Page 49 of Barristers & Bones

Roman nodded, looking grim. “Thank you. I’ll be on alert.” He studied me, then reached behind my head and removed my hair clip.

“Hey! What are you doing?” I tried to grab the clip as my hair unraveled well past my shoulders.

“You might be taken for one of the servers with your hair up. I want people to be able to tell the difference so everyone behaves themselves.”

I hurriedly ran my fingers through my long, dark, curly hair, hoping it looked elegantly tousled instead of just messy. The valet opened the door, and Roman slid out and extended his hand back to me. I took it and squeezed until he stopped scanning and turned to me with his eyebrow raised.

“Why does Gideon need to stay close? Who’s here tonight that Ivan is worried about?”

He shook his head and wrapped his hand around my forearm, guiding me inside the lobby. Turning left, we headed down a red-carpeted corridor where several well-heeled couples were gathered. “I forget how observant you are sometimes. It’s a precaution.”

A precaution, my ass. Something was happening, but I didn’t know what. Roman and his partners were sometimes careful and taciturn when I asked certain questions, and they were as adept as any politician at giving non-answer responses. Like right now.

“Why aren’t the other law partners attending tonight?”

“We take turns since none of us like these events. It was my turn.”

Sucking in a deep breath, I let it out slowly. “Alright. Let’s go do some schmoozing.” He squeezed my arm gently and guided me forward.

Outwardly, Roman fit in with these people. He moved with confidence and control and wore designer, custom-tailored clothes. As we approached the ballroom, I started seeing them—the Las Vegas ultra-rich, and those who’d probably flown in on private jets from the East and West coasts just for the evening. Several reporters and camera people hovered at the entrance as we walked in.

“My advice is to smile and nod politely, then excuse yourself if you get cornered or don’t want to speak with someone,” Roman murmured.

“Smile, nod, and try to look pretty?” I arched an eyebrow. “Arm candy–I’ve got it. The first two shouldn't be hard.”

“Looking lovely won't be a stretch for you either, it’s not drilling people for information that’ll be the issue.”

“Hmm, another backhanded compliment.”

He inclined his head, and we stepped into the carnivalesque atmosphere. A few reporters headed Roman’s way, and when they glimpsed me on his arm, they hesitated.

“Who's the girl in the cheap suit?” I heard someone whisper.

“Anyone know her? Is she one of his subs?” someone else asked. “She doesn’t look like it,” a man with an expensive camera answered. My simple attire seemed to confuse them.

Roman leaned in close, his breath warm against my ear. “Well, this is interesting. Maybe you’ll be a new trendsetter.”

“God help me,” I muttered back. “What does he mean by sub?”

He shook his head slightly and didn’t stop to talk. Guiding me forward with a hand at the small of my back, we walked into the event.

“Let me introduce you to a few people.” As we circulated through the ballroom, I began to realize Roman was skilled at making people feel singled out and important, and women followed him with their eyes.

A server approached us, and Roman took a whiskey and handed me a glass of champagne. I sipped the drink and looked around the room. Rich, well-heeled people mingled together, talking in small groups as they sipped their drinks.

As we stood there, a man and woman approached us. The man was unremarkable, but the woman looked like a blond version of Jessica Rabbit. “Hello, Roman darling. It’s wonderful to see you tonight. I’ve missed you,” the woman murmured in a soft, cultured voice. She wore a gold gown with a significant slit up her thigh and a deep neckline.

“Hello, Marla.” Roman flicked his gaze to the man. “Tucker. Meet Luna Cross.”

Marla turned to me, her smile going flat. “Is she your secretary or administrative assistant?” Her lipstick looked wet, and her long red fingernails glistened as she took hold of his arm.

Roman shook his head. “Neither.”

“Your new submissive?” her voice sounded incredulous.

“No, and you know better than to ask,” Roman murmured dangerously. He stepped away and palmed my back.

Marla blanched but tried again. “Your paralegal then? She doesn’t look old enough.”

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