Or, more to the point, how had he managed to have more than one with any given woman? Violet didn’t care how handsome or sexy or rich or sexy or powerful or sexy or hot or sexy or … or … or …
Where was she?
Oh, yeah. She didn’t care how whatever or sexy Gavin was. If this was the way he acted with women—with anyone—she wouldn’t have spent more than ten minutes with him. Unfortunately, if she had any hope of getting rid of him and his stupid lawsuit, she would have to tolerate him for the rest of the evening.
Then again, if she had to suffer in silence, she thought as she savored another sip of champagne, at least she was doing it in gorgeous surroundings. She couldn’t believe this place. The Steepletons must be soiled to their undergarments with their filthy lucre. As she and Gavin had made the lengthy journey from the front door to the ballroom, she’d thought the house really did look like something out of a fairy tale, complete with gold-limned wainscoting, marble floors and centuries-old oil-on-canvas renditions of peerage at play.
The ballroom was even more magnificent. Its satiny hardwood floor was inlaid with an intricate pattern of darker wood, and a massive crystal chandelier hung from the center of a ceiling that looked like a Renaissance rendition of heaven, right down to the chubby cherubs peeking over the clouds. The walls on three sides were papered to look like luscious gardens, and the fourth was composed of arched, beveled windows that looked out onto a massive courtyard below. Violet had just enough time to look outside and see that it was as beautifully landscaped as the wallpaper gardens were, lit by torchieres and candles, since some of the partygoers had spilled out there to chat and smoke.
Then Gavin was dragging her toward the group of people whom he’d deemed it so necessary must see them together. She figured out why immediately, since three members of the group were drop-dead beautiful women, all of them sporting form-fitting dresses of eye-popping color and gemstones that Violet was reasonably certain were real—and she wasn’t talking real cubic zirconium, either. She had thought Gavin would simply walk right up and insinuate himself into the conversation, so it took her by surprise when he stopped a good fifteen feet away from them, removed her champagne from her hand to place it alongside his drink on the tray of a passing waiter, then swept her into his arms and began to dance.
It took him by surprise, too, since she had no idea how to dance, something that became obvious when she immediately brought her foot down on top of his—hard.
“Ouch,” he muttered, halting at once. He glared at her. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Well, I didn’t mean to. You might have warned me that you wanted to dance.”
“Half the people in the room are dancing. Why would you need a warning for that? “
She didn’t want to tell him it was because she didn’t know how to dance. She was suddenly embarrassed to be at a party like this, in a place like this, surrounded by people like this, and have no idea how to perform any of the customs that were a part of this world. She was already keenly aware of how much more stylish the other partygoers were, and she was confident none of them had stopped by Talk of the Town to rent a gown before coming. The way they smiled and chatted with each other, it was obvious they all knew each other—or at least knew of each other. Even their posture and the way they walked and sipped their drinks was different from the way normal people—people like Violet—performed such tasks.
She was so out of place here, in a house like this, with people like Gavin. This might be the sort of thing she wrote about in one of her books, but her fictional version was nothing compared to the real thing. At least, in her fictional version, her characters—people like her—found some way to feel at home and be a part of things. The reality.
“Violet?”
Gavin’s voice brought that reality crashing on her like a ton of ill-fitting dresses and cheap rhinestone jewelry. She remembered then that he’d tried to dance with her, and she’d failed abysmally, and now he wanted a reason why.
“What do you need, sweetheart, an engraved invitation?”
She sighed softly. “No, but a few lessons would help.”
Her admission seemed to take him by surprise. His dark eyebrows arrowed downward. “Are you telling me you don’t know how to dance? “
“Not this kind of dancing. Not where your bodies have to touch.”
He opened his mouth to say something, but no words emerged. Then, after a moment, he closed it again. Once more, he took her hand in his, but this time, he led her in the opposite direction from which they’d been traveling. He didn’t stop until he’d led her into a small alcove off the ballroom that led to a broader passageway beyond. There, he stopped, dropping one hand to Violet’s hip, holding the other up at his side at chest level.
When she did nothing but stare at him, he expelled an impatient sound, wiggled his fingers as if waving at her, and instructed, “Take my hand.”
“What about all those people in the other room that you said need to see us together?” she asked, stalling.
“They’ll be here all night. There’s plenty of time.” He settled his hand confidently at the center of her back, then swallowed her hand in his. Man, he had big hands. “Besides,” he added as he pulled her closer, “I don’t want them to see me with someone who doesn’t even know how to dance.”
Right. Of course not. Here she’d been thinking maybe he had actually taken pity on her and wanted her to feel more comfortable by showing her some of the high society ropes. Hah.
“Put your left hand on my shoulder.”
She lifted her hand to do so, but hesitated before touching him. She was suddenly aware of how close they were standing, closer, even, than they’d been when he’d towered over her at his office. As had happened then, the air around them grew warmer, and the clean, spicy scent of him assailed her. She noted the lean, rugged line of his jaw and the finely honed cheekbones, the pale blue eyes fringed with jet lashes. As had happened then, her heart began to beat faster, and her thinking grew foggy, and the entire world seemed to shrink until it was only the two of them.
“Violet,” he said, his voice dropping even lower than before. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”
After another small hesitation, she gingerly curved her hand over his shoulder. The fabric of the jacket was fine and smooth beneath her palm, and she fancied she could feel the heat of his skin seeping through it. Of course, it was her imagination. The man would have to be very warm indeed for it to penetrate layers of clothing. Then again, she was feeling more than a little warm herself.
“Now, do what I do,” he said. “Take one step forward.”
She stepped forward, then belatedly realized he’d meant that he was going to take a step forward, and she should follow him by taking a step back. The result was that the two of them pressed together even more closely, something that made Violet fancy she could feel even more heat emanating from him, and from a lot more than just his shoulder. She was already getting ready to defend herself against what she knew would be his charge that she should have realized what he meant—once her mouth stopped being so dry at the heat and nearness of him, she meant—but instead, he chuckled and muttered a soft apology.
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