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But Elliot doesn’t smile at my joke. Instead, she just presses her lips together a moment, then finishes the champagne. “Maybe you should try to talk to women like they’re people, not playthings.”
“I do both.” I stop. “That came out wrong.”
“No, Ryder,” she says after a long beat, “I think it just might have been one of the most honest things you’ve said all night.” Elliot hands me the empty glass and I hand it to a passing waiter with a tray. “Speaking of night. It’s late, I should go.”
I still have her hand and I pull her into me, just that little bit closer and she smells like gardenias. Clean and pure with a hint of earthiness that’s somehow erotic beneath it. “Stay. What if I get into trouble?”
“I think you can manage an art show.”
“They’re dangerous. Doubly so when they’re also fundraisers. Besides, they bring out creatures like that.” I gesture with my head at an old dowager who’s basically a walking skeleton with giant bakelite vintage glasses and jewelry that had to be worth a cool quarter million.
I think she’s also wearing a bright pink fluffy dog as a hat.
“You know who that is?”
“No.” I raise a brow. “Should I?”
“So you’re not after her for her money, just her looks. That’s Madame Cohen-Paisley.”
“I’m only after her for her sex appeal and beauty.” I smile at Elliot. “C’mon, Perry, stay. Save me and have some fun.”
She looks around and a slow grin blooms on that intriguing mouth. “Only because I don’t think any of these people will be safe.”
And for the next hour we study the art, have conversations with people we’ve made up histories for, and I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever had such a good time at one of these things.
Certainly not with my clothes on.
Definitely not without getting into trouble.
Absolutely not with someone I’m not into.
“You see?” I say to Elliot, “these stodgy people are what I’m rebelling against.”
She snorts laughter. “You’re not a rebel, Sinclair. What you are, is a sad man in need of help.”
“Oh, God. You’re going to lecture me?”
“Me? Never. I’m just pointing out you have problems. You’re not a rebel. You’re someone whose dick needs a support group. And,” she says, shooting me the kind of severe look a sadistic boarding school nun would salivate over, “before you say it, not that kind of support group, one where your dick gets a helping hand or something else.”
I wait because she looks so proper but this is some fucked up shit she’s saying and I’m really beginning to like her.
“No, Sinclair, you need the rehabilitation and abstinence kind of support group.”
“No whipping?”
She looks me up and down, and fuck if she doesn’t have one of the best poker faces I’ve ever seen. “Absolutely not. Someone as far gone as you would probably enjoy that.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Welcome to relationships 101.” She glances at a slender watch on her wrist. “I should go.”
“We should go.”
I don’t give her a chance to say otherwise. I get our coats and start to lead her outside when I spot the paparazzi, ready to get whatever shots of whoever is in there. So I decide to give them a show.
“Work with me, Elliot.”
And I slide her coat on, straighten the collar and before she knows what I’m doing, before I can second guess myself, I pull her up against me and kiss her.
