The Platinum Collection: A Convenient Proposal. Maisey Yates
had got. But there was something about the web of artistry over his tanned, muscled arm that caused a visceral reaction in her.
Who was she kidding? There was something about him that caused a reaction in her. All of her. And all of him.
So different in many ways from that thwarted love affair from years ago, when she’d thought to give Nathan her body because of an intense emotional longing.
This feeling was no less longing, but it had nothing to do with emotion. And it was just as undesirable.
“Still not as expensive as losing an entire chain of clothing stores, I fear. Then, you should know since you bought an entire chain of clothing stores.”
“I have bought several of them,” he said, his tone light.
“And I only care about the one.”
“And I see why now.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Were you not curious about it before?”
He drew his hand back and pushed his shirtsleeve back down. Then he lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “A little. But then, I figure we all have our secrets. And since I am not the sort of man who likes to share his, I don’t expect other people to, either.”
“Except, then you asked me to.”
“My patience has its limits,” he said, his lips curving upward into what could only be described as a deadly smile.
Something about that smile made her stomach tighten further. Suddenly, the sound of raucous cheering broke through the tension, and Victoria breathed a sigh of relief. She really needed a break from whatever intensity was building between the two of them.
This whole acknowledging that she found him attractive thing was supposed to alleviate the issue. Sadly, it was not.
“I wonder what’s going on down there.”
“Probably a hen night or bachelorette party of some kind. This is a very popular location for them.”
“I’ve never really understood the appeal of them.”
“Of a bachelorette party?”
“Yes. They’re...not really the sort of thing I can see enjoying.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
“What? You’d like a stag party? Strippers and booze and lots of people standing around leering?”
He chuckled. “No. I like strippers just fine, but a private room is more my style.”
She didn’t know why, but the idea that he enjoyed strippers disappointed her. It shouldn’t, because she shouldn’t be surprised and she shouldn’t care at all. But she did.
“Well. That’s something at least,” she said.
“Oh, Victoria, you need to learn to let out a breath,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his arm slung indolently over the back, his leg stretched beside the table, rather than being shoved beneath.
“What does that mean? That I’m uptight? If you have a question as to why, I refer you to the personal tête-á-tête we had only moments ago.”
“One mistake and you have to change who you are forever?”
“One life-altering mistake that ruined things for my family. That destroyed the relationship I had with my father and lost him the respect of his peers.”
“Do you suppose Nathan changed because of you?”
The question hit her in the face like a cold, wet rag. “No,” she said, feeling her insides constrict, tightening into a ball. “I don’t suppose he did. Well, his life changed on some score since he obviously got a chain he was very invested in acquiring so I changed his...life for the best. Oh, that utter bastard.”
“Time does not heal every wound.”
“No,” she said, her tone fierce. “I’m hoping an engagement arrangement resulting in my getting London Diva back will cure my more serious wounds, though.”
“It’s a good plan.”
The servers returned and whisked their plates away, replacing them with the very famous beignets, topped with a mountain of powdered sugar and served with café au lait.
“Lovely,” she said, reaching for the small white mug.
“Before we indulge,” he said, the word sounding far more wicked than she would like, “I say we go and see the happy partiers of Bourbon Street.”
She was curious. Whether she should be or not.
“All right. When in Rome...observe the Romans I suppose.”
“But don’t step into the arena?”
“As we are not citizens of Rome, I suppose that might be our fate.” She picked up her mug and raised it high. “Those who are about to die salute you.” She took a sip, then placed it back onto the table before standing and smoothing down her pants. “Now, let’s go gawk at some revelry.”
She followed him around the curving balcony to the side of the hotel that provided a view of Bourbon Street, the hub of debauchery in New Orleans. At least, the hub of open debauchery. She imagined private debauchery took place any number of locations.
The streets below were packed full of people, holding up traffic at cross streets. They were carrying open glasses of alcohol and weaving back and forth.
Women in lingerie were standing in front of shops beckoning passersby to come in, and group of men lingered in front of a club wearing next to nothing, calling out to people, too. And then she saw them, a group of women in black, waving up to the balconies, and one lone woman in white, a tulle veil covering her hair.
“That would be the hen do,” she said.
“I imagine so.”
She crept closer to the edge of the balcony, using the bride’s bright white ensemble as her focal point. “They are...”
“Very drunk.”
“To say the least.”
She wondered what it would be like to be down there, soaking in the light from the neon and the gas lanterns, right in the middle of the party instead of hovering so far above it. She was always above it. And that was really how she liked it. But still...she wondered.
She felt Dmitri move in closer to her, felt his heat as he closed the distance between them.
Her breath caught in her throat, the sultry night air thick and somehow sensual now, where before, with the sunlight shining through, it had been a bit overbearing. Now somehow it seemed erotic.
And she had no clue what she was doing applying that description to anything. She was not the sort of woman to think of things in those terms. But then, she wasn’t the sort of woman to get dry mouth at the sight of a tattoo and a little bit of forearm muscle. And yet, with Dmitri she seemed to be.
Suddenly, she ached. Ached for all the things she hadn’t had. For the normal everyday desires that had been stolen from her when she was sixteen, ripped away from her along with her father’s company and her trust. In other people. In herself.
Replaced instead with shame—shame about her feelings, her body, her judgment.
If not for that, she might have been down there, too. Maybe had a group of girlfriends she could relate to, and she could drink with and trust that they would lead her back to the hotel unharmed. She might have had a man waiting to marry her the following weekend. One she might have loved. One who might have even loved her back.
One who would take her to bed and give her pleasure. Hold her all night.
Yes, for some reason the sight of all of that normalcy below made her very acutely aware of just how abnormal she was. Just how separate.
But