“Miss Em,” Parker says again, concern weighing his voice. “Is everything okay?” I sigh and pause, glancing at him.
“I just need some air, Parker,” I say. “So smoky in there.” I wave back at the room. Smoky and laden with testosterone, I want to add. So many dick-swinging egomaniacs trying to outdo each other – or brown-nose each other in some show of pathetic pandering.
“Shall I call for the car, Miss?” Parker asks.
Like there’s a chance my father will let me leave this place. I purse my lips and shrug.
If only.
“Thanks, Parker,” I respond. “I just need a moment to myself. I’ll head over to the restroom. Be back in a few minutes.”
I see him hesitate. Clearly wanting to join me. But even Parker won’t follow me into the ladies’ loos. I cast a look around the glittering room, seeking out a sign indicating where it might be. It’s not as if a place like this would have a flashing green light advertising where the toilets are stationed. A corridor leads off the main room, and I figure it’s down that way. With a small wave, I leave Parker and make my way to the carpeted hallway. None of the doors are marked, until I reach one at the end with an image of a Picasso-style female figure etched into it.
Bingo.
I shove open the door, feeling myself sag as it swings shut behind me. The room is a softly lit haven of femininity, and mercifully, it seems empty. Giant silver urns of drooping roses are set upon marble countertops. Each washbasin has its own private station with a small velvet chair pulled up to face huge gold-framed mirrors. It’s plush and opulent and exactly what you’d expect from a place like this. I inhale the gentle scent of roses and lilies, willing the tension to ebb.
“Fat lot of good that will do,” I mutter. Because how am I supposed to relax knowing I have to go back there again? I make my way up to a basin, staring at my reflection as I wash my hands, then dab my forehead and cheeks with a moist towelette.
“God almighty,” I exhale as I sink onto a velvet seat, then drop my face into my hands. I don’t bother lifting my head when I hear the door open and then shut. Most women have seen others managing meltdowns in public restrooms. I’m pretty certain I’ll be left in peace to pull myself together.
Except, instead of the rustle of clothing accompanied by lady’s perfume, I get a prickling sensation down the back of my neck as a wash of expensive cologne surrounds me. I shoot my head up and stare in horror at Raoul’s reflection in the mirror. Standing behind me, hands in his pants pockets, he looks so coolly confident you’d think he spent half his life in women’s restrooms.
Perhaps he does. Filthy pervert.
“Hello, Buttercup,” he says, then takes a hand from his pocket and traces a fingertip down the bare skin of my back.
Gooseflesh surges, and I shoot to my feet and spin around. I take two quick steps back, then stop abruptly as my thighs hit the counter behind me.
“What the fuck do you want?” I bark, wishing I didn’t feel like I was gasping the words out. He runs a casual glance from my eyes to my toes and then back. I can’t help dropping my own gaze to my chest.Oh, God…My nipples are poking out against the smooth satin.
Jesus, Em!
“What do you think I want?” he says softly.
“I… I…” I lick my lips.
Me! Say you want me!
Oh, my fuck, I’m certifiable.
His eyebrow lifts. Waiting for an answer. I don’t give him one. I can’t. My voice is caught in my throat.
“My ring, Buttercup,” he finally says. He takes a step closer, and I cringe back. “What did you do with it?”
I shake my head abruptly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say hoarsely. He takes another step, close enough for me to feel his heat. When his hand lifts to brush my cheek, I jerk, expecting something far worse.
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Screw you!” I grit out. “What’s it to you anyhow? Just get a new one. I’m sure the poor woman’s used to it by now anyhow.”
His brows draw together, and something flickers in his eyes.
“I want it back,” he repeats. He’s so close that my traitorous nipples are grazing the front of his jacket.
“Back off, or…or… I’ll scream!” It’s probably the most pathetic threat I’ve ever made. His lips quirk up.
“Go right ahead. My men are at the door. They’re used to hearing women screaming when I’m with them.”
