“Did he say that? Hm. I’ve known him forever, you know. I would’ve thought he was ready to settle down.”
Callie sent her yet another horrified look. “Oh, I hope not! I mean, not with me.” Then she laughed, embarrassed. “What’m I saying? He would never settle for someone like me in the long run. So, no worries.”
Silence. An odd look. Finally, “Don’t you want to get married and have kids, Cal?”
“I’d rather just—no. Love is nice. But it isn’t very practical. And I told you I don’t want a boyfriend. They’re expensive.”
Rachel chuckled, somewhat coolly. “Lucius probably wouldn’t allow you to split the cheque or anything. He’s very rich and has very old-fashioned opinions about who pays.”
“I wouldn’t mind that at all! I mean, paying for dinner or whatever. You can budget for that sort of thing. That’s not the point. It’s the maintenance—clothes and special grooming and cabs home in the wee hours after sex. Birthday gifts and Christmas gifts and hostess gifts for family functions that men never think to buy so it falls to the woman. ‘Honey, I’m low on cash and slip the maître d’ a twenty for me, will ya?’ and forgotten wallets at home and impromptu weekends in Niagara on maxed and can’t-cover-this-special-treat-for-my-honey credit cards. All that stuff adds up. When I’d rather stay home with simple food, a good movie, and quality monkey sex. I don’t need the other stuff.”
Rachel stared as the vehemence rose through that diatribe. “Er, voice of experience?”
“Last boyfriend,” she muttered, remembering. “Anyway, look at me! I’ve spent hundreds of dollars already just prepping for your ‘Boys of Summer’ scheme, and I’m going to spend god knows how much more tonight!”
“I suppose. But you look fantastic,” was the cajoling encouragement.
“Thanks. I do appreciate your advice, Rache, and Lucius seems to also,” she grinned. “Eventually, he’ll get over the shock of the makeover and he’ll wonder why he ever noticed me at all. No one ever pays me much mind in the long run, you know.”
Rachel swore softly, and her expression was both sympathetic and confused. “I thought . . .” she began slowly, “I thought this was going to be a big romance for you.”
“Mm. More a meta-romance. Epistemologically speaking.”
“Listen to you. God, you’re so perfect for him I can hardly stand it,” Rachel muttered. “Except you have a messed up self-image.”
Ignoring that: “Where are we going shopping?”
“Yorkville. What time is he picking you up?”
“Seven. I’d rather just meet him there. At Viola. Otherwise it’ll feel like a date, and I’ll run the danger of getting confused about things.”
Rachel gave an exhausted sigh. “Let’s see how the time goes. I’ll text him if you run late.”
***
Lucius’ phone beeped, signalling the arrival of a text from Rachel. What did she want?
Cal will meet u there. Running l8. C what she bot.
There was an image attached and he opened it.
He palmed his face.
Taken in a fitting room, and presumably without her knowledge, it was Callie, all right.
But only from jaw to thigh, in profile, with those dark-caramel curls pulled forward to cascade over her breast, effectively hiding it except a tantalising suggestion of a lower curve. Naked except for black lace boyshorts.
It took several minutes to stop looking, but at last he sent back a text.
Stop interfering.
A few minutes later, he sent a second text.
But thx.
***
They were talking about stochastic resonance.
This scenario was pretty much what Lucius had counted on.
Callie easily entranced Dr. Malcolm with her wide-eyed interest in everything he said. Though reasonably good-looking, the microbiologist looked a geek, acted a geek, so was a geek. Historically, he had probably bored most women by his abstruse knowledge and self-conscious delivery, so having this indefinable and delicate creature pay so much attention to him had to be a complete novelty.
And to top it off, she understood what he was talking about. How often did that happen for the guy outside his lab?
What he hadn’t counted on was the sensation of jealousy. Not because Malcolm paid complete attention to Callie—admittedly spawning a degree of possessiveness—but that Callie paid complete attention back. She was not faking her attentiveness to the scientist; she was genuinely enthralled.
