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Without warning, he turns in my direction, and our eyes meet. I try not to flinch, forcing my expression to remain unimpressed and defiant.
His mouth lifts in a mocking smile and I allow myself to fantasize about ripping it off his face.
If only.
He can mock me all he wants. I won’t leave. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
As soon as he turns away, I lift my glass of champagne to my lips and gulp it down. Now he’s turning me into a drunk.
At the podium in front of the room, the president of the Frobisher Society urges guests to make purchases from the silent auction. A screen lights up in the back of the stage with a slideshow of the educational programs for children the society supports with the proceeds of the annual fundraising gala.
I open the program in front of me, checking the silent auction for interesting items within my price range. Then, I hear Tristan’s name and my head shoots up just in time to see him rise from his seat and head to the stage amidst loud applause.
Oh, he’s the guest of honor.
And I’m supposed to sit here and watch everyone in the room fall for him?
I know I should leave.
But curiosity keeps me in my seat.
Tristan ascends the stage, his long legs eating up the steps. He greets the president with a smile and a handshake, then turns to the audience, his face illuminated by the lights around the podium.
I’m not sure the collective gasp I hear from all the women in the room is entirely my imagination.
He’s almost savage in his beauty.
“Wow,” the woman seated beside me exclaims, slack jawed.
Wow,indeed.
If I didn’t know him so well, I too would be knocked off my feet by his fierce, potent masculinity, his dazzling smile, the deep, almost sensual timbre of his voice. I’d be dazzled by his brilliance, overwhelmed by his sexiness.
But I know him too well to be fooled by the beauty outside. I know the monster inside.
His voice is almost hypnotic as he speaks about his childhood, about growing up in the not-so-pretty parts of Manhattan, losing his father, the early scholarships and gifted programs, the sponsorships that allowed him to lose himself in the world of computers and software, the full scholarships to college, all the help he got along the way, and why he’s honored to ensure as many children as possible get the same kind of support.
He has everyone under his spell. I see a woman wipe a tear from her cheek. Of course, they love him. He’s like a fantasy come to life. But I know better. I lived that fantasy and it left nothing but bitterness in my mouth.
The speech ends, and the applause is deafening. I almost clap too. That’s how powerful he is.
I keep my hands in my lap until the room quiets down. My eyes are still on the stage, and just before he leaves the podium, his eyes meet mine again. Even from the distance, I can feel the force of his gaze. The challenge in his eyes, like he wants to prove something to me.
What?
That I made a mistake when I left him? That I should have let him keep hurting me and tearing me apart?
I almost laugh. When he came back for me in Florence, it felt like the end of a fairytale, but it wasn’t, it was the beginning of a nightmare in which I lost more of myself every day, so much that I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t want to remember.
The president of the foundation returns to the stage to join Tristan. As both men exchange a few quiet words out of range of the microphone, I decide to leave. The silent auction is about to begin, and people are leaving their seats to check out the donated items on offer, but I have no regrets about putting distance between me and Tristan. I can’t deal with the memories. I don’t want to relive the pain. One more minute in the same room with the source of my torture and I might just fall apart.
I almost make it to the exit before Tristan finds me. He walks right into my path, blocking me while smiling down at me like an old friend.
“Leaving so soon?” His voice is a low rumble. I hate that my heart skips a beat at the sound, that for a moment I’m tempted to discard my resistance and lose myself in that devilish blue gaze.
I tilt my chin up. “Obviously, yes. I can’t stand the guy who invited me.”
Tristan’s lips curve in a small sensual smile. I have a sudden memory of kissing those lips, of having them trace paths along my skin. A wave of pure heat fills my belly and I swallow, hard.
