Page 76 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

Oh my God. He’d gone mad. “I can’t go in there. I’ve just got off a plane. I look—”

“Charming. And we won’t be staying long.”

“If you aren't staying long, why do I have to go?”

“Because I want you to.”

Well. There was no way I was going to be able to resist that. I reached out, took his hand, and fell out of the limo.

Thankfully, Caspian’s body was in the way so I ended up smooshed against his side, rather than face-planted onto the pavement.

The insectoid clicking of shutters filled the air. And I was immediately camera-dazzled.

Then someone called my name. I turned instinctively and a flash went off right in my face.

“First the sister, now the brother. You do get about, Ardy baby.”

I couldn’t see anything except snowflakes and afterimages. Had no idea what was happening. But there was something about that voice. Like a crossword clue you always were on the brink of solving, I felt I should have recognized it.

Then Caspian grabbed my hand and strode off toward the building, dragging me along behind him as you might a recalcitrant child. Which was fair enough, since I didn’t wanna go to the fancy charity event.

Even my lovely coat couldn’t hide how I rumpled I was. And I felt horribly out of place in that gleaming white gallery, among the beautifully dressed visitors. Someone shoved a guidebook in my direction, but the caterer with the tray of champagne actively turned away—clearly, he didn’t want to waste the good stuff on me.

A few people greeted Caspian as he cut a swathe through the crowd. He stopped only long enough to acknowledge them before sweeping on, me still bobbing in his wake like a rubber duck after a frigate. A couple of minutes later, he was bearing down on one of the gallery assistants. At least, I assumed that was her role here, since she was wearing a classic little black cocktail dress and had the sleek, self-satisfied air of someone who could afford to do a notoriously underpaid job. Something I was sensitive to because I was probably headed that way myself.

Some of her complacency fled at the sight of Caspian. “Can I help you, Mr. Hart?”

“Yes, Lenora. I’ll take it all.”

“All the…all the pieces?”

“Everything.” He reached into his inside pocket, produced a business card, and pressed it into her limp hand. “Contact my office. Bellerose will handle the details. Oh and”—a minuscule pause—“please apologize to my mother. I’m afraid I can’t stay.”

And then we were off again, Caspian in full stride and me at full scamper: back through the gallery and the people and the electric maze of cameras and, finally, into the waiting limo. Which immediately pulled away.

“What…just happened?” I asked, collapsing breathlessly onto the seat.

Caspian settled next to me, graceful and composed as ever. “You were concerned that my desire to spend the evening with you would have negative consequences for the hypothetical beneficiaries of the event. I have resolved the situation.”

“But you ruined the party.”

“Arden”—he gave me one of his coldest looks—“most likely there are people present who care more about the party than the charity, but they are beyond my consideration. And should be beyond yours.”

“I guess.” I couldn’t figure out was going on in my feels. I think I was comprehensively overwhelmed. And Caspian seemed so far away—literally and figuratively—that I might as well have been back in Boston. I screwed my courage to wherever it was courage got screwed and clambered awkwardly back into his lap.

Caspian drew in a sharp breath but didn’t dump me onto the floor or anything, so I counted it a win. He tilted his head slightly to meet my gaze. “Does this mean you’ll spend the evening with me?”

“Did you even like the art?”

“I didn’t look at it. I’m sure it’s very nice.”

“Caspian!”

“What?”

“You can’t do things like this.”

His lips twitched into the faintest suggestion of a smile. “That is demonstrably untrue.”

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