds during rush hour. Her lunch began to rise in her throat from the noxious fumes from the cars, the heat from the sun, and anxiety of competing with seasoned drivers. She looked back at Connie and Jesse.

Connie was supposed to teach her how to drive. Instead, she and Jesse made out in the backseat. Connie swung one leg over Jesse’s leg. His hands explored underneath her dress. Olivia cleared her throat but was ignored.

Damn it, Connie! Dad said to take me to the park and …

I’m not Dad. You either drive or hoof it.

Olivia clenched her fists and pursed her lips. The inside of her father’s Ford Falcon felt like a furnace from the sun’s August heat, and her head hurt. She gripped the wheel, placed the gearshift in drive, and edged out into the evening rush-hour traffic.

In a drenched shirtwaist dress, as rivulets of perspiration streamed down her face, Olivia wanted to scream.

A car blared, and someone hollered stupid bitch. Another driver, a woman, gave Olivia the finger. Olivia’s hands shook, and her breath became short and uneven. She moaned and bit her bottom lip.

You’re doing fine, baby sis. Ignore those fools and drive this shit buggy home.

I’m not sure if … Concentrating, Olivia turned the wheel and snaked around a car whose driver drove at a turtle’s pace in front of them.

See what you just did, Connie said, as she sat up and watched Olivia. Jesse’s hand began to explore underneath Connie’s dress. You’re doing just fine, Connie said. She turned back to Jesse.

That was six years ago. Now, Olivia took the highway and traveled long distances on company business. Tonight, their destination was for pleasure. She drove from Paris to London in six hours. Tonight, the first weekend after the New Year in 1968, the sisters would party in London on the edge of Regent Park.

In an available space, Olivia parked her red Porsche with ease, turned off the ignition, and emitted a deep sigh. Considered a nervous driver, she felt this feat should be celebrated.

Olivia and her elder sister, Connie, looked at each other and smiled. Connie pulled out the extra flask and offered it to Olivia.

What’s this?

In the dimly lit car, Connie watched a frown appear on Olivia’s face.

It’s joy juice … it will relax you. You’re too uptight.

Olivia grabbed the flask, unscrewed the cap, and took a sip. Connie smirked as Olivia forced herself to swallow the pungent liquid.

Olivia recapped the flask and shook her head. It’s too strong.

"Like hell it is. Drink up and feel good for a change or high tail it back to France by your lonesome."

You’re a bitch.

Ain’t it the truth. Connie laughed.

What is this stuff? Olivia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Connie opened her purse and took out a joint before she answered. OJ and alcohol.

I know that, but what kind of alcohol?

Connie lit the joint and inhaled. She heaved a deep sigh. Just for tonight, try to enjoy yourself, she said, as she offered Olivia the flask again. Here, take a few swigs, then a toke of this joint.

Olivia stared at the small, glowing neon orb on the joint. She glared at Connie and shook her head, but Connie would not take no for an answer. She pushed the joint in front of Olivia’s nose.

Keyed up at work for several weeks, Olivia wanted to relax after her exhaustive work on a new project. Plus, with her recent promotion, she needed to prove her worth.

At social gatherings, as a rule, Olivia would slink in a corner. With curiosity, she watched women hold men’s interests with their beauty and wit. They demanded and got what they wanted—an escort home, a sleepover, or dinner dates.

Usually, Connie kept men in animated discussion while Olivia slipped over to the food table, piled her plate, and crept back in a corner for the evening.

Olivia would sit on the sofa, drink a glass of wine, gorge, and watch in fascination the men and women on the hunt. Later, back at home, she would suffer from indigestion.

Already, Olivia regretted the trip to France. Connie was the social butterfly, not her. She had carried her emotional scars from childhood, and it kept her from feeling comfortable in social settings.

She attended events given by the CEO for dignitaries and the board of directors. Olivia forced herself to feel comfortable at these functions.

Before functions, she would stand in front of the mirror at home and avow a balanced and honest view of herself. There would be no more slinking in the corner and no more gorging on food and eating with wild abandon.

Her supervisor, Didier Hulot—friendly and accommodating—accompanied her to company functions. Intuitive, Hulot knew that Olivia was reserved and unsophisticated, but he thought she was endearing.

Look, Connie said with impatience in her voice. "I’m helping you relax. Just do it for me, please. Sip and toke a few times. We’ll do it together." Connie opened and sipped from her own flask.

Olivia took a large sip from the flask’s contents. Its sharp, sweet taste warmed her insides. She licked her lips and smiled. Olivia and Connie smoked the entire joint.

