Page 30 of Cruel Pleasures

I pop on a grateful smile and say, “I’m sorry, but I’m searching for someone. He’s tall. Goldish brown hair? Some would say handsome. Others would say loaded enough that his family owns an island?”

The corner of his mouth quirks much like it had earlier. His version of amusement. “Three. We own three islands. One in America. One in the Mediterranean. Another in the Caribbean.”

“Who’s counting?”

“I waited for you by the staircase,” he says, taking my hand. He tucks it under his arm and begins walking us through the rotating couples. “You weren’t there.”

“Did you think you’d been stood up?”

“I thought maybe, just maybe, you were still hung up about last night.”

I am. It was creepy as hell.

“What was that about anyway? You promised you’d explain.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“If you can handle it.”

He’s taken me to the corner of the dance floor where he proceeds to pull me toward him. His large hand braces against the center of my spine and he brings me up against him with such a dominant, presumptive air I can’t even begin to object. For a second time within minutes, I’m struck breathless as Archer Hurst holds me against his firm body and spins us in sync with the dozens of others.

My gown swishes. My feet practically float. I give up control, letting him lead.

There’s a first time for everything.

It’s impossible not to get swept up in the moment. The atmospheric fantasy of it all, where I’m in a beautiful gown dancing with a man so rich and handsome, my heart beats fast. The twinkling orchestral notes feel never ending as each song blends into the next.

I clutch Archer’s hand and study the angular dimensions of his jawline. Then it occurs to me I never answered him. “I can handle anything.”

“Some would beg to differ.”

“If you’re talking about last night at dinner?—”

“Your scream was heard for miles.”

“Two people died. And you weren’t there.”

“How do you know?” he asks, giving me a dizzying spin. “It doesn’t matter if I was. I heard your scream in the night. You ran away frightened like a child.”

I purse my lips. “I wasn’t frightened?—”

“So you can see why I’d be hesitant to tell you the truth about what you came across.”

“Try me. I’m tougher than I look.”

He spins me again, then pulls me even closer, ’til I feel like I’m being enveloped by him. Overtaken by him. His cologne disorients me more than the twirl, a rich and refined musk that makes me think of sandalwood and bergamot. I find myself inhaling and feeling dazed. Almost like I’m dreaming.

The ballroom, the dance, everything about the moment feels like one.

“I got into a fight,” he says vaguely. His hand explores the expanse of my bare back with a teasing element of sensuality. “I was enjoying an evening out on the town—the last one of the season—when a drunk idiot came at me with a beer bottle he had smashed on a table. He lunged at me and you can imagine how messy things got.

“We struggled for a while, but he was so piss drunk, he tripped and stabbed himself with the glass shard. I tried to stop the bleeding, but I’m no medical professional. It got all over me. Thankfully, the paramedics arrived a few minutes later. I assure you he’s alive and well on a plane ride back home, if not sporting a few more stitches.”

I arch a brow. “You expect me to believe you got into a bar fight? That’s where all the blood came from?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything. You can take or leave the truth. Many choose the latter. Including my mother.”