“To clarify,” Gaston said, “the reason I hoped to run into you was so I could be your escort this evening. You are here unescorted, are you not?”
Peyton’s eyes swept over the milling crowd, and her head halted in mid-nod. No more than ten yards away, Cary/Mitch snatched a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray and handed it to her mother. Her father spotted her, his glower transforming into a smile. He immediately disengaged himself from the group.
“Why, Peyton, how good it is to see you.” Her father clapped Gaston on the back. “You too, old friend. You restore my faith in my daughter’s taste in men.”
“Darlings, you both look fabulous.” Her mother was right behind him, clasping Gaston’s hand before kissing the air on either side of Peyton’s face. “Peyton, it does my heart good to see you dressed in something other than that dreadful uniform those carriage people make you wear.”
Peyton’s spirits fell the way they always did whenever her mother disparaged the tour-guide business, but she knew better than to disagree. It never got her anywhere.
“I beg to differ, Amelia. I think Peyton looks great in those khaki shorts.” Mitch joined their group. Peyton had been brought up far too well to blast him in the presence of Gaston and her parents. She set her mouth, intending to silently communicate her displeasure. “But then I’m biased. I think she’d look great in anything.”
Mitch’s eyes moved appreciatively over her before his lips curved in an intimate, heart-tugging smile. “Hello, Peyton.”
“Hello, Mitch,” she whispered back before she could stop herself. She was afraid her lips were curving into a smile.
Damnation. How was she supposed to hiss at him when he complimented her like that? Or when he looked the way he did? The other men in the room were similarly dressed, but Mitch stood out like a peacock among penguins. The cut of his tux drew attention to his broad shoulders and long legs. The stark black color complemented the inky darkness of his hair and set off his blue, blue eyes.
As she got to know what was inside the man, she’d thought she was becoming immune to his good looks. So why, all of a sudden, was he harder and harder to resist?
“I’m Cary Mitchell.” Mitch held out a hand to Gaston. “Peyton’s date.”
Gaston cut his eyes at Peyton but shook Mitch’s hand. “G. Gaston Gibbs III. I was under the impression Peyton was unescorted.”
“Only because I thought I was supposed to pick her up at her parents’ house.” Mitch’s words were as slick as usual, but something in his voice sounded different. His eyes smiled at her. “Work was so crazy today I got mixed up. Forgive me?”
Peyton’s jaw dropped. That was twice in two days that Mr. What’s Done Is Done had apologized. The tilt of his head as he waited for her answer suggested a vulnerability she’d never noticed before, and she figured out what was different about his voice. It was crazy, but he sounded. . . sincere.
“A woman never truly forgives a man until he grovels, dear,” her mother told Mitch, saving Peyton from answering.
“Nor does her father,” Mr. McDowell growled.
“I can grovel,” Mitch said. Peyton’s disbelieving laugh sliced into him until he reminded himself that she believed he was his brother.
“That I’d like to see,” she said.
“You will,” Mitch promised. From the way Peyton cut her eyes at him, he could tell she didn’t believe it.
“You can grovel later, Mitch dear,” Amelia said. “Peyton needs to mingle now. I would so love to see her voted Volunteer of the Year.”
“Mother, they’ve already voted me Volunteer of the Year,” Peyton whispered to her mother loudly enough that Mitch heard. “I’m getting the award tonight. Remember?”
“I know that, dear, but it’s never too early to lobby for next year.” Amelia switched her attention to Gaston. “Darling, I see Senator Mabry Collins across the room. He and your father are friends, aren’t they?”
Gaston nodded. “They were roommates at law school.”
“Be a dear and introduce him to Peyton. It can never hurt to make the acquaintance of such an important man.”
“Mother, I can meet the senator later,” Peyton said. It was probably too much for Mitch to hope she preferred his company.
“Nonsense.” Mr. McDowell spoke up. “With Gaston right here, there’s no better time than the present.”
