Page 16 of Hot As Ice

“Too bad.”

We arrive at the art gallery before she can protest some more. A red carpet has been rolled out with a step-and-repeat, and several photographers are already snapping pictures of guests. I shake my head. Leave it to Uncle Jack to pull out all the stops. I don’t see my father anywhere, but Jack is out front, shaking hands and schmoozing, puffing on his fat Cuban cigar. The center of attention, as always.

I pull into the valet and help Stevie out of the car. The dress is tight, and she struggles to move in it. But if she even thinks of returning it to me, she’s going to be in for a nasty surprise. I hook her arm through mine and walk towards my uncle.

The moment Jack sees me, his face erupts in a huge grin. “My favorite nephew,” he says.

“Your only nephew.”

He chuckles at the old joke. “Nice tux.”

“Thanks.”

His attention snags on Stevie beside me and I make the introductions.

“Welcome, Stevie,” Jack says. “I hope you like contemporary art.”

Stevie smiles. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“Thank you for coming.” He gives her the once-over, then raises an eyebrow at me, lifting his cigar to his lips. I give him a look that says, shut the fuck up. Unlike my asshole father, my uncle is actually a decent person. Mostly. Compared to my father, he’s practically a saint. We’ve always gotten along, and he’s protected me from my father many times. I know he wants to grill me about Stevie, because it’s the first time I’ve ever brought a woman to one of our events. But he’s polite enough not to do it in public.

“Later,” he says in a low voice, and excuses himself to go talk to newly arrived guests.

Stevie turns to me. “You look like your uncle.”

“Yeah. I know.” And thank god for that. I’d rather look like Jack than my dad. Although I resemble him too. We all have the same coloring.

With a hand on her bare upper back, I nudge her forward. “Let’s go inside.”

As we walk into the gallery, I hear one of the photographers shouting my name, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to walk a fucking red carpet and have my photo snapped. Stevie looks at me questioningly but doesn’t say anything.

I grab her a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

“Oh, I don’t drink,” she says when I try to hand it to her.

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah. Plus, I’m only 19.”

“No one’s gonna check your ID here.”

“Honestly, I just don’t like the taste of alcohol, or how it makes me feel.”

I study her face. Her innocence is a heady aphrodisiac. I bet she’s a virgin too.

“I see.”

“You can have the champagne though,” she says.

I beckon a server over and put the flute back on the tray. “I don’t drink either,” I tell Stevie.

Her eyes widen. “Are you serious?”

“Yup. I don’t even know what alcohol tastes like.” Growing up with an alcoholic father, you either turn into an alcoholic yourself or die a teetotaler. I choose the latter.

Stevie seems to be rendered speechless for a moment, but before she can say anything a shadow looms over us, and I’m suddenly face-to-face with Benjamin Cruise, my father.

“You’re late,” he says.