by Roxy Sloane
other powerful people.
I was out of my depth when I first started attending these things. But as I rose through the ranks of the company, Ashcroft made a point of inviting me to more and more of them. “You never know when you’ll need a favor or a friendly face,” he told me, and he was right. I’ve closed several multi-million dollar deals over hors d’oeuvres at charity galas, or negotiated an important clause in a trade negotiation on the racquetball court.
Still, as I cut through the crowd towards the bar, I can’t help wishing I was at home tonight. Having dinner with Isabelle—alone.
“Cameron, good to see you.” A business acquaintance greets me, and suddenly I’m pulled into a conversation about the company’s latest deal. I’m glad. I need the distraction to keep my mind off Isabelle. I’ve already wasted too much time thinking about her. I need to remember, she doesn’t belong in my dark, twisted world.
“Now, now, enough business talk.” The man’s wife joins him. She slips a hand through his arm and smiles at me. “Going stag again, Cameron? We need to fix that.”
I shrug it off with a chuckle. “You know this is work for me.”
“All work and no play,” she scolds me, and I remember what Dax said at the club about needing a companion for these things. I have to admit, he’s got a point. Every man here has a date: wives and girlfriends all clustered together gossiping. I stick out like a sore thumb, but it’s not enough to change my mind.
I keep my life totally separated. At least I did, until Isabelle. She’s the first person to trespass between my worlds at the club and out here. The only woman to come close to uncovering my secret.
I’m playing with fire, insisting that she stay with me, but I have no choice. As long as she follows my rules and keeps what happened at the club off-limits, I should be fine. Just a few more days for her to get back on her feet, and our paths never have to cross again.
The thought should be a comfort, but instead, it makes me angry.
Suddenly, the men I’m talking to fall silent. A couple of jaws drop open. “What’s the big event?” I ask, turning.
My words die in my throat.
It’s Isabelle.
She’s decked out in a simple white gown, cut low in front and back. Her sparkling Louboutin stiletto heels flash with each step, and showcase her long toned legs and swaying hips. Her hair falls in soft blond waves, framing her beautiful face. She looks stunning: natural and elegant, like she’s not wearing a lick of makeup. Every man and woman in the room follows her with lust or envy in their gaze as she crosses the floor towards me.
I want her. She reaches my side and slips her hand through my arm. “Hi,” she breathes, with a shy smile. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“That’s fine,” I murmur. “This is Isabelle Ashcroft,” I introduce her to the group. She greets them with a smile and familiar words, but I can’t take my eyes off her. The fabric of her dress clings to her firm breasts and slides around her narrow waist.
Damn, she’s perfect.
Suddenly, I crave her so much it hurts. The feel of her bare ass cupped in my hands as I kiss her pale throat. Her moans of agonized pleasure as I tease her to the edge of orgasm, her delicious cunt dripping its sweet juices down her thighs.
It’s a good thing we’re in public right now. If we were alone, I’d rip apart the thin straps holding up her gown. Bend her over, push her thighs apart with my knees. Nudge my cock against her swollen cunt until she begged for me to—
“Cam?” Isabelle squeezes my arm, pulling me back to reality. I blink.
“Excuse us,” I say quickly, flashing a grin. “I think my friend here needs a drink.”
I steer her away from them, trying to smother my rampaging lust. “Did my assistant order everything you need?” I ask crisply.
“Yes,” Isabelle replies. “But the clothes, the shoes, it’s too much. You shouldn’t have,” she adds.
“I wanted to.” I told my shoppers that no expense should be spared. A woman like Isabelle is used to luxury.
“Thank you,” she replies quietly.
“What about Brent?” I demand. “Has he tried to contact you?”
“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” Isabelle avoids the question. That must mean yes. I feel a surge of anger, but there’s a shadow on her face, and I don’t want to press the issue when we’re in a crowd, so I just turn to the bartender and order us champagne.
Another power couple approaches us, all glitter and fake smiles. “Isabelle, darling!” the woman screeches. She’s dripping with diamonds, her chest so tight and perky that it has to be fake. “Where have you been? You missed Bitsy’s luncheon last week and Mimi’s handbag trunk show on the weekend.”
