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The sleek blonde looked at him for a moment, opening her mouth as if to say something, but then closed it again. She hooked her arm through Vicky’s and led her a few steps away, casting a glance back in his direction. She grinned conspiratorially. “What is it? Revenge on Prince Charming for dumping you? Or is the Dark Prince simply as yummy as he looks?”
The other woman winked at her, and Vicky felt her last nerve snap.
Ryder had been nothing but—well, not sweet to her per se—but generous and decent to her. And none of these people seemed to be able to afford him basic respect.
“You know what, Anastasia,” said Vicky, vaguely aware that her voice had risen to the point where it could be heard above the general din of the ballroom, “I’ve had just about enough—”
“Shrimp? I agree.” Ryder swooped in, smiling smoothly at Anastasia as well as the various party guests who had turned to see what the commotion was about. “Let’s go see if we can’t find some brie and crackers or maybe some cocktail wieners.”
He placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Anastasia and the rest of their audience behind to gape. And—she was sure—gossip about what exactly had gotten into her.
Just the thought made her want to turn on her heel and give her a piece of her mind.
“Whoa there, princess.” Firm hands wrapped around her waist and redirected her back on her original path.
Huh. Apparently, she had actually turned on her heel.
“Come here.” He steered her along quickly, glancing around furtively. “There’s something I want to show you, right . . . here.”
Without warning, he yanked her through a doorway she hadn’t even noticed and into a side hall. It was empty, but the sound of the kitchen staff scurrying around, clashing dishes together and calling instructions to each other drifted down from one of the hallways that branched off this one.
Ryder threw a look back into the ballroom. She followed his gaze, but no one there seemed to be looking their way. The exit they had taken was partially concealed by a decorative curtain. She breathed a sigh of relief, slumping against the wall before becoming dimly aware that Ryder was breathing heavily. And standing very, very close.
He looked up into her eyes. And laughed.
“Sorry, I thought I better get you out of there before you said something you—or Page Six—couldn’t take back.”
She blinked, her eyes not leaving his. “Well, I’m sorry. But if I had to hear one more person talking about you like you’re—”
“I know.” His expression softened, but his smile lingered. “And don’t think I don’t appreciate it. But there’s no need for you to sully your good name with my scandalous one. Well, any more than you already have. I didn’t want you to say something you’d regret.”
“I wouldn’t have regretted it.”
He searched her eyes for a long moment. They were still standing close, her back against the wall, Ryder leaning in, faces inches from each other. Finally, he spoke. “You want to get out of here?”
Yes.
Wait, no!
“We can’t just leave.”
“Why not?”
She arched a brow. “Because I have no desire for tomorrow’s headline to be all about how I’m so pathetic I had to sneak out of here early. And the exits are all swimming with press.”
“Hmm. Good point. Okay, then. We won’t use the exits.”
And with that, he grabbed her hand and took off down the hall.
“Ryder!” she hissed as she stumbled along behind him, wondering what on Earth he could possibly be up to.
Chapter Eighteen
“Are you sure no one saw us?” Vic asked as they climbed the metal stairs, the clicking of her heels echoing off the cinder blocks in the small space.
He wasn’t sure. You could never be completely sure. But in his years as a paparazzi magnet, he’d gotten pretty good at drawing attention when he wanted it and slipping away when he didn’t.
He glanced back over her shoulder.
