Seduction by Velvet Page A

Mason had gotten off track, and was seeking out sex at the club when he should have been upstairs in his office doing paperwork. His brain seemed to be residing in the head between his legs, instead of in the head on his neck. When he left the club in the wee hours of the morning after having an oral ménage à trois with two women—and his brain was back where it belonged—he swore to himself that that would be the last time he used BD2 for his personal pleasure. He’d seen firsthand how Trey’s life was almost destroyed after having a torrid affair with a client and he didn’t want to suffer the same fate. Mason needed an anchor to keep him from drifting back into the decadent waters of the club, but there were no buoys in sight.
    After his run, he was drenched with salty sweat and headed home to shower and change. Mason dressed in his signature Seven jeans, put on a starched white, French-cuffed shirt, but let the cuffs hang loose past his wrists, for an urban casual look. He slipped on a pair of black Gucci loafers sans socks. He slapped his freshly shaven cheeks with aftershave, grabbed his wallet, planted it inside his back pocket, and headed out the door. Mason was craving his daily dose of double espresso so he walked two short blocks to Borders. On his way to the bookstore, he passed up a Starbucks on the corner of Seventy-fourth and Broadway. He could have easily bought his jolt of java there, but what he wanted wasn’t at Starbucks or at the corner coffee shop. What he craved could only be had at Borders.
    The bookstore café was crowded as usual, and Mason scanned the patrons as he stood in line, but she wasn’t there. Ever since he met “The Mystery” woman a week ago—well, he hadn’t officially met her—he’d been coming back to Borders in the hopes of getting a proper introduction, but she hadn’t been around. Mason regretted not engaging her in a conversation when he had had the chance, but that day in his jogging gear he was sweaty and scruffy, and shied away from introducing himself. The way he looked she probably thought that he was a lowlife scrub. Ever since then, he rushed home after his run, showered, and changed. In the event he saw her again, he wanted her to see how well he cleaned up.
    â€œA double espresso, and a poppy-seed muffin,” he told the cashier when he stepped up to the counter. After the cashier gave him his morning pick-me-up, he walked toward the tables to find a seat.
    There she is, Mason said to himself as he spotted the back of a woman wearing a canary yellow blouse with a matching sweater tied around her shoulders. He almost tripped over his own feet as he rushed over to the table.
    â€œExcuse me, is this seat taken?” he asked, smiling and exposing his perfect chalk white teeth.
    The woman turned around, looked up at Mason, and said, “No, it’s not.” She moved her tote out of the seat so that he could sit down.
    His heart dropped when he looked into her face. It wasn’t his “Mystery Woman” but a replica. From the back, the women were identical, but up close and personal, there was a marked difference. This chick had a face only a mother could love. Her teeth—what was left of them—were crooked. Her skin was a canvas of red pimples and unsightly pockmarks. Her only redeeming feature was her hair; it was long and wavy. But upon closer inspection, Mason realized that it was a bad weave.
    â€œHi, I’m Beatrice,” she said, extending her hand to him.
    Mason reluctantly shook her hand. “Hi, Beatrice.” He purposely didn’t offer his name in return. He just stood there looking dumbfounded. He’d made a colossal mistake and didn’t know how to extract himself from the situation without seeming rude.
    â€œHere”—she motioned to the chair—“sit down.”
    The last thing Mason wanted to do was to sit. He wanted to sprint out the