Mogul (Manhattan #2)(51)
The glances are frequent and almost too heavy to stand. I feel judged, and vulnerable, but a lot of those stares—I begin to notice—aren’t mean. They are curious, as though they want to know more, like why we are together. I’m trying to smile and act normal when a young hostess comes to assist us. “Mr. Ford, would you like me to show you to your table?”
“Ian!” the blond guy we bumped into at the hotel a while ago calls.
“That’s Hilton,” Ian whispers in my ear, leading the way. Hilton’s date is giving me a frown and Hilton is looking at me like he’s seeing a vision.
“Well, well, well,” Hilton says. “What are you having?” He jerks his face to my empty hands.
“Nothing strong enough,” I admit, spreading my arms to show him I got nothing.
“How about Red Bull and vodka? Goes straight to your head.” He nods in full recommendation, blue eyes twinkling naughtily.
“I’m not having that. I want to be able to walk into my apartment, thank you.”
“Yours or Ian’s?” He grins.
I blush beet red and settle down in the corner of a banquette to leave room for Ian.
Ian slaps his friend’s back and wishes him a happy birthday. Alcohol is flowing freely, and so is the fun. There’s humming laughter, clinking glasses, and shuffling dresses, and the pounding music coming from the crazy dance floor. I’m enjoying it, drinking it all in.
“You know Ian has three sides, don’t you?” Hilton baits me. “His good side. His reckless side. And his side you don’t want to see.” He leans over the lap of the girl sitting next to him. “You better thank your stars you didn’t see him when that shit blew up,” he warns.
My heart squishes in my chest. A female voice calls, “Ian!”
A strawberry-blonde comes up to him flashing a white smile and looks up adoringly into his face. As the woman turns the full force of her charms on him, I want to be rational. He’s the hottest thing in the room, and being here with me says he is available. But he’s still got a wife. Ugh, this is not normal. But those women want a piece of my Dirty Workaholic, and I’m the greediest of them all. He stands to greet the woman and other people slap his back. Then his dark eyes meet mine and my heart swoons. I smile a little. But that’s when I overhear Hilton’s date complaining about me.
“Where did he find her? What does she have that’s so special?”
“Haven’t asked, but if you don’t want to say sayonara to being a good friend of mine, you’d better be nice to Ian’s girl,” Hilton tells her.
“Who says she’s his official girl?”
“I don’t know the specifics, but if you ask me, and I’m the birthday boy, she’s his girl tonight and by the way he keeps checking out where she’s sitting, she’ll be his girl tomorrow night, too. In fact, Loki and I have this little bet on how long it’ll last. We don’t remember Ford being this hooked on anyone for a long time,” Hilton says.
I stand and head to the restroom, where I stare at myself in the mirror. Okay, breathe. You knew this would happen. Not everybody is going to be happy. It doesn’t matter as long as you and Ian are okay. God, but I’d rather stick myself with a fork than endure those bitchy stares and complaints.
“He’s in the corner, but Cindy said he came in with someone,” a waitress entering the restroom tells another as she enters a stall.
“What? Who?” the voice in the stall asks.
Ducking my head after washing my hands, I head back outside and find a guy with curly brown hair at our table, sitting with a beautiful cougar far older than him. She is openly staring at Ian’s ass. Ian is standing near the table as if waiting for me. He smiles as I approach and lets me slide inside the booth, and only then does he slide back in next to me.
Loud music pulses through the exotic room. Ian’s familiar scent teases my nostrils and I relax a bit. I take a sip of my drink as we lean back, the loud music making it hard to talk. He’s loyal to his friends, I can tell, because they look at him fondly, and that’s why he’s here, but he’s got his hand on my thigh, caressing up and down, slowly, and I think that, just like me, he would rather be alone. Or working.
He spreads his arm out on the couch behind me and draws me a little closer. He breathes heavily over the top of my head and lowers his mouth to my ear. “You’re the hottest thing here, so stop scowling.”
I laugh. “I don’t know anyone. I’m trying to determine if they’re friend or foe.”
“My friends are your friends. My foes, your foes.” He winks, and I laugh as he starts pointing randomly. “Friend. Foe. Friend. Foe.”
Exhaling as I realize he wants me to know that I’m not in this alone, I scoot closer to him and breathe in his shirt, and I feel the others in the group watch us suspiciously.
Our eyes meet in the dim light—through the music, the crowd, the drinks—and I’m transported to every evening he’s looked at me like this before. In his townhouse. At his office. Even in room 1103. But there’s an edge to his stare that wasn’t there before. An underlying hunger.
In the dark his features are classically perfect. His black button-down shirt is tailored for him. He looks incredible, smells incredible; he’s flawless in this room. I keep stealing looks at him, and I inhale a sharp breath when he kisses the top of my head and calls a waiter to our table, ordering more drinks. Women flock to this table. There are a thousand more beautiful women in this room, but in this moment I feel like I’m the only one.