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And for that moment, it almost felt like she wasn’t alone.
Chapter Two
Several hours later, Vicky stepped through the entrance of the hotel ballroom and paused to survey the scene. Men in tuxedos, women in evening gowns, classical musicians providing a stirring, romantic soundtrack, champagne, and waltzing couples. Glamour to the hilt.
Vicky, of course, fit right in. She wore her black locks smoothed into elegant waves, and her long, crimson dress draped her lithe figure in lush fabric. Making her look, she knew, every bit like someone out of another time. Like a Golden Age Hollywood starlet walking the red carpet (handy, since she’d just had to walk one on her way in here). It was a trick of her mother’s, part of the legacy she’d left her, along with her striking looks. A simple hack: dress like you have all the confidence in the world; the feeling will follow.
And she needed all the confidence she could get tonight.
Of course, her beauty was not in question. If she had to read another glossy magazine article extolling her physical features, she might explode. (She wouldn’t, of course. She graciously accepted invitations to be spotlighted on a regular basis, politely slipping in as much as she could about whatever cause the foundation was championing at that moment, using the publicity to its best advantage whenever she could.)
But it didn’t exactly make her feel respected as a businesswoman and a force in the charity world when every article spent more space on her eyebrow shape than her latest accomplishment.
Attending this evening’s event on her own wasn’t helping. Since the breakup with Noah, she may or may not have laid low whenever humanly possible, sending regrets to most of the big events. But she couldn’t very well miss the Pink Heart Ball. Especially with her ex-boyfriend/current business partner MIA.
Ugh. Why couldn’t Davis have just set aside his amazing work ethic for one evening?
It didn’t matter now. She was here. She could do this. She inhaled deeply, poised herself, and let the breath out. Here went nothing.
But just as she began to take a step into the room, she heard raised voices behind her echoing through the hotel lobby.
“Sir, sir! You can’t go in there!”
“I can go anywhere I want.” Familiar voices. Well, voice. “I’m a Prince.”
Vicky closed her eyes and counted to—about two and a half as it turned out.
“Sir!” squeaked what could only be the couldn’t-be-more-than-twenty-year-old the hotel had foolishly stationed at the door, obviously panicked. There was a flurry of footsteps. “Sir! I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you and your”—he cleared his throat awkwardly—“party to leave.”
Why this? Why today? Did she really want to know who was in the “party”? She did not.
“Does he mean me?” gasped an offended-sounding but ridiculously squeaky female voice just a few feet behind Vicky now. The voice then let out a harrumph, followed by what sounded like aggressive snapping of gum.
A low, rumbling laugh followed, even closer to Vicky, which she felt all through her body. It wasn’t her fault. Ryder Prince had that effect on most women, and he often used it to its full advantage. It was how he’d managed to become one of the world’s most notorious playboys.
She sighed. Unfortunately, he was a notorious playboy she felt a certain amount of responsibility for. The last thing the Princes—her ex’s parents who were still her friends as well as her employers—needed was to be embarrassed by their elder son crashing an important society event and making trouble.
“Listen, junior,” the man in question was now saying, presumably to the hotel kid, “maybe your superiors didn’t explain this to you too well, but it isn’t your job to piss off the guests at these things, so I suggest you—”
Vicky steeled herself and spun around.
“Oh. Well, hello, Vic.”
Ryder Prince grinned at her as he removed his muscular arm from the kid’s shoulders just in time to keep the poor guy from wetting his pants, as far as she could tell.
“Ryder.”
“Who’s this?” the gum-cracking ingenue said, clearly unimpressed. She appeared to be dressed for clubbing, in fishnets and a very short dress. As were the other two women hanging on Ryder, one in a nearly see-through top, another in not so much a top as what appeared to be a leather bra.
Ryder, though, was in a tux. Which was, let’s say, momentarily distracting. Because troublemaker or not, the man looked awfully good in a tux.
He shook off his groupies and took a step toward her, offering her a lopsided smile.
“How’s it hanging, Vic?”
That was the thing about Ryder. There was no denying his charm, but (mercifully), he usually managed to ruin it once he opened his mouth.
“It’s hanging just fine, Ryder. But what are you doing here? Formal charity events aren’t really your thing.”
