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The man who blocked the door rushes inside and practically jogs toward the table in the front. Once there, he bends and whispers something into the ear of a man in his sixties who freezes in his chair before lifting his gaze toward the entrance.
Corrado pulls me in front of him. Our bodies touch, my front to his front. His hardness pushes against my belly, and when we both grow still, as if we’re the only people in the hall, he makes his dick twitch.
I gasp and try to push away, but he holds me against him, smirking while he lifts his gaze over the top of my head.
“My business associates,” he says as if there’s nothing sexual about our bodies touching, “didn’t invite me to a party they shouldn’t hold without me. I was feeling rather bitter about that, but now that I’m here with you, I’m enjoying myself probably more than I should.”
His hand trails down the small of my back and over the top of my bottom, but when I tense, he removes his hand.
“Eventually, I will have you,” he says before adding, “Turn around. They’re setting up for us.”
I’m in way over my head.
He releases me so I can turn and watch the tables. The man who received the message is standing at the side of the table while staff take away his meal and the meal next to his. A woman sitting beside him rises and flips her hair over her shoulder in a way that tells me she’s unhappy.
Men start whispering. I can tell they’re looking around, seeking out Corrado, who says, “Don’t forget to play along. Come on.”
Corrado pushes away from the pillar and slides his fingers into my hand at the same time that a woman wearing a long red gown rushes up to him. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees our hands, and our eyes lock. There’s a moment in every woman’s life when another woman wishes her dead with a single gaze and makes no attempts to hide it.
This is how she looked at me now as we walked by her. Worse yet, she’s wearing a birthday girl tiara.
Men rise as Corrado walks toward the table. Since I don’t want it to appear as if he’s dragging me, even if he very much is, I match his long strides, thankful the genes I share with my aunt Georgia gave me long legs.
When we arrive at the table, Corrado pulls me to stand in front of him, rests his warm hands on my shoulders, and says, “Good evening, members.”
Members?
He pulls out a chair for me. I pause as everyone at the table stands up while I sit down. Wow, these are some old-school manners.
I sit with my back straight and my hands folded in my lap as Kate might.
Next to me, Corrado unbuttons his charcoal suit before sitting.
When the men at the table remain standing and staring at us, I clear my throat. Corrado looks around, and as I take in the room, I see that most of the men and a few women are also standing with their heads bowed as if guilty of something. They remind me of Rottweilers who got into the trash while the owner was gone.
Two warm fingers slide over my tight fist. “What do you want to drink?”
“Iced tea.”
The server arrives, and Corrado orders two iced teas and our meals, mine with salad instead of seafood.
Since the other people remain standing, the whole room feels off. I begin to fidget with my hair.
“Does it bother you that they’re not sitting down?” he asks.
I nod. “It’s a little awkward to think I’ll eat, and they’ll stand and watch.”
He rubs his jaw and purses his lips. “How about those three guys outside? Does it bother you that they’re still staring at the wall?”
“They are?”
He nods. “Discipline in ranks saves lives.”
“What ranks are we talking about?”
He doesn’t answer me, but leans back. “Relax, everyone. Nobody is in trouble yet.” He says this in a very nonchalant and polite manner, but we’re sitting with two congressmen, and the other people, judging by their clothes and jewelry, seem just as affluent.
When Corrado said we were going to a party, I imagined a chic, upscale New York bar with trendy international music and a bunch of wealthy men and women holding dry olive martinis. I imagined a cake served on a long table and everyone nibbling at the hors d’oeuvres.
