“Pardon me?” he asked, his voice acquiring a husky edge.
“The life of the party, such as yourself?” Melody asked sweetly. “Hard to believe you don’t enjoy dancing.”
Anthony gaped at her.
“You might want to try dancing, Anthony,” Baptiste said. “Samira and I danced together the night we met, didn’t we, Samira? You never know when chemistry will strike.”
“Well, it’s not striking here.” Tipping up her nose, as though she found the merest whiff of Anthony intolerable, Melody pivoted on her sky-high heels, firmly turning her back on him. “So don’t waste your time.”
She. Turned. Her. Back. On. Him.
On. Him.
Oh, she was spicy, this one.
Anthony liked that. He liked that a lot. And God help him, but she smelled like some heady and expensive combination of lemons and flowers. His belly tightened with spiraling desire.
He watched her, bemused and speechless.
“I think I need more champagne,” she added. “Great to meet you, Nick.”
The subtle emphasis was lost on no one, Anthony was sure, least of all him. He choked back a startled laugh.
With a final scowl in his direction, Melody swept off, giving Anthony the time and the opportunity he needed to admire her backside and shapely legs through the slit in her dress as she walked off through the crowd.
“I believe I mentioned that Melody is the surgeon who wants to donate her time and talents to your foundation? The one that treats sick children?” Baptiste asked Anthony blandly. As if Anthony hadn’t told him, earlier this very evening, that Anthony was keen to meet the lovely Melody for reasons that had nothing to do with the foundation. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten already?” Baptiste continued, eyes glimmering with mischief.
Anthony frowned at him, but couldn’t get worked up about the teasing. Not when he felt this vibrantly and unreasonably alive in the wake of Melody’s set down.
And also—let’s face it—ridiculously deflated and disappointed with himself.
His entire body sagged with the weight of his failure. What a royal cockup.
He discreetly tried to keep Melody in sight, blinking and looking away only when Nick thumped him in the stomach with the back of his hand.
“Well done,” Nick said brightly. “Now you’ve alienated people on six of the seven continents. We must book a trip to Antarctica so you can finish the job. Come on. We need drinks.”
“We’ll see you in a bit,” Baptiste said, clearly eager for a minute alone with Samira.
“Great to meet you,” Samira called after them.
“You, too,” Anthony and Nick told her, setting off.
Anthony scanned the crowd again for signs of Melody, some of his surging hormones easing back until he felt stunned by the speed at which he’d crashed and burned. See? He’d screwed it up, just as he’d feared.
In his mind, meeting Melody could have unfolded so differently tonight.
He’d envisioned it all perfectly:
He would arrive and have a drink or two to shore up his courage and help overcome his embarrassing awkwardness with new people. He and Melody would lock eyes from across the room and somehow drift closer to each other, equally trapped in a haze of sensual awareness and magnetically drawn to each other. They would have a drink. Laugh. She would be every bit as beautiful and intriguing as her photos and videos promised. He would, for once in his misbegotten life, be as witty and smooth as Baptiste, Nick or, hell, George Clooney. She would like him for him, not knowing or caring about his family fortune or his grandmother. And then—he was a little hazy on this part—he and Melody would somehow find themselves upstairs in his suite, where they would fuck and fuck and then fuck some more, ravaging each other until the sun came up.
He could almost laugh.
In that entire well-spun fantasy, the only part that had come true was that Melody was far sexier and more intriguing than his poor mind could ever imagine.
And now?
And now she thought he was the toilet paper that got stuck to the bottom of her spiky heels when she visited the loo.
And he felt frustrated. Defeated. But also determined to try again.
What was it that Nelson Mandela had said about just such a situation? Ah, yes.
A winner is a dreamer who never gives up.
“I want you to know,” Nick said, clapping a hand on Anthony’s shoulder to steer him to the nearest bar, “that that was a pathetic performance—”
“I know,” Anthony muttered.
