by H. M. Ward
Mr. Ferro has a distant, bored gaze about him, like there's somewhere else he'd rather be. I know the feeling well. Mrs. Ferro, on the other hand, studies me with great interest, like she's appraising me. Her eyes scan my dress, my shoes, my hair, and finally my face. Her appraisal seemingly over, she meets my eyes and smirks.
If my nerves were twitchy before, they're quickly approaching epileptic territory now. Even the beads of sweat that were threatening to escape my pores have evaporated in my fear. The woman has always scared the bejesus out of me, but now, the way she's looking me over, reduces me to a rare material possession. I feel like she wants to buy me off my dad and display me as a trophy in the Ferro mansion. My instincts scream for me to run as far away and as fast as possible, but I manage to keep both elegant sandals planted firmly on the ground, put on my best polite smile and nod.
"Yes, I do. Welcome back to our home, Mr. and Mrs. Ferro. It's so wonderful to have you as our guests this evening. I hope you've found everything to your liking." Game face on and I'm doing great. Mrs. Ferro's smirk disappears, replaced by an odd expression. The only way I can describe it is that she looks pacified. It appears I passed some secret test.
Mr. Ferro's attention has already left the conversation, and when I follow his gaze, it's easy to see why. He's scoping out old Mr. Gibson's trophy wife number five. She's what one could call a gold digger or, if you prefer euphemisms, a professional widow. He's pushing ninety while she's barely twenty-one, but he's a very satisfied ninety-year-old, and I suppose that's worth a fortune.
Mrs. Ferro is either completely oblivious to her husband's wandering eyes or she just doesn't care. I couldn't tolerate a man who was always on the prowl for younger, fresher meat. No wonder their kids are so screwed up, with Daddy Whorebucks as a father and Permafrost as a mother.
"Yes, Miss Granz. Everything is... to our liking." She takes a long sip from her glass, her eyes never breaking contact with mine. Seriously, this woman is creepy beyond words. She lowers her glass and continues talking directly to me, completely disregarding my father and my boyfriend.
"I hear that you are also working on this project?" She lifts a perfectly plucked eyebrow and waits for me to answer. I'm about to tell her proudly that I am, but Daddy cuts me off.
"Since Regina is doing her internship with Granz Textiles, we've had her sit in on meetings as an observer of course, to teach her the ins and outs of product conception and development. It has been a wonderful learning experience for her."
An observer? I've been actively working my butt off on this project from its beginning! I look down and focus on a little stone on the ground, biting the inside of my cheek until the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. I can't let them see how angry I am. Now and in front of the Ferros is not the time or place. I try to remember my father probably went through the same thing when he was learning to run our company under my Grandfather, who was even more of a hardass than my father.
I don't realize how hard I'm squeezing Anthony's hand until he whispers in my ear, "Do you mind not cutting off all the circulation to my fingers? What's wrong, babe?" When I look up, I find Mrs. Ferro's eyes still trained intently on me, even though she and my father are discussing specifics like timeframes and testing procedures. Why won't she just leave me alone? Does she know I've been doing her son in my dreams? Is that it? Has he mentioned me to his family at all? The thought sends butterflies to my stomach, proving how freaking messed up this situation is.
My Dad is telling her way too much confidential information, but I can't tell him to shut up in front of our guests. I look at Anthony. His eyes are searching my face. He's still stupidly trying to figure out why I'm out of sorts. It's a good thing he's good looking enough to make up for his ineptitude when it comes to my feelings.
I lean into him and whisper with clenched teeth, "I'm an observer? What the hell? Speak up, Anthony. Dad listens to you; ask him to let me speak for myself."
He frowns and addresses the group, "I don't know about all of you, but I'm feeling a bit parched. Regina, why don't you fetch a waiter for a fresh round of drinks?"
What the fuck? Parched? Did he just tell me to fetch a waiter? I ask him to include me in a business discussion, and he reduces me to an effing gopher? I can't blow my gasket in front of Mrs. Ferro, especially not when she has her x-ray vision still fixed on me. There's nothing else I can do. If I stay, my temper might overpower my self-control, and I don't want to appear the petulant child about to throw a tantrum. The best thing to do right now is go calm down somewhere else.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll be right back." I let go of Anthony's hand and turn to leave. After stopping a waiter and asking him to refresh their drinks, I head toward the pool house, but not before I grab yet another champagne flute for myself. I need to find a secluded corner and be alone with my thoughts for a couple of minutes.
COCKTAIL WEINER
August 3rd, 5:57pm
I get to the pool house, but don't go inside. Instead, I sit on one of the lounge chairs and put my glass down on the ground. Putting my head in my hands, I repeat words over in my head like a mantra while rubbing my temples. You love your family, and they love you. They value your opinion. It's just not your time to shine yet. Be patient. Stay in the wings for now. You'll take the stage soon enough. Swallow your pride and take one for the team. I sip my champagne and repeat the mantra... several times.
