by Tracy Wolff
That’s when she looks up for the first time and our eyes meet. Something flashes in hers, a little bit of the old attitude she wears like a second skin. I’m unreasonably happy to see it, especially considering how much her mouth usually annoys me.
“You do know that it’s customary to ask a woman to dance, don’t you? Instead of dragging her off like a caveman.” Somehow she manages to look down her nose at me, even though she’s about five inches shorter than I am even in her ridiculous heels.
I ignore the surge of relief that comes with her sassiness and concentrate instead on shutting it down. If I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that if you give Tori an inch, she’ll take ten miles. And somehow get you to thank her for it even as she exercises her own version of manifest destiny. “Yeah, well, it’s also customary not to get shit-faced at a formal engagement party, but that doesn’t seem to be stopping you.”
Her eyes narrow and when she opens her mouth I know she’s planning on delivering a stinging slap-down. And frankly, I’m not in the mood to hear it. Especially since she’s been saying the same old shit practically from the day we met.
So instead of waiting for whatever insult she wants to level at me this time, I spin her out fast and hold her there for the count of five before slowly pulling her back in.
She’s talking before our hands even meet. “I’m far from shit-faced, thank you very much.”
“Maybe not, but you’re well on your way.” It’s my turn to narrow my eyes at her. “You’ve had three glasses of champagne in the last twenty minutes.”
“Wow. Stalk much?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing, baby. After all, I was here first.”
Before she can answer, I spin her out again, then pull her close and spin her back out in the opposite direction, just because I can. And because it pisses her off and a pissed-off Tori Reed is a magnificent sight to behold.
“Don’t call me baby,” she snarls the second I pull her back in. “And believe me, Miles, the only way I would stalk you would be if I was planning on driving a wooden stake through your cold, black heart.”
“Wooden stakes are for the undead,” I tell her as I press her close so she can feel the heat of my body through my suit and her dress. “And I can assure you, baby, I am very much alive.”
“Yeah, well, kitchen knives work on everyone. Why don’t you come downstairs with me right now? I’d be happy to demonstrate.”
“Aw, how nice. An invitation to your place.” I smirk deliberately. “First you follow me to this party, then you invite me into your condo? You sure you’re not the one stalking me?”
She’s outraged, and it’s obvious she’s got a vicious response on the tip of her tongue. So I spin her out again, just to watch her eyes narrow to slits and her cheeks get even more flushed.
“You could always come downstairs with me and find out,” she hisses as I pull her back in.
This time, instead of taking her hand, I place one finger to her lips before she can spit any of the insults at me that I can see swimming in her eyes. “Now, now, baby, I know you’re eager. But I’m not that kind of guy. If you want me to fuck you, you’re going to have to let me take you to dinner first.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Well then, you’re never going to get in my pants. No matter how much you beg.”
“I don’t want in your pants. And I don’t beg. Ever.”
“Hmm. I guess I could settle for you asking nicely.”
“Don’t hold your breath. No, wait. Do. Preferably for about six minutes.” The grin she levels at me is sharp as broken glass and twice as beautiful. I study it—study her—as the song winds down. As I do, I can’t help thinking what a shame it is that she’s got the personality of an antisocial piranha, because she’s smart and stunning. It’s a winning combination, one I’d be all over if she were just a little nicer. And if she weren’t my little sister’s best friend. And if she didn’t know about—
I cut the thought off, refuse to let myself go there again—especially around her. Instead I concentrate on the moment, on the fact that I’ve got Tori right here at my mercy. And just because I won’t fuck her doesn’t mean I can’t have a little fun with her. Especially since she just wished brain death on me.
As the song ends, I clasp her hand tightly in mine even as I slide my other hand from her back to her ass. She jumps, shoots me a killer glare, but I hold on. And then, as the chorus finishes with one final crescendo, I dip her down, down, down.
