“Mr. Scott,” Mr. Donnelly greets with a winning smile. “Good to see a familiar face. And this must be the lovely lady you’ve told me so much about,” he says, turning a set of amazing sky blue eyes on me.
Trying to mask the shock that Rebel has been talking about me, I smile dutifully, shaking hands with the man. It’s surprisingly firm, if not a touch sweaty.
“This is her,” Rebel says proudly. “Jack Donnelly, meet Miss Josephine Hart.”
“Josephine,” Mr. Donnelly says, trying my name on for size. He scans my body appreciatively, though not lasciviously as I’ve come to expect from the opposite sex. “It suits.” Releasing my hand, he places it on the small of his wife’s back, his smile expanding as he draws her forward. “Josephine, I’d like you to meet my lovely wife, Holly.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I say, clasping my hands in front of me and drawing closer to Rebel as my shyness kicks in. Without the familiarity of the stage behind me, I feel exposed. Nice as these people seem to be, I’m out of my element in a crowd. Hell, one-on-one is a serious stretch for me. Normally, I’d lean on my sarcasm to get me through the rough patches, but it doesn’t fit the occasion. I may want to embarrass the hell out of Rebel, to punish him for being such an ass, but my desire not to embarrass myself wins out.
What I wouldn’t give to have my phone right now so I could distract myself with mindless texts, or a game of Angry Birds, but Rebel relieved me of it before I set a foot out of the car.
“I believe we’ve been seated at the same table,” Mr. Donnelly informs Rebel. “And I’m certain I saw a platter of crab cakes headed that direction a moment ago. Care to join us? I have some things I’d like to run by you if you have a minute.”
“I’m sure I can spare one or two.” Rebel’s hand burns hot against my exposed back as we follow the older couple to one of the many tables set up just beyond the stage. I try to shake him off with a subtle jerk of my shoulder, but his touch only grows firmer.
His low chuckle of amusement should tick me off, but I find myself struggling not to smile instead. Pulling out a chair for me, Rebel tucks me gently beneath the table. His fingers trail across my naked shoulders as he maneuvers around to take the chair beside mine, sending a tiny shiver down my spine.
Mr. Donnelly was right. Plates have been set out, each containing a fat, perfectly round cake that is undoubtedly made with real crab. As the table begins to fill up with guests, a waiter comes around to fill our fluted glasses with bubbly champagne.
Rebel is already deep in talks with Mr. Donnelly and, although I’m right beside him, I feel strangely alone. I’ve never been to an event like this and I don’t know anyone else here. Unsure of what to do with myself, I eye the place settings. I seem to have too many utensils. After a moment, my Pretty Woman training kicks in and I try desperately to remember which fork is meant for what, but all that comes to mind is the scene where Julia Roberts sends a snail airborne.
To make the moment even more laughable, the woman beside me lays her wrinkled hand over mine and leans in to say, “I don’t know about you, but I never could figure out which fork goes with what.” Then she picks up the crab cake with her fingers like it’s a burger and bites down.
I can’t contain myself. The moment strikes me as comedic and laughter bubbles up from my chest and bursts free. Here I am, a stripper dating a wealthy man who just happens to find herself walking among society’s elite. It’s a total movie moment and I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.
I’m still laughing when I catch Rebel’s eye. The smile he’s wearing is full of something I’m not ready to deal with. It causes my stomach to flip wildly and my heartbeat to stutter. Covering my mouth with my hand, I clear my throat, wipe the smile off my face, and pick up a fork.
The crab cake is delicious.
***
“Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?”
“Nope,” is my curt reply.
We’re dancing to a version of “My Heart Will Go On” played entirely by violins. Back when Titanic was all the rage and Leonardo DiCaprio starred in every one of my elicit fantasies, I loved this song. Now it just seems like a joke. Who the hell plays something like this at a conference? It doesn’t fit.
Not only am I feeling critical of the song choices, but I’m trying desperately to hold onto my anger and resentment toward Rebel. He’s making it exceedingly difficult.
I’d almost swear I was on a date with Ransom. Behaving like nothing but the perfect gentleman, Rebel’s been attentive and uncharacteristically sweet. He’s pulling out chairs and introducing me to coworkers and clients. He includes me in conversations even though I have no clue what to say, and now we’re slow dancing, our bodies pressed so tightly together I can feel every. Hard. Inch. Of him.
Everything about this night so far, from the dress to the dinner to the company, is making me soft. I can feel it in my bones. No matter how hard I try to resist, I’m going to cave.
The problem, I think, is that this is the single most unexpected and romantic night of my life. It wasn’t that long ago that Ransom and Rebel were hiding me from the world. Neither of them wanted us going public, and at the time, I agreed that it was for the best, but that didn’t erase the hurt.
Keeping our relationships a secret made what we had feel sleazy.
Now that I am here, swaying in Rebel’s strong arms, in front of a room full of people, I feel good. Elated. Until now, I never considered how damaging to the ego it could be to pursue someone who was more worried about losing their job or damaging their reputation than they were me.
With Rebel, I no longer have to hide. He twirls me on his arm proudly despite who I am. He’s well aware of my stripper status and he doesn’t care. He hasn’t shamed me or branded me. He hasn’t asked me to change. He just accepts me, and you can’t put a price on something like that. For those reasons, I am willing to shelve Ransom’s claims for a while longer and bask in the warm feelings Rebel instills in me.
“Red is your color,” Rebel murmurs as he turns us to avoid colliding with a couple whose feet are eating up the dance floor heedless of everyone else.
“Thank you.” I shiver as his fingers slip beneath the thin straps of silk crisscrossing my back to stroke my skin.
In the two hours that we’ve been here, Rebel’s been nothing short of extraordinary. He seems to have checked his arrogant, commanding, moody self at the door. Standing in his place is a man who is confident, charming, and sexy with a smile that can light up a room. Cheesy, I know, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I am completely enamored with him. In the span of an evening, he’s blended into the perfect combination of him and Ransom, making him damn near perfect and reinforcing my reason for pursuing him over his brother.
For a man whose face seems to be set in either a permanent scowl or devious smirk, he’s so different here. Surrounded by friends and associates, Rebel has come alive. It could just be an act, but I don’t think so. This man loves his job. If anyone looks stunning tonight, it’s him.
As one song bleeds into another, Rebel holds me closer, nearly cradling me in his arms. I accept the embrace, twining my hands behind his neck and propping my chin on his shoulder, careful not to smudge his expensive suit with makeup.
“Thank you for behaving tonight,” Rebel says into my ear. “I wasn’t sure if you could manage it, being so pissed off, but you’ve done well.”
As far as compliments go, it’s not great, but it’ll suffice. I have a feeling Rebel doesn’t give them out often, so it makes this one extra special.
“Everyone likes you. I think Jack Donnelly is smitten.”
“He’s married,” I say, chuckling.
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true. He told me earlier to make sure you come along for my next trip to Maine. He owns an estate there and wants to get to know you better.”