The Magnate's Manifesto(22)
Much more comfortable with the intimate choice of setting this evening, Bailey slipped on strappy, glittery sandals, spritzed on a headier perfume for nighttime and met Jared outside his door. A slow smile curved his mouth when he opened it, denting his cheeks with those to-die-for almost-dimples. “You aren’t going to let me pick your shoes?”
She resolutely ignored the sexy indentations. “I had it under control tonight.”
His gaze swept over her, smooth and all-encompassing. “You look like you’re channeling Grace Kelly.”
She shifted her weight to the other foot. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The hand he placed at her back to ostensibly guide her down the hallway burned into her skin. “Do that,” he murmured, bending so his softly spoken words rasped across the sensitive skin behind her ear. He looked pretty gorgeous himself in casual black pants and a short-sleeved dark blue shirt that made the most of his eyes. But she’d keep that to herself.
A small powerboat was waiting at the dock to take them out to the yacht. All the others were already on board, the crew member told them, firing the motor. Bailey took it all in, eyes wide. Growing up on a swamp in Florida, she’d been around boats her whole life. She’d seen the cruise ships lined up in Tampa when they’d visited the city. But that was a world away from this. Davide’s yacht was at least seventy feet in length, they were about to cruise to Cannes during film festival time, and it frankly seemed unreal.
As they neared the sleek yacht painted in the blue, white and red colors of the French flag, the powerboat slowed to a crawl. They pulled alongside the yacht and were helped aboard by crew members. The rosy sky descended low over them, the lights of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat twinkling from the shore as she stood looking back from the deck. It was glorious.
Davide greeted them, then turned to introduce them to the three men beside him. She greeted the two marketing executives who had flown in from Paris, then Alexander Gagnon, a tall, distinguished male with dark hair and cold-as-flint gray eyes.
Her pulse flatlined as Alexander stepped forward. She teetered on her sandals and would have stumbled backward if Jared hadn’t placed a hand to her back and steadied her. It couldn’t be. It could not be.
Her gaze moved over him, hungry to prove herself wrong. But the cold, hard eyes that had studied her, eaten her up with an unflinching need to have her those nights in Vegas almost ten years ago, were unmistakable. And he didn’t miss a beat.
“How lovely to meet you…Bailey,” he murmured, taking her hand to brush a kiss across her knuckles. “Alexander Gagnon.”
Her breath constricted in her chest, a solid lump that threatened to choke her. She had never told him her real name. Had never told any of the men she danced for her real name. And now he knew it. She registered the fact with the almost hysterical need to turn around, jump off the boat and swim for shore.
Whether her body actually turned in that direction or whether Jared felt the shudder that went through her at the touch of Alexander Gagnon’s lips on her skin, she wasn’t sure. He released her for a moment to shake the other man’s hand, then returned his palm to her back and kept it there. Alexander’s gaze tracked the movement, then moved back to her face.
“I’m looking forward to your presentation tomorrow,” he drawled. “Davide has been telling me about your great ideas.”
Bailey’s knees were shaking so hard she had to lean into Jared to keep herself upright. She felt his gaze hard on her, but kept hers focused straight ahead. Alexander was staring at her, waiting for a response. “Yes, well, we—” she stumbled “—we’re hoping you’ll like them.”
“We know you’ll love them,” Jared corrected firmly, his palm pressing into her spine.
Alexander’s lips twisted in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve spent some time in the States. Davide mentioned you did your MBA at Stanford,” he said to Bailey. “Where did you do your undergrad?”
He knew exactly where she’d done her undergrad. A fine sheen of perspiration broke out on her brow. Her voice dry, more gravelly than she’d ever heard it, she forced out, “At UNLV.”
He snapped his fingers. “That must be it. I feel we’ve met before, but I can’t place it. I’ve entertained a lot of clients in Vegas.”
Every muscle in her body froze. The dark glitter in his eyes chilled her to the bone. “You must be mistaken,” she rasped, finding her voice. “I’m quite sure we’ve never met.”
Gauntlet laid, she lifted her chin. Alexander inclined his head. “My mistake, then.”