“In what capacity?”
Despite having around a thousand employees, the Rutherford Group was sent only two invitations, which happens to be the same received by small Auckland businesses. The rest of my family refused to attend, and when my grandfather suggested Brielle and I represent them, my brothers sniggered at the thought of me attending such a fancy event. Part of the reason I agreed to go was to prove to them I’m not completely hopeless.
“I work for an Auckland business,” I say.
“In an office?”
He’s implying I’m a secretary. There’s nothing wrong with admin work, but it took eight years of study to get where I am, and I have a doctorate.
“No…” Then I think about it. “Well, yes, I work in an office sometimes, but not, like, in admin.”
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend you. In what field, then?”
“I’m an inventor.” I wave my hands as if I’m conjuring up something amazing. Then, gradually, I lower my hands and scowl at him. “You can laugh now.”
He studies me with interest. “Why would I laugh? That’s amazing.”
“Oh. Well. I’m used to being mocked. My nickname at work is Einstein.”
“Einstein was a genius.”
“Yeah… the nickname’s more because my hair goes frizzy when it’s humid and it ends up looking like a mad scientist’s.”
He laughs, his gaze skimming my black bob. “It doesn’t look frizzy at all.”
“Well, not right now…” I decide not to tell him I’m wearing a wig.
“So what field are you a mad-scientist-stroke-inventor in?” As he asks, someone approaches the bar behind him. He moves forward to make space… which means he moves closer to me.
Now we’re only inches apart. I can smell his cologne again, something deep, sensual, and sweet, with notes of rum and sugar, as if he’s fresh off a pirate ship. His hand where he’s holding his glass is large and tanned, with long fingers and neat nails. He has a signet ring on his little finger that glints as he tips up the glass and sips his whisky.
There’s something magnetic about this guy, sexy, irresistible… and dangerous. The weird thing is that he seems into me, which is clearly only because he doesn’t know my identity.
“Nature,” I opt for, which is vague enough to keep suspicion at bay.
“Oh, like… makeup products? Something like that?”
“Yeah, let’s go with that.” I finish off my Cosmopolitan and brush my top lip to make sure I don’t have a cream mustache.His eyes follow my fingers, and I shiver at the memory of his touch.
His gaze rises to meet mine behind the mask. “You have the most amazing eyes. They’re violet. Are you wearing lenses?”
I shake my head.
“You’re stunning,” he says.
I blink a few times, taken aback by his compliment. I guess my disguise is better than I thought.
“Another drink?” he asks.
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to your dignitaries?”
He snorts. “Aurelia can entertain them. They only come to see her anyway.” He gestures at the bartender and asks for another round.
Aurelia is his sibling, along with Marcus Ashford, his younger brother. I’ve never met them, but they’re often splashed over the internet, all three of them matched with various famous actors or models. Of course, she was the young woman in the emerald dress with the red hair who was talking to the group by the paintings who Caesar was trying to avoid.
In real life we’re poles apart… and yet here, tonight, I can be whoever I want to be. The thought fills me with a strange excitement.
My argument with Peter last night began as an irritable exchange after I arrived late at the cinema for a movie. That led to an uncomfortable ninety-minute silence that didn’t improve after I dropped my popcorn all over the floor. When we eventually returned home, it developed, like a weather system, into a full-blown tornado. Resentment had clearly been building inside him for months, and once it erupted, there was no stopping it.
