15. Natalie #2
She ducked into another restroom and stuffed wads of toilet paper in each cup of her bra. The electric hand dryer had little effect on her shoes. She shoved her feet back inside them, cringing with each squishy step.
Please, for the love of all things holy, get me out of here.
Back in the ballroom, she pushed through the crowd, muttering ‘excuse me’ more times than she had in her entire life. Halfway to the exit, a heavy hand clamped on her shoulder. She whipped around, ready to unleash fury—then froze.
Roman.
No effing way.
He tipped his mask down. “I thought that was you."
"Oh my God … hi." Natalie’s voice thinned.
Of all the ballrooms in all the cities in all the world, Roman DeLuca—Grand Prix golden boy—stood inches away.
"You look incredible,” he said, kissing her cheeks in smooth Italian fashion.
“How did you recognize me behind this thing?” She touched a hand to her mask.
"You and Reese Witherspoon are the only women I know with perfect, heart-shaped jawlines." He stroked his chin thoughtfully.
Not the jawline. He’s always had a thing about it.
“So, uh … what are you doing here?"
“Visiting friends and looking at real estate.”
"You're moving to Chicago?" her voice cracked.
“The Hamptons. Our friends have a house there and are looking to sell. A vacation home.”
"The Hamptons, huh? Some gorgeous properties out there. I hear it’s a buyer's market."
Buyer's market? You don’t know a damn thing about east coast real estate. Stop babbling!
"How’s your father?" he asked.
"Fine. Running around like always, chasing horses like a man in his twenties. We’re throwing him a surprise birthday party this weekend.”
"And that naughty sister of yours?"
"Still naughty. Actually, she's doing well. Still teaching sculpture at Rice."
Natalie's insides twisted as she reacquainted herself with his brown eyes behind his ram mask. His hair was shorter, but still as thick as she remembered. Ugh, gorgeous jerk. Natalie scanned for a passing server, wishing she had a drink in hand.
Something really strong.
Like gasoline.
Roman stepped closer. "Tell me about your life here. I want to know everything."
"There's really not much to tell."
"But there is. Your new job. New friends. You look happy … and more beautiful than ever.”
The charms of his winning smile and sexy accent were a practiced spell. She fell under it for a few minutes before instinct and better judgment pulled her back. Roman always played an angle.
He doesn’t think I’m ready to give him another chance, does he?
"Roman?" A woman's voice floated from behind them.
Natalie stiffened.
Of course he’s not here alone.
He's Roman Goddamn DeLuca.
"I’ve gotta go,” Natalie said. “Very early flight."
She extended her hand, but he brushed it away. He pulled her in for a long hug, her skin prickling when his fingers touched her back.
“Maybe we can have dinner while I’m in town," he whispered.
Before she could respond, the woman appeared. A stunning redhead … with a noticeable baby bump.
"Roman, our friends are waiting." She slipped her hand inside his.
"Darling,” Roman said, “this is my dear friend, Natalia Powell."
"Nice to meet you." Natalie held out her hand in shock, unable to focus on anything other than the pregnant belly of the woman on Roman's arm.
"Bronwyn DeLuca," the woman said, smiling thinly through her raccoon mask.
Holy shit. She's his wife.
Natalie heard nothing after that.
They're expecting a baby? The man who swore he never wanted kids?
Look at her. A supermodel in her last trimester while I’m the human equivalent of a drippy vanilla ice cream cone.
"I must go. Nice to meet you, Bronwyn."
Roman kissed his wife's hand. "Darling, you go ahead. I'll be right there."
Natalie turned and pushed into the crowd, but she didn’t get far. Roman called her name.
“Natalia! Natalia, wait!”
She ignored him. But seconds later he grabbed her arm, firmly enough that she had no choice but to stop.
"Please," he said. “There’s more I need to tell you.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but shock silenced her words.
Her eyes caught sight of a man across the tuxedoed crowd—the only man with a mask dangling from his hand instead of concealing his face.
A fox mask. He walked toward the entrance of the reception area, stopping every few steps to cough into his elbow.
Even sick, he still looked like something out of a movie. A Steve McQueen movie.
Oh. My. God.
The sick guest was Mr. Crown!
A scene of them wrapped up in conversation, Egyptian cotton sheets, and each other's arms ricocheted through her mind. Roman turned his head, following Natalie’s gaze.
“Natalia? Who is that?”
She tried to step away, but Roman’s grip tightened.
“Natalia, listen to me,” he begged.
“I need to—Roman, let go!”
She yanked free, losing her balance and stumbling into another guest. The man's glass slipped and a wave of red wine crashed against her. A quick apology and she was off, as fast as her heeled feet could carry her.
"Thomas!" she called. “Thomas Crown!”
Gala noise swallowed her voice. She sprinted through the ballroom to the lobby.
By the time she made it to the revolving doors, Mr. Crown was climbing into a cab.
She watched it disappear down Michigan Avenue.
She flagged down the next available cab and gave the proverbial chase.
But the most famous thoroughfare in Chicago was filthy with cabs.
After a couple of blocks, she reluctantly ended her pursuit.
Her forehead touched the cab’s cool window. A tear slid down her cheek.
He was here.
Right-freaking-here.