3. Tori
TORI
“The princess returns,” Stefan said, flashing a devilish smirk as I approached.
I had marched back out to the ballroom with my chin up, determined to approach this proposal with an open mind. Now I was standing in front of my maybe-fiancé, trying to reconcile his flirting with the formal, gentlemanly front he’d put up when my parents had been standing there.
I liked him better this way.
“I thought you might’ve run away with a stable boy or something,” he teased. “Not that I would have blamed you. You looked shell-shocked. Though I’ll admit, this whole situation is…”
“I believe the Latin term is ‘insanus maximus,’” I blurted, then immediately regretted it.
But Stefan just tilted his head and laughed, in the same full-throated, infectious way I’d seen earlier.
This time I joined in, and when we shared a smile afterward there was an undeniable spark of heat between us.
This was good. Chemistry. Attraction. And he’d enjoyed my Latin joke.
Whatever lay ahead of us, we would at least have that.
“You are…not what I expected,” he said. “It’s a pleasant surprise.”
“And I hadn’t expected this at all,” I said.
At the end of the day, I knew I was lucky. My father could be trying to marry me off to someone like Congressman Ellis—wealthy, well-connected, but several times my age. Instead, he’d found me a young, handsome man with devastating green eyes and a laugh I already loved.
It still didn’t feel real.
“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot,” Stefan said as the orchestra began to play a waltz. “In the interest of starting over, may I have this dance?”
“You laughed at my nerd humor, so I guess you’ve earned it,” I said with a smile, and took his hand.
He was a good dancer. Incredible, actually. As I fell in step with him, a hum of electricity seemed to buzz between our bodies, his palm hot against mine.
“Your dress is stunning,” he said as we spun around the dance floor. “You look like a fairytale princess. My sister Emzee’s favorite when she was little, I think. The one with the mouse friends and the missing shoe…”
“Cinderella,” I murmured, suddenly struck shy again. His voice was low and soothing, his breath warm in my ear, giving me goosebumps.
“Right. The one with the carriage made from a squash. Completely impractical.”
I laughed, missing one of the steps. “It was a pumpkin, actually.”
“Ah yes,” he said, guiding us back in time with the music. “I’ve always liked pumpkins. They’re the spirit of Halloween. The one night of the year when everyone wears a mask.”
“Do you often wear masks?” I asked. I was trying to tease, but I also wanted an answer.
“We all do,” he said. I couldn’t read his expression, and I wondered what he kept hidden beneath that handsome exterior. Darkness? Danger? Loss?
I realized I was staring when those lips curved up into a smile. “You’re studying me like a book, Victoria Lindsey.”
“Sorry.” I dropped my gaze, my cheeks suddenly burning.
“Don’t apologize. I’ve been warned you’re an academic. An inquisitive mind is nothing to be ashamed of. Just remember what they say about curiosity and the cat.”
Every word out of his mouth sounded erotic. I trained my eyes on his feet and the swish of my dress against the floor, taking several breaths to cool off before I spoke again.
“Please call me Tori. Nobody calls me Victoria unless I’m in trouble.”
“Maybe you are in trouble.”
He smiled, and I had to look away again. His flirting was over the top, but it had its intended effect on me. Was he doing this on purpose, to sway me? And if so, did I really mind?
His hand was firm on the small of my back as we passed close by the orchestra. With the tiniest pressure, he directed me where to go. Dancing with him was like a dream.
This whole thing was like a dream.
Still, this was marriage we were talking about. I was standing in front of the man I might spend the rest of my life with, and he was practically a stranger.
Not practically: literally. I didn’t know anything about him.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty-six,” he offered with a small quirk of his mouth.
He didn’t ask my age. It seemed he’d been given plenty of information about me already.
I bet he’d even been forewarned about my tendency to spout awkward, unexpected facts about the history of certain words and languages.
But even if he’d been given tips or advice on how to talk to me, how to flirt with me, we seemed to have a chemistry that couldn’t be faked.
“You mentioned you had a sister?” I prompted. “Emzee?”
“Yes. She’s a photographer—Mara Zoric. She works closely with our agency.”
“Oh, of course! I’ve seen her stuff before. Not just in fashion. I think it was National Geographic—the mosaic tombs in Marrakech?”
He looks surprised. “Yes. She was so proud of that assignment.”
I grin. “You’re all so accomplished. Are you the oldest of your siblings?”
