Out of Her Comfort Zone(6)

“Glad?” He huffed in derision. “For every beautiful photo, they take a hundred ugly ones. And it’s the bastards’ choice which one they run. Careful what you wish for.”

Even now, hours later, Elliott looked a bit flushed. Did he believe ruminating forever on an event would ever change any piece of it? Emily stroked his two-tone hair and gave him a quick air-kiss. “You get in first, right, from now on? So I will get out first.”

“Right, right,” he said, shaking his head as if to get his thoughts straight. “You go in, and I’ll go around.”

Settled in and on the move, Elliott was still chewing on his thoughts, his face abstracted. After a long couple of minutes, he looked sidelong at her. “How long are you going to put up with me acting like this?”

She looked out the window at the warm fall night, rich with the setting sun. “Looks like three more minutes.”

He laughed. “You know, Mariah will be on the prowl.”

“She loves you. Or her cameraman does.”

“Now she’ll have to love us both.” But he sounded angry about it. He seemed to notice, because his next words were more conciliatory. “And she’ll have to admit, you are a gorgeous creature. With lipstick to match.”

So he also had noticed that she hadn’t wanted to touch his skin with her glossed-up lips. “The color’s called vixen,” she said.

“Tease.” He took her hand in his, warming the ruby between his strong fingers. She sank happily into his love.

The Opera House scene was raucous, a great show for the start of the artistic season. Though it was missing the crowds of random gawkers that attended film premieres, the sidewalk was abuzz with members of the gentry alighting from their modern carriages and media and opera handlers flitting about them. From the car’s window as they waited their turn in line, it looked as if the socialites and politicos were borne inside on a wave of chatter and hand-flutters.

Soon enough it was their turn. Elliot signaled Emily should wait until their driver opened the door for her. She opened Elliot’s door first, so he could scoot around and was ready to hand Emily out of the car like a gentleman from some long dead era. She stepped clear, no problems, but before she could straighten her wrap, the flashbulbs arrived, with the Daily’s hungry young social secretary, Mariah Karan, on their heels. The elfin creature gave her the usual ice-stare, and Emily stalled her step forward, giving Elliot space for the photo. But he’d caught the look too, and reached back to take Emily’s hand. Like some Renaissance troubadour he lifted it high, as if drawing her into a dance step, and as she drew near, dropped it to his lips. Eyes on hers, he gave her knuckles the lightest, most promising kiss. She couldn’t help her delighted chirp of laughter.

Flash, flash, flash, and her smile started to fade. He dropped his hand to her hip and drew her up beside him, turning his gaze, and his grin, to Mariah.

Who looked less than pleased, even as her photographer was nodding his approval. “So, it’s true, then? Another millionaire is off the market?”

“So she is,” Elliot said. “And I’m glad of it.”

Mariah looked at Emily as if to say, why her? Emily didn’t know either, and so didn’t say anything. Mariah’s mobile features formed into feigned surprise, as if she’d had a thought. “What does this mean for the storied stag party?” Her gaze flicked to Emily and her mouth twitched. Elliot just squeezed her waist tighter.

“What’s a party when you’ve found the love of your life?”

“Very pretty,” Mariah looked at her photographer, who nodded he was set. “Have fun at the show.”

“Always, Mariah.”

As they made their way across the carpet and into the foyer, done up in a vague 1920s theme, silver and black, Elliot’s hand slid from the middle of her back to the top of her ass. “Commando?”

“Didn’t want the panty line.”

“How Midwest of you.” He leaned close to breathe in her ear. “And so… provocative.” Her skin goose-bumped, and a shiver of pleasure shot across her mind. But before she could sass him back, his mother caught up to them.

Head of the Opera Angels committee, Mona West had once been a prima ballerina in New York. She retained the regal carriage, but had dropped the bun-head in favor of a classic chignon and her new husband’s diamonds.

“Dearest, and his Emily. Congratulations. How does it look?” She looked down, and Emily realized she wanted to see the ring. As she lifted her hand, she saw Elliot’s lion of a stepfather coming near, carrying the usual two bourbons.