"Christian," he nods, then turns to me with too-bright interest. "And you must be the artist I've been hearing about. Sophie, is it?"
"Yes," I extend my hand, which he takes, holding it slightly too long.
"Richard Thompson," Christian supplies tersely. "CEO of Thompson Media."
"Your ornaments are exquisite," Richard says, still holding my hand. "Much like their creator."
I feel my cheeks heat at the obvious line. "Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed the display."
"I'd love to commission some pieces for my company's executives. Perhaps we could discuss it…privately?" His eyes flick to Christian, then back to me. "Over lunch, say, tomorrow?"
Before I can respond, Christian steps closer, his shoulder pressing against mine. "Sophie's schedule is full tomorrow. And the next day." His voice drops several degrees. "Any business inquiries can be directed through my office."
Richard finally releases my hand, his smile tightening around the edges. "Of course. I didn't realize you were representing her professionally as well."
The implication—that Christian is representing me in other ways—hangs in the air between us.
"I represent my company's interests," Christian replies smoothly. "Sophie's work is currently one of those interests."
Richard retreats with a nod that doesn't quite mask his irritation. As he walks away, the bartender places our wine glasses on the counter. Christian hands one to me, his fingers brushing mine deliberately.
"You don't need to shield me from every man who expresses interest in my work," I say, taking a sip to steady my nerves.
Christian's eyes darken. "That wasn't interest in your work."
"It was partly about my work," I counter, though I know he's right. "And I can handle unwanted advances on my own. I do run a shop frequented by tourists, you know."
"Not like these men." He scans the room, his expression hardening as he notices several pairs of eyes still trained in our direction. "These are predators who think everything has a price."
"Including me?" I can't help asking.
His gaze snaps back to mine, intense enough to make my breath catch. "You're not for sale."
The possessiveness in his voice sends a thrill through me that I don't want to examine too closely. I shouldn't enjoy his territorial behavior. I should find it controlling, archaic. Instead, I'm fighting the urge to step closer to him, to bask in the heat of his attention.
What is wrong with me?
"I need to use the ladies' room," I say, needing a moment away from his overwhelming presence.
Christian frowns. "I'll show you where it is."
"I think I can find a restroom on my own," I reply with forced lightness. "I'll be right back."
He looks like he wants to argue but gives a sharp nod instead. "Five minutes."
It's not a suggestion. I nod and slip away, feeling his eyes on me until I round a corner into a quieter hallway. I find the restroom easily, and spend a few minutes inside collecting myself, splashing cool water on my wrists, taking deep breaths. The woman I see in the mirror looks like me but somehow different—flushed, bright-eyed, wearing a dress that costs more than three months' rent.
When I emerge, I take a wrong turn, ending up in a corridor lined with landscape paintings. As I'm about to retrace my steps, a voice stops me.
"Lost?"
I turn to find James Whitaker—the man from the dance floor—leaning against the wall. His smile reminds me of a shark.
"Just heading back to the ballroom," I say politely, already moving to pass him.
He shifts, not quite blocking my path but making it clear I'll need to brush against him to get by. "In a hurry? Christian Hawthorne is famously self-sufficient. I'm sure he can survive a few minutes without his…date."
The way he says "date" makes it sound like "acquisition."