Olivia did not want to feel uptight this evening. This was supposed to be a fun crowd … Connie’s set. Tonight, Olivia would hang loose, Connie’s slang for relaxing and feeling free.

After they smoked and drank, Olivia stretched and yawned. A calmative effect enshrouded her. Olivia giggled.

Gesu, please don’t giggle all night, Livy.

Connie pulled out breath freshener, sprayed some into her mouth, and offered it to Olivia.

Afterward, compacts were removed from their handbags and flipped open. Connie checked her makeup, while Olivia smoothed back her long, curly hair and adjusted the maid’s cap on her head.

André Lélouche, a wealthy gentleman that owned homes in London and Paris, invited the sisters to his famed annual masquerade and charity ball.

Lélouche, known more for debauchery than charity, did pretty much what he damn well pleased at his charities. Every year, aside from the wild, notorious parties he threw, he presented his charity ball for the elite of Europe.

The sisters were invited, because one of Lélouche’s friends requested the presence of the eldest sister, Consuela Moreno.

A black man dressed as a court jester watched Connie and another woman enter the home. He had always liked women that were well-endowed, but the tall, angular Connie, with skin the color of butterscotch and full pouty lips, attracted him. Her witty sense of humor appealed to him. Her long hair hung in a ponytail underneath her conical hat. She wore a genie costume with flared see-through pantaloons and a midriff stitched with bells that jingled. On her wrists and anklets were several gold bangles.

The tall, attractive brown-skinned woman who accompanied her wore a mini maid’s dress with a small lace cap in her hair. The front of the outfit revealed her full, rounded bosom. He watched her with amusement and chuckled as she tugged at the short skirt.

In the foyer, Connie reminded Olivia not to remove her mask. When Olivia walked into Lélouche’s vast parlor filled with costumed merrymakers, the room was abuzz with noise; laughter, giggles, shouts of "hullo," and people kissing and happily embracing. A vapor of cigarette smoke also clung in the room. Some overindulged partygoers, who couldn’t hold their spirits, swilled their drinks on other revelers. Insults flew but were restrained by security acting as butlers.

She didn’t expect to be the center of attention. Yet, men stopped their conversations in midsentence to watch her enter the room. Some nudged each other and nodded toward her. One man, with drink in hand, murmured something to the men standing nearby, and they laughed loudly and looked at her. Still, another man, dressed like Count Dracula, languidly licked his lips at her.

It was the minidress. A feeling of nausea swept over her. With shaky hands, she pulled at the back of the dress’s hem and worked her fingers around to the front. It was futile to pull at the hem. It was too late to feel embarrassed, but she couldn’t help feeling ill at ease.

I don’t feel right in this dress, she whispered to Connie.

Connie laughed softly. They’re used to svelte figures at these shindigs. To ogle the voluptuous type in your getup has them totally gaga.

Well, I’m not comfortable, grumbled Olivia unhappily.

Enjoy the spotlight and the attention your outfit garners. Smile, laugh, and have fun. You’re in a mask. No one knows you here, said Connie, giving her a reassuring pat on her cheek. Just remember to keep your mask on, and don’t give your name, she warned again. Connie then swished over to a man that held out a fluted glass of champagne for her. She smiled at the man who kissed her hand. Later, said Connie, as she sauntered off with him.

Connie was always outgoing. Olivia remembered their first day of kindergarten. Connie was five and she four. Their father had left them after giving them both a pep talk. Connie had run off to play with the children, while Olivia had stood in the alcove and cried. The teacher had tried to coax her to come, but, for several days, she’d refused.

Connie was right. Smile and have fun. She was asked to dance and accepted but felt dizzy after being twirled around the floor a few times by her partner.

Olivia laughed at her dance partner’s jokes about his take on the revelers and carousers at the party. She had begun to feel warm, relaxed, and mellow, and she no longer cared if her dress caused excitement. However, the exhaustion of a full day at work, the drive to London, and the alcohol and joint enveloped her into a state of lethargy.

Although warmed and relaxed, Olivia reminded herself not to stoop over. If so, she would reveal the crotch in her panties. Stilettos and fishnet stockings complemented her long, shapely legs.

Since Olivia worked long hours and had no time to spare to shop for a costume, Connie chose one to show off Olivia’s attributes.

Stop being a prude. Show off those C-cups, full hips, and long, sexy legs to their advantage, chided Connie.

Later, Connie was surprised to find Olivia, whom she considered a couch potato, conversing with a couple dressed in Renaissance costumes. A tall, dark-haired man, dressed as a hunchback, walked up and stood next to Olivia. He took her hands in his and kissed them. He then wrote on a chalkboard, but Olivia was escorted away as another man grabbed her hand to dance.

