As it turned out, it did both.
CHAPTER ONE
SAINT MONTGOMERY WOULD have been ushered down the red carpet with or without a date, but he was solo tonight, so he chose the less conspicuous side entrance where he was funneled like a steer for branding past a thinner bank of photographers. He couldn’t avoid the barrage of questions on his recent breakup, however.
“Saint! Are you and Julie still speaking? What happened?”
He should have brought a date. A new face would have changed the narrative, and God knew he was tired of this one.
Historically, his romantic liaisons were casual and pleasant and ended without conflict. If asked about a particular breakup, he would claim “artistic differences” or some other facetious explanation.
His affair with Julie, however, was the gift that kept on giving. Or taking, as it turned out.
He’d caught her trying to break into his laptop. She’d claimed to be the jealous type who’d suspected him of an affair. He had assured her he was the possessive type, especially when it came to his proprietary software.
Saint wasn’t surprised she’d had a mercenary motive in sleeping with him. Most people operated in their own self-interest, including him, but this experience had shaken his already jaded view of his fellow human beings.
When he had begun seeing Julie, he had taken her at face value, believing she hadn’t needed anything from him beyond affluent companionship. She was the daughter of a famous sportscaster in the US and stood to inherit millions. She had recently broken up with a star athlete and had told Saint she wasn’t ready for anything serious again. She wanted marriage and children “someday” but not today. She had fit seamlessly into his social circle of tycoons and celebrities, flirting and charming wherever she’d gone.
She had seemed an even match for Saint, who always promised monogamy, but little else. He had dropped his guard more than he normally would, never suspecting that Julie had a gambling addiction. Or that she would attempt industrial espionage to pay down her debts.
She could have cost him billions if his bespoke security software hadn’t alerted him to her attempt to clone it. He hadn’t pressed charges. He’d gone easy on her, expelling her from his life while offering to pay for a treatment program.
She had petulantly refused, then gone on every damned talk show in the English-speaking world, literally selling a tale that he had wronged her.
This story was well past its shelf life. Saint was beyond ready to change the channel.
“You can wait for your party over there.” Ahead of him, the greeter waved a woman into purgatory on the far side of the single door and invited the group ahead of him to come forward.
A kick of desire arrested him as he ate up the vision in blue.
Who was she? She wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. More eye-catching in an undiscovered, wallflower way. Most women had arrived dressed to compete with plunging necklines and tiaras and capes made of ostrich feathers. This one’s makeup was muted. Her brunette hair fell in subtle waves from a side part. Rather than an ice cap’s worth of diamonds, she wore a pair of gold hoops and a thin chain with a locket. Her gown was a simple halter style that tied behind her neck before cradling her ample breasts in soft gathers above a high, wide waistband. The skirt fell in a solid curtain off her wide hips, leaving her legs and shoes hidden.
He let his gaze return to those lovely breasts sitting heavy and relaxed in the gathered cups of silk. No bra. He would swear it on his life. Her nipples were leaving a subtle impression beneath the sheen of fabric. One soft swell lifted and moved without restraint as she brushed her hair back from her cheek.
He swallowed. Saint was a healthy man with a strong sexual appetite, but he rarely felt need. Not like this. Not hunger that was immediate and intense and specific.
Her unease was palpable as she pressed a self-conscious smile onto her lips and eyed the bank of photographers. They were ignoring her in favor of new arrivals at the end of the line.
Wait. Was she looking for a path of escape? She pressed her lips together and took a step.
“Angel,” Saint said on impulse, stepping toward her. “I’m so glad you decided to come.” He crooked his arm in invitation, aware of the cameras shifting to the pair of them.
“What?” Her amber gaze flashed to Saint, hitting him like a shot of whiskey, sending even more heat pouring into his gut and out to his extremities. The delicious warmth sank to pool low and heavy behind his fly. It was exciting. Dangerous, but exciting.
“Sir.” The greeter reacted to Saint trying to bypass him, then stammered, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Montgomery. Of course you may go in.”
“We’re blocking the entrance,” Saint said, steadying his new date’s faltering steps as he guided her into the noisy foyer, then found them a quiet corner in the main gallery.
She blinked, taking in the freestanding sculptures and abstract oils surrounding tables placed like stepping stones into the labyrinth of the gallery’s showrooms. The glitterati milled in pockets at the edges. Above them, origami flowers were suspended on threads, drifting and bobbing on gentle, unseen currents, like an upside-down meadow.
The woman’s enchantment was cute, her uptilted mouth in that rosy pink nearly irresistible.
“I was stood up, too,” Saint said, signaling a server to bring champagne.
“You’re joking.” Her wide-eyed gaze came down from the ceiling as she took the glass he handed her.
“Prevaricating,” he admitted. No one would ever leave him waiting. “I parted ways with my date two weeks ago.”
“I’m so sorry.” She sounded sincere, which was adorable.
“It’s for the best. And you? Who had the poor taste to leave you hanging?”
“Are we prevaricating?” Her chin dropped in a sly, self-deprecating dip. “I actually knew my...um...date wouldn’t be here. I came anyway, hoping they’d let me in, which they didn’t. So you’ve aided and abetted a party crasher.” She wrinkled her nose.
“I’ve done worse.”
She started to say something, then checked herself, biting her lips with contrition.
“What? You’ve heard that about me?” That was no surprise. He’d misspent his young adult years on wine, women and song. He was a lot more circumspect these days, but that playboy reputation remained his calling card and had its uses, so he didn’t fight it.
“Maybe.” Her lashes flickered as her gaze traveled across the unpadded shoulders of his jacket and down to the buttons that closed it.
He stole the opportunity to take another long drink of her figure-eight figure—which was a solid ten. He came back in time to see the tip of her tongue slide along the seam of her lips.
Her bottom lip was wide and full, the top one thinner with two sharp peaks in the center and an uptilt at the corners that gave an impression she had an amusing secret.
Damn, but he wanted to kiss her. Right. Now.
