Page 13 of The Forgery Mate (Taken by His Alpha #6)
I lean close to the mirror, my hand moving with practiced precision across my face, contouring shadows beneath knife blade cheekbones I didn’t possess an hour ago.
The brush strokes age me five years in minutes, adding subtle crows’ feet and a hollowness to my cheeks that speaks of European aristocracy and too many late nights in exclusive clubs.
I stare at the familiar stranger emerging in the mirror, not Ren, nor Knox, nor Nico. No, this is Lorenzo Vescari, a mysterious art collector with a reputation for deep pockets and a keen eye for the unique.
“Stop staring,” I murmur as Milo, an Omega who Ezra introduced as his cousin-in-law, leans in closer.
“It’s magic.” Milo tilts his head, his bright red hair falling across his forehead as he ignores my warning and leans in close. “You’ve got the cheekbones of a Greek sculpture, and I’d kill for your bone structure.”
I move the brush away from my face to sigh. “That’s the makeup, and if you don’t stop distracting me, I’ll end up looking like a constipated banker instead of Italian nobility.”
One of the many entertainment rooms at Rockford Manor has been transformed into an impromptu styling station, with makeup cases and clothing racks cluttering the space. An hour after Ezra left me alone in his suite, Milo had appeared at the door, announcing he was there to take me to wardrobe.
He studies me critically. “The eyes need more.”
“Because they’re not done.” I return my attention to the mirror, meeting Lorenzo’s pale gray gaze.
Unlike my Nico persona, Lorenzo is flamboyant and meant to stand out in a room. I add black liner in a cat eye, then dab a bit of sparkle to my inner crease, because Lorenzo always sparkles.
Once again, my hair is tucked under a wig, this one black with a sprinkling of silver at the temples. I don’t know how the Rockfords got such a realistic piece on such short notice. It’s better than the one I have back at my loft, and I suspect it’s made with real hair.
Milo paws through the jewelry, holding earrings up to his lobes and turning his head to see how they look. “Maybe I should pierce my ears.”
“It would suit you.” I use the end of a stick to tease a few strands of hair down into an artful curl.
He rolls the large diamond studs between his fingers. “How do these work?”
“They’re magnetic.” I lean back from the mirror to check my appearance and am satisfied with my transformation.
But I’m not done yet.
Spinning on the chair, I take the earrings from Milo and pull off the back of the magnet, then fit them to my lobes and snap them into place. They sting a little, pulling at my ears, and I tilt my head from side to side to re-familiarize myself with the new weight.
Milo pulls out a pair of topaz drops that catch the light and attaches them to his ears before admiring himself in the mirror.
And he’s worth admiring. I’ve never seen such a naturally beautiful man. It’s no wonder he caught the eye of a Rockford. Even in a loose cream blouse and tan, wide-legged slacks, he shines like a piece of artwork.
Shaking myself out of it, I rise to inspect the row of shoe options and decide on a pair of expensive Italian leather loafers. They have a small heel, and I add to the height by sliding a two-inch lift into the insole. Lorenzo is taller than I am. A figure who commands attention.
The suit waiting on the rack costs more than most people make in months, the charcoal-gray Italian wool hiding subtle burgundy threads only visible when the light hits just right.
The cream silk shirt is designed to complement without stealing attention, and the muted paisley tie suggests old money.
With my back to Milo, I slip into the clothes, my Lorenzo persona settling over me with each new layer. It’s like putting on a familiar coat that fits from years of wear.
This is my most successful alias. The one I’ve inhabited longer than any other, cultivated over years of appearances at exclusive auctions and private galleries.
Lorenzo isn’t just a name I use. He’s a complete identity with a history, preferences, and a network of connections. Even his own signature scent. The two colognes sit on a table beside the scent blocker, waiting to be blended and applied to complete the transformation.
I straighten and step into the loafers, my view of the world shifting.
The suit hugs my body like a second skin, tailored to give breadth to my chest while tapering at the waist. Again, I don’t know how the Rockfords did it.
The suit had been waiting when Milo brought me down, and it fit my exact measurements.
I straighten my spine, shift my weight, and Lorenzo settles into my bones. The slight tilt of his head to suggest perpetual assessment, the way his fingers rest against each other, the hint of an Italian accent coloring his English just enough to be exotic without being difficult to understand.
“Lorenzo,” I test the name in his deep, rich voice. A man who has traveled the world and grown bored with all it has to offer.
“I want to learn your magic,” Milo breathes, then freezes as his focus shifts behind me.