The masquerade party was in full swing. Music by Wilson Pickett, Jimi Hendrix, and the Beatles blasted from several rooms. People danced crudely with and without partners. A man in a devil suit chased a woman with his spear. He prodded her in the buttocks, and she slapped him.

Men stared and showed their lustful admiration for a woman who showed up in a yellow polka dot bikini. Cottage cheese thighs, said a woman, laughing. Others snickered, but the bikini-clad woman strutted with an air of confidence.

The house, an enormous brownstone, displayed high ceilings with low-hanging crystal chandeliers, marble fireplaces, and exquisite porcelain figurines. A life-size sculpture of Venus stood in a corner of the room. Littered with expensive artwork and antiques, the home’s original decorative cornices appeared intact. The floors, covered in heavy Chinese carpets, now revealed oak parquet for dancing.

After dancing and now feeling the effects of the joint and alcohol, Olivia peered into a room with classical music. It appeared empty except for a couple that sat in a corner necking. They looked up when she entered. The man stared for a moment, and the woman playfully slapped his face and kissed him.

Olivia knew the flared micromini number showed too much skin. Her breasts jiggled when she walked. The top made her breasts look too bulbous, and she knew Connie intentionally ordered a smaller-sized costume for her.

Later, Connie found Olivia relaxed on a sofa, reviewing the auction program in what Connie considered the flat room. Connie began to feel regret that she invited Olivia. Olivia should be dancing and meeting wealthy men. Instead, she sits on a tuffet reading her cares away, thought Connie. Disgusted, Connie walked away. This was supposed to be fun. Can’t she forget that knucklehead that dumped her? Thank God I hid his letters from her, she mumbled.

The hunchback walked into the room, stood over Olivia, and grinned. He as well as other men admired the cinnamon-skinned woman. They were smitten by her beauty, even behind the mask. Curvy and regal, she had unknowingly walked seductively across the room, transmitting desire to admirers.

The masked stranger in the hunchback costume looked down at Olivia’s tight bodice that revealed her ample breasts. He liked that she was tall, with shapely legs; she was at least five feet eleven in stiletto heels.

Olivia thought him warm and friendly. They both smiled. Nevertheless, like the other men, he had salivated the moment she walked in.

She looked up at him, nodded, and continued to review the auction program highlights.

Lélouche would auction off not only couples for the evening for charity but paintings and antique furnishings as well.

Olivia read the program and the charities Lélouche and friends honored over the years. Pictures of famous people and the elitist of society were displayed. Olivia continued to flip through the program. She ignored the hunchback’s stares.

Hunchback sat down next to her. Olivia moved over and gave him leeway to sit with the hump on his back. He showed her a sign that read: Mute. Hunchback of Notre Dame. He wrote on a chalkboard and asked her name.

Mademoiselle, Olivia said.

Mademoiselle who? he wrote.

Someone announced that the auction had begun. Olivia ignored his question and stood up. She walked toward the door and looked above the crowd for Connie. People stood around an area cordoned off. The music stopped, and someone spoke from a microphone and requested silence. Heedless of the announcement, a woman laughed out loud as a man whispered in her ear, couples kissed and groped, and a man goosed a woman in a tutu.

The hunchback came and stood beside Olivia as she searched the crowd for Connie. He seized Olivia’s hands, held them for a brief moment, and felt their softness. Speechless, Olivia felt funny inside. In silence, he stared at her, as she slowly removed her hands from his, and walked away.

Olivia felt uncomfortable. His touch, although expressive and friendly, had thrilled her. She felt warm and tingly inside.

The French were amiable and vivacious; kisses and touching were their way of greeting you.

Olivia spied Connie wildly waving her hand.

What did hunchback want? Connie asked, as she nudged Olivia and grinned.

He asked my name.

I hope you didn’t tell him.

No! Olivia rushed to keep up with Connie.

Connie suggested they auction themselves off as a pair for the evening. She knew Olivia would object if they didn’t.

We and the charities will benefit. It’s a good way to meet someone wealthy. They pay for our company, and we even get to name where the money goes. Connie offered this explanation when Olivia questioned the rationale of who benefited from the auction.

You don’t have to do anything you don’t want, and, besides, we’re not to take off the masks or give our names. That’s the rule, Connie cautioned.

Why?

Connie grimaced. Privacy is the name of the game, whispered Connie. It’s Lélouche’s way of making it fun for everyone. The wealthy pay for a charity and are rewarded.

How will they benefit? Are you going to sleep with a stranger? Olivia suddenly felt queasy. She looked out at the staring crowd.

