Page 24 of The Moon & His Tides
My teeth clenched at the moniker.
What was it about celebrity that made public figures possessable?
Though, my father had called me “my son” whenever the opportunity arose, and it had irritated me since I could cogitate. In my opinion, no human being could be wholly owned by any other. Not even Savannah was allowed to get away with calling me “her” Adam.
Sebastian seemed to sense my tension and placed a chummy arm around my back to squeeze my shoulder. “He was kind enough to give me a job.”
“Oh?” Miranda’s interest noticeably cooled. She wasn’t the type of woman to associate with those lower on the totem pole than herself.
“He’s being modest,” I said, finally remembering my social graces. “Seb is a screenwriter. A rather fabulous one if I do say so myself. I merely offered to help him find financial backing for the project.”
Bobbi fluffed her orange hair and leaned forward to place a greedy hand on Seb’s exposed forearm. Irrational irritation sparked through me. I wanted to reprimand him for being overly casual with his rolled cuffs when the rest of the men were wearing dinner jackets.
I wanted to tear Bobbi’s manicured hand right off her limp wrist.
“You know, I am a very wealthy woman,” Bobbi offered. “Why don’t you tell me about this little project of yours?”
“I would love nothing more,bella,” Sebastian replied, placing his hand over hers in a familiar move that made fifty-five-year-old Bobbi Gerkan blush like a schoolgirl. “But Adam really does look in need of some air, and he promised me a Cuban cigar I’m itching to get my hands on.”
Bobbi laughed. “Men and their cigars.”
Sebastian shrugged charmingly. “I’ll hold you to your interest, though. By the time I’m through with you, you’ll barely be able to stand from boredom.”
Miranda and Bobbi both tittered because they were absolutelynotpicturing being bored boneless by the Italian but they had no doubt they’d be weak-kneed nonetheless.
Fury ate at my heels and a headache settled between my temples. I went to sip from my Scotch only to discover melting ice in its place.
Sebastian clapped me on the back and pushed me none too gently between the shoulder blades to propel me away from the women. I moved, but I did it with a scowl on my face, my ill-humor fitted so closely around me it threatened to choke.
People spoke to us as Sebastian followed close at my heels, forcing me forward unless I wanted to be stepped on. When I looked over my shoulder to snarl at him, his strong features were fixed into an affable grin as he nodded at the partygoers who acknowledged me.
It was only when we made it into the relative peace of the kitchen, the door swinging closed behind us on the din of the party, that Sebastian stepped up beside me. For some reason, it made me feel better to see him there, within easy reach, hovering close like a bodyguard.
Like he cared that I was ill-tempered, and he wanted to protect me from anyone who might want a piece of me until I could sort myself out.
I’d known the man less than a week, and he was already under my skin.
The sensation was unpleasant but also not entirely unwelcome.
A good character often did the same, crawling under my flesh until it became a part of me. Even after I’d finished a film or play, they stayed with me, eternally stitched into my soul.
The idea of such intimacy with a near stranger should have repelled me, but as Sebastian ushered me out the back door to the softly lit patio, I found myself pressing closer to him. Our shoulders knocked once, twice, then settled together as we stopped by a gurgling water feature at the edge of the shadows. It was too cold out for the partygoers to linger outdoors and despite the vastness of the gardens around us, it felt oddly intimate to be in the yard alone with everyone else in the house.
He surprised me by staying quiet while I discarded my empty glass on the patio table and pulled a crumpled pack of Dunhill cigarettes from my trousers. Most people reprimanded me for my smoking habit, but I only indulged when my restlessness threatened to strangle me.
When I wordlessly offered them to him, he plucked one from the package and tucked it into the corner of his mouth, pouty lips parted around the slim column.
My throat went dry.
Eyes to that sinful mouth, I struck the gold lighter Savannah had given me one Christmas and held it aloft for him. I nearly jumped out of my skin when he casually reached out to cup his hand around the wavering flame, propping his pinky on top of my knuckles to do so. Electric heat burned through the connection straight through to my gut.
Our eyes connected over the flickering red-blue fire, and I noticed how dashing he was in the low light. Only the steep angles of his face were cast in dull gold, the harsh cut of his cheekbones, the slanted line of his strong jaw and brow, and the ridge of that Roman nose. He tipped his chin then, and light spilled over his eyes, spotlighting those uniquely colored yellow irises.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen such a masculine example of beauty, but it stirred me through to my soul.
One of his brows rose slowly, questioning my thoughts maybe or my intensity. When I didn’t move, he sucked on the cigarette and gently, almost playfully, blew the smoke in my face.
Despite my irascible mood, a smile tugged at my mouth.