I turn, and my heart stutters.
Ezra stands in the doorway, transformed in a way that makes Lorenzo’s metamorphosis seem trivial by comparison.
Gone is the dominant Alpha. In his place stands someone softer, almost innocent, dressed in a tailored navy suit that somehow suggests submission rather than power.
The cut emphasizes his youthful features and gives him the illusion of a delicate build despite his height.
The silver streak in his hair has been concealed with makeup and styled to draw attention to his face, giving him a more boyish, almost innocent appearance.
“What do you think?” Ezra asks the question softer than usual, stripped of his confidence.
He turns in a slow circle, and the movement contains none of his usual predatory grace. It’s calculated to draw the eye, to entice rather than intimidate.
The role reversal rocks through me. He’s playing arm candy. Pretty decoration. While I command rooms as Lorenzo, Ezra will follow in my shadow, playing at submission.
“It’s…” I falter.
Lorenzo wouldn’t be rattled by his beauty, but I’m not fully Lorenzo yet, and the sight of a vulnerable Ezra cuts through my defenses.
“Perfect,” Milo finishes for me, circling Ezra with an appreciative eye. “No one would ever mistake you for a dominant Alpha.”
The predator peeks out before it’s gone, masked by Ezra’s practiced charm. “That’s the point.”
Ezra moves toward me with a grace that somehow appears submissive despite his natural elegance. “Lorenzo Vescari wouldn’t be seen with an equal. He collects beautiful things.”
How does he know what Lorenzo Vescari would and wouldn’t do?
His fingers brush mine, and the casual touch sends electricity racing up my arm as he leans in. “I can be very beautiful, when I want to be.”
My stomach tightens with heat, and I sway toward him.
“Final touches,” Milo interrupts, handing me a gold signet ring with a Roman coin embedded in the center and a vintage watch that costs more than a small house.
“Here, allow me.” Ezra takes the watch and slips it over my wrist, his fingers lingering on my racing pulse. As he slips the ring onto my ring finger, he peeks up at me through his lashes. “Now you look like you could buy and sell everyone in the room.”
“That’s the idea.” Lorenzo’s confidence flows through me now, becoming my own. I check my reflection one last time and adjust the tie. “Shall we? Our host awaits.”
Halcyon Hall glows against the night sky, floodlights illuminating its stone facade to showcase its grandeur for arriving guests. Limousines line the circular drive, disgorging couples draped in silks and jewels.
Our car, a sleek black Bentley borrowed from the Rockford fleet, glides to a stop at the entrance.
The door opens, and I step out first. Lorenzo always enters a room first, claiming space before acknowledging anyone else. I extend a hand to Ezra, who takes it with a flirty dip of his chin.
We ascend the stone steps together, his hand resting on my arm in a way that suggests intimacy. The massive doors stand open, revealing the transformed interior of Halcyon Hall.
The whispers begin at once, like dots of paint spreading in water, flowing outward through the crowded room.
“Is that Lorenzo Vescari?”
“He hasn’t attended one of these in over a year.”
“Who’s the young man with him?”
“Halcyon must have an exceptional piece up for auction tonight.”
People part before us as we move through the entrance hall, following our progress with barely concealed interest and envy.
A waiter materializes at my elbow with champagne flutes on a silver tray. I take two, handing one to Ezra with deliberate casualness, my fingers brushing his in a way to confirm his status as my boy toy for the night to the onlookers.
“Lorenzo!” A gallery owner I recognize from Paris approaches, air-kissing both my cheeks with practiced insincerity. “What a magnificent surprise! We’ve missed you on the circuit.”
His expression turns covetous as he takes in Ezra. “And you’ve brought a guest.”
“Marcello.” I acknowledge him with Lorenzo’s signature detachment. “You know I only attend when something interests me.”
“Of course, of course.” He leans closer. “And I hear tonight’s offerings are rather special.”
I sip my champagne, letting the statement hang between us without comment. Ezra presses closer to my side, playing his role of awe-struck boy with unsettling accuracy.
Marcello takes Ezra’s hand without asking and holds on to it. “And who is this lovely creature?”
“This is mine,” I tell Marcello, my possessiveness sending the other man’s eyebrows climbing toward his hairline.
“Of course.” Marcello slips Ezra his card and releases him with a wink. “For when Lorenzo grows bored.”
Jaw tightening, I take the card and drop it into Marcello’s champagne flute. “The night is too young for such antics, dear.”