When I’d read the name Oksana Markovic as the composer in my playbill earlier, I’d expected an older Russian woman with a hard look in her eyes, but holy shit, this woman was young and stunning. She’d come out with her husband from Chicago for opening night, and when she learned I was Macalister Hale’s assistant, she asked if I could introduce her, so she could thank him for making this possible.
I’d done that, and now he was somewhere in the crowded lobby, which was hosting the afterparty. Cast members still in costume floated around with the guests and celebrated their success. Erika Scoffield had come over to me early on, taking pictures and chatting before moving on to work the room and visit with other donors. She’d played the lead’s sister, and had been great in it, but I couldn’t help but wonder . . . Did she know how she’d gotten the role?
Her father did. He’d thanked Macalister soon after she’d landed the part, so I’d bet she did.
My hand still tingled from where Macalister had taken hold of me, like part of him hadn’t left. God, I was in trouble. My head swam with thoughts of him, even when there wasn’t a vibrator between my legs.
As I left the bathroom, I forced myself to take small, even steps so as not to run back to him, but my slow stroll had a distinct disadvantage. It allowed Richard Shaunessy to step into my path.
“Sophia.” He looked at me like a prize he’d discovered at the bottom of a cereal box.
“Richard,” I answered politely.
He walked toward me as he spoke, radiating frantic energy. His eyes were overly bright and his smile too wide, so I was pretty sure he’d just finished doing a few lines in the bathroom.
“Some show, huh?” He invaded my space, forcing me to take a step back. “I thought this was going to be fucking awful when Blythe dragged me along, but it was actually kind of good.” His gaze dipped down, lingering over my dress like he wanted to get inside it.
He moved closer, and again I put distance between us. “Speaking of Blythe, where is she?”
“I dunno.” He made half an effort to glance around. “Probably talking to Erika or some shit. They’re, like, inseparable.”
“Oh, yeah.” That made sense. They were both into theatre. “Wasn’t she great?”
Richard took another step, bringing him so close it pushed all the air around us away. “Not as great as that dress you’re wearing.”
At first, I’d thought he was just high and dumb, too excitable to pick up on my signs that I didn’t like his proximity, but I was wrong. He understood exactly what he was doing, how he was pushing me deeper down the hallway and separating me from the pack of people.
Shit, there was nothing worse than an overly confident, entitled man. He thought I owed him my body and my attention. How many times were we going to have this conversation?
At least once more, apparently. I sighed. “Thanks, but can you—like—not?”
“Not what?” He faked innocence, but his smile was playful. “Not tell you that you’re even hotter than when we were in high school?” He gave up being subtle on his approach, driving me backward in the empty hall. “Not tell you I’ve got a penthouse with huge windows and bay views, and I want to fuck you against them?”
I stepped to the side, but my attempt to outmaneuver him didn’t work. He hooked an arm around my waist and pulled me stumbling into his arms.
Macalister’s voice was loud in my head, and I echoed his angry words. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”
Richard let out a short laugh, either not believing I was serious, or not thinking this was a big deal. “Come on,” he whined, “don’t be like that. Why can’t we have some fun together?”
“Because I’m not interested, Richard, and if you don’t—”
His expression soured. “What’s the problem? My dick might not be black, but I promise it’s still big enough to get you off.”
Holy fuck, he went there.
“Wow,” I said. “What a racist thing to say.” A cruel, joyless smile spread across my face like wildfire and burned a million degrees hotter than one. “And about your dick size—that’s not what I’ve heard.” He went stiff, but his eyes flooded with doubt, and I wanted to destroy it. “You know women talk to each other, right? Like Julie Sheehan, and Francine Clarke . . . and Marist Hale.”
Marist had never said as much to me, but it was an educated guess. She’d gone to prom with Richard as “friends,” and he’d bragged how she’d come on to him in the limo, but him—being the gentleman he clearly was—turned her down. There was a lingering awkwardness between them ever since, too strong to be a simple rejection from either side.