Dropping the card next to the bellman, Callie wobbled out of the ring and yanked her borrowed, too-tight dress over her hips before standing up straight. Winsor Cooke held out an elbow. How did he even get there so fast?
“Come and watch the match with me,” he said, his voice all commanding and smooth. He had the tone of someone who really didn’t expect to hear the word No... like, ever.
“I can’t,” she mumbled, looking around for someone to help. Bryce was busy with Trent and Auger was stretching. He would be in the ring in seconds and she had to get out of there, fast.
“You can,” he said and his hand slipped under her elbow again. She sucked in her breath as his skin slid against her skin. Something about the firm way he held her sent shivers through her bones.
The first time, she thought it had been a mistake, a coincidence. Now she knew it was something else. Something in his touch sparked some deep, damp part of her. But lust or hate? She wasn’t entirely sure. Could it be both?
“I should really, uh…” she whispered, but her voice caught in her throat. He just shook his head and smirked, then pulled her back toward his table. Before she knew it she was walking alongside him, headed for the card with his name on it while every pair of eyes in the place looked her up and down. Their apparent shock and disdain convinced her: she was not going to run away.
Three willowy women in nearly identical cocktail dresses with nearly identical golden hairdos sniffed surprise in her direction. She held her head higher.
Yes, you bunch of entitled snobs. Me. I’m walking with this rich jerk right here. Me. Suck it.
Winsor stepped smoothly toward the chair and pulled it out. Callie held her breath and tried to arrange her lips into a smile while aiming her backside into the seat. Silently she prayed the dress would continue to mostly cover her and not split into ribbons when she sat.
“Did I mention how much I like your gown?” he said, his breath passing over the back of her neck as he took a seat next to her.
“Thank you,” she muttered as her skin prickled.
And you will probably never see it or me again, because once Tammie sees how I stretched out her favorite dress she is going to kill me.
She pressed her toes up, hoping to make her thighs somehow a little smaller. A waiter placed a glass of wine in front of her as Winsor nodded.
“I don’t really like wine,” she admitted sheepishly.
“Of course you do,” he responded, dismissing her objection with a casual wave of his fingers.
Of course I do? Are you kidding me?
“Listen, Mr. Cooke—”
“Win,” he interrupted.
She stumbled mentally, the lecture she had prepared stalling on her tongue. “Excuse me?”
“I already asked you to call me Win,” he said in a quieter voice and turned to her in his chair. Somehow his voice got clearer, stronger, the more he lowered it. A waft of something expensive washed through her sinuses and she stopped, startled. Dumbstruck. His hazel eyes glimmered faintly.
“Win—” she started again, but with less gusto.
Jesus, Callie, get a grip!
“And what can I call you?” he continued, his voice all smooth.
The lecture started and stopped again. Started and stopped, then crumbled into ash like a spent log in a fire.
What can he call me? I should have had a dozen smartass answers ready to go. What the heck is wrong with me?
“Um, Callendra. Callie.”
His lips widened into a smile so shiny and perfect his teeth looked varnished.
“Callie is a beautiful name,” he purred, holding out his hand.
Callie hesitated for just a moment then held her hand out too. Instead of shaking it, he picked it up and drew it to his mouth. She bit her lip as his breath puddled in her palm. Then he dipped his head, dropping a small kiss just below the joint of her middle finger.
“I am really enjoying touching you,” he whispered into her palm.
She sucked in her breath. “What?” she choked.
The bell rang suddenly. Callie twisted in her chair, pulling her hand away and dragging it to her lap as her heart flopped around her chest like a wounded crow.
What the hell is he doing to me? Callie forced her eyes to focus on the ring and begged her armpits to please, please stop sweating on Tammie’s dress.
The announcer finished muttering the rules to Auger and Twister who stood half-bent at the waist. They looked like they were in suspended animation, paused in a critical scene of a film until the MC took a step back.
Auger bowed his head slightly and shook out his arms and legs one at a time. The lights went on at his side of the room and he and Twister stalked a slow circle around the ring perimeter. People walked backwards as they took their positions at opposite corners. The MC drew a cordless mic to his lips and tipped his head back, exultant.