Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(42)

I’m not a fan of New Year’s Eve, but I’m proud that the Maximillion holiday ball is such a hot ticket, all tuxedos and cocktail-length gowns. Never underestimate the draw of a dress-up party with a large Instagram component.

I fix my bowtie.

Parker’s sitting on the edge of the stage, holding court with a glittering group. I catch his eye and salute him. He smiles huge and salutes me back. You couldn’t want a better business partner.

The professional scavenger-hunt designers—yes, there is such a thing—come over to consult with me about some last-minute decisions. They’ve been hiding prizes and clues in the blocks between the park and Midtown. You have to take selfies with the clues when you find them. They’ve done an amazing job.

The party is also beloved by my employees, thanks in part to the massive loot that’s involved. The socialites and industry people tend to play for charity. The PR and social media buzz we get off it is worth ten times what we spend on the thing.

My heart is not in it. All I can think about is Mia. Mia punching my sandwich like an outrageous goddess. The way she felt in the elevator, soft and hot in my arms. Mia’s face at the end. What happened? Maybe I should’ve followed her, but I’m not in the habit of following women who say leave me as energetically as Mia did.

I tracked down her number and texted her a few times, and she promptly blocked me. I got her address, and I gave serious thought to sending something nice, or even going over there. I'm going to figure it out after this party. I’m going to make her see that she’s not notch in my elevator bar.

I’ve never felt such an intense connection with a woman—not even close, except maybe that summer with Mia. I screwed it up. I won’t do it again.

I grab a champagne off a passing tray.

The string quartet plays a festive arrangement with its roots in folk songs—the key changes feel Slavic. Russian, maybe. They’ve got an excellent fiddler—somebody actually trained. Enough that I have to wander near to get a look.

I stop short when I recognize the lead violinist from the Shiz—DJ Barnes.

I’m not loving that DJ Barnes is here. A lot of the people from high school are jobbers now, sitting in on musical groups and bands and orchestras. It’s inevitable that I run into them at events. Still. High school was a miserable time, and I don’t like seeing people from then. Except Parker. And Mia, of course.

DJ looks over and smiles. I give him a friendly nod.

They start up something new—a demanding number designed to pluck annoyingly at the heartstrings, and they’re putting their all into it.

Hearing him play his heart out, it sends a feeling through me that’s not exactly pleasant.

As if on cue, Tarquin Walters is by my side with his photographer. Still working that profile. He’s the last person I want to see. “I appreciate the invite.”

I raise my glass with a smile. “You find your angle yet?”

He gives me a look I can’t quite read. “Are you playing this year?”

I frown, stiffen. “Playing?”

“The famous scavenger hunt? They say you sometimes do it.”

“I play when there’s an odd number.” I shrug. “I hope you’re getting in on it. You’re perfectly welcome to.”

“I’m on the job. I’ll stick with you.”

Of course he will. All the better to ruin my party for me. Not that it isn’t ruined already, because I can’t stop thinking about Mia.

Lana comes up and links arms with Tarquin. I give her a grateful look.

My attention drifts back to the quartet. In your dreams, she said.

Except she was right there with me before that. My blood races. She thinks I’m toying with her?

It seems clear she doesn’t trust me, maybe doesn’t trust my motives. Why? Is it from high school? Is it the Max Hilton thing?

Tarquin’s addressing me now. He’s broken away from Lana, who shrugs helplessly behind him.

I give him a charming smile. An in-on-the-joke smile. People want a lot of things from me. Tarquin wants his angle, yes, but he also wants to feel like part of the in-crowd. One of the beautiful people. I have created this empire by knowing what people want. Specifically what men want.

A new song. A musical arrangement that’s new to my ears. I feel his eyes on me as I zero in on the contrapuntal voice of the bass. “Question?”

“Who picked the music?”

“Planners.”

“They’re good. This quartet.”

I cock my head. “Can anybody really tell? With classical music?”

“But you went to the Soho High School for the Performing Arts. You studied music. Surely you know. Surely you’d have an ear.”

I lean in to him as if I’m about to share a confidence, to give him a piece of Max Hilton. “Did you take a language in high school?”

“French,” he says.

“Tell me this—” I dip my head closer to his, deepening my confiding tone. “Can you watch a French movie without subtitles and understand what the fuck they’re saying?”

He snorts.

I smile. I slap his back. We clink glasses.

“And please. Don’t call me Shirley,” I add. He laughs at the ridiculous reference. I take another glass. I have him back under control. We talk movies and he takes notes on that.