Playing Dirty (Risky Business, #2)(53)

“You smell nice,” he said. “New perfume?”

I avoided his gaze. “Yes, I wear something different at night than during the day.”

“I like it.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.

I jumped, startled, when his hands rested on my hips.

“What are you going to wear tonight?” he asked.

“Um, I’m not sure,” I said, my voice much too high. Almost done with the tie …

“I’d say wear that, but I’d get in too many fights for the way men would look at you.”

His words were low and roughened and went straight through me. I felt like there was a vise around my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs. I finished the tie, knotted perfectly, and glanced up at him with a tight smile.

“Yeah, I’d look pretty ridiculous showing up wearing just a towel.”

But he didn’t laugh. Instead, he leaned down and put his lips at my ear.

“Please tell me there’s nothing but skin underneath this.” His grip tightened on the fabric covering my hips.

“It doesn’t matter because you won’t see it,” I retorted, irritated at him for touching me, and myself for my reaction. I should take a step back, but I didn’t.

“I already have,” he murmured, his mouth still near my ear. “Remember?”

Ah. He was talking about when I’d been falling-down drunk in New York and had decided to take a bath, a predilection of mine when I was three sheets to the wind.

“I try not to,” I said.

“I can’t forget it.” His breath was warm against my skin, his nose nuzzling my hair.

My eyes fluttered closed at the touch, then flew open. Covering his hands with mine, I pulled them off me and took a step back.

“Me coming out here in a towel wasn’t a come-on,” I said stiffly. “Don’t treat it as such.”

His expression shuttered. “I never said it was.”

“I’m not going to sleep with you just so you can get back at Ryker for not believing you all those years ago,” I continued, laying it on the line. “And you’re not going to convince me your sudden interest isn’t all about that and not about us.”

I spun around and hightailed it back to the bathroom before I lost my nerve. Locking the door behind me, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

“This is bad,” I whispered to myself. Because I couldn’t deny it. As much as I cared about Ryker and felt like our relationship was growing … my heart was still tied to Parker. And I didn’t know how to cut the strings.

*

We weren’t late … very. Just enough so that a few heads turned as we walked in. I held my head high and pretended I belonged at Parker’s side.

Since he was wearing a tux, I’d chosen a black gown with long sleeves—handy for covering the stitches on my arm—which sounded boring. But it was made with sheer and Lycra netting with geometric embroidery. So the neckline plunged and the sides were cut out, sheer netting holding the dress onto my body. It was backless despite the long sleeves, cutting into a deep V down my lower back. It was classy and sexy all at once. I’d put my hair up to show off the back of the dress to full advantage.

When I’d stepped out of my bedroom, Parker had gone utterly still.

“Is this okay?” I’d asked, nervous when he hadn’t said anything. I vividly remembered his disapproval of the cocktail dress I’d worn in New York.

“You look … I have no words,” he’d said, which had made me smile. “No, wait. Yes, I do. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Elegant. Sexy as hell.”

I was still riding high on the glow those compliments had produced as Parker walked us around the hotel ballroom. There had to be at least five hundred people there and I sipped sparingly on the champagne a passing waiter had given me, not wanting to have a fuzzy head when Parker was counting on me to help him remember our clients.

“So anyone famous here?” I asked in between greeting people.

Parker laughed lightly. “Doubtful,” he said. “And you’d probably recognize them before I would.” Which was true. He rarely paid attention to popular culture, whereas I could rattle off who was dating who in Hollywood quicker than I could recite the alphabet.

He spotted someone who raised their hand in greeting.

“Who’s that?” he asked in an undertone as we headed that way.

I searched my brain. “Lucas Miller and his wife Shelly,” I said. “He used to be the CFO for Bradley Investments. Then he quit for a comparable job at KCG. Rumor was he was having an affair with the boss’s wife.” I finished in a whisper just as we stopped in front of the couple.

“Lucas, so good to see you,” Parker said, shaking the man’s hand. “How are things at KCG?”

We chatted with them a little—“How’s your oldest? Isn’t he starting at Stanford?”—then moved on. Parker knew most of those who approached us, but occasionally needed a reminder.

“She’s the marketing analyst for Dugen & Little,” I said, nodding toward a woman standing in a group a few feet away. “Renee Jones. Her husband William is retired, paints in his spare time and fancies himself the next Van Gogh.”

“Renee, what a pleasure to see you again,” Parker greeted her. “And William, how’s the painting going?”