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Seventeen
“Try to look like you’re not completely miserable.”
Stefanie’s arm was looped in Emmett’s as she stood at his side at the museum fund-raiser. She’d dragged him to the event, being held at the Dallas Museum of Art in the Renaissance room, but attending the private function had been Penelope’s bright idea.
His wife wore her for-the-public expression, an amiable twist of her lips suggesting she had a secret no one knew but her. Meanwhile, his frown was frowning. He wasn’t good at faking anything. He hadn’t had the practice and, frankly, didn’t give a damn what anyone thought.
His arms were straight at his sides, his fists wound into twin hammers. His focus jerked around the room in search of a particular lowlife by the name of Blake Eastwood, who was “scheduled to appear,” according to Pen. Personally, Emmett would have liked to find and pummel him into paste.
“Or like you’re out for blood,” Stef whispered as they walked through a pair of velvet ropes. A security guy in a tux asked for their tickets and Emmett handed them over.
Pen had also arranged for a local photographer to be here to snap photos of Emmett and Stef holding each other close. Bonus if it included a seething, flame-red-faced Blake in the background.
“Breathe.”
“I’m not as good at this as you,” he said between his teeth. Understatement. Given the choice, he’d rather be in the background five hundred percent of the time and in the foreground never. Ever.
Stef walked him to a painting, a huge, wall-size painting of angels and demons and people with knives in their guts and dogs snarling, their teeth bared.
He wasn’t sure which of the subjects he identified with most at the moment.
Next to him, his wife pressed close, her breast brushing his arm. She was wearing a short black dress, the slit in the side high enough to expose one creamy thigh when she walked. Her boots were the pair he’d taken note of in Chase’s office: knee-high with brass buttons running the length and ending in high, spiked heels.
His attention on her helped his temperament stabilize. She’d had a calming effect on him lately—sleeping with her was probably the dominating factor in that effect. Before he’d taken her to bed, whenever she was around he’d been strung as tight as a string on that angel’s harp.
“Keep your eyes on me,” she told him. “Pretend I’m the only person in the room.”
“I can’t.” He lowered his voice so they wouldn’t be overheard. “I’m trained to notice that the old guy standing by the Renoir is checking out your ass, and a blonde lady is snapping pictures of the whole event in the corner by a painting of a well-endowed woman eating grapes.”
“That’s our planted photographer. She’s legit.”
He slid a glance over at the woman again and then back to the old guy. To Stef, he said, “Wasn’t Renoir an Impressionist? I feel like that painting’s in the wrong room.”
Stef grinned. “Impressive, Mr. Keaton.”
“I have my moments.”
He’d always watched over Stef. She was in his sights because he watched over Chase, and she was an extension of Chase. He’d regarded her like he had any of her family members. Although, that wasn’t true, was it? He’d felt a pull toward her that eclipsed standard Ferguson concern. And now his desire to protect her was stronger than it’d ever been—and growing. Those wedding vows weren’t only for show. He’d taken them to heart.
She towed him over to a different painting, another he didn’t recognize, tucked into a quiet corner that was populated only by them.
“How’s this?” she asked.
“Perfect. Let’s live here.” He took a quick look around to make sure they weren’t being watched. When her hand brushed innocently over his crotch, he jerked his attention back to her.
“I’m the only person here.”
“If that were true—” he lowered his lips to hover just over hers “—you’d pay for that.”
She nuzzled his nose and he caught himself smiling down at her, his arm wrapped around her waist. Something about the way she tipped her head told him she was posing.
“Is it happening now?”
“Yes. The woman by the grape painting. Kiss me.”
He’d intended to give her a chaste kiss, but chastity where he and Stef were concerned always approached inappropriate. By the time her tongue touched his, he was ready to get the hell out of here.
Her attention moved from him to across the room and she gripped his arm, giving it a hard squeeze. “He’s here.”
