I smiled at him and he smiled back, then nodded toward my next dance partner. “Have fun,” he mouthed, and I stopped myself before mouthing back to him what I thought of that. He knew, though, and laughed.
God, he was sexy in a rumpled, tragic-artist kind of way.
“So, Mr. Prescott,” I said, as the old man took my hand in his surprisingly strong grip and led me to the far side of the dance floor, which was quickly filling up. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”
He stopped at the far corner of the dance floor, almost to the doors that led to the now deserted kitchen.
“It’s much better now that I can hold a beautiful girl in my arms,” he said, and slid an arm around my waist, lifting up the hand he still held and leading me in the dance.
“That’s very sweet,” I said, giving him a good smile. Not my best smile, mind you—I still wasn’t sure just how powerful ol’ Edgar was, though my father’s happiness at me dancing with the old fart had been obvious.
He looked around the floor, as did I. We were swallowed up by the dancers, unable to see to the group of people beyond the several couples who encircled us. He seemed pleased by that, and I felt a twinge of unease.
“My God, but you’re something,” he said, looking down at me. He had to be late seventies or even eighties, but he was still an imposing figure. Not handsome…but imposing.
“Umm…thanks,” I said, not really sure it was a compliment. And not really sure he was even directing it at me. He had a glassy look in his eye that made me think either he’d had too much to drink, or was thinking about someone—or some time—other than me. Or both. Either way, he made me start to feel a little uncomfortable.
He was a strong leader on the dance floor, and his grip was equally strong, despite the boniness of the fingers that clutched mine.
He twirled me a couple of times and moved more quickly than I thought he was capable of, until we were off the dance floor and had actually passed through a set of swinging doors.
I was reminded of all those historical romance novels and books where the dashing rogue steers the breathless debutante off the dance floor and out onto the balcony, offering her his jacket, and then leaning her over the balustrade for a passionate first kiss.
Nowhere was it ever written that the old letch had yellowing teeth and sour breath that reeked of bourbon, and leered at the young lady like he wanted to violate her in all sorts of ways, some quite possibly illegal.
Well, the leering part might have been in the movies I saw, but it was always reciprocated by the maiden. And it never felt this creepy.
I quickly looked around, getting my bearings. He’d steered me to what looked like a hallway that led to maybe the kitchen or somewhere, but was totally deserted. There were a couple of closed doors along the hall and then a larger door at the end. I hoped to see some of the kitchen staff bustling about, but it became obvious that whatever this hallway had been used for earlier, it was no longer in play.
“Sir, I think we should return to the reception. We can barely hear the music from here.” My mind was playing for time. Maybe the old coot just had bad eyesight and didn’t notice he’d wandered away, though the swinging door behind us should have been a good indicator.
“We can make our own music,” he said. Seriously, he said that cheesy line. I couldn’t believe it.
I was walking a fine line here. Obviously this guy was somebody important, or my dad wouldn’t have nearly pissed his pants with glee to have me dance with him. But political bigwig or not, I wasn’t going to get banged up against a hallway door with my bridesmaid’s dress hiked around my waist.
At least not by this old perv. Now, if Montrose had been my dance partner…
Edgar brought our clasped hands together, close to his chest. Which was fine, except it was apparently just an excuse for him to rub the back of his hand against my boob.
A shiver of revulsion spread through me, and I tried to disengage, put some space between us. But he only followed me, then took me further, pinning me up against the wall. For somebody his age, he was surprisingly strong.
All pretense of dancing had dropped, and he stared down at me with a look of contempt and desire. Still holding on to my hand, he now openly groped my boob, not even pretending it was a casual, mistaken brush.
“Mr. Prescott, please,” I said, giving his shoulder a little push.
A creepy-ass smile crossed his face. “Yes, that’s it. Beg me a little bit. I like that.” His voice was cold, unfeeling, and that revulsion turned to dread.
“I’m only eighteen years old!” I didn’t mention that I’d be turning nineteen very soon. Most likely that would only hurt my case.
“So, not jailbait. Jailbait. Jaybird. Sounds the same,” he said, chuckling like he’d just cracked the best joke in the world. I wanted to crack his head.
“Jane. My name is Jane.”
“I like Jaybird better,” he said as his other wrinkled hand slid off my hip and down to my butt. “It suits you,” he added as he squeezed. “God, you are one sexy girl.”
“Emphasis ongirl,” I said, and he squeezed again.
Great, I get through this whole frickin’ weekend and now I had to make a scene ’cause some dirty old man had a few too many cocktails.
