Chapter Two
brICE DISENTANGLED HIMSELF FROM THE three or four conversations that people tried to take up with him, and headed for the arena without someone hanging onto his arm.
He’d only been here a few minutes, and he already wished he hadn’t given into Bronson’s insistence that appearing at the soiree would be a good thing.
Every time he appeared in public, it was like this. People surrounding him, talking at him, pawing at his arms. Smiling and laughing with a false charm that made his teeth ache. They all wanted something. That was the worst of it. Above their smiles, their eyes gleamed with ruthless calculation.
“You’re a celebrated groundsman, a former tankball player, and you’re the youngest man to ever sit in the President’s chair, plus you’ve achieved amazing things while you were in the chair.
It’s natural that people want to rub against you, and maybe learn how you did all that.
” Bronson spoke variations of that speech every time he wanted Brice to make a public appearance.
“All I did was love the game and say so in public,” Brice would growl back. “I can’t help it if people listened to me.”
That was his standard counter argument, which Bronson would pull down and disintegrate before sending Brice off to whatever public function he thought Brice should attend. And usually, Bronson was right.
Although this time, Brice thought Bronson had miscalculated. He’d been sitting at the table for barely three minutes before he spotted the error.
Everyone was dancing.
An activity that was beyond him and his cranky leg, so why the hell was he here?
He’d already told four women ‘no’ when they’d suggested he dance with them.
The fourth one had looked offended as she stalked away, the fine gauzy fabric of her gown almost snapping behind her.
Perhaps he’d put too much emphasis on the “no”.
Stars above, what did they think the cane was for? Picking his nose?
He moved into the arena and over to the first gate down into the tank area itself and stood at the top of the steep stairs, looking down at the gleaming walls of the tank, and the rows of empty seats.
A sturdy, waist-high gate barred access to the seats that slid into the wall during games.
He rested his cane against it and crossed his arms.
Five minutes of alone time. That would have to do.
He scanned the seats. He could recall without effort hundreds of games with every seat filled, and everyone in those seats screaming their support for their team of choice. The roar when a team scored. The screams of delight or sorrow when a game was decided.
The cheers and the pummeling on the walls when a favorite player executed a crowd-pleasing acrobatic move, or saved the play with a desperate but skilled comeback.
There were just as many games he could remember from inside the tank, watching the crowd respond to everything he did.
Brice drew in a slow deep breath and picked up his cane. He couldn’t stand here forever. Nor could he stay here until the ball was over.
He turned and stepped out into the main gallery and rammed straight into a women hurrying back to the ball.
The woman was tall, yet light. She made a shocked, gasping sound and staggered sideways.
She was going to topple, Brice judged. He’d watched too many people trying to manipulate themselves in zero gee and heavy gee.
Normal gee was just as ruthless if your center of gravity was thrown off as hers was.
That all passed through his mind as he staggered back himself, and got the cane back under his weight, propping himself up. He threw out a hand to grab her arm, only she was too far away.
Then she did the smartest thing anyone could do in that situation, that required thinking instead of reacting. She crouched, and thrust out her hand to push against the industrial carpeting. It saved her from sprawling on her stomach.
The voluminous layers of her dress spread around her, surrounding her in rich red and black patterns.
It wasn’t flowers, which many of the dresses he’d seen tonight had printed on them.
And it wasn’t a glimmery plain color that outlined a woman’s body a bit too obviously—especially as some of the bodies wearing the shining dresses shouldn’t be.
“Oh, holy cow bells!” the woman said. Her voice was deep for a woman’s. Nice.
“Holy what?” he asked, startled into a near laugh. “I’m sorry, that was my fault. Here, let me help you up.”
She looked up at him. She had masses of pale blond hair that was nearly white, all piled on the top of her head, with little wisps escaping to brush her face and her neck.
A thin face, and a high forehead. Straight brows, the type that looked as though they were drawn together a lot.
A straight nose over full lips that weren’t pushed into an artful rosebud.
She had a generous mouth…but she was not smiling right now.
“Can you help me up?” she asked with a candid, interested tone.