She gasps as I do it, her free hand clutching at the lapel of my suit jacket as she feels herself tipping off balance. I don’t even try to hide my grin as I lower her a little closer to the floor.
“Let me up,” she demands.
But she’s in no position to demand anything and it’s time she figures that out. So instead of easing her back to a standing position, I lower her even more, stretching her body out until she has no choice but to wrap an arm around my neck and hold on tight. What I didn’t anticipate—but what I’m certainly not going to complain about—is the way her leg wraps around my upper thigh.
And still I don’t pull her up, still I hold her there, a little off balance but totally at my mercy. It’s a good look for her.
Around us people are starting to watch, but I don’t give a shit. People have looked at me strange my whole life—I’ve been the absentminded genius with the too-weird ideas for as long as I can remember—and I’m not about to start caring now.
“Okay, Miles,” she hisses at me. “You’ve had your fun!”
“You think this is fun, just wait till you see what I’ve got in store for you next.” Deliberately I let my hand slip.
“Miles, stop!” She clutches me even more tightly. “Let me up. Please.”
As soon as she says the magic word, I straighten, pulling her with me. “See? Told you you’d ask me nicely.”
Her full, pink-slicked lips thin dangerously—a surefire sign that she’s about to let me have it. As is the gleam in her chocolate-brown eyes and the fists she has clenched at her sides. I’ve been on the receiving end of Tori’s anger enough this past year that I can recognize the signs.
I deserve it—God knows I’ve been taunting her since I pulled her onto the dance floor. But just because I deserve it doesn’t mean I’m going to stick around to watch the fireworks. A smart man always knows the value of a strategic exit.
So that’s what I do. I shoot her a cocky wink and an even cockier grin, and then I walk away, leaving her staring after me with an open mouth and wide, sober eyes. Furious eyes, yes, but sober ones, her anger at me burning off the last of her champagne buzz.
All in all, not bad for a five-minute dance. The dance instructor my mother hired when I was still in high school would be so proud…
Chapter 3
Tori
Miles Girard is an asshole. A total and complete asshole.
It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to chase after him and tell him exactly that and a lot more. Only the knowledge that that’s exactly what he’s waiting for—and that he’d probably find a way to spin that, too, and make it sound like I’m chasing him because I’m nurturing some secret obsession with him—keeps me from doing just that.
As if. I know what he’s capable of—I’ve been best friends with Chloe long enough to know just how much she’s suffered. It takes a real asshat to sell his sister out for the start-up capital for his business. Especially when selling her out meant letting her rapist buy his way out of trouble—and prison.
Her parents might have been the masterminds of the situation, but he went along. He can claim he didn’t know what they were doing at the time, but the guy’s got an even higher IQ than Ethan does and I’m not buying it. If the last year has taught me anything about him, it’s that Miles Girard knows how to get his way. With his sister, with his inventions, with his women. No way am I going to fall into that trap, even if it means I have to bite my tongue clear off.
Which—I’m not going to lie—I might have to do. Discretion isn’t exactly my strong suit. Still, I stay where I am, staring after him and grinding my teeth in an effort to keep from letting him see just how badly he’s gotten to me. Then again, I’m pretty sure he already knows. Men like Miles always know when they’re pushing a woman’s buttons—and they do it on purpose, just because they can.
I should know. After all, I do exactly the same thing with men, but for very different reasons.
I track him until he reaches the bar—all without so much as a backward glance at me—then I shake my head. Turn away. No way in hell am I going to give him any more of my time tonight. He doesn’t deserve it.
But as I snag one final glass of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter—after the encounter I just had, I figure I deserve it—I can’t stop myself from thinking about him. About how strong his hands felt when he spun me out on the dance floor and about how warm his body was when he pulled me back in. If he’d been anyone else I might have been tempted to climb him like a cat with a tree. But he isn’t someone else. He’s Miles Girard, Chloe’s bastard of an older brother.
