Pride (In Wilde Country Book 1) (9 page)

“Excuse me,” he said as he made his way through the crowd and toward the ballroom doors. “Sorry. Coming through.”

Why would he want to spend the evening sitting beside Cheyenne McKenna, pretending to engage in polite conversation?

They had nothing to say to each other.

They hadn’t had anything much to say this morning, either. They’d shared a moment of mindless sex, and even if his libido was willing to make a fool of itself over the memory, his intellect wasn’t.

He was out of here.

He’d phone Aldo, get into his car, make a couple of calls, arrange to meet someone for a drink at the
Rose Bar
or perhaps
The Top of the Standard
. That writer he’d met last week, maybe, the one with the cute little laugh. Or that blond banker…

He frowned as he reached the elevators.

What was he doing? Running away? From a woman? He, who had never run from anything in his life? Not from his mother’s hot temper or his father’s cold withdrawal, not from the priests’ beatings at his Sicilian boarding school or from those given by the upscale bullies at the Yorkshire prep school he and Matteo had been sent to when they’d proved ‘difficult.’

He’d never run from anybody or anything and now he was going to run from a woman because he couldn’t seem to look at her without getting an erection.

“Pathetic,” he muttered.

The doors to one of the elevators slid open.

“You going down?” a guy next to him asked.

Luca shook his head.

“No. No,
grazie
. I, ah, I changed my mind.”

He turned away, crossed the hall to the men’s restroom and opened the door on a sea of gold and marble. A white-jacketed attendant greeted him with a polite smile. Luca was not in the mood for a smile. He was not in the mood for attendants: he had never understood why a man was not expected to pluck his own towel from a basket of towels, use it and dispose of it without help.

Still, he returned the smile.

It was not the attendant’s fault he had a job like this any more than it was the man’s fault that he, Luca, had almost behaved like an asshole.

He chose a stall, went inside it and turned the lock.

Run? Ridiculous. Why would he run?

What he was going to do was find his table, sit down, eat a meal, chat politely with the others seated with him and yes, that included Cheyenne McKenna, who would surely chat just as politely with him.

That was what civilized people did.

He waited a few seconds, flushed a toilet that didn’t need flushing, undid the lock, emerged from the stall and went to the sink. He washed his hands, said
grazie
to the attendant when he handed him a small white towel, dried his hands, dropped the towel on the counter, fished out his wallet and gave the attendant a ten dollar bill.

He did the things normal people did in a normal world and, as he’d expected, doing those things helped him feel grounded and focused and calm…

Until he left the restroom and found himself face to face with Cheyenne herself.

* * *

Cheyenne had arrived almost twenty minutes late.

Her taxi had run into traffic.

A snarled knot of vehicles on West Houston had eaten up precious time. She’d taken advantage of it to phone Alene Beresford and tell her about the ranch. She’d intended to tell her later tonight, but why wait?

Alene had squealed with delight.

“The board has to give official approval, of course,” she’d said, ‘but they’ll be thrilled, Cheyenne, absolutely thrilled! And I have the perfect man for you to talk to about this. I’ll change the seating, put you at his table… Oh, this is wonderful news!”

Talking with someone was the last thing Cheyenne felt like doing tonight, but she appreciated Alene’s enthusiasm. Her dinner companion would probably be a
Horse Sense
board member, and this talk wouldn’t be anything like the one she’d had with Luca Bellini because that hadn’t been a talk at all, not even the part that had involved Sweetwater.

It had been a debate.

He’d opposed everything she’d wanted, except for the sex, and by the time the cab finally pulled up to the hotel, she’d been wondering what had ever impelled her to bother with his assessment of the place at all, let alone have sex with him.

All he was now was an uncomfortable memory.

Alene’s assistant had greeted her at the elevator, hand outstretched.

“Quick! Come this way. No, not through the ballroom. The introductions have already started. I’m supposed to take you through the back, to the stage.”

“Sorry,” Cheyenne said. “The traffic—”

“Alene told me. Just go straight onstage. Johnny Beresford just called her to the mike. You have a couple of minutes until she gets there.”

Cheyenne barely had time to run her hands through her hair before she was standing in the glare of lights with Alene.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the fantastic Cheyenne McKenna,” Alene said, and the crowd applauded

Cheyenne smiled brightly and responded by saying how happy she was to be there.

Untrue, of course, because her already not-so-great mood took a further downward trajectory at the sight of all those people staring at her as if they wanted a piece of her for their own, but she reminded herself of why she was involved in this, of how important the goals of
Horse Sense
were, and she smiled and waved and said it was the Beresfords who were fantastic. Eventually, Alene’s husband announced that the buffet was open and those who’d yet to pick up their seating cards should please do so, blah blah blah.

Alene put her arm around Cheyenne’s waist, moved her away from the mike and asked if she wanted to make the announcement about her gift tonight or hold off for a press conference the next morning.

“Your choice,” Cheyenne said.

“Well, we might get more mileage if we hold off until people are tweeting about tonight’s party,” Alene said, “but that doesn’t have to keep you from talking about the ranch with the man I told you about. He’s a famous architect.”

Cheyenne looked at Alene. Such simple words, but they sent a whisper of unease dancing up her spine. Silly, of course. The world was full of men who were architects.

