Page 2 of The Mysterious Billionaire
It’s just so I can steady myself in the heels, I tell myself as he leads me toward the doors. I fight the urge to squeeze his biceps and fail. God, he’s rock hard.
I am not going to think about what other parts of his body might be firm and impressive.
Holding my phone out, I let the guy on the door scan my ticket, and Caesar leads me inside.
“Why don’t I get you a drink?” he asks. “Champagne? Or would you prefer something a little stronger?”
I stop walking, my heart thudding at the sight of so many people. I’d hoped wearing my disguise would be like hiding in a suit of armor, but Brielle was right—the color is drawing everyone’s gaze.
He scans the room and stares to the left at a display of children’s artwork that’s up for auction tonight. A group of people is standing in front of it while a young woman with an emerald dress and striking red hair talks and gestures at the paintings. He backs away like a rhino who’s spotted a poacher in the bushes. “Let’s go through to the bar. It’s quieter there.”
I let him lead me to the right, along the edge of the ballroom. Occasionally he says a few words to people as he passes, and I remember he’s the patron of the AshfordFoundation, the host of the ball. He’s charismatic, warm, and effortless as he greets people, remembering their names as he promises to catch up later.
“You’re Mr. Popular,” I state, a little jealous of the way he’s so relaxed.
He chuckles as we reach the bar and gestures for me to precede him. I walk carefully through the tables, making my way to the left side, where it’s quieter. Once we get there, I breathe easier, glad to have arrived without another ass-over-tit mishap.
“What can I get you?” He leans on the bar beside me.
“A Cosmopolitan, please.” I probably shouldn’t because I know alcohol can have a detrimental effect when mixed with adrenalin, but I desperately need some Dutch courage.
He gestures at the bartender, who comes straight over even though I’m sure there were others who were waiting before us, and orders my Cosmo and a Glenlivet on the rocks for himself. Then he turns to face me, fingers linked, one elbow on the bar.
“Don’t let me keep you from your friends,” I say. “Clearly, you have more important places to be.”
He looks to his left, across the bar and the ballroom beyond. The upper half of his face is hidden behind his mask, but I can see his dark hair, which is cut in a sharp fade. A few lighter strands are visible in it like seams of silver running through stone. I’m not sure how old he is, early thirties, I think, but he’s obviously going to inherit his father’s silver hair.
“Trying to avoid someone?” I ask, watching him scan the room again.
His gaze comes back to me. “I’m supposed to be meeting dignitaries.” He smiles. “But I’d much rather talk to you.” He turns as the bartender comes back with our drinks and nods his thanks. I note that the bartender doesn’t ask him for payment.
Caesar passes mine to me and lifts his glass. “What shall we toast to?”
“To having two left feet.”
He laughs. “To having two left feet.”
We clink glasses, then have a mouthful of our drinks.
“So are you naturally clumsy,” he asks, “or is this a special occasion?”
“Oh, definitely naturally clumsy. I knocked both my front teeth out when I was fourteen riding my bike into a wall.”
His eyes widen behind the mask. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. And when I was eighteen, at a theater production—of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, funnily enough—I went to the loo halfway through the first act and fell down the stairs on my way back to my seat. They had to halt the play while the paramedics carried me out on a stretcher.”
He tries not to laugh, and fails. “So you definitely have a natural talent.”
“Oh yeah. My family refuses to be seen with me in public because they know I’m going to show them up somehow.”
Peter admitted something very similar last night when he broke up with me, which made it clear that his initial ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech was a lie. I look into my glass and swirl the Cosmo around gloomily. I don’t want to think about that asshole.
“What’s your name?”
I look at Caesar and tap my mask. “I thought this was all about disguising our identity?”
“Well, yeah, but it seems unfair when you know who I am.”
