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Back among the glittering guests, he bows his head close to mine whenever I speak. His eyes stay on my face. He’s attentive, getting me drinks and finger food. He touches my arm and my hand frequently. His hand rests on my shoulder or my waist.
I tell him, “You’re making it look to everyone here like we’re on a date.” I wonder if he’s expecting something at the end of the evening. And I feel totally conflicted about it. Everything about him is wonderful, but he doesn’t feel like he’s completely here. He’s with me, but at the same time, he isn’t.
But I know it’s an idiotic idea anyway. His type would be any one of the polished, assured, high-toned society girls here. Someone who looks more like a model, an actor, or an athlete. Not a girl like me. He would be more likely to mistake me for a sofa than a runway model.
He keeps his smile light and tells me, “Everybody comes to these things with an entire agenda. Mostly business and politics. Some crime, too, but that’s mostly covered under business and politics. The one thing you can be sure of is that nobody is here to dance. They haven’t come to socialize, and they’re not here for the food or the drinks, either.”
The sound of his voice is strong, commanding, but attractive in a way that takes you off guard. It makes you want to do whatever he tells you.
It makes me want him to tell me to do outrageous things so that I can do them.
All the women in here have at least half an eye on him. They touch their hair, run a finger down from their ear, wet their lips, lift their chins to show their throats. They tilt their hips. I imagine what it would be like, having to compete with every other woman in the room for your man’s attention.
I get a sense of how being with a man as hot and desirable as him could be a two-edged sword. It might be wonderful—I’m certain it would be groan-makingly heavenly—but it would be a battle, too. All out war with every other female in range.
At one point, after he’s elaborately polite to a grand dame with a cut-glass voice, I say, confidentially, “She went away completely unaware that you couldn’t stand her.” I can see he’s about to protest, and I murmur, “She didn’t even see how you dismissed her, turning her over to that senator. She thought you were utterly charming.”
He laughs, and he jokes, “You and I could never be an ‘item.’ Obviously.”
“Because you’re too rich and well-connected and charming?”
“No, because you see straight through me. You’re too smart for me.“
“Sorry.”
“No. I like it. I just don’t think I can measure up.”
Just my luck.
He’s thoughtful and considerate, making sure that I’m introduced to a few people and equipped with a drink before he announces that he needs to have his meeting with the governor.
“Don’t leave before I get back.”
This glittery crowd feels like everybody knows everybody else, and they have sharp antennae for an outsider. I couldn’t be more like a fish out of water if I lay on the rug and flapped.
Then, a tall man asks me elegantly if I would care to dance. And, it seems, I would. It turns out he’s the new district attorney. After him, the fine-looking and quite silver-foxy CEO of an upmarket restaurant chain takes me courteously around the floor.
And then another. I’m not sure what Pablo does, though I suspect it could be something on the wrong side of the law, but he’s tall, dominating, wonderfully handsome, and an excellent dancer.
I don’t know if it’s the dress or the hairdo or maybe just that I feel so confident, but it seems like all the great-looking men here want to dance with me. All apart from the best-looking one, of course. The one I want to dance with.
But he’s busy now, doing whatever it is he’s doing with the governor.
I’m swept away, dancing a tango with the fantastically romantic Pablo. I haven’t much experience dancing the tango, but he certainly knows how, and it’s a hot dance. People are dancing the tango in two different ways. One where the man is totally dominant. The other where the dance is a contest. Almost a battle.
I’m not going to submit to Pablo. He likes the contest, I’m sure, but I’m determined. I feel that if I give into him on the dance floor, I will have given in to him completely. The look in his eyes tells me he would like that. It could be fun as a fantasy, but it’s not going to happen.
Pablo gets a tap on the shoulder. It must have been an insistent tap. He stops immediately. I’m surprised to see Adam, towering, looming behind him.
Adam says, “I’m going to cut in.” His eyes burn and his face is still. His voice is low and hard and won’t be denied. “I hope you won’t mind.” He’s telling me.
When he takes my hand, a charge flashes from my palm and jolts through my body. I gasp as he steps forward and pulls me to him in one decisive sweep.
He commands me, “Put your hand on my shoulder.”
His face is serious. Deadly.
I feel like all the lights went on inside me. I’m getting a lot of strange impulses around this man. He could get me into a lot of trouble. I think I want him to. Warning lights in my head tell me I’m entering a bad judgement zone.