Not for the first time I wonder how the two of them can possibly be siblings.
They have nothing in common. Well, nothing except their super-sharp brains and stunning good looks. Both are long and lean, with cheekbones you can hang the moon on and faces that demand a second—and third—look. Only their eyes are different.
While Chloe’s are a deep green, warm with compassion and kindness, Miles’s glitter blue with ice-cold calculation. The man is always thinking, always scheming, always dreaming up new inventions and devising new strategies. About everything. He spends so much time in his own head it’s a miracle he can even function in the real world.
Not that it matters to me if he can function or not. He’s Chloe’s douchebag older brother—nothing more and nothing less. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t even know he existed.
With that joyous thought in my head, I lift my glass of champagne to my lips and down it in one long swallow. I may be stuck at this party for the foreseeable future—no way am I letting him think he chased me away—but that doesn’t mean I can’t have a good time while I’m here. I grab one more glass of champagne and down that one, too, then weave my way through the crowd, determined to find a hot guy to flirt with for a little while. One who doesn’t have Miles’s shaggy dark hair or vile personality.
I only have to take a dozen steps or so before I’m face-to-face with Alexander Parsons. One of the hot pack of British actors to gain popularity in the States during the last few years, he’s gorgeous, cunning, and a complete and total fuckhead. I should know—we were hot and heavy a couple of years ago, right up until I found him fucking a pair of twins in my bed.
I didn’t handle it well. Not because I was in love with him or anything, but because I don’t tolerate cheating. Be with me, don’t be with me, I don’t care. But if you are with me, even if it’s just for a fling, then you’re with me. Not with me and also with two Brazilian models, no matter how beautiful—or flexible—they are.
Still, as he smiles at me, all charm and self-deprecation, I can’t help smiling back. I’ll never go out with the guy again, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hang with him for a little while. Let Alexander know that I’m totally over what happened between us, all the while making Miles realize just how absurd it was for him to even suggest that I was following him.
“Tori Reed,” Alexander says as he pulls me into a hug that’s just a little too close. “I thought that was you burning up the dance floor.”
“It’s me,” I agree, tilting my head back so I can look up at him. He’s not as tall as Miles, but he is nearly six feet, while I top out at five foot six, even in my Loubis. “How are you?”
“I’m doing great. I’m up in LA these days, filming on the new Chris Nolan project. I couldn’t be that close and not make it down for Jim’s engagement party.” He grabs a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and holds one out to me. I think about refusing it for a few seconds, but then I make the mistake of scanning the crowd. It only takes a couple of seconds for me to lock eyes with Miles, to see the small, nearly imperceptible shake of his head as he looks between Alexander and me.
That’s all it takes to have me reaching for the glass with the tinkling laugh I reserve for men whose egos are bigger than their brains. “Ooh, that sounds so exciting! Chris Nolan is such a great director. What’s the new project?”
Alexander launches into an answer so long and drawn out, I’m convinced I’ll regret asking the question before much longer. But I still link my free arm through his as I very deliberately turn my back on Miles. If Chloe’s brother actually thinks he can tell me what to do, he’s in for a huge disappointment.
I spend the next hour or so hanging out with Alexander and his inner circle—one of whom is his brother, Jim, who also happens to be Kathy’s fiancé. Alexander tries to cuddle up a couple of times, but I don’t let him. Spending a little while with him so he and his friends know I’m totally over him is one thing, but letting him get touchy-feely with me is quite another. No way am I going back down that road with him.
Which is why as soon as I feel like I’ve done my duty—spent some time with Kathy and Jim, bolstered my friend about how great the party turned out, and flirted with a couple of Alexander’s friends just enough to make sure Miles knows I’m not interested in listening to anything he has to say—I make my excuses and head toward the elevator…and my DVD player.
What I don’t count on is the way Alexander follows me like a lost puppy. Or the way he all but tries to hump my leg the second we’re out of the crush of people.