“Your father’s right, Peyton, especially since it would be my pleasure.” Gaston’s eyes flicked to Mitch. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Actually, I—”
“Of course Mitch doesn’t mind,” Amelia interrupted. “It’ll give him and I a chance to dance and become better acquainted.”
She bestowed a beatific smile on Mitch, claimed his arm and turned him in the direction of the dance floor. If she hadn’t been so friendly, Mitch would suspect she was maneuvering him away from Peyton, like a pawn in a chess game.
An hour later, Mitch was positive that was exactly Amelia McDowell’s intent. She was worse than the young women who kept trying to make his acquaintance. Whenever Mitch moved a step in Peyton’s direction, Amelia blocked his way. Now that Peyton was dancing with Gaston, it had become a serious problem.
“Mitch, could you be a dear and get me a few of those artichoke hors d’oeuvres across the room?” Amelia kissed her fingertips. “They’re simply divine.”
Mitch’s eyes followed Gaston and Peyton moving in tandem across the dance floor. The phrase Beauty and the Beast sprang to mind. Peyton looked like a princess in her lacy gown, with her delicate neck exposed by the upsweep of her blond hair and the lights of the ballroom illuminating the beauty of her face. Gaston Gibbs wasn’t bad looking, but his smile had a beastly quality Mitch distrusted.
“I’ll get you some later, Amelia,” Mitch said. “Right now, I’m going to dance with Peyton.”
“But, dear, there are plenty of other women in the room who would love to dance with you,” Amelia cried. “You needn’t bother Peyton.”
Mitch’s brow creased. “You’re forgetting I’m here with Peyton.”
“How could I possibly forget that, dear?” Amelia patted his arm, a sympathetic expression on her face. “But surely you realize you’re not from her world. Look at her out on the dance floor with Gaston. They make a lovely couple, don’t you think?”
So there it was. Out in the open. Despite his suspicions of her motives, Mitch hadn’t expected her to be so candid about it.
“No, I don’t think so.” He adopted one of the sugary smiles that were her specialty. “I think Peyton and I make a better couple.”
She tilted back her small chin and the air filled with her tinkling laugh. “You are charming, dear, and quite handsome. Please understand, I have absolutely nothing against you. But the truth of the matter is Peyton is a Charlestonian and so is Gaston. She might dally with you, but in the end she’ll be with Gaston.”
Mitch held his tongue. Dressing Amelia down for her snobbery would do no good. She lived in an insulated world he couldn’t begin to understand, a world of class and privilege where bloodlines were more important than character.
Then again, Mitch couldn’t speak up for his integrity while he was passing himself off as his brother. He couldn’t forget he was here because of Cary. That it was his brother’s girl, and not his, they were discussing.
He dipped his head in a slight bow. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Where are you going?” A note of panic tinged Amelia’s voice.
Because it was what his brother would say, he answered, “To dally.”
He left Amelia and walked purposefully toward her daughter, recognizing the instant she spotted him by the way her body went still and her eyes widened. Mitch tapped Gaston on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?”
Gaston turned, his sharp features pinched. “What if I said no?”
“Then I might have to hurt you.” Mitch uttered another Cary-like line, softening the words with a smile the way his brother would.
A moment later, she was in Mitch’s arms. His arms. Not Cary’s. “What’s that you’re wearing?”
“A gown,” she said.
“Not your gown. Your perfume.”
“I don’t wear perfume,” Peyton said. “You must mean my moisturizer. It’s scented. Jasmine.”
“I like it.” He put his nose against her skin and breathed. How could this be, that the smell of his brother’s girl went straight to his head like a fine scotch? He couldn’t stop the truth from escaping his lips. “I like you.”
She turned her face away from him. “You have a funny way of showing it. You promised to be on time tonight.”
“I was on time.”
“You know what I mean, Mitch. I waited for you, and you didn’t show up. I can’t. . .” Her words trailed off when he took her hand planted a soft kiss on her palm. “Would you stop it? I can’t think when you do things like that.”
“I don’t want you to think.”
“Because you know you’re bad for me.”
“Because I don’t want you to break up with me.”