"So what? Do you need another sip of joy juice to get it together? Cool it. Not wanting to appear harsh, Connie used a softer approach. Usually, it’s just a night of fun. They take you to dinner, spend a few hours with you, and hopefully, Connie said crossing her fingers, They’ll ask to see you again. It’s nothing to worry about. Lélouche has thrown his charity affairs for years."

The auction began in a large ballroom. Golden silk-damask drapes hung from floor to ceiling on large-paned windows. The auction area where they stood was chained off with golden, velvet rope. Olivia glanced at the throng that hid behind their masks. All eyes watched them when the auction began. A large bald man, dressed like Superman, suggestively licked his tongue at Olivia.

Why are we first?

It’s better than being last.

Lélouche gave a brief introduction, explained the charities, and thanked his guests for their generosity. He nodded at the sisters and said they were being auctioned as a pair. The bidder would bid on two charities and dine with lovely damsels. "And whatever else floats your boat," said Lélouche as he gyrated his hips. The crowd roared with laughter, and Olivia clutched Connie’s hand.

Once the bids began, it appeared competitive between a young African and several European men. The African bid the highest, but an assistant whispered to Lélouche that someone privately outbid the gentleman.

Lélouche asked the African if he wished to place a higher bid. Dejected, the African said no, bowed to Connie and Olivia, and stepped aside.

As he swaggered out of sight, Connie muttered to herself. Damn, I would’ve loved to have crashed in his pad for the weekend.

Tense, Olivia bit down on her bottom lip when she saw the hunchback. Apparently, the hunchback outbid the black man, purchased their charities, and won the promised prize of dinner with Olivia and Connie.

Ladies and gentlemen, the hunchback has received these lovely ladies for dinner. He bid double. I understand he wants to dine with them the entire night. What a magnanimous gesture for charity. Lélouche and the crowd cheered and clapped.

Annoyed, Olivia clenched her teeth. She didn’t want to dine with a mute hunchback. The thought of an evening spent with a man who wrote on a chalkboard annoyed her. The crowd clapped as hunchback bowed. He held out his hand to Olivia, and, with reluctance, she placed her hand in his. They moved aside, and the auction continued.

Chapter 2 

We can’t stay with you the entire night, Olivia said, to hunchback, once they had reached the foyer.

Damn, he’s mute. He can’t be that bad. We’ll get him drunk and leave, Connie whispered.

Hunchback escorted them to a waiting limousine. They were greeted by a chauffeur who drove them to the British Royale Hotel for midnight supper in hunchback’s suite.

Olivia and Connie held hands. Connie was curious, and Olivia was disquieted over the man who had chosen them. Although feeling mellow, Olivia did not look forward to communication with him.

Olivia giggled uncontrollably. Connie elbowed her in the ribs but giggled too.

When they arrived in the hunchback’s suite, a table had been set for four. The suite was decorated with lavish, ivory colored furnishings. Thick, rich carpets the color of alabaster dominated the room. Artwork by Matisse, Cezanne, and Lautrec decorated the walls.

Olivia ran her hand over the smooth grain of the wood on the tables. She picked up the intricate white gold box scented with Cuban cigars, opened it, and sniffed its aroma.

The sisters were surprised to see the masked black man enter the suite. He had a lascivious grin fixed on Connie, and she voiced her displeasure.

Wait a minute. Connie placed her hands on her narrow hips. You lost to this mute guy. She nodded toward hunchback. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but there won’t be any hanky-panky. Connie looked the men up and down and shook her head in disgust. One is mute, and the other grins like a Cheshire cat.

Olivia grabbed Connie’s hand. Let’s leave. She tried to steer Connie toward the door, but Connie stood motionless. She watched the attractive black man before her and calculated her next move. It was obvious he had invited Connie to Lélouche’s charity ball. He was well-built and displayed strong, muscular legs in his costumed tights. A short, neatly trimmed Vandyke decorated his smooth, burnt-pecan skin. He displayed white, even teeth when he grinned. Connie liked what she saw. She refused to leave.

In a measured look, Connie gave him her three-second stare. She flirted with her eyes, giving a look that said, Yes, I’m approachable.

The black masked man ignored Connie’s sarcasm. He took a large magnum of Moet champagne from an ice bucket. With ease, he popped the cork and poured Connie a glass of champagne. He scooped up a spoonful of Beluga caviar, spread it on a cracker, and offered it to Connie.

As Connie watched him intently, she slid her hand under his outstretched hand. She never took her eyes off him. Slipping her hand underneath his, she cradled his hand and lifted the caviar-spread cracker he had offered.