“If I remember correctly,” he says, looping one arm around my shoulders and the other around my waist from behind before pulling my back against his chest, “you have a sweet little condo in this building.”
“You remember correctly.” His breath is hot against my cheek, but not in a sexy way. I turn my head, pull away. “In fact, I’m heading there now. My bed is calling my name.”
“I bet. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s calling my name, too.” He cocks his head to the side, pretends to listen. “See, there it is again. Can you hear it?”
“I can’t.” I shake my head, deliberately widen my eyes. “Must be someone else’s bed calling for you. I know that happens a lot.”
“Still bitter about the twins, huh?” He laughs like everything that happened between us is just one big joke.
“Not bitter. Just cautious.” He starts to put his hands on me again, but I step back and he’s left clutching at thin air.
“Where’s the fun in caution? You’re young and hot and I know you like to fuck. And since we have all that in common…”
Wow. He’s a real Prince Charming. Was he always this bad, I wonder as I stare at him a little bemused, or has he gotten worse in the last couple of years? I like to hope it’s the latter, but my gut tells me it’s the former. Ugh. I can’t believe there was ever a time I thought this crude self-aggrandizement was anything other than sleazy. Maybe my taste in men for myself is no better than Ethan and Chloe’s taste for me. At least Stephen was completely up front about what he wanted. Alexander hides his douchiness behind his guileless smile and I’m-a-good-guy good looks. “Since we have all that in common we should just go for it, huh?”
He nods, his blue eyes gleaming in the fairy lights draped above our heads. “Exactly.”
“Why wait for my condo? We could just fuck in the elevator.”
His eyes light up even as he shakes his head. “I can’t do that anymore. There are cameras in all the elevators and now that I’ve gotten as famous as I have…it’s a problem.”
“Aw, come on now. A good sex tape would just up your street cred, wouldn’t it?” I’m being completely sarcastic, but the sudden light in his eyes tells me the sarcasm went right over his head. Not that I’m surprised. It’ll take more than the sharp side of my tongue to pe
netrate that ego. At this point, I’m not sure a nuclear blast could do it.
“Maybe you’re right.” This time when he reaches for me, it’s so fast that I don’t even have a chance to step back before I’m plastered against him. “So you want to help me out with that, then?”
“Not even a little bit.” I slide my hands between us and somehow manage to get enough leverage to shove him back. “But I’m sure there are a bunch of women here who would be more than willing to do whatever you ask them to.”
“No doubt,” he agrees with the careless shrug of the endlessly privileged. “But I don’t want them. I want you.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen. At the risk of sounding like a Taylor Swift song, we are never ever getting back together.”
“Who said anything about getting back together?” He leers at me. “I just want to fuck.”
“Yeah, well, you’re going to have to settle for someone else scratching that itch tonight, dude. I’m going to bed. Alone.” As the elevator doors open, I lean forward and brush a kiss over his cheek, with its exceptionally chiseled cheekbones and its perfect amount of stubble. “It was fun catching up. We’ll have to do it again some time.” Or not.
“I know what would be more fun.” He follows me onto the elevator, presses the number for my floor without having to ask. Guess our couple of months together made more of an impression than I believed. The thought doesn’t make me happy, though, especially not when the last glimpse I get of the party before the elevator doors slide closed is Miles’s storm-tossed blue eyes staring straight into mine.
The fact that Miles sees me leaving the party with Alexander upsets me more than it should. Not because he saw me getting into the elevator with Alexander—I don’t answer to him and I never will—but because I don’t want him to tell Chloe. I’ve worked so hard to clean up my act the past couple of months, worked so hard to be the godmother Violet deserves. The last thing I want is for Miles to go tattling to her about me drinking too much and taking some random guy home to fuck. Not that Chloe would be mad at me or anything, but I don’t want to worry her. Not when she’s finally getting over all the shit that happened in the last few years. Not now that she finally has the life she deserves.
