Chapter Fourteen #2
The open bar was across the hall, which might as well have been the Sahara for how long it took her to cross.
She was stopped by half a dozen faculty members wanting to say hi.
It wasn’t a complete waste of time, as a few were chatting up prominent business leaders in the community, which granted her an opening to introduce herself and hopefully make a lasting impression that would have them waving their sign in the air at the auction.
She tried to extradite herself from one such situation that had become a bit too handsy when a laugh Marcee recognized immediately rang out, cutting through the hum of polite chatter and fake niceties being exchanged.
Ignoring whatever insipid comment the banker had made about the hors d’oeuvre, she strained to look across the room, wishing for once she’d worn higher heels.
There, five feet from the stage.
As a couple peeled away from the group, she caught her first glance of Remy. Even if he weren’t a celebrity, he would stand out. Every man in the room looked muted, as if out of focus, compared to the striking figure he cut.
His suit was custom, the dark gray material almost black in the low lighting and molded to every inch of muscle as if crafted by magic.
The crisp white shirt beneath had the top two buttons undone, exposing a hint of his dark upper chest, while the ends of the sleeves peeked out from beneath the jacket.
A checkered kerchief, expertly folded, rested in the front pocket.
She had never in her life been turned on by a kerchief except in that moment.
He was going to make the charity so much damn money.
Marcee’s fists clenched at her sides just thinking of the paddles waving in the air.
There she’d stand, watching as some blue-blooded politician’s wife gleefully won a training session and used the moment as an excuse to hold Remy’s arm and escort him to her table, all the while undressing him with heavily made-up eyes.
It hadn’t even happened yet and she already wanted to scratch the imaginary woman’s eyes out.
When he smiled, she forced herself to turn away, excusing herself from whoever it was she’d been making noncommittal noises at as she blocked them out. She needed the oblivion of alcohol if she was going to inspect whatever the hell was happening in her sex-deprived little brain.
The bar beckoned, its shiny surface and unassuming cocktail napkins assuring her safe harbor was only a glass away.
“White wine, please.”
Marcee turned her back to the crowd, focusing on maintaining a cool exterior as the bartender poured her a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
It was cool on her tongue as she sipped, traces of her nude lipstick marking the crystal like a stamp.
“Champagne, please.”
She stifled a groan, although she supposed it was inevitable she would run into Mark.
“I didn’t know you knew the word, Mark.” She must’ve been desperate for a distraction if she was addressing him first.
He leaned against the bar, cocky and smiling—as sure of himself as any overprivileged man would be in such a setting.
“Of course I do, Marcee. I’m not a delinquent.
” He took in her dress, eyes sweeping over the dramatic dipping neckline, cinched waist, and flowing skirt.
As she raised the glass to her lips for another drink, he followed the movement.
“You look incredible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before. ”
Marcee rolled her eyes. “I hardly have an occasion to wear them on the field. Besides, track pants suit me fine.”
“I’ll say they do.” He tipped back the champagne flute, draining the contents. “Aren’t you going to say I look good?”
While he did look good, very all-American in his black suit and silver tie, she’d never admit it. He was a pig and a half. Besides, he didn’t hold a candle to Remy.
He accepted another glass of champagne and leaned forward, eyes teasing. “Please?”
“Careful. I’d hate for you to have to sit through another seminar on sexual harassment in the workplace.” She sipped her wine, eyeing him over the rim.
“Well, you may look like a lady tonight, but the real Marcee is still there underneath the makeup.” He pushed away from the bar, glass in hand. “Try to show a little class tonight, eh, Ackerman? I would hate for you to look bad in front of the school board.”
Throwing her drink in his face would probably be a bad idea.
“Ah, here she is!” Marcee turned to the familiar voice, covering her scowl with the glass of wine.
Headmaster Wilkes approached, a photographer hot on his heels.
“Marcee, this gentleman is from the Citizen-Times, covering our humble event. Come with me so we can get a few shots of you and the other coaches.”
“Sure,” she replied and set her drink back down. He directed her through the crowd to an ice sculpture set up near the stage. It’d been carved into the shape of a heart held by a hand. A small plaque next to it read, “Helping Hands, Helping Hearts.”
