Page 42 of Angel

“I deal in facts, Sophie, you can tell me straight. You soaked me for a reason. You may as well finish the job.”

“I need your help.”

I decide not to insult his intelligence. I guess he would appreciate that more.

“I’m listening.”

“Um.”

I glance around at the couples surrounding us and whisper in his ear, “Not here. It’s um, well, a little delicate.”

“Where?”

“My apartment isn’t far. I make a mean nightcap.”

“You want me to leave when I’ve just arrived?”

He chuckles softly, and for some reason, I love the sound. I can’t help myself and my traitorous bitch of a body leans a little closer. I don’t know why, but he seems familiar somehow. Like a safe harbor in a storm. It certainly feels like that, and yet he pulls back a little, maintaining space between us. A small signal that he’s not interested. Why does that hurt like hell?

The music stops, about to merge into the next tune, and he steps away and scans the room as if searching for someone.

“If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Clere. I must meet with Victor Hargreaves. It was a pleasure being ruined by you.”

He makes to leave, and I hold on to his arm and hate how desperate I sound.

“You won’t help me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

He removes a business card from his pocket and hands it to me.

“My address. I too make a mean nightcap, Ms. Clere, and I will have yours ready at midnight. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I am here for business purposes and nothing else.”

He leaves me standing on the dance floor, gawking after him like a jilted date on prom night. He cuts through the crowd like a hot knife through butter, and I note the envious stares of the men and women following him.

How did I never see him before?

He has been at many of the same events I attend, but I never once realized that man is everything I’ve been searching for and some others thrown in. I’m intrigued, and as I slide his card into my purse. I wouldn’t even care if a booty call is what this signifies. I’m almost hopeful, which reveals how tragic my life is.

“Ms. Clere.”

A soft voice to my right tears my attention away from Jason Prince, and I notice one of the executive producers from the movie I’m making, gazing at me with a look that makes my heart sink.

“May I have the honor of the next dance?”

“Of course.”

I plaster a smile on my face, and much like before, his hand slides around my waist and finds mine. As we drift around the dance floor, he whispers, “I am very impressed with your work, Sophie. I could push a lot of opportunities your way.”

“Um, thank you.”

I swallow hard because I’m so past the casting couch and I wonder what he thinks he’s going to achieve by this.

“You know, I’m throwing a party this weekend on my yacht at the marina. I would be honored if you attended as my guest of honor.”

I have no idea what to say because I may be sought after now, but one word from Sam could end my career stone dead.

“That sounds, um, interesting.”