Bryony waved to the bartender. "It's just that I've never had a compliment from you before." She shot him a wry look. "I feel like I should have it framed."
Was it true? Had he seriously never complimented her before? He was sure he had. She just didn't notice. Or didn't want to.
The bartender ignored them. Bryony's polite gestures were lost in the surging mob of jaded city folk looking for alcohol to get them through the evening. He watched her for a moment, partially—he had to admit—because from his vantage point, almost a foot above her, the v-neck of her dress went from modest to plunging, revealing more of those tender, gently blushing curves than she probably realized. Finally he decided to help her out.
Ben let out a loud whistle and waved a fifty dollar bill in his free hand. That got the barman's attention quick enough.
Bryony cringed, leaning her elbow on the bar, her hand to her eyes. "Trust you," she muttered. Every guest at the bar was now watching them and she, apparently, didn't like to be the center of attention. "All that money and still no class."
"That's why I need you to work for me." He grinned. "You can bring the classy." Personally he couldn't see what was wrong with his methods. As long as they worked and he got what he wanted, right?
* * * *
When the crash came she was too busy looking at Ben; too tangled up in the leafy green whorls of his wicked gaze and the feel of his hand, warm and heavy on her waist —a shockingly possessive touch she could neither ignore, nor bring herself to push away. They were too close, crammed together at the bar, and she felt his blatant gaze stroking her cleavage. The man was bold, shamelessly surveying her tits as if he'd purchased them for her. But hers were real, not the bolt-on, beanbag variety. As she'd stated, she wasn't one of his many bimbos and he needn't treat her like one.
So this was what it felt like to have Ben Petruska's arm around her. She tried to understand the various sensations rippling through her body, to put them in order, label them neatly, find a possible explanation for why she allowed this to happen.
He'd just licked his lips. His midnight pupils expanded until she thought she could see her face reflected there. The darkness pulled her in and she found it too hard to resist.
And then the crisp splintering of glass on marble tile brought them both out of their trance.
In the middle of the gallery, Helena and Carl had decided to resume an argument that must have begun some nights ago. The stem of Helena's martini glass was on the floor between them and she was yelling at her husband to take his hand off her arm. Other guests observed the entertainment with varied degrees of amusement. Some possibly thought it was part of a performance art installation
Gotta hand it to Helena. She knew how to put on a show.
"I can't discuss this with you now," she exclaimed, tossing her gilded head back, perfectly toned arms hanging at her sides with his hand clasped around one of them.
His response to her was muted, not much above a whisper, certainly not loud enough for the onlookers to hear clearly.
Helena blinked and looked at her husband's hand on her arm. "I can't leave. This is my party."
While Bryony was embarrassed for them both, her cousin appeared caught up in the drama, relishing the spotlight. On the other hand, as if he'd been taking lessons, Carl seemed to be trying out a dominant role that sat awkwardly on his shoulders. "Then we'll discuss it alone later, Helena. At home," he exclaimed with a grand flourish.
"Let go of me," she muttered, as if only just aware of people watching.
He leaned over to give his wife a peck on the check and she turned her head stiffly.
"Don't." Helena moaned, pouting. "Not here." Then she relented enough to lower her lashes and sigh, "Later."
Bryony felt as if she was watching a high-school play or an episode of The Real Housewives. Someone ought to throw a table.
"Looks like the lovebirds are about to make a truce," said Ben as the party resumed.
"I wouldn't bank on it. Helena can hold a grudge a pretty long time."
"Isn't that true of all women?"
She glared up at him.
"C'mon," he added, dark eyes shining mischievously down at her. "Women lack the simple logic that tells a man when to let it go. Women get fixated on an idea and they bludgeon it to death, long after the point has been lost and even when they know they're wrong."
"I see." With two fingers she plucked his hand from her waist. "And all women do that, do they?"
"Most." He shrugged.
She cursed herself. For those few moments she'd forgotten how damned irritating he was. "And all men are too stupid and self-absorbed to bother looking at the problem from the illogical woman's point of view. Oh, no! Their way is the only way. No one else can ever be right and rather than concede to the fact that they are, actually, very often in the wrong, men will drop the argument and forget it. Better that than let the little woman win."