“—and you have embarrassed yourself—”
“I know.”
“—and your family.” Nick tipped his head and studied him with thoughtful concern. “Possibly for generations to come.”
“Yet you stood silently by and watched it all happen,” Anthony said bitterly. “Why haven’t you and Baptiste taught me anything after all these years, I wonder?”
“We try!” Nick cried. “But you are absolutely unteachable.”
“Fair enough,” Anthony said, turning to the bartender. “Two whiskies. Neat.”
They took their drinks and waded back into the crowd. Still no sign of—
“Stop craning your neck,” Nick said around a sip of his drink. “You’ll give yourself an injury. And it’s pathetic.”
“Yes, all right. We’ve both agreed that that was not my finest performance.” Anthony shot daggers in his direction. “Perhaps we could move on.”
Nick shrugged, sipping again. “Agreed. But I of course reserve the right to talk about it again with Baptiste.”
“Wouldn’t blame you.” Anthony tossed back his entire drink, relishing the head-clearing burn as it worked its way down his throat. “I’ve got to go back in and try again.”
“Yes. Because you’ve been wanting to meet that woman, staring at her videos and mooning over her—”
“I didn’t moon.”
“—and you can’t let someone else swoop in and steal her out from under you tonight. You’re as good as anyone else.”
“Well, the jury’s still out on that one,” Anthony said, wishing he had another drink.
Nick snorted. “Just tell her who you are. I would. I would tell every woman within seconds of meeting her, and then just collect the panties the way people collect neckties or shoes.” He paused, making a show of smoothing his hair and preening. “Of course, I do already collect the panties. But I would collect more.”
This was the kind of thing that always made Anthony flare up.
“Yes, well, I’m not you, am I? I don’t have the whole Sophia Loren smile—”
“My smile is excellent, I admit,” Nick said, grinning in a blinding display of teeth.
“—nor do I want women who only want me for my family connections or money—oh, for God’s sake.” Spying the pair of women headed toward them, Anthony winced and wished he was back at his pillar so he could hide behind it. “Speak of the devil.”
“What?” Nick asked quickly, dropping his voice and leaning closer.
“It’s a bloody matchmaking mama from London who thinks I should marry her daughter. She stalks me at all these—oh, hello, Mrs. Carmichael.” Anthony pieced together about 30 percent of a pleasant smile and plastered it on his face. “Lovely to see you both tonight.”
“How are you, sir?” Mrs. Carmichael, whose plump face was difficult to make out what with all the sparkling diamonds ringing her neck and dangling from her ears, beamed at him as they shook. “I was hoping you might be here tonight.”
“Indeed?” More like the old bat had hired someone to hack into Anthony’s personal assistant’s computer and steal Anthony’s engagement calendar. “But you mustn’t call me sir, Mrs. Carmichael. We’ve talked about that. I’d prefer Anthony.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” Mrs. Carmichael flapped a hand, tittering like a finch on a power line. Then she all but planted her hand between her daughter’s shoulder blades and shoved her forward in her eagerness to put her in front of A
nthony. “And you remember my Annabella, don’t you?”
As if he could forget.
Annabella was actually rather lovely in a toothy, freckled and outdoorsy sort of way, which was fine if one overlooked the fact that she was only twenty-one or so (one of these days, Anthony would have to verify that the girl was, in fact, of age) and had the personality of Sleeping Beauty before the kiss.
Anthony’s interest in her, accordingly, ran far more toward adoption than marriage.
He shook the girl’s hand. “Of course. How are you, Annabella?”
“I’m really good.” She giggled. “We’re going to Eleuthera for the holidays.” Giggle. “So I can’t wait for that.”
Anthony nodded, wishing both the Carmichael females would notice, just the once, that he had absolutely zero interest in either of them, take the hint and leave. But then it occurred to him that he might be demonstrating the kind of rude behavior that frequently got him in trouble and decided to make more of an effort.