Seated between him and Malcolm, she was turned towards the doctor, giving Lucius an exquisite view of her naked upper back where the edge of her soft-pink dress, snugly tailored to her body, dipped below her shoulder blades. The hemline rode up on her crossed legs, and he could see the edge of the band on ultra-sheer thigh-highs.
The others at the round table, specially selected from Falcontor and Falcontor Labs’ executive and staff to promote a party mood, were doing an excellent job, but the men stared at Callie with obvious interest—while she paid them little mind beyond slightly shy smiles which only intrigued them more. The women liked her, too, for—as Rachel had alluded—she was nonthreatening even as de facto Queen of the Ball.
He was certain he had pinned down why people were so immediately attracted to her—she listened intently to everything said, and the only thing people loved more than the sound of their own voices was a person who let them voice it.
The waiter hovered behind Callie, waiting to take her order. Lucius tugged at a loose curl that draped from the masses piled up and held by jet chopsticks.
“Cal, what do you want for dinner?”
“Oh. Oh!” She hadn’t even glanced at the menu. “What are you having?”
“The duck confit.”
“That sounds great.” She tossed the waiter that should-be-patented wide-eyed cloudy look. “I’ll have the same, please.”
“Very good, miss,” the waiter smiled genuinely at her, and moved on to ply his trade with much less sincerity as befitted an employee of the supper club.
“You like duck?” Lucius teased her before she could turn back to Malcolm.
“I’ve never had it. But,” she shrugged slightly. “Your reco is enough.”
When her parents had spoken of her being fussy about her food, he had expected her to rattle off a list of demands about things on the side and substitutions. But at Rossetti’s—as here—she had merely asked what he was having and copied it. And swiped his lunch without hesitation!
Of course, her parents were so full of crap anything they said about her was suspect. Which gave him a degree of relief, because one of their primary criticisms of their daughter was her avariciousness. But with that childhood and those idiots as parents . . . well, how much money would be enough then, to assure security?
All of which added to the puzzle of her. Her box-in-the-sky dream was certainly about latching onto security . . . but why wasn’t it married to greater professional ambition? Her promotion had come as a shock to her, as if she thought herself undeserving of it. She could be anything she wanted. So why wasn’t she?
***
The party moved to the VIP lounge. Lucius stifled a rush of impatience as two of the Falcontor boys tag-teamed, separating Callie from Malcolm. He could have stopped it, but instead moved away, forcing himself to let her play. She deserved some fun, and the attention was sure to be good for her strangely diminished ego.
But he kept an eye on her, seeing her bashful smile and flushed cheeks as she sipped champagne, nursing it. She was too unused to the attention of such wolves. Her stance was defensive . . . ready to run.
He caught her eye. You okay?
Her smile turned wry and she flashed him surreptitious devil horns with her free hand, and mouthed, Rock on.
Laughing, feeling better that she was so comfortable even in her discomfort, he relaxed. And then things got a little muddled when he heard a voice he hadn’t expected to ever hear again.
“Lucius Ransome! I
’ll be damned.”
Probably, he thought, and turned.
Nothing had changed with her. Beautiful, poisonous, and so thin she’d make Giacometti sculptures look pudgy. Dressed to the nines in something overpriced and slinky and barely there; dark hair in a sleek angled bob; and those deep brown eyes that had once seemed so fathomless and mysterious, and proved to be just vacuous pits.
Waiting for a pang that never came, he felt only mild distaste as Anita leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Where was it? That sense of loss, the stab of anger? The lingering lust?
Maybe just delayed.
“You’re looking so good,” she purred in his ear.
He did not return the compliment, not even for the sake of form. For the first time he noticed how hard-looking she was. Something about the set of her eyes and the way her soft lips sneered.
“C’mon, lover. Buy me a drink and we’ll catch up.”
