by J. J. Sorel
“Well, then, don’t keep me in suspense. What do you think of him?”
I bit my bottom lip. What was I to say—that a mere whiff of him had sent my juices flowing with wild abandon? That his blue eyes undressed my soul, and his six foot two of sheer masculine perfection had unleashed an agonizing and addictive ache throughout my body?
“He’s nice,” I said weakly. “A good person, I believe.” Oh damn. I stuttered.
Alarmingly perceptive, Melanie sang, “Why, Miss Moone, I think you’re blushing.” She elbowed me with a cheeky smirk.
“I’m not,” I said, drawing away from her. “Better go and check on things.”
She remained with her arms on her hips, her head tilted. Stamped on her face was I-can-tell-you’re-smitten. Or was I just imagining that?
I’d booked a jazz band with two singers. Having been brought up on jazz standards, I went with that. Greta had intimated in her own subtle way that the last ball was a disaster. One of my predecessors—the purported drunken floozy who had hit on Aidan—had arranged a DJ. The music was rap and hip-hop. Evidently all the guests, apart from the younger cohort, had left in haste after dinner.
I’d checked out the jazz band on YouTube before booking them. I loved that they had a male and female singer. I also chose them because the chanteuse wore a vintage slinky gown, therefore fitted into the 1920’s theme.
Dressed in white suits, the male members of the band looked the part. They certainly stood out against the rich red-velvet drapes. And the lighting made the brass instruments shine.
The African-American singer meandered towards me. I held out my hand. “Devina Velvet?”
The statuesque woman, of a slinky sensuality most befitting a cabaret singer, cast me a wide smile. “Nice to finally put a face to the voice, Miss Moone.” Her large, dark eyes swept the room. “The stage looks heavenly.” She stretched her vowels with a seductive southern twang. “This is Marcus.”
He shook my hand. “Thank you for having us. It’s wonderful to be part of such a classy affair.”
“We’re so pleased to have you,” I said. “Come, I’ll show you your dressing rooms. There are refreshments in there, and if you need anything just call out. We’ve set a table for you and the band for dinner during your break.”
“That sounds super,” purred Devina.
****
Relaxed jazz filled the ballroom as the guests entered. It was splendid, just as I’d imagined. I was profoundly fulfilled, my delight made sweeter by the sighs of approval that hummed through the air as guests entered. Pitched against a wall, I indulged myself in the animated expressions of delight emanating from the guests. I had to keep pinching myself. If someone had told me a month earlier that I would become an event organizer for a big-hearted boss, who happened to be hot and unaffected, I would have thought them mad.
Greta approached me. “It looks fabulous, Clarissa. You have exceeded all expectations.” This was a different Greta to the daily one. She’d been drinking and was more open and cheerier than usual. Not that I minded the more serious Greta. I’d grown fond of her. She was like a kind aunt who economized on smiles. I imagined this trait ran in the family, because I had yet to see Aidan flash his teeth. The most I’d garnered was a slight curve of that shapely mouth, which was enough to weaken my knees.
The single women huddled together. Their high-pitched cackles pierced the air. Standing within earshot, I heard, “They’re no longer together. He called it off, and she’s left town to get over him.”
It was safe to assume they meant Aidan given that their attention was directed at him.
Aidan, meanwhile, ignoring the glamorous set, seemed more interested in the older guests, giving them his undivided attention. Not much had left his lips.
From the little I’d observed, he struck me as the quiet type. My thighs grew stickier at that thought. What was it about brooding men that drove me to distraction? I suppose I could blame it on Tabitha’s penchant for dramatic romances.
She was not a good influence, that best friend of mine. And this predilection was not practical, given that quiet men were less likely to initiate intimacy. For someone as timid as I, that could only end in a solitary life with vibrator in hand. I expelled a long, frustrated breath.
Waiters had started directing everybody to their seats. Dinner was being served. Not sure where I belonged, I was just about to make a quick dash to the kitchen when Bryce tapped me on the shoulder. Hell.