The black masked man poured himself and the hunchback a glass of champagne. Except for Olivia, the three toasted. They drank their champagne in silence while Olivia walked toward the door.

My name is Jester, the black masked man said smoothly. He pointed at hunchback.

This is Mute. And you are?

"Geni and Mademoiselle will do," Connie said, pointedly.

Your name is Connie Moreno, mocked the one named Jester. He turned and stared at Olivia. Who is the lovely mademoiselle who wants to leave?

‘Mademoiselle’ will do for the evening, Connie said. She beckoned for Olivia who ignored her.

Mute walked over and took Olivia’s hand. She had wanted to pull away from him but instead was drawn by his gentleness. She noticed his manicured hands weren’t soft for a man of wealth and leisure. Obviously, he worked using his hands. The scent of his cologne was clean and fresh.

A shiver of pleasure coursed through Olivia when Mute kissed her hands. She looked at him with curiosity. He was tall, six foot, and well-built; he had thick, coal black wavy hair. He flashed Olivia a grin that dazzled against his deep olive skin. He had full, sensuous lips and a strong chin. She wondered if he was mulatto or North African.

She had noticed he tipped the wait staff handsomely. The chauffeur seemed to take cues from him when they were driven to the hotel. She also noticed he wore a Rolex. Instinct told her he was the wealthier of the two men.

She looked over at Connie who now sat on the sofa in quiet conversation with Jester. Her long legs were crossed, and she drank her second glass of champagne as she nibbled a plate of caviar and crackers.

Olivia looked at Mute and sighed with disappointment. Are you going to talk?

He shook his head no, took Olivia’s elbow, and steered her toward the dining cart. He opened one of the tureens that housed stuffed squabs. Olivia looked down at the succulent little birds nestled in a thick, dark, and savory sauce with garlic and baby onions. She sniffed and closed her eyes. They smelled divine. She opened the next tureen that had garlic-scented mashed parsnips and unconsciously licked her lips. She smiled as she sniffed early June peas simmered in mint and lemon-buttered asparagus tips.

Mute offered Olivia a plate. A starved Olivia’s stomach growled. This might be the effects of the joint she had smoked. Now, usually self-conscious about the amount of food she consumed in public, Olivia had no qualms when she piled food on her plate that night.

Even though Olivia wore a mask, Mute felt bewitched by the young woman before him. Even her desire for food appealed to his senses. It pleased him to see her enjoy the scents and flavors of garlic parsnips and comment how much she adored garlic.

Mute wondered whether she was aware of her soft, vocal sounds of delight as the food touched her tongue and palate. He smiled to himself and thought her pleasure with food appeared erotic. He found her delightful. It amused him that she ignored his presence and preferred food.

Thanks, I’m ravenous. Olivia speared an extra leg from one of the squabs.

They ate in silence. Olivia loved to talk while eating. She remembered when she lived with her aunt Donna as a teenager. It was forbidden to talk during meals. In her parents’ home, with seven siblings, it had been boisterous with their laughter and chatter at mealtimes.

Olivia heard Jester and Connie as they discussed life in Europe. Jester’s anecdotes made the room peal with Connie’s laughter. Olivia thought Connie had begun to eat out of Jester’s hand.

Later after dinner, as soft music dominated the atmosphere, Connie and Jester walked onto the balcony. Olivia couldn’t imagine how Connie could stand on a cold, windy balcony in January with only a shawl for warmth.

Satisfied with her meal, Olivia sat on the sofa, closed her eyes, sighed, and eased out of her stilettos. She listened to the silky voice of Johnny Mathis’s Wonderful, Wonderful album.

Mute scrawled on his chalkboard: Shall we dance?

Oh God, Olivia muttered. I don’t feel like dancing. Olivia belched as the reflux of food rose in her throat. Excuse me.

One dance, he wrote back.

This is ridiculous. We should converse, not communicate on a chalkboard.

He wrote: Why are you being difficult? I’m asking for one dance.

Communication with you is difficult. Are you suggesting dancing is easy?

Mute shook his head, stood up, and offered Olivia his hand.

Olivia swallowed her glass of Moet and wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. She stood up and yielded to his arms.

They danced to Chances Are by Johnny Mathis. Mute was a smooth and polished dancer, as he guided Olivia across the floor.

Olivia placed her hands around his neck as his arms encircled her, with one hand in the small of her back. Again, they danced to another tune by Mathis, Wonderful.

Mute placed another record on the stereo while Olivia sat down and looked around for Connie. The balcony door was closed. Connie had disappeared into one of the rooms with Jester.

