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An irresistible urge to bite the piece of jewelry clear off her takes me over. I look away. Not that focusing on other parts of her helps. Blake’s lips are painted in the same red as a rose petal. She’s angled toward the cameras so I can’t see her eyes from up here, which is probably a good thing, seeing how those two sapphires are her most striking feature.
One last smile for the press, and the woman struts down the red carpet in her sky-high heels as tall and confident as if it were a catwalk. She looks like she was born to do nothing else.
I’ve been to many events, but I’ve never seen a woman so gorgeous, breathtaking, and mesmerizing. Blake strides down the red carpet as if she were about to accept an Oscar, hands down the most beautiful woman of the night.
Several well-known journalists attempt to interview her. Whatever the request, Blake politely refuses, parading the remaining length of the carpet without stopping until she disappears inside.
It’s only when the door shuts and she’s gone that I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
I down my champagne in one gulp as my throat closes. A tight knot forms in my stomach, and my chest feels as if it were on fire.
All I can say is I’m glad the only accessories she’s donning tonight are sparkly ones. If she’d come on the arm of some coxcomb, I might’ve broken something. And everything around here is pretty expensive—not to mention extremely rare. So it’s a good thing she came alone.
Gossip columns can be trusted from time to time.
I don’t care how much crow I’ll have to eat from Miss Avery; I’m going in after her. She won round one, but I’ll make sure round two goes to me. I push off my window perch and go mingle.
8
BLAKE
Inside the museum is a sea of fancy people. Whenever I come to one of these soirees, I feel like a fraud, sure someone is going to call me out as the kid born on the wrong side of the tracks and kick me out.
If not fully ready to play the part emotionally, at least I’m dressed for it. The ruse seems to work. Everyone I pass greets me with polite smiles and nods, unaware a nobody from Queens just entered their midst. I don’t make a secret of my background, shout it to the winds, actually. But, usually, the people at these events take inventory of my appearance and assume I’m one of them. At least until they casually drop into the conversation how they’re related to a robber baron. When I can’t boast any family ties to the Vanderbilts, the Rockefellers, or the Astors, then their noses wrinkle.
I’m proud of my upbringing, but besides making me lose faith in all men, my ex also made sure I’d never feel adequate among New York’s old money. I may have the bank account to match now, but I still can’t shake the feeling that they’re part of an aristocracy of sorts and I’m the nouveau-riche filth.
To avoid any such interaction, I compile a list in my head of which of the celebrities present used to come from nothing like me. Was Rihanna poor when she grew up?
Then I see my true crowd, the athletes we’re celebrating tonight. With a big smile on my face, I’m about to head that way when I’m stopped by a deep voice calling my name.
“Blake.”
A single word rolled out in such a husky tone that it almost startles me out of my designer dress.
I wait for a heartbeat longer before I turn around, steadying myself for the man standing behind me. Gabriel I’m-Too-Sexy-For-My-Suit Mercer.
But no amount of waiting could prepare me for the appearance of MGM in a black tux. Damn, the man is a sight for sore eyes—or more the reincarnation of a Greek god so handsome he has the power to make a dead woman’s heart beat again.
His hair is swept back tonight, making the resemblance with his brother even more evident. His chiseled jaw is shaved clean. Dark eyes on me. Full lips curled up in a cocky grin.
The man is a work of art, and if he were to be assigned a label like the rest of the pieces exposed in the museum, his would read: Alpha board member specimen of the twenty-first century, known for his power to melt the underwear off women with a single stare. Believed not to be used to hearing the word no.
I steady my racing heart and flash him a bright smile. “Ah, Mr. Mercer, I see you’ve had time to conduct some research on the competition.”
I stress the word competition sarcastically, barely stopping myself from making air quotes.
MGM arches a brow in a dangerously attractive way. “You don’t believe me to be the competition?”
I take a step toward him. “Please, our businesses may overlap, but we both know you’re not really in the fitness game. More into the walls that contain it.”
He stares at me for a long second, all the humor gone from his gaze. What’s he thinking? Those dark, penetrating eyes are making me too uncomfortable to bear the stretching silence, prompting me to talk again. “So, Mr. Mercer, we meet twice in a week. Just a lucky coincidence?”
The smirk is back. “My brother usually attends these events. I’m only here as a proxy.”
A passing server offers me a flute of champagne and I gladly take one. MGM does, too.
“Your brother, Thomas, right?” I ask after a quick sip. “He’s become quite the fan recently.”
