Chapter 4 #2
I'm about to thank him when I notice a man watching us from the edge of the dance floor.
Tall, dark-haired, with the kind of looks that probably open doors everywhere he goes.
He's not even pretending to pay attention to his companion—his eyes are fixed on me, traveling from my face down to where the dress hugs my hips and back up again.
The appraisal is so blatant it makes my skin prickle.
Christian follows my gaze, his body tensing against mine the moment he spots the man. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking visibly beneath the skin.
"James Whitaker," he says, voice low and cold. "Ambitious. Arrogant. And apparently lacking basic manners."
"We met him earlier," I recall. "By the display."
"Yes." The single word is clipped, final.
Christian's hand presses more firmly against my back, angling our bodies so his shoulder blocks James's view of me. The possessive gesture should bother me. It doesn't. Instead, a warm flutter travels through my stomach, up to my chest.
When the dance ends, Christian doesn't release me immediately.
His hand slides from my back to my waist, keeping me close as he guides me from the floor.
We move toward one of the bars set up around the perimeter of the ballroom.
Even with Christian beside me, I feel eyes following—assessing, curious, some openly admiring.
"White wine," Christian tells the bartender, not bothering to ask what I want. Before I can be annoyed, he adds, "Unless you'd prefer something else?"
"White wine is fine," I say, surprised he remembered from our brief conversation about preferences during the car ride.
As we wait, a man in his fifties approaches. Distinguished, silver at his temples, with a smile that's probably closed a thousand deals.
"Christian," he nods, then turns to me with too-bright interest. "And you must be the artist I've been hearing about. Sophie, is it?"
"Yes," I extend my hand, which he takes, holding it slightly too long.
"Richard Thompson," Christian supplies tersely. "CEO of Thompson Media."
"Your ornaments are exquisite," Richard says, still holding my hand. "Much like their creator."
I feel my cheeks heat at the obvious line. "Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed the display."
"I'd love to commission some pieces for my company's executives. Perhaps we could discuss it…privately?" His eyes flick to Christian, then back to me. "Over lunch, say, tomorrow?"
Before I can respond, Christian steps closer, his shoulder pressing against mine. "Sophie's schedule is full tomorrow. And the next day." His voice drops several degrees. "Any business inquiries can be directed through my office."
Richard finally releases my hand, his smile tightening around the edges. "Of course. I didn't realize you were representing her professionally as well."
The implication—that Christian is representing me in other ways—hangs in the air between us.
"I represent my company's interests," Christian replies smoothly. "Sophie's work is currently one of those interests."
Richard retreats with a nod that doesn't quite mask his irritation. As he walks away, the bartender places our wine glasses on the counter. Christian hands one to me, his fingers brushing mine deliberately.
"You don't need to shield me from every man who expresses interest in my work," I say, taking a sip to steady my nerves.
Christian's eyes darken. "That wasn't interest in your work."
"It was partly about my work," I counter, though I know he's right. "And I can handle unwanted advances on my own. I do run a shop frequented by tourists, you know."
"Not like these men." He scans the room, his expression hardening as he notices several pairs of eyes still trained in our direction. "These are predators who think everything has a price."
"Including me?" I can't help asking.
His gaze snaps back to mine, intense enough to make my breath catch. "You're not for sale."
The possessiveness in his voice sends a thrill through me that I don't want to examine too closely. I shouldn't enjoy his territorial behavior. I should find it controlling, archaic. Instead, I'm fighting the urge to step closer to him, to bask in the heat of his attention.
What is wrong with me?
"I need to use the ladies' room," I say, needing a moment away from his overwhelming presence.
Christian frowns. "I'll show you where it is."
"I think I can find a restroom on my own," I reply with forced lightness. "I'll be right back."
He looks like he wants to argue but gives a sharp nod instead. "Five minutes."
It's not a suggestion. I nod and slip away, feeling his eyes on me until I round a corner into a quieter hallway.
I find the restroom easily, and spend a few minutes inside collecting myself, splashing cool water on my wrists, taking deep breaths.
The woman I see in the mirror looks like me but somehow different—flushed, bright-eyed, wearing a dress that costs more than three months' rent.
