Breaking the Billionaire's Rules(43)

People stream in, peacock colors across my periphery.

My attention drifts to the east doorway and everything in me goes hot.

I blink, unsure whether I’m seeing right. But I’d know that posture anywhere. It’s Mia in a sky-blue gown that hugs her curves and sets off her dark hair. She stands out from the crowd, so self-assured and heart-stoppingly beautiful.

Something in me surges to attention.

What is she doing here? The crowd shifts and I see him there on her arm, Ryan, I think his name is. From marketing. She’s with Ryan? She waves to somebody. She turns to say something to Ryan and he laughs. She’s animated. Relaxed.

You can’t be with him, I think wildly.

Tarquin is saying something about Airplane Two. Family anecdote. I tune back in. “Funny,” I say, and from his face, I see that wasn’t the right answer. “I mean, the franchise.”

“Yes,” he says.

I swallow and look back at her. People are coming up to her, but Ryan keeps ahold of her. I want to storm over there and pull her away from him. I want to wrap her up in my coat and take her home and kiss every inch of her.

“Who is that?” Tarquin asks.

“Who?”

He gives me a strange look and nods. “The couple you’re staring daggers at?”

“I do believe…” I furrow my brow, “I do believe one of my employees has hit on our poor lunch-cart girl. Meow Squad or something. They all look so different without their ears.” I drain my drink, hand it off, pull out my phone, and start trashing emails, as if clearing my Gmail deck might magically translate to clearing the snarl from my mind, which, for the record, it doesn’t.

What does Ryan think he’s doing, bringing her? Why would she come with him?

I look back over. They’re laughing together again.

“You have a policy against fraternization here,” Tarquin says. A statement, not a question. “Does that extend to vendors?”

Unease twists through me. “No, it wouldn’t be against the policy. He’s free to ask her out,” I say, wishing he’d leave it already. I hate that she’s here with him.

Parker comes up and points out my jacket to Tarquin. Tarquin feigns interest, but he’s sensing red meat elsewhere. “What’s her name?” Tarquin asks.

I frown. “The lunch-cart girl?”

Parker gives me a strange look.

Tarquin’s not letting it go. “Maybe she’s the next Max Hilton girl.”

“Dude,” Parker says, reading my mood. “Sometimes a lunch-cart girl is just a lunch-cart girl. On the other hand, speaking of Max Hilton girls…” Parker drags us over to Britta and Tabitha, two of the nerdiest models you’ll ever meet. I encourage Tabitha to show him images of her stamp collection. That will trap him for at least twenty minutes.

I watch Mia out of the corner of my eye as she moves around the edge of the place like the fucking queen of England, with Ryan gazing at her like a besotted serf, utterly outclassed. A grim smile tugs at my lips. He probably thought he was getting a bit of bling on his arm only to have her outshine him like the sun.

“Excuse me,” I say, extricating myself from the three of them.

I wander toward Mia, greeting all the people who want something from me—favors, promotion, proximity. Usually I try to talk up this year’s charities, trying to goose the donations. I force myself to do it now.

I draw near enough to her for her voice to burn. I’m agitated, flustered, hurt, angry. I catch shards of the accent she buried like a violet in a snowstorm. I’m shaking hands, talking with people, her laughter invading my awareness. Finally I reach them.

Her gaze skitters over my tux before quickly snapping back to my face.

I smile and take her hand, a quick touch, quickly ended, except for the heat that sizzles over my skin. “Finally free from the ears,” I say.

“I was going to wear them, but people would expect sandwiches.”

Ryan laughs, gazing at her like a puppy. I turn to him. “The lunch-cart girl,” I say.

He can’t seem to tear his eyes from her. “Mia. Her name is Mia.”

“Oh, don’t worry, he knows,” Mia says. “We went to high school together, didn’t we, Max? The Shiz.”

“The Shiz,” I say, holding her gaze.

“You went to an arts high school?” Ryan says to me.

“Yes,” I say coolly.

Ryan looks amazed. I don’t publicize it, but it’s on Wikipedia. Did he not look at my entry? I make a mental note to check with his supervisor about his fitness for whatever role he plays in marketing. “I guess I can’t imagine you in a performing arts high school.”

“He was quite the piano virtuoso at one time,” Mia says.

“You play piano?”

“Played,” I say, wondering how many times tonight I’m going to have to have a conversation about the Shiz. I turn to Mia. “You might see somebody familiar in the string section over there.”

She puts a hand on Ryan’s shoulder and goes up on her tiptoes, craning her neck to see the band. “DJ! DJ Barnes!”

“Break out the party hats,” I say.

“A piano virtuoso?” Ryan still can’t get past that one.

Mia’s shining eyes meet mine. “Max could play anything. He could dazzle. So…impressive.”