Page 43 of The Alpha Escort Agency
Chapter 12
He feels sick. He can’t remember feeling this sick since he had to stand up in front of the class and give a presentation just as his voice was breaking and had veered unpredictably from wild squeaks to low grunts. He didn’t even feel this nervous on his first escort assignment.
What is wrong with him? Why does having his photographs seen and judged by strangers seem so much worse, so much more personal, than having a stranger judge his sexual prowess?
He lurks in the corner nursing the glass of prosecco Hugo had given him when he showed up far too early to the exhibition. Alice has to work late and told him she couldn't make it until the last hour. Yet, here he’s been, hovering about like a spare part. Dressed in his tux, he may look like he belongs, but he doesn't.
Still, at least from here he can’t quite see his three pictures, two hanging in the centre of the gallery, one at the edge, and he can almost pretend this isn’t happening. Around him there is the murmur of voices, the low notes of jazz and the tangle of scents.
Then he smells her. His brain is becoming more and more fine-tuned to her scent. He could easily pick it out in a crowd now or follow it through the maze of a city. To him, it is so vivid, so clear, it seems to set alight the molecules of air around him. He sees her a moment later and his breath catches in his throat. It happens every time he lays his sight on her. Sometimes he seems to forget how stunning she is, as if he can’t believe it’s true when she’s not there with him.
The dim spotlights catch in the black strands of her hair, pinned messily on her head, exposing the smooth slope of her throat and the delicate bones of her clavicle. Loose curls fall onto her cheekbones, framing her big green eyes, sparkling under the lights. She wears a light black dress that skims her curves and has him wanting to glide his hands over every part of her.
His eyes remain locked on hers and her own search the room and find him, and then she’s walking towards him, eyes bright, hips swaying.
She's halfway across the floor when a short, squat man steps forward and blocks her path. The man says something to her and she smiles politely, making to move around him. But he blocks her again, his hand touching her forearm, and her gaze drops to the floor.
Dickhead! Can't the arsehole see he's making her uncomfortable? Rory wants to rush at the man and knock the living daylights out of him. But he swallows that away and paces towards them, determined not to show his simmering outrage.
"Alice," he says as he approaches them, and in one swift movement he grips the man’s wrist, his fingers tight and painful, and yanks the man’s hand away. Alice’s eyes flick up to him in relief and he squeezes the man’s wrist. Stepping between him and Alice. It’s all done quickly and deftly, and no one but the two men know what’s passed. Then Rory kisses Alice’s cheek and his hand rests on the back of her neck. The gesture is clear. She's his and anyone else can piss off. Ignoring the other man, he guides her away to his corner and then releases her, giving her space.
“Thank you for that,” she says, taking the glass from his hand and helping herself to a sip.
“You’re welcome.”
Her eyes survey the gallery. “It’s so busy,”
“Yes.” She peers up at him, amusement dancing in her eyes, one brow cocked. His fingers itch to touch her, and he grazes his fingertips over her waist. “You look beautiful, Alice.”
“You look pretty good yourself,” she says, reaching up and tweaking the black tie fastening around his neck. “You look good in a suit. Very James Bond.”
“James Bond never had long hair.”
“Hmmm, maybe he should have.” She holds his gaze, and his fingertips fall a little lower to her hip. She grins, and that lovely fresh pink dances across the bows of her cheeks. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that.”
“I can’t help it.”
She takes another sip of his drink and swallows. “Which ones are yours?” She steps back, taking his hand in hers.
He groans.
“Oh, come on. You have to show me.” He closes his eyes. This was inevitable, but somehow he’d forbidden himself to think about it. But now here it is. She wants to see the photos all blown up and framed. “I’ll make it worth your while,” she whispers into his ear and his eyes spring open, searching out hers.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.” He guides her along to the first photo, standing behind an elderly couple as he waits for her to cast her eyes over it. It's one he took at dusk, when the day was on the very verge of tipping into night and sucked the colour from the earth, leaving everything a silent grey. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“Do you want me to or not?” she asks gently, stroking his fingers.
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I would like you to, if you’re happy to share your opinion.”
She chews her bottom lip and his stomach sinks. She doesn’t like it.
“You don’t like it,” he blurts out.
“No, I do, it’s just, I don’t know, it has a sad feel about it. A sorrow. I feel sad gazing at it.” She squeezes his hand. “It’s not a bad thing, Rory. Art is meant to make you feel. It’s just ….”
