Misconduct(2)

Jack was three years older and about to finish his third year of law school at Tulane. Time and again, he dragged me to benefits, luncheons, and galas as he schmoozed his way through the New Orleans elite, making his connections and building relationships. All so he could secure the right job offers when he graduated a little more than a year from now.

I hated wasting time on things that didn’t interest me, but Jack didn’t have a girlfriend to bore with these functions, so I often stepped in as the dutiful “plus one.”

Find something to play with, he teased. And don’t get dirty.

I cocked an eyebrow across the room at him, hoping he saw the dare in my expression. Even through my black metal half mask.

If you say so… I taunted with my eyes.

I’d hung in there with Jack as he had made the rounds when we arrived, conversing and networking, until they started talking mistrials and mitigating circumstances. That was when I made my escape, choosing to wander and ponder in silence rather than be forced to smile and nod as if I had any interest in what they were talking about.

But now, glancing around the crowd and trying to take Jack’s suggestion to find something – or someone – to occupy my time, I had to admit I wouldn’t even know where to start.

My brother could work the room like a fine instrument – laughing and shaking hands just like a good ole boy – but I muddled around the edges.

In but not quite in.

There was a time when those roles were reversed.

And there was a time when I cared.

Leaning down, I inched up the sheer red layers of my gown to tuck my phone away in a concealed carry strap secured around my leg. Not that I was concealing a weapon, but it served a purpose nonetheless.

I let the hems of my gown fall back down to my feet, loving the weightlessness of the fabric as it brushed across my legs. Since it was February, it was still fairly cold outside, but I had been unable to resist the indulgence of the flowing, lightweight fluidity of the fabric though it was probably meant for spring.

For a girl who’d spent most of her upbringing in sneakers and tennis skirts, the gown earned me looks from men meant for the woman I sometimes had trouble believing I’d become.

Falling to the tops of my feet, the gown hugged my torso in a crisscross pattern on the front and back, but flared out only slightly below the waist in an A-line fit. It was bright red, and looked perfect with my black metal half mask, which curved over the top of my left eye, down the right side of my nose, and covered half of my right cheek in a lace pattern.

My only other accessory was a pair of diamond stud earrings given to me by my parents when I’d won the US Open junior tournament ten years ago.

Bending over, I slipped my heel off, the only part of the outfit I hated.

I arched my foot and then pointed my toes, rolling my ankle. Everything ached from the pressure of being packed together, and I didn’t understand how other women lived in these every day.

Balancing myself on one leg, I grabbed my champagne glass and slid the other foot back into the shoe, but it stumbled out of my hand and fell to the ground.

Sighing, I leaned down to snatch up the heel.

But I stopped midbend, jerking back when someone grabbed my wrist and snatched the glass out of my hand.

“Careful,” a low, deep voice warned.

I blinked, my eyes shooting between the hand on my wrist and the floor, where I had spilled half of my drink when I’d bent over.

I moved to straighten, but then I paused, seeing a man set the glass down and immediately kneel in front of me on one knee, avoiding the spot on the carpeting where my drink had spilled.

“Allow me,” he suggested.

Ignoring the flutter in my chest, I watched as he took my ankle and slid my foot effortlessly back into my heel, his sure hands setting me right again.

The heat of his fingers spread up my leg, and I narrowed my eyes, a little annoyed that my heart was beating so fast.

He wasn’t wearing a mask like most of the other guests. According to my father’s general wisdom, it probably meant that he didn’t play games or feel the need to be a part of the crowd. He wanted everyone to know who he was. Fearless, bold, a rule breaker…

But my inner cynic would say he’d probably just forgotten his mask at home.

He glanced up at me, a pert tilt to his lips and his hooded eyes taking me in with interest. I knew right away that he was older.

Significantly.

Probably midthirties, judging by the faint lines around his eyes.

And although that wasn’t old, it was almost outside of my generation at twenty-three.

I liked that, too. If his hands were sure, maybe his tongue would be, too. Conversation-wise, I meant.

His black hair was cut close to the scalp on the sides and in the back, with the longer hair on top styled neatly. He was clean-shaven, and his tailored wool tux was a black deep enough to make everyone else’s here look faded. His shoes outshined his Rolex, and thank goodness for that. Men with bling were high maintenance.

And he was handsome. The narrow jaw and high cheekbones accentuated his sharp black eyebrows over stone blue eyes.

He was more than handsome. He was seductive.

I felt a small smile tug at the corners of my lips.

“Thank you,” I said softly, moving my foot back to the floor.

His fingers grazed an inch higher on my calf before letting me go, and I had to fight the chills that spread over my skin.