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Thirteen
Jenna looked spectacularly beautiful when she joined him at the top of the stairs at the Whitebriar Club for their big entrance. It hit him like a blow.
She wore no glasses tonight. He’d barely recognized her for a moment, since her cat-eye specs were such a distinctive part of her look. She was gorgeous without them, too, in sea-foam green silk, with a string of iridescent beads as shoulder straps and shimmering beadwork on the neckline. The silk skimmed her gorgeous figure and showed a tantalizing shadow between her breasts. A hairdresser had tried to tame the curls into a decorous updo, but the efforts were in vain. The curls would not be contained. Some longer ones had sprung free already. Others swung and bounced around her delicate jaw.
She smiled at him, but her gaze dropped, embarrassed, as he took her slender arm.
“You look stunning,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“This isn’t the black-and-white dress you talked about. Did you shop for that gown with Ava? I remember you two arguing about it a few days ago.”
“Are you asking if you paid for it?” Her eyes met him with a glint of challenge. “You did not. This is one battle with your sister that I actually won, I’m proud to say. I bought this dress months ago, all by myself at a vintage clothing shop downtown. I had to get the beading restored by a costume expert, but I loved the color.”
Her in-your-face tone irked him. “I was not asking if I paid for it,” he said tersely. “Not that I would give a damn if I had.”
She shot him a repentant look. “Sorry. I guess that sounded snarky.”
“Sure as hell did,” he agreed.
“I just wanted to emphasize that I am not a billionaire’s plaything. Even if I do play one on TV.”
“It’s crystal clear to me that you’re not a plaything. Don’t strain yourself.”
She laughed under her breath, and gave him an assessing glance. “You look sharp yourself,” she said. “Nice tux.”
“I do my best,” he said. “You look different without your glasses.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “I’ve always had these contacts. I’m just too lazy to use them, and they make my eyes tired and red.”
“You look great both ways,” he said.
“It’s a classic fantasy, you know,” she said. “Woman takes off glasses. Man notices for the first time that she’s female.”
Drew looked her up and down. “I noticed it before.”
Her gaze whipped away and her color rose as they started descending the stairs toward the sea of people below. Drew was frustrated and angry with himself. When he spoke to her, every damn thing that came out of his mouth sounded like a come-on.
Solution A: Shut up and ignore her. Solution B: Avoid her altogether. As in, definitively and forever, by getting the hell out of Maddox Hill. Those were his options.
She glowed like a pearl. His arm was buzzing from that light contact with her hand, even through his tux jacket and shirt.
Enough. This farce ended tonight. It was making him miserable. That night at the Wild Side had been the last straw. Passionately kissing her while slow dancing and then having her run out on him—it was the ultimate slap.
He wasn’t coming back for more. He regretted the embarrassment that breaking their false engagement would cause, but at least Jenna wouldn’t have to fend off his unwelcome moves. Since he couldn’t seem to stop himself from making them.
He’d get through tonight, hopefully without incident, and make the announcement to everyone concerned before he went home, and that would be that. On to the next thing.
He’d met Vann and Zack last night for a beer, to give them a heads-up before he tendered that letter of resignation he was still carrying around. His friends were angry at him. They thought he was bailing on them. He couldn’t make them understand that this was a desperate survival move. A last-ditch effort to salvage what was left of his dignity.
Vann looked up from the bottom of the stairs, a frown between his dark eyes, and glanced at Jenna. His brows went up in silent question. Because of her?
Drew kept his face stony. As he and Jenna reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Harold bearing down on them, a woman on his arm. She was a tall brunette with a black sequined gown and glitter spray on her prominent, bulging breasts, and she was staring straight at him.
Wait. Whoa. He knew that woman. That was Lydia, an architect he’d met in San Francisco, while working on the Magnolia Plaza project. They’d had a casual affair, but he hadn’t called her since leaving San Francisco six months ago.
Or thought of her at all, to be perfectly honest.