“The theme of tonight. Spot on, isn’t it?” Headmaster Wilkes beamed, eyeing her expectantly.
Play ball, Marcee. Give him a pity pass so he’ll keep you on the field.
“Brilliant. I assume you came up with it?” Crap, was that too much?
His cheeks flushed. “Well, I certainly had a hand in it, if you’ll pardon the pun.”
She gave a polite chuckle, keeping the strained smile on her face. The night was torture. Absolute ass-kissing torture.
“Okay, everyone, let’s squeeze in together in front of the ice sculpture.” The photographer started putting people in position. “Ms. Ackerman, if you’ll please.”
“Of course.” She turned around, already moving, but pulled up short when she realized her place in line was wedged between Mark and Remy.
Every inch of her skin felt unbearably hot at the look of hunger on Remy’s face as she came closer.
Primal and full of need, the kind of expression that made her imagine it above her, illuminated by moonlight coming in through the bedroom window.
She could fall into those eyes, so dark and deep and sensual.
Marcee forced her feet to move, her face to remain neutral.
It was the low-lit room, the wine, the fancy clothes—she was still his competition, and he was still the man who could make her lose her job.
He was also the man who could make her come harder than anyone ever dreamed of doing.
Apparently, the two weren’t mutually exclusive.
She fell in line, barely registering the other coaches who were chosen to represent the event for all of Asheville and the surrounding areas. When the photographer squeezed them closer together, Remy’s hand fell to her lower back.
Bloody hell.
Marcee knew it wasn’t special. His right hand was positioned the same way on the other soccer coach’s back, albeit much higher up. Regardless, it took her breath away. Need grew in the pit of her stomach, heat spreading lower with every second he touched her body.
His fingers pressed into the base of her spine as if the silk wasn’t even there, as if he could convey something more with the near imperceptible movement. Why was she not breathing?
She inhaled sharply, head swimming, only to be overcome.
“Smoke and mirrors,” she whispered, eyes flickering to Remy. The scent invading her senses was the essential oil from the downtown market, the one she thought he’d bought just to flirt with the vendor.
“Okay, on three! One, two, three!”
There was a series of clicks and flashes, and she had no idea what her face did.
She had a death grip on her purse, willing it to keep her hands in place until she was back at her table.
If she let go, her desire to trace that triangle of skin at the top of his chest with her tongue might overtake her.
She wondered if it was as silky as it looked.
“Beautiful. Thanks, everyone!”
Marcee was about to shoot forward like a racehorse from the gates when he tilted his head toward her. Just like that, she couldn’t move, even if she wanted to. Her lips parted as she traced the outline of his with her gaze.
“You are a vision in that dress, Marcee,” he murmured. His fingers pressed into her lower back.
His voice. She was transported to a moment beneath a blown streetlight, humid summer air curling her hair and his tongue caressing her own. She nearly groaned aloud, remembering his hands on her body. Less than two minutes next to him and her panties were soaked through.
“Thanks,” she responded, little more than a hoarse whisper. “Someone had to show the good people of Belle Cliff how we do.”
She should move. His hand pressed her closer, proprietary in its familiar splay across her back. It was like they’d done it a hundred times, but the way her body trembled at his touch was too new.
His head dipped forward, lips inches from her ear and the scrape of his close-cut hair on her cheek as he whispered, “We need to talk. Tonight.”
The faintest of whimpers escaped her mouth as his breath rippled down her neck.
“No,” she managed to say, eyes pressed together tightly. If she opened them and he was that close to her face, she’d never recover.
He breathed her in, fingers digging into her back as if he could mark her there and then, as if he hadn’t already marked her so irrevocably that summer that she’d remember it for the rest of her life.
“The things I want to do to you,” he whispered.
He was unraveling her resolve one thread at a time, yanking and yanking until she was nearly bare before him. If she stood there any longer, they’d never make it to the auction. And she wouldn’t care.
“I can’t.”
Marcee pulled away from his forcefield and his hands, gasping for air as she weaved between chairs and tables until she took her place next to Nicole.
It was the first time she’d seen her at the event, and Marcee was absurdly relieved to see her face, even if she was the picture of contagion with her red and puffy nose.