I was sure my eyes gave that “stay away” vibe. But being seriously insensitive, he was only interested in getting his own way. Tight-lipped, I tried to put him off by remaining mute. I intuited that he enjoyed the sport of seduction. The harder the prey, the more persistent he became.
“So, Clarissa, may I escort you to your seat?” he asked, with that slippery smile travelling up to his twinkling brown eyes.
I wondered if I should say that I had leprosy or an incurable disease communicable by breathing. As my brain worked on a more plausible excuse, I sensed someone standing close by. I turned and met Aidan’s hypnotic blue gaze. Had he come to my rescue?
“Miss Moone, may I request that you join us?” My mouth opened, but words got stuck at the back of my throat. My face was on fire.
“I thought I might grab something in the kitchen,” I said, my voice pathetic and weak. Please let me crawl under a rock.
Alone on a beach with an affectionate dog, I could talk to him. But with a whole audience of salivating supermodels watching on, that was beyond me. Oh no. My nipples hardened, and before I could cross my arms to hide them, that slippery snake Bryce gaped salaciously at me. Err!
Aidan pointed to the table. “There’s a place for you next to Greta.” His lips drew a tight, reassuring smile.
I assented, of course, and wobbled in front of him as Aidan rather unfairly— although unintentionally I’m sure—got me to lead the way. High heels and dizzying attraction were a dangerous mix. A graceful glide was out of the question. I would have needed a month of walking with a book on my head for that.
Greta sat by Aidan’s side. I saw by the way they interacted that they were close. She was maternal and protective towards him. On the other side of Aidan was a young woman, giggling and flirting with him. I didn’t see his lips curve ever. He did nod on occasion, but I could tell that he wasn’t that interested. Or was I just hoping? She was blond, blue-eyed, and leggy. I supposed she was a model or an actress like all the girls who were there that evening.
He did, however, throw a glance my way more than once. Each time, his expression was deep and raw, turning me upside down. I shifted about, the swelling between my thighs intensifying with each gaze.
When the attractive blonde bent in towards him, I wondered how her breasts stayed in place with that slit down to her tummy. If I wore that outfit, my D cups would spill into the soup in no time. It was, nevertheless, a popular look that evening. By comparison, my elegant sky-blue silk dress was almost nun-like. Having always been self-conscious of my larger-than-usual chest, I didn’t mind.
Aidan Thornhill was doing things to me that I’d never experienced before. How could one glance from those blue eyes bring me to the brink of an orgasm? Even the creamy mushroom soup seemed erotic as it slithered down my throat.
“I’m enjoying the music, Clarissa,” said Greta.
“It sits well in this room, doesn’t it?” I smiled. “I’m looking forward to hearing Devina Velvet. She’s got such a wonderful voice.”
Aidan shifted his attention back towards me. His dazzling eyes held me again, like blinding light. My lips drew a tight, awkward smile. I had to look down back to my soup, which I took care not to slurp.
One of the older guests, a distinguished man in his fifties who reminded me a little of my father, said, “I love that you’ve lit up the paintings. It suggests an art gallery, Aidan.”
Aidan tilted his head in my direction. “That is Miss Moone’s doing. She designed this event.”
Saved by deft
application of napkin, I avoided a dribble of soup. I acknowledged the compliment with a modest, tight smile.
“It’s a triumph, dear girl,” the gentleman said, holding up his glass in my honor.
“The pictures are pretty in an old-fashioned kind of way,” said Miss Pumped-Up-Lips.
“I like them,” replied Aidan, curt and clipped.
Her mouth opened to respond, but she said nothing.
“All Alma-Tadema’s, no less,” said the gentleman’s wife.
“Is he famous?” Miss Pouty asked, in her high-pitched drawl.
Aidan turned and regarded me again. Oh no, please don’t ask me to talk about art. I cringed.
“Miss Moone’s the authority amongst us,” he said.
The older gentleman regarded me. “A Victorian artist, I believe?”
His wife nodded with ebullience. She focused on me. “They’re so beautiful.”
I wiped my lips. “Yes, he was a superb exemplar of the style from that period.”
“Was he a Pre-Raphaelite?” the gentleman asked.