A woman belted out a moving, sad, and mournful song in an unknown language. Olivia looked up at Mute who came and sat beside her.

What language is that?

He wrote, "Rembetika, blues music from the Mediterranean. He then erased it and wrote, The name of the song is ‘A Secret Pain.’"

It’s beautiful but somewhat eerie in quality … Is it North African?

Mute chuckled, which surprised her—it was his first vocal response. What’s funny? I do think her voice quality is unusual.

He held out his hand, and, without complaint, Olivia went into his arms again. The tension disappeared. She relaxed as she moved and swayed in his arms. Her soft curves molded to the contour of his strong, lean body.

As a child, Olivia had hated the blues played by her father, but this type of blues, even though she didn’t understand the words, moved her emotions. The songs seemed to evoke a plaintive but passionate yearning.

The songs made Olivia ache inside. Tears burned her eyes underneath the mask. Perhaps it was nostalgia. Perhaps it was her sense of aloneness living in a city full of life. Perhaps the intense sadness was too deep to fathom. Perhaps it was melancholy of something lost, long ago. Olivia moved in closer and closed the gap between them.

Lulled by the music, Olivia closed her eyes and relaxed her head against Mute’s chest, but her eyes fluttered open when he kissed her as his hands explored her back. It was a slow and thoughtful kiss. It had caught her by surprise. It had felt good and excited her senses.

Then, he gently kissed her between her eyes, on the tip of her nose, and then he stopped dancing and kissed her on the lips. Surprised by his passion and shaken by her own response, Olivia returned the kiss with equal fervor. He fingered and kissed the locks of her curly hair, smoothed her curls behind her ear, and kissed the mole on the left side of her temple.

They stopped dancing. The woman’s voice on the album was now a soft moan. The songstress ululated. Mute whispered in Olivia’s ear. The songstress is now jubilant not mournful. Mute inserted his tongue into Olivia’s mouth. She felt every nerve in her ignite.

Olivia felt breathless as his tongue explored her mouth. Aware that he had spoken before they kissed, Afterward, she smiled. Finally, he speaks.

They both laughed as he swung her into his arms to dance again on a Mina Mazzini tune, Amor Mio.

Olivia couldn’t remember when she had so much fun. Then, she remembered the sock hop she and her former fiancé had attended. The floor had been slippery as the dancers bopped on the newly polished floor at Saint Charles’s Church party for singles. Amos had fallen, and she had screamed with laughter. Now she was laughing again. It felt good.

Mute kissed her top lip, then the bottom lip, and finally both lips. Olivia felt she could get drunk from his kisses. Unconsciously, her arms slid around his broad shoulders as he gently kissed, sucked, and nibbled at her earlobes.

He smiled when he heard her murmur, damn.

When they sat down, Olivia continued to respond. It was not the joy juice or joint responding. It was not the Moet champagne. It was her wanting to be loved—to feel that, for one night, she could let it happen and not care. Confidence was in knowing this drama was a one-night stand. She would give her all to this performance and reveal nothing of herself to this stranger. She kissed him like she would never see him again. Yet, deep in the recesses of her mind, she hoped she would.

Slowly, Mute began to trace the sides and hollow of her neck with his lips and tongue. Olivia moaned as her body became fluid and limp as he gently kissed the mole, deep in the crevice of her breasts. His hands stroked her breasts, the roundness of her belly, and the softness between her thighs. Nothing was left untouched. Each finger of her hands and the gaps between her fingers were kissed and licked. Mute suddenly entwined Olivia’s hand in his and gently pulled her off the sofa.

Oh my God, what am I doing? But dazed and blissful, Olivia would have followed him anywhere. Her whole body became electrified. The bedroom glittered like a silver galaxy with pearly, soft silk pillows and blankets embellished in swirls of silvery lace and embroidery. Trembling, Olivia lay down on the bed, and Mute slowly undressed her. He began to kiss her all over, and she felt his hot breath on her skin as he inhaled her perfume. Olivia moaned and sighed as she felt the sensation of his hands exploring her belly.

In a languid motion, he slipped her fishnet stockings off and kissed her thighs, legs, and licked her ankles. She was in perfect bliss.

Olivia floated on one pleasure wave after another when he began to suck her toes. It stirred emotions and desires that surprised and delighted her. Filled with pleasure, Olivia’s cries of delight radiated throughout the suite. Mute covered her mouth with kisses to quiet her.

Never, thought Olivia, would she feel this way again. She clung to him like this was the last time she would be in his arms. It was like no other night.

Unable to resist Mute, Olivia felt she was on the brink of falling, spiraling down a deep, dark hole into unexpected pleasure and losing herself to his magnetism and skilled lovemaking.

