Bill hadn’t insisted she dress up in this stupid costume.
The image reflected at her after she’d wrestled it on had made her burst out laughing. For someone who felt clumsy in anything but casual pants and flats, a Scheherazade costume was a woefully hilarious misrepresentation. But Bill had really wanted to make an entrance with her, flaunt her to maximum effect.
Then, as she’d taken the first steps into that sea of malicious speculation, wishing the floor would snap open and snatch her into its maw, a pair of lasers had slammed into her.
OK. Exaggeration alert. The so-called lasers were just eyes. A man’s obsidian eyes.
But, no. Lasers weren’t an exaggeration. Rather an understatement. She did feel as if they were burning her from the eyes inward… Whoa. Look away, moron.
She couldn’t. Couldn’t break away from the thrall of those eyes to look at their owner. All she registered beyond the black-on-white gaze were impressions of toughness, power, size…and sheer unadulterated maleness.
Her body heat rose, fueled by the frantic engine that had replaced her heart behind her ribs.
For God’s sake! She didn’t do burning up and instant paralysis. And never, ever, instant X-rated thoughts.
Tell that to her malfunctioning volition and heat-regulating centers. Not to mention her short-circuiting imagination. That became crowded with images of hard virility pressing down on her, of hot breath singeing her lips, her neck, lower…
Her muscles twitched, sweat broke out on her palms and feet, trickling between her breasts…
Suddenly something slammed into her right shoulder. Then far more than a trickle of liquid was gushing, everywhere.
Chilled shock doused her, freeing her from the man’s eyes. Her own flew wide to watch the chain-reaction she’d triggered.
Her sudden halt right in his path had brought him to an abrupt stop, too. And two waiters with trayfuls of champagne had crashed right into them.
She watched in petrified horror as dozens of flutes spilled all over him, felt the echoing scenario all over her, each hit of cold liquid knocking the breath out of her. Then the flutes succumbed to the pull of gravity and hurtling to the floor.
The music swelled, obscuring the medley of smashing crystal as a lull gripped their immediate crowd, that sick fascination with others’ humiliation that never ceased to baffle her. The last flute shattered melodically on the glossy parquet floor among the last chords of the concerto.
In the post-finale hush, there was an outburst of apologies from the waiters, of inquiries from bystanders as a dozen hands dabbed at her clothes.
Disoriented at having so many people encroaching on her, her voice rose. “It’s OK…thanks…just…thank you.”
Her words had no effect as six men, the waiters among them, crowded her, insisting on imposing their help on her. She felt her anti-crowd discomfort rising, taking on a phobic edge. She turned to the one presence that wasn’t invading her personal space. The man. This time the burning of his gaze was welcome, a refuge.
Understanding her unspoken appeal, he put himself between her and her harassing helpers, cut them off from her with the impressive barrier of his sand-gold-clad body, an imperial flick of his hand sending them scattering from her field of vision. Then he turned to her.
She averted her eyes this time, feeling the heat that had been doused by shock and champagne surging up to her face again.
She’d better not be blushing. She couldn’t be blushing. She hadn’t blushed since she was sixteen.
But the sizzling was unmistakable. She was blushing.
Just great. This man was resurrecting every clumsy foolishness she’d thought buried along with her father…who’d turned out to be not her real father. Not that biology mattered to her. Francois Beaumont would always remain her father in every way that mattered. And his death over a decade ago had forced her to mature overnight….
Oh, whom was she kidding? She’d matured in certain areas only, had become an expert in erecting barriers and bulldozing her way through the confrontations that made up social life, using her blunted social skills as a weapon.
Now no barrier or battering ram would do, and here she was, soaked, blushing and feeling terminally silly.
As if in answer to her distress again, the man handed her napkins, shielded her from prying eyes as she dried herself, echoing her actions, his movements slower, more efficient.
When he judged she’d done all she could, he retrieved the napkins from her numb fingers, piled them on the trays of the still-apologizing waiters. Then he motioned to her, a graceful gesture that was a cross between command and courtesy, spreading his abaya’s sleeve like the wing of a great vulture, signaling for her to precede him in the direction he’d been heading when she’d caused the indoor champagne shower.
She didn’t need a second bidding, streaked to the open French windows.
As they stepped out into the night, the first solo violin strings of a poignant composition she didn’t recognize flowed, as if scoring their progress across the gigantic terrace. Lost in the surreal movielike moment, she breathed in relief. She’d made it outside without snagging those damned spiked heels into that double-damned layered skirt and falling flat on her face.
She felt him two steps behind her, his aura magnified now that others weren’t diluting it, felt dwarfed, inundated. She looked around, anywhere but at him, not really seeing the landscaped grounds that sprawled into the moonlit horizon.
Feeling like a ten-year-old who’d just made an irrevocable fool of herself in front of the one person she wanted to make an impression on, she tucked champagne-drenched tendrils behind her ear and blurted out, “Well, that was sure needed.”
A smile soaked his fathomless tones as they rode the sultry California summer breeze, a bit muffled behind his intimidating, incredibly exciting veil. “The fresh evening air? The escape from oversolicitous admirers and pawing champagne blotters?”
British. His accent. Highly educated, deeply cultured, laden with class and control. And with an inflection that told her he wasn’t actually English, but something too complex to fathom. He sounded exactly as he looked. Exotic, superior, formidable.
Not that she knew how he looked. After the stolen glimpse at his costume—that of someone ready to tackle a sandstorm head-on— she hadn’t ventured another look at him. Couldn’t work up the nerve to take that look. Probably would only when he decided she’d taken enough of his party time and went back to his companion.
He just had to have a companion. Men like him—assuming other men like him existed—were invariably spoken for. And this one wouldn’t merely be spoken for. He’d be fought over, tooth and nail.
She sighed. “Actually, I meant the champagne shower.”
Hell. And he’d know she wasn’t even joking. She should just shut up until he moved on. She’d do well to remember she was an outcast for a reason. She’d never developed the art of conversation. Or the common sense of social graces. Every time she hurled out what she was thinking, uncensored, she varied between cultivating