Still upset, but my temper finally under control, I chance a look back at the party. From this distance, I see Anthony talking and moving his hands wildly, trying desperately to charm the pants off Mr. and Mrs. Ferro. Anthony is a hand talker. When I'm not pissed at him, it's kind of cute. But now, after what he did to me, it's annoying as hell. My temper flares and threatens to spiral out of control. Desperate to regain control, I resort to a game Erin and I played as kids, where we would choose a guest in the distance and say what we thought they were saying based on their body language.
For example, Anthony has his arms out, obviously pantomiming the size of something impressive, his hands about a foot apart and nodding. I know this story. I've seen him, uh, heard him tell it a million times. It's one of his med school stories from an impressive surgery he witnessed. Doing my best impersonation of my boyfriend, I say out loud "I swear, my dick is this long."
Mrs. Ferro and my dad nod approvingly, while Mr. Ferro looks bored out of his wits again. He's probably not impressed by foot-long dicks. Anthony shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head as if it's no big deal. He's still talking away so I keep on lip-dubbing,
"But the oddest thing, though, whenever I'm with your daughter, Mr. Granz…" He gestures again, this time showing a small distance of about two inches between his thumb and index finger, closing one eye to emphasize the itty-bitty smallness of his subject. I can't help but laugh this time, "it shrinks down to cocktail wiener size." He puts up both hands in the air as if baffled. Mrs. Ferro and my Dad raise their eyebrows, baffled too.
I double over in laughter and try to catch my breath. Oh, crap, that was funny! When I finally regain some form of composure, I guzzle down the rest of my champagne. I don't realize I have an audience until I hear a man clearing his throat behind me.
"Hmmm, makes you wonder why a beautiful woman such as yourself would bother staying with a man with such shortcomings. I'd offer to show you what a huge cock looks like, but I'm afraid it may ruin your expectations when it comes to other men."
Of course, being the well-bred lady I am, I spew my mouthful of champagne… through my nose. Nice. Oh, and ow! Bubbles up the nose hurt like a bitch!
I hear laughing.
It's a beautiful manly laugh, but it’s pissing me off because I know exactly to whom it belongs. Even though my fists ball up in anger, my heart skips a beat at its familiar sound.
I don't look back. I can't. Never mind that I have Veuve Clicquot dripping from my nose, he actually heard me talking about my boyfriend's inadequate penis length and boasted about his own impressive size.
Oh, God. Shoot me.
All my feelings crash into each other at once, and I'm at risk of a massive head-on collision if I look into Pete's impossibly blue eyes.
Why the hell is Pete even here tonight? How have I not seen him while greeting our guests? He was probably too busy systematically pleasuring our female guests in the boat house. I wonder if he walks around with a ticket dispenser like in a butcher’s shop, Next up for pleasure: ticket number 457. Estimated wait time 10 minutes.
The thought of him with another woman, especially here, in my home, makes me livid. I know it shouldn’t affect me, but he has a way of getting under my skin and grating every nerve I have. Okay, so he and I shared a couple flirty moments together. That doesn't afford me a claim to him, and I don’t want one either. Still, it bothers me to imagine him with other women; it brings the memory of him rejecting me front row and center.
From over my shoulder, he hands me a napkin, and I take it, dabbing my nose daintily.
Pretending he’s no one of consequence, and that nose spewage is respectable behavior, I put on my polite voice and simply say, “Thank you.”
I don't need Pete toying with my emotions today of all days. My are nerves already frayed, and I'm afraid I’ll snap at the least provocation. I keep my back to him, hoping that if I don't make eye contact, he’ll take the subtle hint that I’m in no mood for chit-chat and go away. But instead of leaving, he keeps on talking.
His voice is luscious, pouring from between his lips like wine, “I can’t understand why the most beautiful woman at this party would sit alone in a secluded corner.”
I’m still patting my nose with my napkin and trying to make sure my makeup isn’t smeared like a freaky crying clown painting.
He goes on, “She could be enraptured by her beloved, spending time with the man she attended with, but she’s here. Alone. It makes me wonder if she was waiting here for me to find her.” His voice catches on the last word.
What did he just say? Did he insinuate I lured him here on purpose? And... did he call me beautiful? Again? I get lost in the swirling feeling inside me and wish that it was real, but it’s not. Nothing about Pete is genuine.
There is no way I'm falling for this again. I stand to face him, back stiff as a board, my shoulders squared and my chin up. Refusing to look at him, I snap, “Go use your lines on someone who hasn’t heard them before.”
“Wow. I pay you a sincere compliment and get verbally bitch-slapped.”
“I don’t have time for this.” I start to walk away while chanting, don’t look at him, don’t look at him, in my head.