Mute had taken his time. He sensed he should handle her with care. So, he embraced her, caressed and kissed her shoulders, and inhaled the scent of her skin. His hand gently moved to the small of her back and then traveled to the roundness of her hips. With deft fingers, he explored the mysterious triangle between her legs and moved on to her firm, round belly and sprinkled kisses on her exquisite, soft brown skin.

Mute was suddenly overpowered by a tremor of passionate desire for Olivia. He hesitated, overcome by the intense sensation in his loins. He ached for her. It took all of his willpower not to move too fast. Instead, he laced his fingers through hers and kissed them.

You’re so beautiful, Mute murmured. Even with a mask, I’m enchanted.

Olivia wanted to cry. Amos had never said she was beautiful or treated her in such a tender, loving way. Again, she felt tears brimming behind the mask and moaned.

Her moan was mistaken as pleasure and excited Mute, so he continued to massage and caress her. He took Olivia’s face in his hands and kissed her lips and then trailed kisses to her full, waiting breasts. There his lips and tongue lingered.

Olivia was ready to welcome Mute into her body. She closed her eyes and lay back to enjoy an eventful, delicious coming. He then took her without protest. Merde, she whispered.

They both moaned with excitement as her legs and arms encircled him. Mute felt his slow and arduous foreplay triggered emotions that opened her like a Venus flytrap. He felt his self being drawn in with no escape.

Waves of their lyrical moans and sighs lilted and floated above them. As each movement of their bodies synchronized—hip-to-hip, pelvis-to-pelvis, and pubes-to-pubes—Mute dissolved inside of her. Like hot lava, he exploded. Never had he felt this way. Never had he felt this sated, and he didn’t want it to end. They peaked at the same time. Mute knew this was much more than sexual pleasure.

Olivia sighed and collapsed in his arms. She had fainted.

Mute’s eyes widened with surprise, and he nervously clenched his teeth. Christ, she’s passed out, he thought to himself. His hands shook as he gently smoothed her hair from her face. He looked at the phone and wondered if he should call for help. Her privacy … he decided not to.

He felt Olivia’s pulse in the hollow of her throat; although out cold, it pulsated strongly.

Mute gathered Olivia into his arms and took off her mask. For a brief moment, he stopped breathing. He was staggered by her striking beauty. Her lustrous eyelashes reminded him of black velvet fans.

Mute gently covered her with a sheet. He slipped on a bathrobe, padded to the next bedroom, and rapped on the door. When Jester answered, he motioned for him to follow.

Groggy from being awakened, Jester became brusque. I’m not swapping, man.

Nor am I. Mademoiselle fainted.

Her sister fainted? Damn, is she high? Jester closed the door to his bedroom. He didn’t want to disturb Connie.

No. After screwing, she passed out. With trembling hands, Mute fished in his robe for a cigarette. He stopped his search and looked at Jester with amazement.

They’re sisters?

Yeah, they’re sisters. Damn, you must have put a hurting on her, said Jester, frowning.

Now you’re going to rain on my parade. I’d better wake up Connie.

Mute grabbed Jester’s arm. No, don’t. Get me some smelling salts, alcohol, anything to rouse her.

Jester went into the bathroom, while Mute watched the unconscious Olivia.

Jester returned with smelling salts.

This was in your bathroom, man, Jester said, as he held up the smelling salts. They’ve got everything in there: bandages, balms, smelling salts, tinctures, and ointments. What in the hell happens in these hotels that they need all that shit in the bathroom?

Fainting spells, said Mute.

They both chuckled.

In admiration, Jester let out a low whistle when he saw Olivia unmasked. She’s gorgeous. He stared at the unconscious Olivia on the bed without her mask.

You had better go back to Connie. Mute warned. When this beauty wakes up, I don’t think she’ll appreciate seeing two men standing over her. What’s her name?

Beats me, Jester shrugged, as he walked out of the room. Connie became mum when I asked.

Mute applied the smelling salts to Olivia’s nose, and her eyes flickered. When she opened her eyes, Mute gazed into large, copper brown eyes. Simply gorgeous.

He saw the fear in her eyes as she pushed the smelling salts away and removed herself from his arms. Mute watched as Olivia looked around the room and pulled the sheet up to her chin. He observed her in silence as Olivia noticed her mask lying next to her. She picked it up and glared at him. Her eyes were full of questions and accusation.

What happened?

Mute sat across from her in a chair. He lit a cigarette and offered her one, but she declined.