“And have you both met my school chum, Domenico Rossi?” he asked tiredly, motioning Nick forward.
And there went the wide and startling flash of Nick’s smile, right on cue, leaving both the women looking a bit dazed.
“Delightful to meet you, Mrs. Carmichael. Annabella.” Nick’s discreet once-over, honed to a razor’s edge by years of practice, skimmed Annabella from head to toe, assessing her for relative fuckability. “Such a pleasure. Call me Nick.”
“And you, Nick.” Mrs. Carmichael’s cheeks, normally rosy, went bright red as she beheld the Roman god. “And what a lovely accent you have. I take it you’re from Italy?”
“Forgive me, Mrs. Carmichael.” Anthony didn’t have the patience to keep the crisp finality out of his voice, but painful experience had taught him that the matchmaking mama wouldn’t hear it anyway. “But I’ve just spotted, ah, someone I need to introduce to Nick. You’ll excuse us, won’t you?”
Without waiting for any response, he clapped a hand on Nick’s shoulder and steered him away.
“Dio Santo,” Nick muttered when they were out of earshot, shuddering. “Fucking that one would be as exciting as a blow-up doll. Is she even a legal adult?”
“God knows.”
“I was afraid the mama was going to offer you a fifty-thousand-pound dowry and some cows for her.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Carmichael has considered it,” Anthony said darkly. “She’s not exactly subtle—hang on. There she is again. Melody.”
Anthony froze as he watched Melody join the end of the queue at one of the carving tables, his heart skittering like a fox mid-hunt. Nick followed his line of sight, then eagerly turned to face Anthony, placing both hands on his shoulders and leaning in close.
“Now, listen,” Nick said, skewering Anthony with that gray-eyed look of his. “This is your second chance, eh? Don’t blow it. You’re a good guy. A handsome guy. Stop being your own worst enemy. You’re too old to be this shy. Go over there, talk to her and be yourself. And if that doesn’t work? Pretend you’re me. Okay? Andare.”
With that, he took Anthony’s face between his hands, gave him smacking kisses on both cheeks and turned him loose with a slight shove to get him moving.
Anthony glowered over his shoulder at him. “Stop kissing me. I’m British. We hate that.”
A shrug from Nick. “I’m Italian. That’s why I do it.”
Chuckling, Anthony hurried the rest of the way. He slipped into line behind Melody and helped himself to a plate, praying she wouldn’t notice him for a second or two. Just long enough for him to think of something to say.
But Melody, naturally, saw him immediately.
She stiffened, stabbing his flagging morale directly in the heart with her dinner fork.
That was when he shored up his courage and gave himself a swift kick in the arse. He’d been a captain in Her Majesty’s service, for God’s sake. He’d served overseas. He wasn’t going to let a case of nerves keep him from getting to know Melody better while the opportunity presented itself. He could be brave when he needed to. This was clearly one of those moments.
He took a deep breath.
“It seems we’ve got off on the wrong foot,” he told Melody.
2
“We did not get off on the right foot.” Melody shot him a sidelong glance as she also took a plate from the stack. “I think we can agree on that. In fact, why don’t we just pretend we don’t see each other here in line and call it a day?”
Ouch. Another direct hit to his ego.
“That would be the best thing you could do,” he said, his pulse thumping in his ears. “Obviously. But then I might miss out on getting to know an interesting new person. Not very fair to me, is it?”
“You’re the one who dug this hole for yourself.” She reached for a roll. “I was very pleasant to you.”
“Yes, and pleasant persons, such as yourself, often give, ah…”
“I believe you Brits call them arses?” she supplied delicately.
She had him there.
“Fair enough. I believe you like to give arses like me a second chance now and then.”
“Well, I would. Just because you and I will probably be seeing each other a fair amount—”
His pulse rate sped up like the horses out of the gate at Ascot.
“—if things keep up at this rate with Baptiste and Samira. But the problem is, I don’t know what kind of arse you are.”
“Pardon me?”