“I do have one good leg,” he told her and held out his hand.
She took the hand, and he pushed the tip of the cane into the floor behind him, bracing himself.
She pulled against his hand, clearly needing his assistance.
Then she let it go, with no lingering or stroking that some other women—and some men, come to that—might have done, to take advantage of the moment.
She brushed at the wisps, then brushed off the hand she had planted on the floor. “Thank you.”
Brice looked her over. In the five minutes he had been in the ballroom he had seen a bewildering number of ballgowns, and all of them seemed to be designed to show off the female form with low cut necklines, or strapless things that barely seemed to stay up, slashes up thighs, and cut away sections that displayed handfuls of gleaming flesh—to the point where he wondered why they were bothering to wear the dress at all.
It revealed more than it hid, and the word “indecent” had flittered through his mind.
This woman’s dress was none of those things. It had a high neckline, right up under her chin. There were no sleeves, which displayed well-toned, slender arms and a bracelet with red and black gems in it.
The body of the dress did cling to her, yet it covered her from her throat to hips. She was slender, with a graceful inward curve at the waist.
The full layers of the skirt started at her hips, not her waist, which gave the dress an intriguing shape. There seemed to be more fullness behind her than in front, too, and the hem touched the ground, holding the dress out more than the layers beneath did.
He pulled his gaze back to her face and frowned. “Do I know you?” The face, now she was standing and looking directly at him, tugged on a memory that wouldn’t form.
“You do not,” she replied. “I don’t like tankball.”
He felt his lips part in surprise. Clearly, she knew who he was. “Then why are you at the ball?”
“The social event of the year? When I can wear this…?” She turned, displaying the dress.
“I thought the Endurance picnic next month was the social event of the year,” Brice muttered.
“If you like grass stains, you might think that way.” Her smile was full of knowledge.
Then it turned impish, which was astonishing, for the woman was not young.
She was his age…perhaps even a bit older, although her smooth skin was deceptive.
“Besides,” she said in a conspiratorial tone, “I can’t dress like this at the picnic. ”
“You could, if you wanted to.”
“I prefer to be taken seriously.” Her smile didn’t fade, yet he sensed that she was speaking a flat truth.
She waved toward the main doors of the arena, where other ball attendees were moving in and out, heading for the facilities, or returning to the ball.
“I should return to my table before my son starts to worry.”
She was here with a son, not a lover. He absorbed that information.
“Go ahead. And again, I’m sorry.” Over her shoulder, Brice spotted someone hovering, clearly waiting for him to be done with his conversation so the man could leap and grab his attention, and paw and dig for whatever it was he wanted.
“I don’t suppose,” Brice said, “you could walk back to the ball with me?”
Her eyes widened. Then she shook her head the tiniest bit. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s just that there’s a man hovering behind you, waiting to talk to me.”
“And you don’t want to talk to him?” Her tone was sympathetic.
“I shouldn’t have come here at all, but…”
“But you’re the president of the association putting the whole thing on, so you had to make an appearance,” she finished.
He stared at her. “Who are you?”
“No one you need to know here and now,” she replied.
And that didn’t intrigue him at all. Was she doing it deliberately? There was something a bit odd in the way she had said it, too.
“I do want to go back,” she added. “You’d better walk with me, then.” She turned toward the doors. He walked alongside her. “Although I doubt that me alone is enough to hold off the hoards.”
He nearly laughed again. “You’re enough if he thinks we’re….” He couldn’t shrug, not using the cane.
“You’re a little young for me.” Her tone was amused. “I have a grown son who can only be fifteen years younger than you.”
“I’m older than I look,” he said, ruffled. “All those healthy sports when I was younger.”
He suspected she was shortening her steps for his sake, for she had long legs that could probably match him stride for stride…
if he could stride anymore. They moved passed the man in the tuxedo, who had the good sense not to try to waylay him, and moved out through the doors of the arena and into the roped-off corridor back to the ballroom area.
“Is your son alone at your table?” Brice asked her. He couldn’t think why else she would be so anxious to return.