Page 22 of Pretty Mess

Fox smiles at me. “You should fetch a high price,” he says, moving closer and speaking low. “But do only what pleases you. There is no force under my roof. I must remind you that I only facilitate the agreement you make tonight. Any further arrangements with your client are your own business. However, if you do need some advice, I am always at your service.” His brown eyes seem to cloud for a second and then he turns to my friend. “Julian, I have had an offer for you.”

Julian raises an eyebrow. “How much?”

It’s stunning to me that he doesn’t ask who. That would be my first question if I knew people here.

Fox’s brow wrinkles, and then he names a figure. My eyes widen, but Julian just shrugs and says as regally as if he’s at court, “I will talk to him.” Fox nods, and Julian turns to me. “I’ll have to go. Will you be okay on your own?”

Panic fills me for a moment at the thought of being here alone, but it’s not up to Julian to babysit me. “I’ll be fine.” I offer him a smile.

He grimaces. “Please don’t do that. It looks like you’ve got lockjaw. Now remember what I said. Don’t accept the first offer. Hold out for as much as you can. They’ll pay it. Smile and don’t slouch.”

“Goodness, it’s like you’re a parent. Howveryendearing,” Fox observes.

Julian glares before walking away, his body a long line of grace. There might be prettier men here, but not one of them seems to have his charisma.

Fox watches him go, and I, in turn, watch Fox. His expression is hard to read, and he smooths it away as he turns to me. “You are a fascinating person, Wes.”

“Oh, I don’t think that.”

“It’s a rare man who gets under Julian’s skin.”

“But I’m not trying to do that. I’m his friend.”

“Really? He doesn’t usually do friends, which makes you even more unusual.”

“Well, I find you interesting too.”

Humour twinkles in his eyes. “Many men do.”

“So, this is your job? You throw parties so men can meet men?”

“You make me sound like a matron in a Jane Austen novel.”

“You’re just missing the bonnet and the high-pitched screech.”

He chuckles, and I watch a waiter make a discreet beckoning gesture at Fox. “Excuse me,” Fox murmurs. “It seems I’m needed.” He pauses. “Don’t go anywhere with anyone unless there’s an offer on the table,” he says firmly. “One of my staff will approach you and tell you when that happens.” He tugs at a strand of my hair. “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”

I watch him go, feeling suddenly very alone. I give a start when a man comes up next to me. He towers above me, and he’s big in that way that happens when bulky muscle turns tofat. He has a round face with a mouth that seems drawn tight in aggravation. I’d noticed him earlier circling the room, eyeing up the men like he was at a restaurant and noting the specials.

“Good evening,” he says. His voice is beautiful—rich and deep.

“Oh. Erm, h-hello,” I stutter. I take a breath to calm myself.

“Ian Harris,” he says, offering me a hand. I take it and shake it, immediately resisting the urge to wipe my hand on my trousers. His palm is wet and clammy.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I understand you’re new here.”

“Getting older by the minute, though.”

He chuckles, but the laughter doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which are a cold grey and sunk in folds of flesh. “Well, you’re the object of much attention, young man.” He looks me up and down, and there’s something so greedy and slimy in his gaze that I want to step away. He reaches out and pulls on a strand of my hair. It’s a sharp gesture that makes me wince. “Surfer hair. I like it. Do you surf?”

Only if you consider riding out awkward conversations to be surfing.I only just stop myself from pulling away from his touch. I’m wishing that I’d shaved my head before coming tonight, when I realise he’s waiting for a reply. “No,” I say quickly.

Looking away, I catch the gaze of my crow-like mystery man. He’s watching us with those fierce blue eyes. Our gazes tangle, and I feel a buzz of heat run up my spine.

Ian Harris stirs next to me, dragging my attention back to him. He isn’t looking at me, though. Instead, he’s staring at the man at the table. They look at each other, and then Ian raises his glass in a salute, and my mystery man simply inclines his head. It’s a regal gesture and a dismissive one. I can feel Ian stiffen next to me.