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“And you have a gallery opening tonight?” He prompted, taking her by surprise until she remembered her schedule was looped into his emails now.
“Yes. In Soho. It’s nothing much – champagne, mingling. Invitation only.”
His eyes skimmed her face, he nodded once, then reached for his coffee. “Sounds fun.”
Not as much fun as how they could be spending their time, she thought wistfully, as she polished off the pancakes.
Noah had been to dozens of events like this, and never developed a penchant for them. In fact, he despised the glitterati lifestyle. There was something so inherently frantic and false about it all. But there was no getting away from the fact Max handled herself like a pro. Nor that she outshone anyone here by about a thousand watts. Her long blonde hair was styled in a big, soft bun high on the top of her head, making her look like an off-duty ballerina. Her slender frame was sheathed in a silken dress, silver in colour with spaghetti straps that hung loose over her tanned shoulders, dropping to a vee to reveal a swell of cleavage. The dress was cut on an angle so it clung to her slim waist, curves of her hips, her ass, so he wanted, more than anything, to stride through the crowd, throw her over his shoulder, caveman style, and take her home. He wanted to strip that dress from her body, unpin her hair until it ran down her sides like a golden curtain, he wanted to kiss her until she cried his name at the top of her lungs, just like she had the night before.
He wanted – more than he should. He kept his hands firmly at his sides as his eyes scanned the room, forcing himself to pay attention to the crowd, the exits, to remember he was here to protect her, not to ogle. She was speaking to a group of two women and three men. They looked comfortable together, like old friends, but the way she’d spoken at breakfast had made him wonder if Max had any true friends. People she could trust unequivocally, people she knew wanted her for her personality, rather than her money. That she might not made his gut do a strange lurching thing; he tried not to think about how lonely she must be.
Her eyes lifted and landed right on him, and he was surprised the spark didn’t send a shockwave through the whole damn room. His pulse ratcheted up and he couldn’t look away. She leaned closer to her friends, put her hand on the forearm of one, then turned away, sashaying towards him with a look that sent his blood pressure through the roof.
“You know, you can walk around with me, if you want. In fact, as my bodyguard, I’m pretty sure that’s in your job description.”
“Actually, I can get a better view from here.” He cleared his throat. “Of the room, I mean.”
Her brows lifted, her lips quirking with obvious amusement. “And how does the ‘room’ look to you, Noah?”
“Like a million bucks, actually.”
Her cheeks flushed pink. “I’m glad you think so.”
He couldn’t look away as she walked off.
* * *
An hour later, he was opening the door to her car, guiding her into the front passenger seat, before coming around to his own, his eyes scanning the street. People were spilling out of the gallery, and there was the general post-theatre crowd making the area far too densely populated for his liking. He started the engine quickly, flicking the button that locked the doors on autopilot before turning them towards Chelsea.
“Did you buy anything?”
She pressed her head back against the headrest. “Yes. Three pieces.”
“You liked the stuff?”
“Yes, didn’t you?”
He pulled a face. “I barely noticed the art, sorry.” His grimace turned into a self-deprecating grin and he saw the way her eyes danced with pleasure and amusement. It warmed him right through his chest.
“That’s okay; you’re forgiven.” She pulled something out of her handbag, a piece of paper with a painting on the front. “The artist is a Syrian refugee. I think she’s tremendously talented.”
“And the fact Maxine Fortescue invested in three of her pieces is bound to get her name buzzing in the art community?”
“As it should,” she said with an appreciative nod.
He had no doubt the artist was every
bit as talented as Max said, but he knew there was also an element of philanthropy in her purchases.
“I was thinking –,” she cut herself off as the sound of her phone vibrating punctuated the silence of the car. “Sorry, one sec.” She reached into her bag, pulling it out and answering it one moment.
And then all the colour drained from her face.
* * *
“Hello?” She pressed her hand against the dashboard, a bead of perspiration on her forehead.
The breathing was heavy. Or maybe it was the rushing of blood between her ears that made everything sound heavy and menacing. Maybe this was just a wrong number?