“Maya Angelou—you know her?”
“Of course I know her. What kind of a cretin do you take me for?”
“Not sure you want me to answer that right now. Anyway, she said that when a person shows you who they are, you should believe them the first time.”
“Ah.” His pulse rate crashed and burned. “I see where you’re going with this.”
“I figured you would. So are you an arse down in your soul, or are you a situational arse?”
She stared up at him as she waited for his answer, all wide-eyed and amused interest with those glorious brown eyes. He eased closer, happy to have this woman reel him in. Honestly, if he were a fish, he’d hook her line through his own cheek just so he could be on the boat with her.
“I’m strictly a situational arse,” he said, doing his best to remain undistracted by the plump swells of her baps where her dress dipped in front. But he did have quite the spectacular view. He’d hardly be a man if he didn’t notice. “You have my word.”
“Hmm.” She studied him closely. “That remains to be seen. And unfortunately for you, you can’t just announce what kind of person you are. You have to demonstrate it.”
“Understood. But can I offer a tiny explanation? About my gruffness earlier?”
“Feel free.” She craned her neck and looked around, noting all the people still waiting to be served. “Since this line doesn’t seem to be going anywhere anytime soon and we may be forced to order a pizza if we want to get fed tonight.”
“You see, the problem is that I’m a very poor dancer. The kind who leaves carnage across the dance floor and ruins parties.” He shuddered. “No one here wants that.”
“Ah.” Dimpling, she passed him a set of silverware from the basket as the line finally shuffled toward the chef carving his giant roast. “Well, thank you for saving several lives tonight.”
Anthony stared at her, feeling a bit lost. The sight of one almost-smile from this woman should not make his blood surge and hum through his veins, heating him from the inside out like some sort of emotional microwave.
But it did.
He studied her downturned face as he watched her spoon potatoes and horseradish sauce onto her plate, wondering if he should call the night a triumph. He’d spoken to her again; she’d given him half a chance; he’d seen a glimpse of her smile. Why not retire with full honors before he mucked it up again and said something to convince her he was as beastly as she’d initially feared?
But he didn’t want to retire.
He wan
ted to bask in her glow for a few minutes longer. See if he could earn a full smile from that amazing mouth.
After all—no guts, no glory.
So he helped himself to potatoes and salad, thinking hard as the line inched forward.
Keep it nice and easy, Scott, he reminded himself. Don’t blather.
He cleared his throat. “You should probably know. I’m not at my charming best at big parties like this. Or with new people in general. That’s what makes me an arse.”
More dimples, then she looked up, her bright eyes smiling even if her mouth wasn’t.
“Do you have a charming best?”
“No. Not that anyone’s ever detected.”
That did it.
To his immense gratification, she burst into laughter. The kind that made her eyes dance and lit up not just her face but, honest to God, this entire corner of the ballroom and the darkest corners of his being. And he would have smiled back, but he was frozen inside the twin possibilities that he might get to know her, just a little bit more, or that he still might cock this whole thing up before she ever smiled at him like that again.
“See?” She nudged him with her elbow. “That was charming and funny.”
“And accidental.”
More of her laughter.
His heart skittered like beads of water across a hot griddle.
Then she sobered, giving him a crisp nod. “I really like Baptiste. He’s got great taste in girlfriends—”
“Yes, because you and Samira are best friends, I believe?”
“—right. And if he’s got good taste in girlfriends, maybe he’s got good taste in best friends, too.”
“That is the case with me. Not at all the case with Nick.”
“Ah, Nick.” She grinned again. “I knew he was trouble.”
“You’ve no idea,” he said, wincing dramatically.
“Well, anyway. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve decided to give you another chance.”
Oh, the irony. If she knew exactly how happy he was to know she hadn’t completely written him off, she’d probably drop her plate and run screaming from the room.
“I’m delighted to hear that, Melody,” he said, relief and excitement making his voice husky.
Everything I Hoped For Page 2