“No. Alma-Tadema came later. He was part of the neo-classical movement, despite being recognized as a symbolist in the vein of Gustav Klimt, who he greatly admired. Who wouldn’t?” I chuckled. I waited for someone to jump in, but instead, I had everyone’s undivided attention. Shit. They wanted more? “Inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites,” I said, acknowledging the gentleman’s earlier comment. “He picked up where they left off.”
“The other paintings are by him, I see,” the wife said, pointing.
“No, they’re not entirely,” interjected Aidan, “as I’m sure Miss Moone will be aware of.” His eyes softened as he regarded me. We were alone suddenly. If only.
I took a deep breath. “They’re by John William Godward, a contemporary of Alma-Tadema. Their styles are so alike that it’s hard to tell them apart, especially their compositions featuring languid women by the sea.” Pausing for a sip of wine, I hoped that no more questions would come my way.
“She’s not just a pretty face,” said Bryce.
Aidan cast a sideway, censuring glance at him.
Course number two came around, and all were now focused on eating except for Aidan, who kept visiting me with that intense gaze. I looked down at my seafood cocktail to hide my swirling emotions. I concentrated on the appetizingly fresh food. I’d never had anything like it before.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Devina Velvet, having gone burlesque, wore a slinky gold gown with a slit, revealing a long, dark, shapely thigh. She had her back to the audience. Gloved arms up in the air, she swayed sinuously to a moody saxophone solo.
With the grace of a trained dancer she turned and sang “My Funny Valentine.” Living up to her name, her husky voice had a velvety sheen. Her act was so emotive that hairs stood up on my arms. Everybody stopped eating for a moment. She’d captured the whole room—such was her charisma.
The music fitted the evening magically. A consummate performer, Devina had the audience enthralled. When she finished with the song “Summertime,” chills moved up my spine. It was by far one of my favorite songs from that era, and suited the slinky chanteuse’s impressive range.
The word “sexy” escaped Bryce’s lips as he worked his sleazy charm on the woman, who, having given up on aloof Aidan, flirted openly with muscle-headed Bryce instead.
Aidan watched the stage. I was grateful for a break from his burning attention.
Greta leaned in and whispered, “This is one of my favorite tunes.”
“Mine too,” I replied. “It’s what sold me. After I googled them, I clicked on one of their YouTube clips, and this song came up.”
“There’s also a male singer, I believe?” asked Greta.
“Yes, he does the dance set. Sinatra-style,” I said, pushing my plate aside.
“Is the food not to your liking?” she asked.
“It’s delicious. I’m just not used to eating this much,” I said, rubbing my tummy.
“Make sure you leave room for dessert. These caterers make the best sweets.”
While the band was on a break, I spied Aidan chatting with the guitarist. He appeared interested in his guitar.
I decided to stretch my legs and headed over to the quieter side of the terrace. As I perched against a wall, high-pitched voices of the supermodels floated my way. There was talk of visiting a nightclub. With a cigar in his mouth, Bryce had joined them.
Greta, meanwhile, stood close by with a cigarette. I approached her. “Do you mind if I call it a night?”
She frowned. “But you haven’t had dessert yet.”
“I’ll grab some in the kitchen for breakfast,” I said.
In the distance, Aidan had been drawn into the group of supermodels. By his side, Bryce placed his arm around one while pinching the bottom of another. Gross.
“Have Monday off. We love what you’ve done here tonight. Many of the patrons have commented that it’s the best one by far,” said Greta, smiling warmly. “And I agree with them.”
Aidan came and joined us. “Who do you agree with?” He flashed me a rare smile. My legs went to jelly as I fell under his spell again.
“I was just telling Clarissa that the guests are raving about the evening,” said Greta.
“I agree, it’s the best by far. I love the band. The crooner has got a Sinatra quality, which is saying something.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off me even though he spoke to both of us.
“Are you into Sinatra, Miss Moone?”
“Please call me Clarissa.” Greta snuck off, and we became the only two people in the universe again. “Yes, I do. My father was a keen fan. I grew up with his music.”
