Chapter One
I hung back from the press of people, lingering at the edge of the crowd. The women were all dressed in onyx and ruby and sapphire and emerald dresses, brilliant birds of paradise, while the men stood with them, all black and white and staid and stolid as penguins. I scrutinized the assembled throng and pondered a very important question.
Which of these men is Batman?
I hadn't found him yet, because most of the people that attend these terrible 'charity' functions are old and boring because you have to be old and boring to be invited. No one with less than ten million dollars is allowed in, unless you're part of the support staff. Which would be me, I suppose. And usually if you have ten million dollars you are either old and boring or young and that particular sort of country club inbred that just screams I have a trust fund and have never done my own grocery shopping! Except Anton Waters, my employer, who is handsome, rich, sexy, self-made and young. Or I guess his wife and my best friend, Felicia, is my employer, but ever since they were married a second time they've been so joined at the hip they might as well be one person.
I sighed. Thinking about Felicia reminded me of how much I missed her. I knew her before she married Anton, which is how I landed a job as her personal assistant, though recently it had expanded to include other duties as well. To my deep despair, I seemed to have a talent for this type of thing. Otherwise I'd still be drinking watery piss beer and smoking some dank nugs on my Friday nights rather than organizing a dumb charity auction for a bunch of people whose shoes cost more than whatever they'd spend on 'charity' tonight.
God. If only.
I sighed again and grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing alcohol jockey. I downed it in two gulps, feeling the alcohol warm me all the way down to my toes, and resumed looking for Batman, my favorite mental pastime at these events.
I didn't really expect to find him, of course. I know he's got a secret identity.
I scanned the men. Too old. Too short. Too bald, although I guess Batman does wear a hood, so he could be bald under that outfit. But probably not. Too old. Too old. Too old again. Too thin. Too goofy. Wearing glasses. Wait, doesn't Batman wear glasses? No, that's Superman. Clark Kent. Whatever. Too blind, anyway. Batman would have laser surgery. Too old. Too inbred. Too old. Too...hot? Is that a thing? Wait a minute...
I pulled up short, my eyes widening. Not twenty feet away stood a tall, sinfully handsome man, dressed to the nines. His sandy hair swept back from his temples in slick, perfect waves, highlighting his fine cheekbones and rich brown eyes. His mouth was a perfect, delicious pout, and the hand that held his flute of champagne was elegant and poised. An artist's hand. And I should know. Before I landed this sweet gig I'd spent most of my waking hours buried in my art, and this guy was making me want to pick up a pencil and sketch him. Naked.
His deep brown eyes bored into mine. Despite myself I felt my cheeks stain with color under his scrutiny, and his perfect, pouty mouth slowly broke into a suggestive smile.
Batman is staring at me, I thought. What a creeper.
His eyes flicked up and down my body, as though appraising me. It wasn't a comfortable feeling and pissed me off, so I returned the favor. Narrowing my eyes, I took in his broad shoulders and barrel chest, his trim waist, his narrow hips and the muscled thighs barely poured into his tux pants. I pursed my lips and tried to assess him from a cold, artistic perspective.
It wasn't working.
My god, he was hot.
I flicked my gaze back to his, hoping he couldn't see the hammering pulse in my throat and quirked my mouth at him. A seen better to his casual objectification. And I had seen better. In my dreams.
He held my eyes for a long moment, then lifted his brows and this time his smile was knowing.
Oh, really?
A hand on my arm thankfully tore me away from his arresting gaze, because who knows what kind of subtle semaphore we might have started engaging in across the crowded ballroom? I turned with a flash of gratitude, only to have it die in my chest as I realized it was Arthur, Anton's personal assistant.
Great.
I like Arthur. I really do. I think he's smart and motivated and actually pretty kind to people in general even though he doesn't have to be. But I think he simultaneously wants to fuck me and wants to fuck with me. Seeing as how he had to claw his way up from the rank of lowly intern to be Anton's assistant and all I had to do was be Felicia's best friend to become her assistant, I think he resents the ease with which I landed my job. I can't tell him that I've been putting up with Felicia's willful stupidity in the realm of her own personal affairs for the entirety of our acquaintance and I didn't even get paid for it. Felicia would be lost without me. It's a position with many drawbacks. Such as now. Second-in-command on the personal assistant totem pole is like coming in second place in a shit-eating contest.