2
Tack
I didn’t typically care for charity galas. I’d been to dozens in the last two years and anxiously anticipated my own charity affair in a few weeks. But this night, I had to make good on Abby’s request to attend with her. She’d been good enough to be the jewel on my arm in the past.
“The Red Dress Affair is important to women’s health, Tack.” Abby Goodwin’s mother died of a heart attack, her heart disease undetected because she was too young. The loss came when Abby was at a vulnerable age and needed a mother. Since then, her father had tried to get her two more. Neither woman made the cut for Maxwell Goodwin.
“I know, Abby,” I said, patting her hand. She sat next to me in the limo, her blonde hair curled in some elaborate confection, her red dress tight and too sparkly. Her body was too angular for me. Her posture too rigid. We weren’t affectionate with one another, although she played a role for me. She kept the paparazzi at bay about my lacking love life. Unfortunately, Abby was beginning to use the advantage to aide hers. I had this strange, foreboding feeling, like maybe tonight was a mistake, but I had promised her, and I tried to keep my promises.
I’ll find you. The biggest promise given to me and it had been broken. Juliet Montmore disappeared from my life. She’d never come to find me, but I vowed I would not lose her. I was still waiting for her. I’d confirm she was safe, secure, and satisfied—with me. There would be no substitution. She belonged with me.
As we entered the main ballroom, filled with women in red and men in tuxedos, there appeared to be one woman who missed the memo. She was a vision in silver. With masks in place for this masquerade affair, there was no way to identify who she was, but something about the way she walked seemed familiar. Her silver dress was cut straight across her full breasts with a hint of skin atop a subtle ruffle. Thick beading filled the bodice, while the rest of the material flowed to her feet. The dress looked familiar, too, but I couldn’t place it. I didn’t bother with society or who wore what, but I couldn’t deny my eyes were drawn to her.
Cocktails, hors d’oeuvres, and dinner passed in a blink. Bourbon helped the time pass. When the dancing began, I noticed the woman in silver with a man in a navy blue tux. He’d missed the memo as well—black tie.
“Who is that?” I mocked, staring over my glass before taking another hardy gulp of my bourbon neat.
“That’s Miller James,” Abby muttered. “I think he crashed the party with his friend. His mother’s one of the co-hostesses. He’s a bit of a rebel.” He wasn’t much taller than the woman in his arms. His hair was perfectly coiffed. They laughed in unison. Her head tipped back with that laughter, and the curve of her neck caught my attention. Her hair was swept up in a purposely messy twist, allowing her neck to be exposed.
“Rebel? How?” I asked, setting my drink on the table. Branson Marx had joined our party at my generous donation. He’d asked a friend, as well, and they were engaged in their own inspection of the woman in silver.
“He isn’t conforming to what daddy wanted him to be.” Abby wiggled her brow.
“A man of worldly business?” I questioned with a laugh, knowing that’s what my father wanted of me. I’d veered in a different direction, but felt confident my business was helping the world.
“A man who’s straight,” Abby said flatly. I glanced up again at the two dancing and noticed the subtle hints. He could be. I wasn’t a man to recognize another who played for the other team. It made no difference to me as long as he accepted I only batted in one direction. Maybe he played for both. His arm was wrapped around his date in a possessive way, and she playfully pressed her hands to his chest.
The music was a sultry mix of alternative and acoustics. It wasn’t your typical ballroom dancing song, and it had the guests hesitant to participate. The raspy female sound filled the air, and several couples exited the dance floor. The woman in silver remained, as did her non-conforming, navy-clad date.
The smoky sound was one I hadn’t heard in two years or more, and something about the way the woman stepped back from her man and swung her arms looked familiar. Her feet did this little stomping movement, and her hips swayed in a choppy way. The beat continued in a steady, almost tribal rhythm, and her hips increased in tempo.
“Excuse me,” I said, rising slowly from my seat, pulled to this woman as if by an invisible string. There was something unsettling about her movements, and I stepped onto the dance floor without a thought. I tapped her date, who took the hint and stepped off. I should have considered him a putz for leaving his girl with a total stranger, but something in my expression must have told him I’d break him if he didn’t move.
Her back was to me. Her body rippling as her arms rose above her head and my hand reached for her hip. I stepped up to her and her head swung to look at me over her shoulder. A short gasp escaped her lips and she spun to search for her date.
“Just one dance,” I said, and her head swung up to face me. The mask blocked most of her face, and she quickly averted her eyes before I could even glimpse their color. I began to move her, my hand on her hip as a guide, and we fell into a rhythm I recalled from long ago. Her arms rose in the air once again and my palms skimmed up her sides, etching out her curves. My skin tingled in recognition of something not felt in years. She slipped a hand between us, and I tugged her to me. Then I spun her away from me and curled her back. The dance was too easy, her fit against me too right. We moved as one before I gripped the material of her skirt and tugged it upward. My hand slipped under her thigh, hitching it against mine and dipping her back. I couldn’t risk kissing her, but my nose skimmed her neck. She smelled tropical.
My eyes whipped to hers as I stood her upright, but as if she knew the next move, she stepped out and I spun her away from me again. She curled back and collided with my chest. Enveloped within my arms, her back to my front, we moved as one once more. My nose rubbed along her shoulder to her neck and inhaled again.
“Do I know you?” I whispered, teasing her to tell me, wanting her to be my Juliet. The music stopped, but we were still moving, slowly winding down the song in our head. She gasped, and I noticed the guests all had their eyes on us, including Abby, Branson and his date, Maria.
My dancing partner tugged forward, and I released her. She scrambled to the edge of the dance floor and the curve of her backside brought back another memory.
“Mouse,” I whispered, and she stopped. My shoulders shot upward, and I stepped forward just as she stepped off the parquet flooring. She picked up speed as she dodged among the tables to the exit.
“Tack?” Abby’s hand caught my forearm, and I stopped. Glancing down at my arm cost me. I looked up to find I’d lost the girl.
“That was her,” I barked at Branson as if he should know. “What does she own? She has to be someone if she were a member of this party.”
Branson smirked as if he knew a secret.
“She owns a not-for-profit group.”
“Buy it,” I demanded. My heart raced in my chest. The need to possess anything that was hers suddenly consumed me.
“I don’t think non-profits work like that,” Branson replied, taking a sip of his beer.
“Then donate to her. However much it takes.”
“I have a plan in place,” Branson answered, and my brows rose in interest.
“Who is she to you?” Abby asked, her voice soft with a hint of sharpness infused.
“I…” I didn’t know who this new version of her was, but everything else about her was too familiar.