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A tall, slim blond man with a long shower of hair and a blinding violet suit wraps his arms around Xavier’s neck from behind, resting his chin on Xavier’s shoulder.
“Don’t be an asshole, Xav,” the man—must be Aleksander Arrendell, couldn’t be anyone else—says. “Ulysses brought the most darling toy to play with. Be nice.” Merry green eyes fix on me, set in a narrow porcelain-like face. “I’m Aleksander, but you can just call me Sandy.”
“No one calls you Sandy,” Xavier grunts in disgust. “Not even you. Now get the hell off me!”
Ulysses quirks a brow and gives me an almost conspiratorial look. “Now do you see why I spend so much time in town, while they go gallivanting around the world?”
“They’re charming,” I say dryly. “Really.”
But the way they look at me makes me uncomfortable.
Like I really am just a toy.
Catnip, maybe.
And these brothers are very hungry, intimidating cats.
Ulysses exhales. “If they’re done staring, Delilah, let’s go mingle.” As a waiter walks past, he reaches out and snags a champagne flute for me. “Champagne?”
“Please.” I take it quickly. “I think I should be drunker for this.”
But not too drunk, a little voice screams. Keep your guard up.
Xavier snorts at me and mutters a “Nice to meet you,” but he’s already walking away.
Aleksander lingers, looking at me thoughtfully.
“You’re different,” he says slowly.
I frown. “Different from...?”
“Oh, never mind,” he says quickly, bending at the waist in an exaggerated bow. His silky hair pours over his shoulder. “A pleasure to meet you, Delilah Clarendon. We hope to see more of you.”
Ulysses coaxes me away. “Come. I promise I won’t let anyone here eat you.”
“Not even your brothers?” I joke, following him and pressing my mouth to the rim of my glass—but I don’t drink.
God, I wouldn’t mind a little something to take the edge off right now, but I can’t dull my senses.
The temptation is almost too much, though, as Ulysses whirls me through his social groups.
Five minutes later, I feel more like an accessory than a person, but I’m kind of okay with that when no one seems to expect me to say more than a few friendly words.
I’ve said ’nice to meet you’ more times than I can count after I’ve met over a dozen people so famous they don’t even bother introducing themselves. They just assume I know who they are—and they’re right.
It’s almost a relief when someone taps me on the shoulder, pulling me and Ulysses away from yet another dizzying introduction to a man who spends his time trolling the internet when he’s not launching more rockets than NASA.
But this man needs no introduction.
Montero Arrendell.
The entire time Ulysses spun me through the people mill, I’ve been scanning around for the patriarch and matriarch of the Arrendell empire, but haven’t seen them.
So it’s disconcerting to suddenly be looking up into his inscrutable green eyes.
He watches me with a small smile, oozing his Clark Gable charm with his black hair parted and waxed neatly to one side, his slim mustache groomed, his suit impeccable.
“Delilah,” he says warmly, reaching for my upper arms.
My skin tries to crawl right off me.
It’s insane how hard it is to force a smile.
“May I steal her?” He glances at his son.
Oh God, oh God.
Ulysses looks less than pleased. His gentlemanly smile never wavers, but his mouth goes tight and twitchy.
“Lady’s choice,” he clips.
Yikes.
I know I’m supposed to refuse right now. I’m supposed to flutter around and say I want to stay with Ulysses, lean on his arm and cling just a little harder.
But this is my chance.
This is my chance to get closer to Montero and see if he gives away anything I can use.
So I flash Ulysses an apologetic smile, then turn a warmer one on Montero as I slip my hand free from Ulysses’ arm and step closer to his father.
“I’d love to dance.”
“You delight me, young lady.” Montero rolls the words with that lyrical accent that smells like old money, offering his arm.
I slip away with a repressed shudder and let Ulysses take my untouched champagne flute.
One last look back at Ulysses now.
I’m playing my part, acting like I’m missing him already—and then it’s straight into the devil’s arms.
I let Montero lead me through the tangle of flowing, perfectly statuesque bodies and out onto the dance floor.
The crowd parts and a little space clears for us, making us the center of attention as he takes both my hands and guides one to his shoulder, pulling me into a waltz.
Ugh.
I’ve never waltzed in my life.
But Montero makes it feel so effortless. All I have to do is follow his steps and try not to barf at the nauseating feeling of being in this man’s arms.
He’s watching me shrewdly tonight.
I wonder what he’s looking for, my heart thumping nervously, until he continues as if he’d never left off.
