Stealing Rose (The Fowler Sisters #2)(4)
Daddy will probably hate the dress. Violet will be scandalized. Grandma will laugh and silently cheer me on. And Pilar? She’s accompanying us tonight, which I hate. I don’t give two shits what she thinks about the dress. Or me. Or any of us.
Sighing, I go to the closet and pull the dress out, smoothing my hands over the layers of white, frothy chiffon that make up the skirt. Considering it’s strapless, the necklace will be showcased perfectly. I wonder what sort of story surrounds the piece of jewelry?
I’ll find out soon enough.
“Nice dress.”
A shiver moves down my spine at the sound of the warm, inviting tone. I glance over my shoulder to find a very handsome man standing there, an arrogant smirk on his face as he blatantly scans me from head to toe.
My smile falls and I straighten my spine. I was tricked by his voice. He sounded flirty and fun, but really he’s just a creeper. Not bothering to say anything, I turn my back to him but he halts my progress, his hand going around the crook of my elbow.
I glance down at his offending hand on my arm before I lift my head and send him a withering stare. He doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t let me go, either. “Aren’t you Rose Fowler?”
He has an accent, but I can’t tell from where. The room is filled with a variety of accents and languages; people from all over the world are at this party tonight. “I am,” I say, trying to discreetly pull out of his hold. But his fingers tighten not so discreetly on my flesh and I feel like I’m trapped.
“I thought so.” He flashes me a smile, but it doesn’t quite meet his dark eyes. Everything about him is dark. His hair, his swarthy complexion, the way he’s looking at me. A ripple of unease washes over me and I glance around, looking for my father, my sister, or preferably Ryder, who’d tell this * where to go if I asked him to. “Interesting documentary on your family.”
“Thank you.” I’m trying to be polite but he’s making it so hard. He pulls me a little closer to him and I’m assaulted by the scent of his strong cologne, put off by the way his fingers smooth over my skin in a seeming caress. “If you could let me go, please. I have someone waiting for me.”
“Who?” He smiles, his teeth overly white, especially against his dark skin.
He’s making me angry. “Um, that’s none of your business.”
“You’re here alone tonight, aren’t you? I saw you on the red carpet.” He tugs so hard on my arm my footsteps falter and I nearly fall into him. “Let’s go have a drink.”
Politeness flies out the window as I rest my hand against his chest and give him a push. But he doesn’t budge. His fingers are so tight they’re pinching my flesh, and he’ll probably leave a mark. “Let. Me. Go,” I say through clenched teeth, fighting the panic flaring deep within me.
“You heard the lady,” another man practically growls from behind me, his deep, very pissed-off voice setting every hair on my body on end. “Get your f*cking hands off her. Now.”
The man’s fingers spring away from my arm like someone turned a key and unlocked his hold on me. Backing away with his hands in front of him as if he’s pleading for mercy, he laughs nervously. “Didn’t know she was with you,” he says shakily just before he turns and practically sprints away from us.
Rubbing my arm, I turn to thank my savior, but the words die on my lips. Dark brown eyes watch me, the man’s demeanor still and silent, his full mouth pulled into a straight line. He’s wearing a black suit, not a tuxedo, and it appears a little frayed around the edges. As if he’s had it for a while and it’s been to the dry cleaner one too many times. Despite the aged suit, he has an elegant yet rough air about him. As if he doesn’t quite belong among this glittering, powerful, and extremely rich crowd.
“Thank you,” I croak, clearing my throat and feeling like an idiot.
“Are you all right?” He steps closer, but his presence doesn’t feel threatening. More like protective, what with the look of concern marring his handsome features. His brows are drawn downward and a lock of golden-brown hair hangs over his forehead.
That I have the sudden urge to push the hair away from his face and test its softness is … crazy.
“I’m fine.” I offer him a shaky smile, which only makes him frown deeper. “Did you know him?”
“Never seen him before in my life. But a lot of *s come to these parties. Cannes is full of them,” he says, sounding disgusted.
I want to laugh. My savior has no problem being crude and I can appreciate it. At least what he says is real. Most of the people I encounter speak carefully, as if they’re afraid they’ll somehow offend me.
“Thank you for scaring him away.” I absently rub at my arm, glancing down to see the imprint of the man’s fingers glaring red on my skin.
“He marked you.” He grabs hold of me, his large hand engulfing mine as he holds my arm out to inspect it. His jaw goes tight and he lifts his head, scanning the room with ruthless efficiency. “I should kick the shit out of him.”
“It’s no big deal.” My heart is all fluttery at the protective streak this man is displaying and I tell myself to get over it. “It’s already starting to fade. See?”
Slowly he tilts his head down, his lips parting as he examines my arm. He releases my hand, his thumb smoothing lightly over the imprints, causing gooseflesh to follow in the wake of his touch. “Does it hurt?”