Plus, Royce hated him.
The fear that spilled across Richard’s face told me I’d hit my mark, and my evil smile widened. But hyperawareness pricked like needles on my skin. I sensed Macalister’s arctic gaze on me before I recognized it. He stood at entrance to the wide hallway, one hand on his hip and the other hung at his side, clenched tightly in a fist.
I tried to imagine what this looked like to him. Richard’s arm was still around my waist and I was smiling at him, and Macalister was probably too far away to read the viciousness in my eyes or the tension in my body. We’d look extremely friendly, or worse, like two people having an intimate, romantic moment.
The blood red wallpaper lining the hallway exaggerated his furious expression, and it was so scary, it literally sent Richard running. I didn’t know he could move that fast, but he was a tuxedoed blur as he let go of me and disappeared down the hallway.
Heat gripped me like a vise, constricting tighter with each deliberate step Macalister took toward me, his eyes teeming with fire. He glared at me like a teenager who’d wrecked her daddy’s favorite car and then laughed about it.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“It was nothing.”
His glare was a vat of liquid nitrogen poured all over me. “It did not look like nothing.”
My mouth went dry, and my heart banged violently inside my chest. Was he jealous? Of mediocre Richard Shaunessy?
“You don’t speak with that boy ever again,” he decreed.
Maybe I was reading too much into it. Alice had cheated on Macalister with Richard’s dad, so perhaps Macalister was upset about ‘who’ he thought I’d been flirting with, and not that I’d been supposedly flirting at all.
I was still worked up from my encounter, and although the two men had barely anything in common, I was once again facing an arrogant, entitled guy at the pinnacle of privilege, one who believed everything in the world belonged to him.
He’d given me an order I’d be happy to follow, but I pushed back. “You don’t own me.”
Whoa. I’d never seen Macalister’s eyebrow arch so high.
His cold fingers latched on to my arm, just above the elbow, letting me feel his dominance, and I went weak at his touch. He saw it all, how I softened and swallowed a deep breath, melting beneath his hand.
You don’t own me, I’d told him.
“Oh, yes, I fucking do,” he growled.
TWENTY
SOPHIA
POWER CASCADED OFF MACALISTER in waves so rough, they crashed over me and nearly knocked me down.
“Let me prove it to you,” he said. “Come with me.”
He let go of my elbow, but the faint burn of cold still kissed the spot, like snow trapped against skin by a sleeve. I followed him submissively as he turned around and stalked back into the party, quickly locating the theatre director and interrupting the man mid-conversation.
“My assistant would like to see the costume room,” he declared.
The man hesitated. “Of course. We can set up a tour tomorrow morning before rehearsals.”
Macalister said nothing, his expression fixed in stone.
Realization dawned on the director, and his voice was full of apprehension. “You mean now?” He glanced away, considering what to do. Macalister had donated nearly a quarter of a million dollars, and if the director refused him, that would likely never happen again. A tight smile was squeezed out. “I’ll take you myself. This way.”
We followed the man, who Macalister clearly made nervous, to the back of the theatre then up two ancient flights of stairs, climbing high into the attic. He fumbled with the knob on the old door, pushed it open, and flipped on the lights.
The room was essentially a warehouse. Long industrial bulbs hung sparsely from the exposed ceiling, lighting the green linoleum flooring below. There were rows of clothing racks, each garment hanging inside a clear zippered bag with a picture of an actor in costume tacked to the front.
“Thank you,” Macalister said. “We will find our own way back.”
Dismay visibly went through the man. He did not want to leave us alone in here, probably assuming we’d planned to play dress-up and potentially damage the expensive costumes. But he didn’t want to piss off such a powerful donor either.
“She only wants to look,” Macalister said casually. “You have my word we won’t touch anything.”
The man’s shoulders relaxed. “Oh.” He brightened and turned his focus to me. “Would you like me to pull any particular pieces?”
“No,” Macalister answered. “Sophia and I also have business to discuss, which needs to be done privately.” His sharp look politely announced, ‘fuck off.’ “Please don’t let us keep you from your patrons.”
The man hesitated a moment longer then decided it was beyond his control. “If you could turn off the lights and shut the door when you’re done, I’d appreciate it.”