Gesturing to a passing cocktailer, he heard himself say, “Sour apple martini.”
“You remembered!” Anita laughed, delighted.
He certainly remembered the sour apple part. Or was that sour grapes?
“So, big company function, baby?”
He grunted.
“I’m here with some friends. Never expected to see you. I thought you’d be back in London by now.” Slender thighs pressed against his, a thin hand tunnelling under his suit jacket to skim his ass. “Still fixing the family, eh? When are you going to give up?”
He shrugged, switching his attention to Callie again.
Anita tracked the path of his gaze, and the tension that ran through her communicated itself. Competitive, she was. Always. He waited for the catty comment to come; it arrived immediately.
“Who’s that overly pink waif the boys are swarming? She looks out of her league.”
No, they’re out of hers.
But he remained mute. Where was the pain? Even after the acrimony was gone, he had felt an empty sort of ache when he thought of Anita these last months.
Callie glanced at him just then, and those quizzical brows arched as she assessed the scene. Defensive posture fell away; extracting herself smartly from the swarm as if they had never intimidated her, pressing her champagne glass into the hand of an admirer, she came to him immediately.
It’s an act, he realised suddenly. Or a disguise. Diffidence to keep herself under the radar.
“Callie Dahl, Anita Wilson,” he gave abbreviated introduction, still mulling over the new puzzle piece.
“Hello,” Callie greeted curiously, as if Anita were an odd specimen that required some study.
Murmuring a vague response, Anita gripped him harder, possessively, marking her territory as a taloned hand wrapped around his bicep. He remembered those nails raking his back.
His gaze fell to Callie’s plain, rather short, buffed nails, of which the left-hand thumb endearingly evidenced her gnawing habit. A smile curved his mouth.
The cocktailer delivered the martini, forcing Anita to take one of her hands off him.
“Don’t you have someplace to be?” she asked Callie.
“No.”
Lucius chuckled at the definitive response, her complete ease and seeming fascination with Anita. Who was this strange girl, always changing? He was getting a serious case of like.
“Who are you?” she asked Anita.
“Who am I?” Anita made an amused face, rolling her eyes slightly. “I’m Lucius’ girlfriend.”
“No, you’re not.” Said with toneless surety; no accusation or scorn. Just a taste of that bittersweet scepticism tipping out, as if Anita were the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. It was similar to how she looked at her parents, but without the bewilderment of that complicated history. Clean. Amused.
“She forgot to say ‘ex,’” Lucius clarified, the imp in Callie’s face finding contagion in him. “She cheated on me.”
“She cheated on you? Surely it was the other way around.”
Anita stepped back in mortification, releasing him entirely.
“Why do you say, Cal?” he asked, shifting their position away and out of earshot from Anita.
“I always thought cheating was about boredom,” she whispered. “I can’t see her being bored with you. I can, though, very well imagine you being bored with her.”
“Can you?”
“Oh, yes. She’s very beautiful. Stunning. But very WYSIWYG.”
He cast an analytical eye at his ex. “Strange, I never saw that before.”
“Sometimes it takes distance. Like when you’re working on a problem and have to set it aside. Come back to it fresh. But you’ll remember it now.”
Indeed, he would. “Why?”
“It’s the Zeigarnik effect. Taking time off from a problem helps the solution of it. Not exactly proven clinically, but I’ve found it’s generally true. Gestalt psychology, you know.”
“You blow me away, doll.”
His chest was tight; an odd sensation stirred in his gut, as if he were standing on a high cliff overlooking his entire life: past, present, and future. Gestalt . . . the whole being different from the sum of the parts. Only now was he beginning to see the pattern of Callie more clearly, the ridges of the puzzle pieces sharpening and defining. When—if—all of her pieces were revealed to him, would they change the picture of her? Or merely fall back into place to give him full clarity of what he saw in her now?
The sheer power she had the potential to wield was staggering, were she only aware of it. The very idea of it would shock her.
