“Dee.”
“Oh God,” I say in response.
He drops to one knee. “I know we’ve only known one another for a short time now.”
My face immediately goes hot. I hear whispers start up around us, a few squeals of delight. Total strangers whip out cameras and flashes start going off all around. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” I hiss under my breath, though I can’t help the faint smile that touches my lips.
It is kind of funny.
And embarrassing. Mostly embarrassing.
But funny.
“In the short time we’ve been acquainted, you have swept me off my feet,” Jasper says, eyes locked on mine. “I’ve fallen for you, head over heels. For your love of cars, and your death-wish when you drive those cars.”
I snort and roll my eyes. But when he holds up a hand, I extend my left one, and let him grip it tight.
“I’ve fallen for your sense of humor, and the way you’re glaring at me all the time,” he continues.
Now I’m outright laughing. To my surprise, I can’t drag my gaze from his, either. I’m stuck here, watching him propose and wondering… How much of what I’m feeling is real?
“I love you, Dee Smith,” he says, and he draws the ring from his pocket, the diamond flashing in the setting sun. It throws stars in my eyes. Blinds me, until all I can see is Jasper. “Will you marry me?”
I pause. Take a moment to survey our onlookers, who cheer and whistle. More cameras flash in my eyes. Then I look back to Jasper, and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “Well, Jasper Quint,” I say, loud enough that neighboring tables will be able to overhear. If we’re going to sell this performance in public, we may as well put it to good use. Maybe some of those gossip rags will get wind of the heir to Quint Motors’ engagement and spread word to his father. “You don’t leave me much choice, I have to admit.” I flash him a wink. “But given all your insistence, I have to say… yes. I’ll marry you.”
He slides the ring on my finger, and pulls me to my feet all in one motion. Before I can protest, he cups my chin in one hand and tilts it up to his. Then his lips are on mine again, and I don’t want to protest. I want to sink into this moment, stay here forever. I want this kiss to keep going. I want his warm hands to circle my waist, slide down, farther.
I want to be alone with him, back in our hotel room, where I can tear that stupid tie off him and rip the buttons off his probably too-expensive shirt, and run my hands over his hot, bare skin, the way I’ve been itching to do ever since our last kiss.
I wrap both arms around his neck, pull him to me, as he deepens the kiss, and I nip his lower lip, a hint at what I want, a hint at more.
Then the waiter reappears with the champagne, and a cork pops, and the cheers explode into full-blown applause, with mixed whispers of Jasper Quint thrown in and circulating the growing crowd, and finally, we pull apart, both of us breathless, eyes glazed, a little stunned, as we drop back into our seats, and allow the congratulations to wash over us.
6
Dee
We stop back at the hotel to change before dinner. Unlike last night, we’re going somewhere showy, celebratory. Jasper brought me a dress, he informs me once we reach the suite, and he hands it to me without looking, without an offer to trail me into the bedroom this time. His usual flirtation and overly sexy commentary faded this afternoon—ever since his proposal and the kiss that followed. Both of us are a little quieter after that. Shell-shocked.
I can’t stop thinking about the way he made my heart beat faster, the way he tasted, and the way…
The way I felt like I had butterflies in my stomach. I’ve never felt like that before. I’ve never had feelings like that for anybody, even guys I’m attracted to. What on earth is wrong with me?
Then again, nobody has ever proposed to me before. Maybe I’ve just never been forced into a ridiculously romantic situation like that before. Maybe I’d feel like this about anybody who got down on one knee and slipped an enormous diamond onto my finger.
Still, I can’t help wishing that Jasper’s prior flirtation would return. After that kiss, I might actually be tempted to let him get away with something right now.
But he stands by the door of the living room like a perfect gentleman, picking out a new “evening tie” while I slip past into the bedroom.
The moment I unwrap the gown, I have to laugh. It’s just so not me. I wear dresses, don’t get me wrong, but not like this. Floor-length, satin, with a sweeping neckline and crystals studded along the hemline. It would almost look like a wedding gown if it weren’t a deep mauve. A beautiful color, but not me.
Still. Duty calls. This is what I signed up for, after all. Pass as a rich girl in a rich world. So I step into the gown and draw it up—it fits me perfectly. I have to admit, Jasper is good at sizing people up. I gave him my dress size, but this is a really close fit, a risky buy. Unless he’s been studying my curves…
Stop thinking about that, I scold myself. I fix the ring on my finger—it does go with the dress, I note, though it’s the only thing about me that does. Then I do up my hair, and finally I reach over my shoulder…
And find I can’t reach the zipper on the gown. It’s too low, nestled at the small of my back.
I glance at the door. Take a deep breath, and cross over to it. “Jasper?” I call softly through the crack.
“Ready to go?” He appears on the other side, fully dressed, in a suit that shows off the money he grew up around, that he wears like a glove, easily and lightly. He looks fucking hot as hell, frankly.
“Not quite,” I reply. I ease the door open wider. “Could you help me?” I turn so my back is to him, my exposed skin tingling in the cool air.
He crosses the room to me, and takes the zipper in one hand, rests his other against my shoulder blades, his fingertips white hot on my skin. “Do you like the gown?” he murmurs, not moving the zipper yet. He looks past me, and I look up to find a mirror on the far side of the room, against a wardrobe. Looking at the two of us there, his hand at my lower back and another on my shoulder, we match. Two birds of a feather, getting dressed for some glamorous ball.
“It’s not what I’d normally wear,” I admit. I glance over my shoulder at him. He shakes his head, seems to recall himself, and zips up the dress.
But he doesn’t take his hand away from my shoulder. And when I turn and place both palms on his chest, he doesn’t step back from me. We both gaze at one another head-on now, entranced. “What about you?” I ask, leaning back, so my hair tumbles down my back, in the faint waves it always has when I’ve worn it up overnight. “Are you always the suit type?”
“I have to be,” he answers.
“That doesn’t really answer my question, does it?” I smile, tilt my head.
His eyes search mine, gaze as piercing and white-hot as ever. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he lets his hand trail up my bare shoulder toward my neck. Just his fingertips, a barely there touch that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and electricity fly through my veins. His fingertips pause when they reach my jawline, then curl along it until he’s cupping my chin in his hand. “If you don’t like the dress, you don’t have to wear it.” His voice comes out a breath, a whisper against my lips.
He’s close, so close that our breath mingle, and all I can smell is his scent, delicious and sharp and distracting all at once. “Would you prefer if I took it off?” I ask, and I lift one eyebrow, playful, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy, stormy atmosphere.
“Very much so.” And then his lips crash into mine again, and this time, I don’t pretend I can possibly resist him. I wrap both arms around his neck and arch up against him, loving the sensation of his firm body against mine. I arch my hips and dig them against his, and his arm dips to circle my waist. He tightens his grip, crushes my body to his and picks me up, just high enough to slide his feet under mine. Then he walks us both, lips still c
rushed together, my hips digging into his, and the hard press of his cock against my belly—walks us backwards until my legs bump into the bed.