Page 48 of A Certain Appeal
I give myself a shake and direct my attention to the couples dancing across from me. Some of the waitstaff dance among them, and Esteban sashays my way. I hold my hands up, warning him not to take on such a weak partner. He is undaunted, pulling me toward the floor.
“Look at you, Miss Smiley-Puss. Grinning all by your lonesome. Where are you running off to?” he asks, swaying his hips with finesse even Ming would envy.
“I have work in the morning.”
“Psh. Day jobs. You need to go full vampire, like us.” He channels a convincing Bela Lugosi, opening his arms to include the room. “Embrace the night!”
At my laugh, he drops one of my hands, holding the other high. He looks over my shoulder and grins. “I’m passing you off to someoneverytasty,” he whispers, maintaining the Romanian accent. “You can thank me later.”
Esteban will flirt with peeling paint, so his assurances of tastiness mean nothing. He sets me twirling. I complete a full rotation before he releases me. A wobbly half turn later, I’m blindly accepting the hands of the supposedly tasty one. I’m struggling to stay upright when the hold at my waist pulls me in close. I gasp and brace my hands against broad shoulders, preparing to push away—
Only to find I’ve been spun right into the sturdy arms of Will Darcy.
For a moment, neither of us moves. We stand in a semi-embrace, his hands at my waist, my palms flattened high against his hard chest, and the music ends. As I grapple with whether I’m relieved ordisappointed, the band starts another song, the piano dominating the first few bars. It takes me a moment to recognize the slowed-down version of Weezer’s “Jacked Up.”
Darcy glances at the hand resting above his heart. I watch in dull disbelief as he brings a hand up to cover it. His other hand edges to the center of my low back, palm and fingers pressing into bare skin. My pulse throbs. Tension melts from my shoulders as my awareness homes in on the soft heat of his hands. It’s as though every nerve ending has relocated, shifted to ignite at the points of contact. I make a muddled vow to thank Jane for his impeccable choice in dresses.
We start to sway. He studies my face. Like always, I don’t know what he’s looking for, but as his dark eyes move over me, he can take as long as he’d like to find it. My eyes sting, informing me I’m staring, and I flutter my lids, not wanting to break the connection with a prolonged blink.
“You,” I manage. “Why are...”
His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. “Paperwork. For Charles.”
I nod, though his response doesn’t mean anything to me. Possibly because I’m transfixed by the way his mouth moves when he says “paperwork,” the forward motion of his lips on the last syllable making me wonder what it would feel like if he said it against me, brushing his lips to the side of my neck. I inch closer, sliding my free hand to a more deliberate grip between his shoulder and neck. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, I swear his pupils have dilated.
I shake my head, woozy at the intensity. It’s enough to rouse a prickle of irritation, the vague awareness that he’s done something very, very wrong—
Darcy glides his thumb along my spine and the clarity is lost to a libidinous fog. His hand slides up between my shoulders, then downagain. I arch into the caress without thinking, not that I’m able to do any thinking at the moment. My fingers curl reflexively, squeezing into the muscle of his shoulder beneath the soft chambray of his shirt.
“I...”What was I going to say?
Darcy lowers his head, his “Hmm?” tickling the side of my neck where his lips should be. He smells good. Clean, with a hint of some spice. I probably smell like rum. “What had you smiling earlier?” he asks.
A ripple passes through me. “An opportunity.”
His “Hmm” is more thoughtful this time, but it makes me quiver just the same. “Whatever it is”—another languid swipe of his thumb—“I hope you find it fulfilling.”
I’m about to thank him, but there’s something else I should ask him about...right?I’m supposed to be mad at him, or, at least, not actively plotting to get him to put his mouth on my neck.
“I need to talk to you.” I say it hoping to trigger whatever should follow. I sound dazed, even to myself, and I don’t know why I was so sure a chat is in order when there are other things we could be doing instead. My fingers edge to his neck, tracing his hairline. The hand at my back presses more firmly. I let the gentle pressure guide me closer, and my next inhale has my chest brushing his.
His head dips lower. I hold my breath, angling my face toward him.
We definitely don’t need to talk—
“What is he doing here?” He straightens, and the movement shifts a gust of air that matches the ice in his voice. His eyes are hard, fixed over my shoulder.Oh, hell. Wickham.My chest seizes. That shitshow is what was lodged in the depths of my brain. Damn sexy vibes had me sidelined.
Darcy’s eyes meet mine again. His face softens some. “I’m sorry.”He skims his thumb along my spine, replacing my flash of indignation with ideas about where else his fingers might travel. “You want to talk, and I do, too, but Wickham...” The name settles like a stone in the pit of my stomach. “He’s with your aerialists. Do you know him?” Darcy’s tone thaws with another pass over my skin, his hand returning to the center of my back.
I don’t turn to look at the party behind us; whether it’s because I don’t need to or because I don’t want to create any separation between our bodies, I can’t say. “He’s friends with my boss.” With some defiance, I add, “We’ve had drinks a few times.”
Darcy takes in a breath. A thrill skitters through me. Is that—jealousy?
Do I care?
“You—” His lips press together, hand at my back tensing.
I do care.But I shouldn’t. What Darcy did to Wickham was cruel. He disregarded his own father’s final wishes to ruin the man, sent him fleeing across the country. Wickham may be a flake with exceptionally bad taste in going-out clothes, but no one deserves that. I know what that’s like. It’s taken me three years to get myself back on track, and my situation didn’t have nearly as much baggage and history as what happened with these two. I keep that in the forefront of my mind, and push. “He has been unlucky to lose your friendship, it seems.”
