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gaze, but I feel more alive, more myself, somehow. And God, I feel sexy. Philippe knew what he was doing when he talked me into this costume. But then, he always does.
    I’ll finish this drink, I decide, and then I’ll go say hello to Zorro. No harm in mixing a little fun in with my work, is there?
    I’ve only taken a few sips when a girl dressed as The Riddler pushes through the crowd gyrating in the middle of the room. She rushes up to me, the question marks covering her green dress swimming before my eyes. “My nemesis!” she cries.
    People around us laugh. And then I’m laughing. The music throbs around us—“Blister in the Sun,” one of my favorites.
    I take another sip and look around the room. A guy dressed as Harry Potter grinds up against a nun. Sailor Moon, a cowboy, and a girl dressed as Eve dance in a tight little threesome, breaking apart and coming back together, occasionally making some creative—and R-rated—moves with the rubber snake Eve had coiled around her shoulder.
    Vampires and ghosts and superheroes surround me. It’s surreal and perfect. No one knows me, but now I feel a part of things anyway. The spirit of the room intoxicates me. It’s filled with laughter and good will.
    My mother’s charity events never feel this way. Those are likebeing in a room full of scientists, lined up to scrutinize and mentally catalog your every move. This feels like a party, like the ones I used to go to with Ethan, the ones where I was scooped up and welcome because I was with him.
    Before I know it, I’ve put down my drink, drawn up to full height and tapped The Riddler on her shoulder with the handle of my whip.
    She turns to me, and I tell her we have a score to settle.
    “Dance-off. Now!” I hear myself say. I’d forgotten how good this feels. This heavy, pleasant warmth. The unknotting of all that makes me Alison Quick, daughter and current disappointment. That girl’s not here. It’s only me and my mask, and here I can be anyone I want.
    The Riddler laughs and does a dance step, swishing her green tulle skirt. “Oh, it’s on!” she says. Grabbing the whip, she tugs me out into the middle of the room, where the crowd makes way for us.
    I glance over and see Zorro still standing there, still watching.
    My shoes and the constricting leather of the costume make it difficult for me to really move, but I give it my best. I circle The Riddler. She circles me. Others come to fill in the space between us, so that I find myself dancing with Little Bo Peep one minute, my friend the gorilla, the next. We’re clapping and laughing, and the dancing is serious in the funniest way. Eventually, the leather does loosen up a bit more—and I can move. Really move.
    Zorro pushes to the front of the crowd and watches me, a tempting half-smile on his face, He’s so hot I’m surprised the floor hasn’t melted beneath his feet.
    I start to dance just for him, like everyone else has dropped off the face of the earth. It’s been a long time since I felt this way, my whole being alive to another person. Usually, my body’s about running or skiing or training my horses. Now it feels like its entire purpose is to just be there, in the middle of things, moving to the music while Zorro watches.
    I give myself to the music and the movement of my body, butover and over again, I’m drawn back to him. And every time, his eyes are on me. Every time, he greets me with that same devastating grin that cuts right to my core.
    Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I give in and dance his way, running my mink tail through my fingers. I smile at him, feeling light and relaxed and like no one in the world would dare deny me a thing.
    “Dance with me,” I say.
    “Is that a question?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest. His biceps bulge beneath the flowing black fabric of his shirt, and his eyes, which seem to be a deep, penetrating gray, regard me in amusement.
    “No,” I reply, still swaying as the music flows