And still, that innocent aura. Not even when coolly assessing Anita had it entirely dissipated.
He wanted to bury himself in her.
“Come dance with me.”
“I don’t dance well.” Panic edged her level voice and the dangerous intellect receded to leave just a diffident, powdery-soft girl.
“Goodnight, Anita. Enjoy your drink.” And, taking Callie’s slim hand, led her to the dance floor where the music was too loud to carry on verbal conversation.
She was right—she didn’t dance well. Zero sense of rhythm. But as he fitted her body against his, there was no talking necessary, and her body fell into the rhythm of his.
Chapter Nine
The glow surrounded her mind like a delightful fog, leaving her slightly dazed in a way far superior to the effects of alcohol. She glanced round at Lucius as he collected the bit of black gossamer that was her wrap (Rachel had insisted on it), her laptop case, and carrier bag containing her work clothes from the coat check.
It was time to say goodnight and flag a cab.
But the lazy sensuality in his eyes as he wound the silk-chiffon scarf about her throat stopped her from initiating such finality.
“I’ve arranged rooms for us at the hotel,” he murmured, tilting his head in the direction of the four-star across the street.
Rooms. The plural took some illumination off her glow.
“I should just go home,” she said, attempting to take her things from him.
“No,” he replied simply, grasping her hand and keeping hold of it as they stepped out on the street, crossing it.
The uniformed doorman in front of the hotel smiled politely at them. “Good evening, Mr. Ransome. Miss.”
Lucius nodded slightly in response, and they entered the chic lobby. Callie’s heels tapped loudly on the granite floor. There was no stop at the front desk; straight to the elevators they went.
What did this mean? What were his intentions?
You’ve come to a hotel with the sexiest man on the planet, and you have to ask that question?
Well, he did say ‘rooms,’ not ‘a room.’
“Point taken,” she muttered to her inner voice.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked with interest as elevator doors slid open.
“What’s going on?” she clarified.
The sensual mouth twitched. “Giving you choices.”
“Ah.” And then they were silent as the
elevator swept them up, she digesting what those choices might be. As simple as a Yes or No, she supposed.
The corridor lined with elegantly numbered doors stretched before them, and she stepped with slight distaste along the carpet—though it looked quite clean, and really expensive.
“Problem?”
“Not fond of carpet.”
“Not surprised, considering the condition of it in that house you live in.”
“Hated it long before then,” she assured.
They halted at the far end of the corridor, and he released her hand long enough to slide a key card in the slot, open the door, deposit her things just inside . . . and then turned back to her, allowing the door to swing closed again. His fingers threaded through hers again.
“That’s your room.”
“Oh. Well, thank you.”
A little tug brought her closer. “That’s mine, behind you.”
Not even adjoining. “Okay.”
Again there was that amused little twist of his lips. “Those are your choices.”
Her lips parted, but no response came out.
The key card pressed into her palm and she looked down at it, the hotel logo printed on the glossy white plastic. Never had she held a hotel key card before. Never been to a hotel like this, with or without a man. Never been given such attention, such gifts, such fun . . . such choices.
With a flick of those elegant fingers, he produced another card, for his room. Her eyes lifted, catching his gaze, and he grazed a kiss of pure temptation across her lips. That was all. Just a choice, all hers to make. Any other man would demand, press; insist.
Lucius did not need to. Not verbally. Those eyes . . . that body . . . that quality of power he exuded . . . He embodied persuasion; there was no need for him to underscore.
He was close, so close, his body brushing hers then away, his gaze skimming her pink-clad body before his body brushed against hers again. Fingertips grazing the swell of her breast at the low, square neckline; away; her hip; away again. Tracing the short zip of her dress from bottom to waist, slipping up between her bare shoulder blades—making her shiver. Away again.
“I should go to my room,” she stated, intending to be cool and distant, but her voice throbbed.
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