Pete’s playfulness is back in his voice. He’s up on the balls of his feet, close behind me. “Ah, we both know why you’re over here making fun of your man’s lack of endowment and avoiding people. Admit it, Gina.”
My feet stop. My lips part, ready to whirl around and throw some witty remark back in his face, but I feel his breath blow softly in my ear as he waits—he’s that close. If possible, my body stiffens even more as his fingers brush my hair back gently behind my shoulders. My knees do this awkward melty thing where they bend slightly in directions they shouldn’t.
How can a touch so delicate feel so powerful? It’s an innocent touch, but it feels sinful.
I inhale shakily, wishing I could hide his effect on me. He knows what he does to me, and the way I stiffen and gasp confirms it. I wish for strength, needing to tell him off, but when I turn, I’m mentally unprepared for the challenge.
Pete stands there, in all his good looking eye-candy glory. Messy hair, stubbled face, a tightly fitted tee, strategically frayed blue jeans, and black biker boots--all offensively casual for an evening garden party. I’ve seen the look on him many times. I should be used to the gut-wrenching attraction to him by now, but I’m not. As always, my body reacts with increasing intensity, an addict craving her addiction. Heat spreads all over, and I want to get closer to him, my earlier anger negated by longing.
I refuse to let him get to me, even though he’s already halfway there. “Admit what, Master Ferro, that you’re an asshat?” Master Ferro! Slam! He probably hasn’t been called that since he was nine years old. I need better material. Seriously. I make an annoyed sound when he doesn’t respond. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what? Like you’re a beautiful woman? Like you’re worth looking at twice?” His breath catches like he’s going to say something else, but he stops himself. His beautiful lips press shut and form a thin line, but the spell is still there, holding us in place.
Heart pounding, I can’t seem to step away from him. How much I’m drawn to this man scares me. I’m pulled toward him to do things I shouldn’t do. I’ve never felt like this before and resisting it is like trying not to breathe. In little doses it’s fun, but in large doses it’s lethal.
Why can’t I see what he’s doing? I can’t put the pieces together. It’s like he sought me out. His words are intoxicating, and once those eyes catch mine, I lose control.
My voice is a whisper, and it’s all I can do to keep it steady. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, not to me. I’m not like the other women falling at your feet. This isn’t a game to me, so please stop.” Too much truth leaves me raw and shaking. My fists are at my sides, clutching my dress, wrinkling the fabric.
Pete steps closer and touches a strand of hair. Lifting it gently, his head tips to the side. “Don’t ask me to do things that make no sense, that defy logic and reason. I don’t know how I came to be here tonight. God knows I didn’t plan on it—look at me—and yet, here I am, and I can’t seem to step away.”
His words sound like poetry falling from his lips. Each word is like a falling star, beautiful and brilliant. I can’t move. I can’t breathe.
In a very sexy and sensuous move on his part, Pete slowly moistens his lips with his tongue. He lifts a hand and gently sweeps his fingers over my cheek. He wants to say something more, I know he does. The way his lips part gives him away, but no more falling stars. No more poetry. Nothing. He stands there, caressing my cheek, eyes locked, and that’s when I feel it. There’s a slight tremor in his touch. It makes my heart jump into my throat. My reaction is sudden and violent. I laugh like something is too funny, even though Pete’s expression is still filled with adoration.
“I’m so incredibly stupid.” I step back and break the trance between us. The lusty fog clears and I blather on, ranting. “All this time I’ve been thinking why does he like me? Why is Pete Ferro bothering to see me when no one else does. I’m unsubstantial. A shadow has more weight than I do, and yet the most powerful bachelor in New York is drooling over me?” My voice is so high when I say the last word that it cracks.
Pete lifts his hands in a plea and steps toward me. “Gina, you don’t—”
I point a finger at him as angry tears flow from my eyes, “No, Pete. You don’t. Don’t talk to me, don’t come near me again. I’m not a conquest, and if you care about me in the slightest, you’ll stay the hell away. But you don’t, do you? You never care about any of them. My heart’s not made of ice, sorry. I don’t cheat and I sure as hell will never submit to your caustic charm. Say anything you like. Give me every dapper look you have and douse me with your charming smile tuned to full blast. You’ll never have me.”
COMING SOON:
LIFE BEFORE DAMAGED 4
THE FERRO FAMILY
*****
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MORE FERRO FAMILY BOOKS
NICK FERRO
~THE WEDDING CONTRACT~
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BRYAN FERRO
~THE PROPOSITION~
*****
SEAN FERRO
~THE ARRANGEMENT~
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&nbs
p; PETER FERRO GRANZ
~DAMAGED~
******
JONATHAN FERRO
~STRIPPED~
******
MORE ROMANCE BY H.M. WARD
SCANDALOUS
SCANDALOUS 2
SECRETS
THE SECRET LIFE OF TRYSTAN SCOTT
DEMON KISSED
CHRISTMAS KISSES
SECOND CHANCES
And more.
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