When I emerge, I take a wrong turn, ending up in a corridor lined with landscape paintings. As I'm about to retrace my steps, a voice stops me.
"Lost?"
I turn to find James Whitaker—the man from the dance floor—leaning against the wall. His smile reminds me of a shark.
"Just heading back to the ballroom," I say politely, already moving to pass him.
He shifts, not quite blocking my path but making it clear I'll need to brush against him to get by. "In a hurry? Christian Hawthorne is famously self-sufficient. I'm sure he can survive a few minutes without his…date."
The way he says "date" makes it sound like "acquisition."
"I should get back," I insist, my customer-service smile firmly in place.
"You know, I've never seen Christian bring anyone to these events," James continues, ignoring my attempt to leave. "Makes me curious what makes you so…special." His eyes travel down my body in a way that makes me want to cover myself with my hands.
"I'm sure I don't know," I reply, edging sideways. "Excuse me."
He steps fully into my path now. "Let me guess. You're hoping to leverage tonight into something more permanent? Smart. But you should know Christian doesn't keep his toys for long."
Anger flashes through me, hot and sudden. "I'm not anyone's toy."
"No?" James smirks. "Then why not have a drink with me instead? I'll show you what—"
"She said excuse me."
Christian's voice cuts through the corridor like ice. I turn to find him standing a few feet away, his expression murderous. I've never seen anyone look so coldly furious while remaining completely still.
James straightens, his smirk never faltering. "Christian. Just getting acquainted with your charming companion."
"Sophie." Christian doesn't look at me, his eyes fixed on James with predatory focus. "Come here."
The command should irritate me. Instead, I find myself moving to his side without hesitation. His arm immediately circles my waist, pulling me against him.
"If you touch her, look at her, or speak to her again," Christian says, his voice soft but lethal, "I will destroy everything you've built in this city. Do I make myself clear?"
James's smile finally falters. "It was just friendly conversation."
"Nothing about you is friendly," Christian replies. "Now get out of my sight."
For a moment, I think James might challenge him. Then his self-preservation instinct apparently kicks in, and he nods stiffly before walking away.
Christian's arm remains locked around me, his body vibrating with tension. I can feel his heart hammering where my shoulder presses against his chest.
"Are you all right?" he asks, finally looking down at me.
"I'm fine," I assure him, though my voice shakes slightly. "He was just talking."
"He was hunting," Christian corrects, his jaw clenching so tight I worry he might crack a tooth. "And I warned you not to wander off."
I should be offended by his high-handedness. I should remind him that I'm not his to command or protect.
Instead, I find myself leaning into him, drawn to his heat, his strength, his absolute certainty that I belong with him and not anyone else in this glittering, dangerous room.
And that terrifies me more than any predatory executive ever could.
Christian guides me back to the ballroom with his arm still locked around my waist, his fingers splayed possessively against my hip.
I should pull away, assert some independence, remind him that I don't need a bodyguard.
I don't. Instead, I let myself be tucked against his side, shamefully grateful for his solid presence after my encounter with James.
The heat of Christian's barely controlled anger radiates through his perfectly tailored tuxedo, warming my skin even through the velvet of my dress.
It's a dangerous kind of comfort, like standing too close to a fire that could either warm you or consume you completely.
"I told you not to leave my side," he says, voice low and taut. Not quite scolding, but close.
"I just needed a minute," I reply, hating how breathless I sound. "I didn't expect to be ambushed."
"I did." His arm tightens fractionally. "Every man in this room noticed you the moment you walked in. Some have more self-control than others."
The possessiveness in his tone shouldn't make my pulse quicken. It does anyway.
"It was just talking," I insist, though we both know it wasn't.
Christian stops walking, turning me to face him. His eyes are storm clouds, dark and electric. "Sophie. Men like James don't 'just talk' to women like you."
"Women like me?" I echo.
"Beautiful. Innocent." His gaze drops to my lips for a heartbeat. "Desirable."
Heat blooms across my cheeks, spreading down my neck. Christian's eyes track the blush, something hungry flashing in their depths before he schools his expression back to cool control.
"I can handle myself," I say, needing to assert some independence before I completely lose myself in his gravitational pull.