Butterflies churned through my meal. How could some-one be so handsome? Aidan Thornhill had a chiseled jawline, high cheekbones, an adorable cleft chin, and full, sensuous lips. He also had a small bump on his otherwise regular nose, which only added to his masculine perfection. But it was those eyes that changed from dark blue to the most dazzling sky shade that ravaged my senses. Phew. I imagined fanning my face. If only this was Jane Austen’s time, I could hold a fan and flick it gracefully. I’d be able to hide the blush and dry the sweaty brow in one coquettish wave.
Bryce stumbled over. He was clearly drunk.
“You’ve had too much, Bryce,” said Aidan coldly.
“I’m having a fun night.” He directed his attention to me. “Look at this little beauty.” Before I could move away, he grabbed my arm and drew me in close.
Aidan’s brow went into battle mode, his eyes dark and threatening. “Let go of her, Bryce.”
I pulled away from his grasp as Aidan pushed Bryce off me. Drunk and disordered, Bryce stumbled and fell.
“I think you should leave now, Bryce.” Aidan bent down and picked up the heavy man effortlessly, showing his incredible strength.
Bryce shrugged Aidan off. “Fuck you, Mr. Perfect.”
Unsteady on his feet, Bryce went to swing at Aidan, who moved away, and Bryce fell onto the ground.
The women around the pool covered their mouths. Shocked expressions painted their faces. Some were even laughing, which made me angry, on behalf of Aidan, who held Bryce in a headlock.
Bryce’s face remained red with rage as he struggled in Aidan’s hold. My suspicions that he was dangerous were confirmed by that fierce display of belligerence.
My loathing for Bryce went up a notch. Not only did he treat women as sex toys, but he also took money from Aidan’s charity to fund his own lavish lifestyle. Something I’d discovered while going through the accounts of the Veterans’ Health Center.
Greta led me away by the arm as a mother would. “He always drinks too much. Bryce is such a brute. I don’t know why Aidan puts up with him.”
“Why does he?” I asked.
About to respond, Greta was distracted by the scene playing out in front of us. Linus was there. The burly man took a hold of Bryce as one would a child and dragged him away.
“I won’t forget this,
Thornhill,” bellowed Bryce, thrashing about like a wild beast.
Aidan smoothed back his hair, focusing on me all the while. His once easy stride had become urgent and edgy. And—oh my, could it be possible— he was even sexier. Perhaps his battle-ready hormones were gushing up my nose because my panties were as sticky as my throat.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.” Aidan’s eyes had gone so dark blue and serious they resembled the night. It was a different face—still alluring, if not more so.
Greta stood by his side. “Are you okay?”
“I’m good.” Aidan glanced down at his Rolex. “I’m off. Can you deal with the guests?” Before leaving, he turned towards me again. Was he trying to say something? With Greta there, I returned his gaze. Uncertain whether to smile or look earnest, my face remained blank.
He nodded then left.
When we were alone in the kitchen, Greta pointed to a plate of food and cakes that Melanie had made up for me.
“Why does Aidan put up with Bryce?” I asked.
Busy selecting sweets for her plate, Greta replied, “That’s a question I’ve been asking Aidan for as long as I’ve known Bryce. They were in Afghanistan together. That’s always his response.” She took a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. “I can’t stand the brute. And next time you’ll take someone with you to VHC. Aidan doesn’t want him coming near you alone again.”
At that point, I had to admit, I’d fallen into the grip of Aidan’s spell. Recalling Melanie’s warning not to fall in love with him, I wanted my job more than I wanted my handsome boss. Or did I?
With those thoughts fighting for space in my tired brain, I traipsed back to my cottage barefoot. My expensive shoes dangled in one hand, while a plate of leftovers, enough for a week, balanced in the other.
That night, I dreamt of Aidan, his roaming hands undoing my dress. With a silken touch, he slid down my tingling flesh. I woke to such a profound throbbing that my fingers had to finish off what my overactive imagination had started. The fantasy came to an explosive conclusion when my handsome boss entered me with his large, thick cock, and the orgasm roared through me. I tumbled about in warm, gooey splendor for longer than I’d ever experienced before. Awake or asleep, Aidan had gotten under my skin.