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I turn. “Yeah, yes? That’s me.” Shoot.
“I need to stamp your wrist to authorize your access to the presidential lounge.”
Oh, yeah. Duh. “Yes, yes, you do.” I step back and extend my arm, wrist up. He stamps a faint white ink, which will probably only to be seen via blacklight, and nods, bringing his attention to the next attendee. Logan. The man who will haunt my sex dreams until I’m old and gray.
I pick my feet up and force them to hurry to the entrance, tossing the invitation into the garbage to get rid of any evidence. The wind picks up and whisks it back out, landing behind the bin. Normally I wouldn’t litter, but I catch Logan out of the corner of my eye and decide just this once won’t hurt anyone.
The moment I step inside, my world transforms. Strobe lights assault my vision, and I throw my hand over my eyes until they’re able to adjust. A well-known DJ spins on a turntable, blaring beats as people grind on each other. The gala is packed, everyone dressed to impress. Collecting myself, I spot the bar. I’ve never been to a party, more or less a gala. Or…well, anything. I’m not sure of my next move. I should find the presidential lounge. Maybe get a drink. A normal person at a party would get a drink. Yes. Okay, I can do this.
When the bartender asks what I want, I’m clueless. I don’t drink. “Surprise me,” I say.
She offers me a feisty smile. “You’ve got it, girlfriend.”
“Francesca Vaughn doesn’t know what to drink?” I jump out of my skin. His breath, warm and minty, caresses my neck, and his low and alluring voice seeps into my eardrums. I stiffen at his closeness, heat flushing my cheeks.
“Maybe I want to change things up,” I reply, failing at hiding the nervousness in my voice.
His large hand engulfs my waist, bringing my body into his. My breath hitches as my back collides with his front, the feel of pure muscle pressing against me. His lips brush against my earlobe. “Just like you chose to change up appearances, Francesca?”
The way he annunciates the name sends an uneasy punch to my gut. Does he know I’m not who I say I am? The bartender returns with a flute of pink, bubbly liquid. As I reach to accept it, my eyes catch someone at the end of the bar. Justin, junior journalist for Celebrity Dirt. We both give each other the holy shit stare-down—until I remember the mysterious man behind me. I break our connection and grab my drink. Placing a twenty on the bar, I turn to him, fighting the urge to stare longer than I need to. “Not sure what has your interest, but like I said, I’m not looking for a night companion. Just here for some—”
I squeal when he spins me around, causing me to drop my drink. His head lowers, his lips almost touching mine, and his eyes are dark and suddenly dangerous. His jaw is set in a tight clench, creating a low simmer in my belly. He leans in, and I swear he’s going to kiss me. “And I don’t give a shit,” he hisses. “Now, why don’t we go for a walk, and you tell me why you’re impersonating someone else?”
Oh crap.
Oh crap.
Oh crap.
My head whips from side to side, nervously scanning for an exit. No to the couple next to us making out. No to Justin, who’s no longer standing where I last saw him. Even the bartender is out. She misreads Logan’s glare and chuckles, her lips mouthing go girl, and helps another customer. Great, I’m on my own. Deep breaths. “I…uh, I’m not sure what you’re—”
His fingers squeeze tighter, pulling me closer. My breasts press against his chest, warming my skin. “How the fuck did you get your hands on one of Mr. Leoni’s exclusive invitations? And why do you have Ms. Vaughn’s invitation?”
I debate screaming.
Kicking him in the balls.
Continuing this charade.
When I bring my eyes back to his, I decide against all three. His dark eyes and frown tell me I shouldn’t mess with him. “Listen, there’s been a mistake. If you could just let go of me…you seemed like a nice guy when we were in line, maybe—”
A deep sound resonates from his chest. I’m pretty sure he just growled at me. “I’m not a nice guy. And you’ve made a huge mistake. Where is she?”
“Where’s who?”
“Francesca.” Wow, he can growl. His hands become rogue, rubbing down each side of me, checking for God knows what. My cover’s blown. Maybe I should just leave. Tell him the truth so he can escort me out. I squeal again when his hands brush over my breasts. “What could I possibly be hiding in there?” I ask as his eyes scan my chest.