You fainted. Mute exhaled a coil of blue smoke. He watched her beautiful eyes as they widened in surprise. She sat up in bed and wrung her hands.

I did? In a tremulous voice, Olivia apologized. I’m sorry. I’ve never …

Never fainted? Don’t apologize. Should I call the hotel physician?

Olivia looked down at her hands. No, I’m fine.

"What happened is called la petite mort. It means—"

I know what it means, said Olivia. She squeezed her hands and averted her eyes. She didn’t want to look at him. She wished she had never come to Lélouche’s or met the stranger sitting across from her.

Mute reached over to the bedside table and poured Olivia a glass of water.

With shaky hands, Olivia drank the water and informed Mute she was still thirsty.

I’ll get you something stronger.

He returned with bottles of cognac, wine, and vodka. Which do you prefer? Cognac, vodka, or white wine?

Olivia wrinkled her nose. Too much drink had gotten her into this mess, but she decided on wine. She took two sips of wine and placed it on the night table.

She observed the man that had awakened her dormant passions and felt a wave of desire rising in her. She did not feel uncomfortable with him—this surprised her.

Mute had not removed his mask. He sat in a chair smoking a cigarette and watched Olivia as she watched him. He realized they shared an intense physical awareness of each other.

She took his breath away, and, when she spoke, her voice seemed to burn into his soul. It was throaty, and she now spoke just above a whisper.

Olivia admired his long sinuous fingers that had caressed her skin. They were piano hands.

Why did you remove my mask? She had broken the silence.

He inhaled deeply on his cigarette. A smile crossed his lips. If I called the hotel physician, I didn’t want you to remain in the mask when he entered the room. In actuality, it had given Mute an opportunity to see her face.

Olivia appeared pensive and continued to watch him. Your accent is not French.

Although your French is flawless, neither is yours. You’re American.

Olivia raised her eyebrows. And you?

Mediterranean.

Olivia folded her arms in front of her. The Mediterranean is vast.

Quite. Mute continued to watch Olivia intently. When he exhaled from his cigarette, he tried to blow out his mounting desire for her.

She was at least ten years younger than he, and there was a certain air about her. Perhaps it was reserve. Perhaps it was shyness. It crept up after she was revived. It was cultivated aloofness.

She didn’t ask any more questions. Perhaps she thought him evasive. Perhaps she lacked interest, but he was so taken with her; he felt like a captivated, gawky teenager.

Mute wanted to absorb everything about Olivia and could stay up all night talking to her. He wanted to smell the scent of her skin and to touch and kiss her again …

Olivia pulled a thick wool coverlet over her. I need to rest. I have a long drive in a few hours. Do you mind sleeping in the next bed?

No. Mute turned off the lamp next to her bed.

Mute slipped under the covers in the opposite bed. She had not asked him to remove his mask. She had not wanted to know him. A feeling of discontent settled inside of him. He found himself lighting another cigarette in the dark. This disturbed him. Never had a woman affected him like this.

An hour later, Mute sat up in bed, awakened by Olivia’s sobbing. Olivia cried, flailed her arms, and pleaded with the ghosts in her dreams not to hurt her.

Mute turned on both bedside lamps. Olivia cried and pushed her hands out as if to ward off someone.

Mute sat on the edge of her bed and gently woke her up.

When Olivia opened her eyes, she placed her hand to her mouth to keep from crying out. Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head from side to side.

She had a nightmare in front of a stranger.

Mute sensed her embarrassment. First, she fainted after they had made love and now a nightmare. He was entranced by the sadness on her face. Instinctively, he folded her into his arms as she wept. Her whole body convulsed as he consoled her and held her in his arms.

I’m so sorry, cried Olivia.

Don’t be. It was only a nightmare. I hope it wasn’t me that caused it.

Olivia wagged her head.

Will you be all right? Do you want me to wake Connie? Without thinking, Mute kissed Olivia on the forehead.

No, don’t wake her.

What’s your name? He caressed her hair.

It doesn’t matter. Olivia removed his hand from her hair.

It does matter … to me.

No names, please, Olivia said, with tears in her eyes.

She let him lay down next to her, and Mute held her until she fell asleep. The lights were on, and he stared at the sleeping woman in his arms. He could feel her vulnerability. It turned him on in a way he had never felt for any woman. He heaved a heavy sigh. It made him desire her more.

He wanted to see her again. It was crucial he discover her identity. He wrote a note and left it in the bathroom for her.

In the morning, when Olivia awakened, she came to her senses. She had slept with a kind and gentle stranger. The morning after, sobered, she felt angry and ashamed at herself. She quietly gathered her clothing that Mute had neatly folded and snuck out of the room,