“No, not at all.” The voice is carnal and low. Something I normally hear inside a bedroom, when clothes and propriety are lightyears away.
I glance up as he gestures for me to pass, and my breath sucks in. Beautiful. That’s the only description for the eyes looking down at me, but the word is a masterpiece of understatement, because the room sways as my reality bends to him. And I kind of hate that, since noticing men is a hazardous distraction—maybe even deadly, if I’m being transparent.
Unspeakable cravings weaken my knees, despite me trying to fight the sensation and return to my senses. I teeter under the unshifting gaze of azure blue. It’s dark, sensual, heavy, and framed to perfection, thanks to a forest of thick black eyelashes and matching hair. Absorbed with the starless night of black and a sinking ocean of blue, my heart flames wild and the world around me sinks into a hole.
Not good,chimes the little warning bell inside my brain. I have no idea what is wrong with me, but I do know I should probably reclaim my self-control and run away like hell is hounding me … but I can’t.
“I usually let ladies go first, but if you’re not leaving—”
“Oh, no. Sorry.” I frown, no longer able to look at the man. He’s broken me from the trance I needed to escape from, and I nearly am running now. Thank God this place is huge, so I hope not to see him again. The hemline of my dress trails behind me, struggling to keep up with my pace. More heat radiates up to my neck, and now I’m desperate to be forgotten in the sea of people I’ve just tried to avoid.
But I’m not the only one sucking in breaths when I show my back to him.
An audibly sharp inhale hits my ears as does a low groan.
That groan.
Goosebumps raise, and my neck snaps to look past my shoulder. A mistake. Because he’s not looking at me, whatsoever. Rather, his gaze is glued to the wall and some artwork. Thank God he didn’t see that. That neck snap backward wasn’t subtle, and it was also stupid to do.
Why am I so distracted by him?
Thoroughly embarrassed, I duck around the corner and escape back to the main room. Only then do I breathe again—well, if what I’m doing in this gown qualifies as breathing.
The crowd drones around me. Pulsing with a high class, refined energy. People munching on caviar and talking of their latest trips, upcoming holidays, newly bought French villas, and children going to Yale.
There’s a weird push and pull of blood echoing in my eardrums. Part of me wants to hide, the other half wants to mingle here. Tonight, I’m determined to give in. To just try and forget … to look normal—act normal, if not unseen.
That is, until my eyes see old friends.
Mr. and Mrs. Braun. A vivacious older German couple whose penthouse I decorated last year. I worked my magic for them while Mr. L was sick.
We spot each other, and I can’t contain myself. My hands and fingertips flail in the air, urging them toward me as we unite from across the room. I’m not usually so social, so eager to start conversation, but it feels good to see people that I know here besides Roxie. It’s comforting.
“Fraulein Tucker.” Mrs. Braun is all enthusiasm as they come up to greet me. I’m happy they seem so excited, since by the spinning looks in their eyes, it’s obvious they are bewildered and lost. That’s because they can’t speak English.
But I speak and read German.
Something I taught myself in an obsession after visiting Europe as a teen. I hug them both, asking how they are and what they’re doing here.
They’re here on account of someone they’re doing business with. He’s not with them at the moment but should be back with an interpreter. To pass the time, I converse, hoping to relax them until help shows up. We’re catching up about their trip abroad, when it’s broken by Mr. Braun.
“Here’s the gentleman,” Mr. Braun says to me in German, pointing directly behind me. “This is who we’re here with tonight.”
I turn around and go blank while my thighs tighten.
Just my luck. The man standing in front of me is Mr. Tux, the one I bumped into just moments ago.
His indecent smirk confirms he hasn’t forgotten who I am, and the way my stomach flutters in response makes me doubt I’ll ever be able to obliterate such a sexual look from my mind.
Ever.
Wonderful.Just what I don’t need.
The stress of feeling so off-kilter sends my nails so deeply into my palms, I’m shocked when I don’t feel blood. This night is going to be long.