Stefan nodded, and told me about his younger brother Luka, who was living the dream of all 25-year-olds by draining his trust fund and getting a little too close to KZM’s models. But, I was assured, he was a smart boy who had an MBA and a good heart. He just had some growing up to do.
As we both warmed to the conversation, my nerves eased, and little tidbits of information started coming back to me.
KZ Modeling was in the news enough that I could recall some of the articles that had been written about the company, its models, and Stefan’s family. Their names were just as likely to appear in the headlines of Buzzfeed as they were in The Wall Street Journal.
“And what does your mother do?” I asked, but the moment I did, I remembered what I had read. I also remembered how I’d felt reading it. As if we shared a sort of kinship.
“She died,” Stefan said. “When I was six.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “Mine too. I was two.”
“She was beautiful,” he mused. “She used to paint.”
I smiled. “All I have are photographs. I wish I could remember her.”
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. At least, in this, we understood each other.
“I noticed your surname has Slavic roots,” I finally said, trying to steer the conversation toward something easier. “Where is your family from, originally?”
“Serbia. But I was born and raised here,” he said. “My grandmother always made the best pa?tete, but that’s the extent of my ancestral knowledge. Are you a fan of pastries?”
“I adore them,” I admitted. “I’ve always wanted to travel to the Balkans. Mainly to hear the spoken languages. The Cyrillic alphabet is so cool.”
“I’m sure a trip could be arranged,” he said. He slid his hand upward, coming to rest on my spine just below my shoulder blades. “Perhaps in the near future.”
“I’d be amenable to that,” I told him.
He tilted his head. “Amenable.” He smiled. “Not a word I hear often.”
“It’s a great word,” I said. “From the 1590s. A combination of the French word mener, to lead, and the Latin minare, which meant to drive cattle with shouts. Funny how specific some words are, isn’t it? Who would have imagined that someone would need a word to describe getting cows out of the way?”
Stefan went silent. I couldn’t blame him.
My father was right. Men weren’t interested in smart women—especially ones who babble on about the historic roots of words when they should be flirting and waltzing.
“Ah, there I go again.” I could feel my cheeks burning. “Not to worry though. I don’t always go off on these tangents about words and their meanings…”
Except I did. Shut up, Tori, I told myself. Men like mystery. Be mysterious.
“I didn’t know about the root of the word,” Stefan said slowly. “But I do know some of its modern synonyms. Flexible,” he spun me under his arm gracefully. “Pliant.” He pulled me back into his arms. “Responsive.”
He said the last in a husky whisper.
Oh.
I had always considered language to hold a sensuality of its own. But I had never imagined the power it could have coming from the mouth of a man like Stefan.
Responsive.
I felt responsive in his arms. Very responsive.
His hand was like a brand on my back, radiating heat down my body. For the first time since my father had announced that I would be marrying this man, I allowed myself to imagine what that would be like. What it would entail, to be man and wife in all regards.
Another shiver spread through me.
No doubt a man like Stefan, who handled himself with confidence and control on the dance floor, would be just as skilled in the bedroom.
The hot, taut pull between my legs tightened even further.
Unable to help myself, I moved a little closer, my eyes darting up to meet his. He was staring at me. Intensely.
“Why don’t we get some air?” he asked, his voice low.
“Yes,” I agreed breathlessly. “It’s much too warm in here.”
I let him lead me out onto the balcony. It was quiet out there except for the muffled sounds of the party, shut away behind closed doors. We were alone.
Without his arms around me, the chill air hit me full force, and I rubbed my arms to warm myself. Suddenly, a jacket—Stefan’s jacket—was draped over my shoulders, enveloping me in his residual body heat and his rich, masculine scent.
As the jacket’s silky lining slid against my bare skin, I felt that familiar twist in my lower belly. It made no sense. I barely knew this man, but there was no denying that he did something to me.
How much of this was an act, though? If we were just two people meeting at a party, would he have looked at me twice?
God, but his jacket smelled good. Like expensive, woodsy cologne and a hint of sweet cigar smoke. I wanted to take a deep breath, but I had to pull myself together. Be direct.
“So what are your thoughts on the arrangement our fathers have orchestrated?” I asked.
“The deal was no surprise to me. I’m sure for someone your age it seems strange.”
“Strange is an understatement,” I responded. “You’re the last thing I expected as a birthday present.”
He gave me a crooked half smile.