I tense, ready to step in and cover for her, but Isabelle places a hand on my arm. “Sweetie,” she laughs, adopting a syrupy tone I’ve never heard. “I just needed some me-time. You know it gets so hectic, keeping up the schedule.”
The woman laughs, and just like that, Isabelle is transformed. Suddenly, she’s the ultimate socialite, air kissing them both and making small talk as if she actually cares about Preston’s golf handicap or Bunny’s interior design re-do. And that’s just the beginning. People flock around her like moths to a flame. I don’t have to do anything except smile and nod, but with Isabelle at my side, I’m suddenly the most envied man in the room.
This is a side to her I’ve never seen: vivacious and funny, full of bubbly energy. If I hadn’t seen her, pale and shocked last night, I would think she didn’t have a care in the world.
I wonder, just how long has she been pretending?
“See you in the Hamptons!” Isabelle coos, waving off another filthy-rich couple. I sigh in relief. They may have been boring as hell, but they’re paying twenty thousand dollars to charity for the chance to mingle here tonight.
She turns back to me and gives a rueful smile. “I need another drink.”
I’m beginning to see, it’s all just an act to her. The effortless socializing. The glossy socialite routine. She’s not the person everyone thinks she is. She’s so much more.
“Who are you, really?” I ask, handing her a glass of Dom Perignon.
“Whoever you want me to be,” she shoots back, smiling.
I want to keep that smile on her beautiful face.
“Hmm...” I can’t resist teasing. “A stewardess? A naughty nurse?”
Isabelle shrugs. “Anything or anyone. I’m a chameleon. I have many talents.” She sips her drink.
Her gaze has clouded over now, and that’s when it hits me: she’s tired of this. Tired of pretending to be what everyone else wants her to be, pretending to be someone she’s not. Instinctively, my hand drops to the small of her back, bare above the draped fabric of her dress. I lean in and speak softly to her.
“And what if I just want you? The real Isabelle?” I see a flush rising in her cheeks, but I can’t stop myself from continuing. “What about her talents?”
Isabelle smiles again but it’s different this time—there’s a new sparkle in her eye. “You haven’t even begun to discover them.”
I like this side of her. Flirty, daring. Real.
“In that case, what would I need to do to see these talents in action?” I press.
“Hmm,” she says, batting her long eyelashes. “I can think of a few things…”
Jesus, so can I.
A waiter bustles past, and Isabelle steps closer to let him by. Her body presses against my side. Hot. Irresistible. Her skin soft and supple under my grip.
I slide my hand lower down her back, until my fingertips slip just beneath her dress. They rest there, inches above the swell of her pert ass. I dream about grabbing it tight, clutching those hips as I piston into her from behind.
Spanking her. Teasing her. Showing her the exquisite line between pleasure and pain.
Isabelle doesn’t move away. She turns her face to me, those wide blue eyes gazing up at me, questioning. Awaiting my next move.
What will it
be?
I clench my jaw. Dammit. I’m hard as a rock now, from just one touch of her body. Surrounded by people, desperate to bury myself between those velvet thighs. I’ve never responded to a woman this way.
I love and loathe it in equal measure. But I know it’s all wrong. I won’t do this.
“I’ll be right back,” I snap, pulling my hand away. I register hurt in her eyes before I stride across the room. I find the bathroom and duck inside, running ice-cold water over my hands until the bulge in my pants subsides.
Pull yourself together.
I stare grimly at my reflection. This isn’t who I am. My life is neat, organized. Regimented. There’s the man I am when I’m at work, in the public eye. Cool, calm and collected. And there’s the man I am when I’m at the club or in the privacy of my own home.
Home. I think of the secret room at the top of the stairs. I made sure to double-check that the door was locked before I went to bed last night. The last thing I want is for Isabelle to discover what I’m hiding in there.
She looked so terrified at the Underground when Brent and that other jerk were working her over. There’s no way she would ever want to try that again. I can just imagine the look on her face if she knew the truth. Exactly which activities I enjoyed behind closed doors. But I know a classy, normal girl like Isabelle…she would be disgusted.
The thought of her disgust keeps my desire in check. I head back out to the party. I find Isabelle laughing gaily at some stuffed-shirt’s stupid joke. She puts her hand on his arm and he puffs up with pride.
I arrive at
