Which brings me to tonight’s charity gala. I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to be an asset for him at this. No pressure.
Standing awkwardly at the entrance of the grand Mayfair hotel, I pretend to check my phone, trying to ignore any glances thrown my way. Thanks to Lizzie, I’m transformed into a vision in a long green dress that hugs my curves and makes my red hair pop. The back dips lower than I’d usually go for, and my ample breasts are precariously held in place by industrial strength boobie tape.
A black Porsche glides up, and the driver leaps out to do the whole door-opening performance, as if the person inside is too royal to handle a handle.
And then, out steps the man himself.
My throat goes dry as I watch him emerge from the car, his tall, muscular frame unfolding with the grace of a predator. I feel my body react instinctively. Dear god, the man is built. His jacket is tight across those broad shoulders, while the trousers mold sinfully over his thick thighs. And he’s so tanned, you’d think he worked outside. Must be all the sailing he does.
Not that he seems to notice, or care, that he’s just caused a stadium wave of whiplash as every woman in a ten-mile radius cranes her neck to get a better look.
He ascends the steps with purposeful strides, those brown eyes dragging over me with casual dismissal that makes me feel like I’m wearing a potato sack and not Gucci.
“Hi,” I say, flashing an awkward smile, trying to summon even a fraction of the effortless confidence this man marinates in. “I hope this outfit is appropriate?”
Those brooding eyes rake over me again, slower this time. “Yes.” He gives a curt nod. “Shall we?”
I guess a terse affirmation is the closest I’ll get to a compliment from Liam.
He extends his arm and I loop mine through it, trying not to react to the solid wall of heat pressing against my side.
As we take the steps to the hotel and enter the ballroom, I feel like I’ve stumbled onto the set of a Jane Austen adaptation. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceilings, every surface is gilded within an inch of its life, and a string quartet saws away at something that sounds Mozart-esque. Like the play Lizzie auditioned for, but with less bodice-ripping.
The dance floor is a sea of upper-crust couples, dressed to the nines like they’re about to have high tea with the royals. The type to judge me for having the audacity to secure my dress with double-sided tape instead of a fleet of personal seamstresses.I’m used to corporate shindigs, but this is an entirely different ballgame.
“It’s very traditional,” I murmur, trying not to sound as out of place as I feel.
Liam’s arm flexes against my side as he effortlessly snags two champagne flutes from a passing waiter.
“What were you expecting?” he asks, his voice low and laced with dry amusement. “Perhaps a foam party in the middle of the dance floor?”
I press my lips together. He can be such a snarky prick. “I see you have even less patience at these events than you do in the office. Your usual arm candy must have a delightful time, being subjected to your sunny disposition all evening.”
“They usually have no complaints.” His voice drops an octave and shivers skate down my spine at the undisguised innuendo.
“Even if they do get the same generic flowers and note every morning,” I retort before I can stop myself.
His brow lifts, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “I thought Rosie was more discreet than that. I’m disappointed.”
Shit, the last thing I want is for his PA to get in hot water because of my big mouth. “Rosie didn’t tell me. I just notice things around the office. And I’ve overheard her on the phone, ordering the same bouquet, the same note, over and over again. Sometimes there’s jewelry too, for the lucky ones. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a problem with it. What, you want me to hire a songwriter and compose a personalized sonnet for every girl I take out?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Where the hell am I going with this?
“What you do in your free time is none of my business.” I take a pointed sip of champagne. “So, what’s on the agenda for tonight?”
“You’ll accompany me while I do the rounds. Then we’ll attend the auction.”
“What sort of things will they be auctioning off?” I ask.
“Jewels. Paintings.” His tone is casual, like he couldn’t care less. “Boats.”
“Right. Just the essentials, then.”
Liam’s hand settles against the small of my back as an elderly couple approaches. I nearly jump out of my skin at the intimate heat of his touch. My eyes flicker up to gauge his reaction, but he’s focused on the pair.
This guy looks like he was literally born in the 1600s—all wrinkled and liver-spotted with an impressive gray handlebar mustache, and his wife’s draped in enough pearls to sink theTitanic.
