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We climb in and are quickly on our way. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes to make the drive down Park Avenue to the five-star hotel that’s hosting the gala. If my nerves were jangling before, they spike with new apprehension as the limousine pulls in behind a parade of similar glossy black vehicles at the hotel’s entrance.
Clumps of reporters and media personnel are gathered behind crowd control barriers, the cacophony of their shouts and chatter audible even through the glass and steel of the limo. Cameras, cell phones, and tablets flash like strobe lights as the press attempts to get their shots of the arriving guests. No sooner does Patrick roll forward, closer to the fray, than another limo rolls right up behind us.
“Apologies, sir,” he says from up front. “We’re not going anywhere fast, unfortunately.”
“Not your fault,” Nick replies, but I can see the displeasure in his face. I can feel it in the tension of his body beside me.
At that moment, one of the men with cameras jumps the line and snaps a photo through the windshield of our car. I see Nick drop his head to avoid the shot, but the flash of the camera is faster.
“Shit,” he hisses, as his name goes up in a holler among the crowd.
Like a cloud of locusts, a number of reporters now break away to converge on the limousine. The barrage of flashes outside the windows is blinding. The voices rising to a chaos of indistinguishable shouts.
“Oh, my God.”
I swallow, both astonished and repulsed by the feeding frenzy that awaits on the other side of the limousine doors. If this is what it’s like to travel in Nick’s circle—to have his wealth and social standing—no wonder he holds his privacy so close to his vest. I suddenly regret pushing him into attending this party. Not only for Nick’s sake, but my own, as well.
Old, rusty memories of another time slash through my mind, uninvited. Camera flashes snapping and exploding in my face. Relentless, demanding shouts from reporters—interrogations, accusations—their terrifying voices ringing in my ears. And I remember my own cries too. The wracking sobs that felt as though they would split me in half.
I close my eyes, trying to keep the ordeal banished to my past, but the memories are too strong. Too raw, even after all these years.
Mama, no! Mama, please, don’t go! Don’t leave me!
Nick growls from beside me, startling me back to reality. “Fuck this.” He glowers at the clamoring madness outside the vehicle. “We’re getting out here, Patrick.”
“Very well, sir.”
When I glance uncertainly at Nick, his determined gaze locks on me. It grounds me, even though he can’t possibly know how desperately I need it right now. “You give me your hand as we get out of the car. Just keep your head down, hold on tight, and follow me. All right?”
I nod. He opens the door on his side and helps me across the seat to exit with him. His strong hand is wrapped around mine, just as he promised. He doesn’t let go, not for a second.
I hurry alongside him as he weaves us through the logjam of vehicles and the gauntlet of yammering press and media. We head for the pair of doormen who have their hands full admitting arriving guests and dignitaries while a small security detail barks for the media to stay on the other side of the barriers.
As soon as we approach, one of the doormen greets Nick by name and lets us inside. We enter the hotel, leaving the bedlam behind us, and my relief is instant and profound. Soothing classical music plays softly in the background as we step into the opulent lobby. Some other couples in formal wear walk ahead of us, clearly heading for the same event we are.
As we approach the check-in stand outside the Grand Ballroom, I can’t help noticing that the hem of my dress is shorter than most, the cut of it skimming my curves a bit more snugly. With one hand still caught in Nick’s grasp, I use my other to smooth the skirt down and subtly tug at the hem.
“Relax,” Nick murmurs. He leans toward me with a smile that sends heat arrowing through my veins. “If anyone here had your legs, they’d be showing them off too.”
“Good evening, Mr. Baine,” says one of the tuxedoed hosts as we approach the front of the line. “Mayor Holbrook wants you to know that he’s honored you were able to make time to be here tonight.”
“Of course.” Nick’s tone is level, his smile perfunctory, as we step away from the stand and walk through the soaring double-door entrance to the ballroom.
I don’t miss the fact that more than a dozen heads turn as we enter—or, rather, as Dominic Xavier Baine enters the room.
Men and women pause in midsentence or look away from their companions as he strides into their midst with the unapologetic confidence of a king. Or a god. It’s mesmerizing to watch the effect he has on the mere mortals who surround him.
Men stand a little straighter, their chests puffed out as if subconsciously compelled to at least attempt to measure up to him—no matter how futile. Women lower their chins and gaze coquettishly at him from under their lashes, fing
ers reaching idly up to touch their mouths or toy with the ends of their hair. A few even lick their lips, desire sketched across their faces no matter their marital status or age.
Nick’s presence is magnetic, his orbit all-consuming, attracting everyone and everything in his path, drawing all of those lesser objects into the heat of his sun. I’m no more exempt than anyone else. He has a hold on me I can’t even begin to deny anymore. Each time we’re together, I feel that hold tighten, drawing me closer, pulling me onto a path that I’ve been warned may destroy me.
I know I should be wary of those warnings.
I should resist this pull I feel with him. I should fight it with everything I have before I drift too close and end up burned to ashes.
Instead of resisting or fighting, I let go of a small sigh when Nick releases my hand and turns to face a big man in a dark gray suit who’s approaching us from across the ballroom. If the man’s size and demeanor didn’t give him away as security, his headset and wireless microphone do.