Reaching out a hand, he caressed her cheek. He read indecision in her eyes before she closed them and shook her head. Please, he prayed. Please don’t let her say she never wants to see me again. Her eyes opened after a moment, and he couldn’t read anything in them at all.
“Why, Mitch? Why would it matter? Plenty of women would love to go out with you. I saw them flocking around you tonight. It’s like you’re a sheik, and they’re a harem.”
Pleasure skittered through him. “You were watching me?”
She cast her eyes downward, giving herself away. “Don’t change the subject. I didn’t notice you turning them away so you could be with me.”
“Then you must not have seen your mother cutting me off every time I headed in your direction.”
“She knows as well as I do that it would only take you minutes to replace me.”
“You’re wrong,” Mitch whispered, meaning every word. Hoo boy. He was in trouble here. He traced the line of her jaw with his fingertip, letting it come to rest on her lips. “I couldn’t replace you. You’re irreplaceable.”
“Oh, Mitch. Not only don’t I believe you, but I can’t trust you. I need a man I can rely on.”
“You can rely on me,” he vowed.
The strands of the slow song faded away. Peyton backed out of his arms, her brows drawing together. He let her go but kept hold of her hand.
“Do you really mean it, Mitch?” she asked softly. “Can I really rely on you?”
“Yes,” he said again.
Her lips curved into a slight smile. A voice on a loudspeaker intruded on the moment, announcing the awards ceremony was about to begin and summoning the recipients to the front of the hall.
“Okay. Then I’ll see you later, after my speech,” she said almost shyly. She slipped her fingers from his, and he resisted the urge to hold on to her.
“Later,” he agreed.
He watched her walk away before he thought to glance at his watch. To his surprise, it was already nearly time for bartending duty. But if he left now, he’d miss her acceptance speech.
Remembering he’d told Peyton mere minutes ago she could rely on him, Mitch drew in a frustrated breath. Hadn’t he made the same vow to Cary, whose future depended upon Mitch gathering enough evidence to put Flash Gordon behind bars?
His heart sank like bricks in quicksand. Much as he hated to, Mitch had to go.
He walked through the doors, under the crest of the Irish harp and past the great white columns, feeling like the louse Peyton would believe he was.
CHAPTER FIVE
If Mitch were asked to pick his favorite part of the female anatomy, he’d dodge the question by pointing out that women were much more than a collection of parts.
When he met someone new, he was careful to look her in the eye. He never, ever tried to get a woman into bed before getting to know her. What was on the inside was much more important than the outside.
But the truth was Mitch had a weakness for breasts, which usually didn’t come into play in his everyday existence. After all, most women covered theirs.
That wasn’t true at Epidermis. He couldn’t turn his head without getting an eyeful of breast flesh. Big and small. Round and firm. Dark-skinned and light-skinned. They were everywhere.
The few women seated at the bar wore tops with plunging necklines. The cocktail waitresses who placed their drink orders nearly spilled out of their tiny tops. And the dancers on stage had let it all hang out.
Mitch should have been in breast bliss, but he wasn’t.
He was too angry at his brother, who hadn’t bothered to tell him he bartended at a strip club.
Come to think of it, he was also infuriated at Cary for putting him in a position where the breasts he most wanted to see belonged to Peyton, a woman he couldn’t have.
Mitch filled a beer mug from the tap and slammed it down on the bar in front of an aging, overweight man. The beer sloshed over the rim. It didn’t matter. The man wasn’t paying attention to anything but the breasts on stage.
“Careful you don’t provoke the customers, sugar.”
A woman with a bosom the size of Kilamanjaro sidled up to the bar and bared her teeth in a smile. Even though her lipstick was thick and ruby red, her teeth looked more yellow than white. Her skin was slathered in makeup, her dark hair teased to towering proportions. She looked like an aging hooker, which would have been preferable to what she was. Millie Bellini. The club manager.
“What’d I tell you about wearing shirts like that, baby?” Millie’s eyes ran over him, making him want to put on a jacket.
