I make a very childish mocking face to her back, and she flips me off over her shoulder.
“I could fire you for that, you know!” I yell.
“And I could change all the locks to your apartment before you get home,” she sing-songs, sauntering out the door in her fancy new birthday heels.
The Montgomery Family Foundation Gala is held every spring at the New York Public Library, benefiting civic programs like education access and legal aid. It draws politicians, judges, donors, and enough press to keepTheNew York Timessociety section busy forweeks. As far as charity events go, it ranks in my top three, right alongside the Library Lions in the fall and the Met Gala.
We stop along Fifth Avenue, and Tony comes around to open the car door for me. Immediately, flashbulbs begin popping. Reporters and paparazzi crowd the library steps, calling names and angling for photos of celebrities and New York City elite for the papers and online tabloids. The stone lions loom on either side, dramatically backlit against the night sky.
I step out and straighten, pasting on the version of my smile meant for the cameras rather than my clients. Many people would feel nervous in this environment, but it’s never bothered me. I’ve always believed in making an entrance. If you control people’s perception of you, there is no limit to what you can do.
It doesn’t hurt that I know I look good. My gown is a statement in itself—a long, flowing, custom piece that hugs every curve. The corset top has delicate emerald-green boning in the same shade as the skirt, which spills into a dramatic train behind me, over a nude lining. The high slit runs to my hip where the skirt is gathered, revealing my toned legs in a way that makes me feel sexyandshows off my shoes, so it's a win-win. Tony, God love him, shakes out my train behind me before he gets back in the car to drive off.
I’ve opted to leave off any additional jewelry, letting my hair and the borrowed earrings do the attention grabbing for me. They’re large, Art Deco-inspired diamond pieces that hang heavy from my ears with emerald teardrops at the bottom, andmy stylist had painstakingly curled and brushed my hair into Old Hollywood waves that fall over one shoulder.
“Ms. Kendrick, over here!”
“Ava, look this way!”
“Who are you wearing tonight?”
“Tamara Ralph,” I answer before pausing at the bottom of the steps, giving them a practiced angle. Chin lifted, slightly over my shoulder, straight posture, and a flirty smile. Every bit of media attention brings me more clients and more eyeballs on my work for omega rights, so I use it to my advantage.
Inside, the marble floors of Astor Hall gleam beneath my heels as guests cluster with champagne flutes in hand, murmuring and mingling in low voices. The air smells faintly of citrus, perfume, and books. Thankfully, they have the air purifiers running, or else the combined scents of all the alphas and omegas in this room would be quickly overpowering.
Beyond the stone arches, the Rose Main Reading Room has been completely transformed. Soft purple uplighting washes the perimeter, casting a romantic glow against the carved walls and arched windows, while the long oak study tables have been replaced with round dining tables draped in linen and crowned with towering floral installations. Candles flicker between crystal glassware, throwing warm light across the people seated around them.
Above it all, the painted sky ceiling stretches overhead, clouds drifting across a vaulted expanse of blue and gold. No matter how many times I see it, a small thrill curls throughmy chest at the sheer beauty of the space. I love the library. After we moved to New York when I presented, it was the one place I felt like I could truly seek refuge to deal with all the rapid changes.
Then I seehim, leaning against a marble pillar, drink in hand and surveying the crowd. Of course Mark’s here. He’s been everywhere lately. His classic black tux is well-fitted, and though it’s a bit boring for my taste, I have to admit he looks devastatingly handsome in it.
The bastard.
I sharply remind myself that he needs to be avoided at all costs. The incident in the coffee shop the other day proved that. I move, hoping to avoid his notice, but his deep brown eyes lift and find mine, and a slow, cocky grin encompasses his face. Shit.
I don’t want to look like I’m running away from him, so I school a bored expression on my face and glance away, looking over the room and hoping he’ll leave me alone. Out of my peripheral vision, I see Mark push off the pillar and head my way, and it takes effort to suppress the whine in my throat. Why can’t this man just leave me alone?
“Ms. Kendrick,” he says smoothly, a hint of gravel in his voice. I surmise that he’s not on his first whiskey of the evening, though he’s far from intoxicated. Not that I blame him—I was fashionably late, and who can resist an open bar? “Suppose I should have expected to see you here. You aren’t known for missing a photo op.”
“Well,” I say with a small smirk, “it would be a crime to let a dress this pretty go unappreciated. I have to give the people what they want.”
“Indeed.” His eyes sweep over me, darkening with something that looks an awful lot like desire, and my mouth goes dry. A server walks by with flutes of champagne on a tray, and I snag one, sipping it quickly.
“So, what brings the illustrious district attorney out tonight?” I question smoothly, shoving anything other than bored indifference deep inside myself.
“I support what the Montgomery Foundation does,” he says. “Education initiatives. Legal aid funding. Plus, I hold an elected office. I’d be an idiot not to take advantage of a few photo ops myself.”
“Legal aid, huh?” I lift a brow. “I thought you considered us defense attorneys the bad guys?”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Nah, only the incompetent ones.”
“I know you aren’t lumping me into that pool.”
“Trust me,” he says, moving a step closer, and I have to keep myself from swallowing as his dark, rich smell envelops me. “You have never once struck me as incompetent.”
“I’d hope not,” I reply lightly, handing off my now-empty flute to a passing server and using it as an excuse to step away from him. My pulse races through my veins, and my inner omega is furious that I’m not doing something far more reckless. Like scenting the hollow of his throat with my cheek. “I’m sure that pains you to admit.”
“Constantly,” he agrees. “You’re a pain in my ass at the best of times.”