He’d made a quick stop at Cary’s apartment to change out of his tux into dark pants and a collarless shirt. “What’s wrong with my shirt?”
“It doesn’t cling. You’re s’posed to wear one of them black shirts that cling. I got a stash of ‘em in the back room. Go put one on.”
“Why?” Cary couldn’t imagine the heavily male crowd at Epidermis cared what he wore.
Millie rolled her mascara-coated eyes. “Why you think I keep you around if not for eye candy? With all these girls in here, I need something for me.” She reached across the bar and pinched his cheek. “Now go change, baby.”
She leered at him. Unbelievable. The women were nude but he was the one being sexually harassed.
“What you waiting for, sugar buns?” Millie asked. “You want me come help?”
He wanted to refuse. Cary should be grateful he wasn’t in throttling range. Brotherly love wouldn’t save him.
“I can do it, Millie,” he said easily. “I’ve been dressing myself for a long time now.”
He never would have chosen the black shirt, which was missing buttons almost all the way down to his navel. As soon as he was back at his station, a woman who looked like she’d been poured into her red dress got off her bar stool and drew him aside. For the last half hour, she’d been flirting outrageously with a middle-aged businessman.
“What’s your problem, Cary?” she hissed, her eyes at half mast because of her heavy mascara. As a beat cop, Mitch had seen plenty of girls like her walking the Atlanta streets. She wasn’t much older than the legal drinking age, but she had the hard edge of experience.
“Call me Mitch,” he said.
“How ‘bout I call you asshole? What do you think you’re doing? Giving me champagne?”
“You ordered champagne,” he pointed out.
“I order champagne all the time. You’re supposed to give me ginger ale.”
“But that guy’s paying for champagne.”
“How do you think I make my money, asshole? I’ll let it go this time, but you give me any more champagne, I’m tellin’ Millie. Got it?”
She shuffled back to the bar stool, the material of her dress looking in danger of ripping with every small step she took. The businessman w
atched her with a leering expression. She leaned over and straightened his tie. The man’s blood-shot eyes focused squarely on her cleavage.
Mitch could have kicked himself for failing to notice her aim was to get the man to spend money. In return, she received a cut for her efforts. If the mark got drunk enough, she probably reached inside his wallet and helped herself to a tip. If he didn’t, she most likely offered sex for money.
He might be able to prove that Flash Gordon ran a prostitution ring out of Epidermis, but Mitch wasn’t sure that was where he should direct his efforts. He surveyed the dark, smoky bar, trying to pinpoint the top dog so he could decide upon the best course of action.
For the time being nobody seemed the wiser about Cary skimming money from the cash register. Mitch might not have long before somebody figured it out, though.
“Gimme a New Orleans Fizz.” A man sitting at the bar tossed the order over his shoulder, barely glancing at Mitch.
Mitch wasn’t much of a drinker, but he’d waited tables one summer at a restaurant that did a healthy bar business. Did a New Orleans Fizz contain gin or whisky? He settled on gin, not that it would have made any difference. The man at the bar was mesmerized by a statuesque blonde with a centerfold-worthy body who was wearing nothing but a g-string and a smile.
Mitch slid the drink in front of the man, wondering what Peyton would think about him serving drinks in the shadow of the naked ladies on stage? Cary probably hadn’t told her about his second job. He didn’t think he should, either.
“Hey, sugar buns,” Millie sidled up to the bar and leaned across, cleavage first. Mitch tried not to look. “Flash wants to see you in the back room.”
“He’s here?” Mitch asked. “I didn’t see him come in.”
“He never steps foot in the club. You know that. He’s waitin’. I’ll cover for you.” Millie’s lipstick-red mouth curved into a leering smile, and she winked. “Love the black shirt, baby.”
Mitch beat a hasty retreat through the smoke, the stripper-ogling customers and the maze of tables. He jerked open the door to the back room, shut it behind him and tried to recover from shock. The place was awash in red velvet, from the carpeting to the wallpaper border, to be expected considering they were inside a strip club.
Bait & Switch Page 4