“But we don’t want to commit to one tonight, Alene. New York must have dozens of architects who could work with us on this.”

“Trust me, darling. This is the guy we want. Assuming we can get him, that is. He’s probably got enough jobs to keep him busy from now through the next century, but he’s like every other man on the planet—he won’t be able to resist a pretty face. You just turn on the charm and I’ll bet you’ll have him eating out of your hand.” Alene chuckled. “Not that he isn’t pretty charming himself. He’s got more money than Fort Knox, he’s amazingly good looking and on top of all that, he’s very, very talented.”

Alene still had her arm around Cheyenne’s waist; they were going down the few steps that led from the stage to the ballroom floor. Cameras and cellphones were pointing at them; Cheyenne kept her smile in place, something she’d learned to do early in her career, but it was getting more difficult to maintain.

That strange sense of unease was growing.

“What’s his name?”

“There’s
Vanity Fair
,” Alene whispered. “Give them a big smile.”

“Alene. What’s his name?”

“The photographer from
Vanity Fair
? I can’t recall.”

“The architect. The man you’re hoping I’ll meet.”

“No worries, darling. You’ll meet him. I put you at his table. Oh, look! Is that Annie Leibovitz? It is! Fantastic. Let me introduce you.”

“I’ve met Annie,” Cheyenne said impatiently. “Just tell me the name of this architect.”

“Annie! Yoo hoo!”

“Alene. The architect. Who is he?”

“Luca. Luca Bellini.”

Cheyenne had felt her heart rise into her throat. No, she’d thought, no, no, no! The last person she wanted to deal with tonight was the man she’d been with this morning. As for working with him… The idea was laughable. Except, laughable was the wrong word. She would never, not in a million billion years, work with Luca Bellini.

And, sweet Jesus, there wasn’t a way in hell she was going to explain that to Alene Beresford or anybody else.

“Yoo hoo, Annie!”

“Alene.”

“Annie. Over here.”

“Alene!”

“Cheyenne, for heaven’s sake, what are you doing? If we can get Annie Leibovitz to agree to do a shoot for us—”

Cheyenne dug in her heels. Not easy, when they were five inches high, but she did it. Alene Beresford almost stumbled.

“What are you doing? Annie Leibovitz is right over—”

“I know. I see her. But—but I have to—to check my makeup. My hair.”

“You look gorgeous!”

“Not for a famous photographer, I don’t.” Cheyenne stepped back. “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

“Out in the hall, across from the elevators, but really, Cheyenne—”

“I’ll be right back,” Cheyenne said, flashing a brilliant smile.

Cheyenne all but forced her way through the crowd. Everybody wanted to say hello; everybody wanted a photo or a selfie. A sea of smartphones waved ahead of her like grass in a Sweetwater meadow.

She kept smiling. And moving.

The hell she’d be right back.

Finally! There were the elevators. Dammit, people were waiting for them. She couldn’t just stand around. Luca was here, but where, exactly, was that? No way did she want to run the risk of finding out.

The restrooms were right were Alene had said they’d be.

Perfect.

A quick detour into the ladies’. Kill a couple of minutes so that one or two elevators could arrive, get into one, take it to the lobby, get into a cab and phone Alene while she headed downtown.
Sorry,
she’d say,
but I came down with a headache.

It wasn’t a foolproof plan—Alene would be ticked off—but it would have to do.

The restroom attendant was watching her.

Cheyenne went to one of the marble vanities. Opened her little purse. Took out her lip gloss and ran it over her mouth.

And checked her watch.

Surely, two or three minutes had passed.

She capped the gloss, put it away, fumbled a ten-dollar bill from her purse and dropped it into the glass bowl on the vanity. Then she looked in the mirror, made sure she looked cool and collected—amazing, what years of working before a camera could do—and went to the door.

Good. Excellent. Nobody was waiting for the elevators.

She pasted a professional smile to her lips. Walked out of the restroom. Closed the door behind her…

Just as the door to the men’s room opened.

And Luca Bellini stepped into the corridor.

CHAPTER FIVE

L
uca recovered first.

“Cheyenne,” he said politely.

“Luca.”

She was polite, too, but he could see her struggling to stay that way. Good, he thought coldly. She had every right to be uncomfortable.

What she had no right to be was so incredibly beautiful.

There were scores of women here tonight. They were all impeccably groomed, coifed and gowned.

He’d brought women he’d been involved with to functions like this. He had a general idea of what it took for a woman to make an appearance at a glittery charity event.

Paying the bills,
grazie a Dio
, did not involve knowing all the details, but he knew enough to be aware that those details included hair appointments, nail appointments and time spent with makeup artists, and that all those things followed hours spent choosing the most elaborate gowns and shoes and everything else that would never mean a damn to a man, but would be vital to a woman.

Unless everything about Cheyenne was an artful illusion, he doubted that she’d put in more than a few minutes getting ready for tonight.

It wasn’t that she didn’t look beautiful.

She did.

Her hair was loose and flowing, drawn back on one side by some kind of clip.

Her face glowed, the skin almost a dusty gold, her mouth a sexy red, her lashes dark and long.

Her gown was blue, half a dozen shades of blue. The neckline left most of her shoulders bare.

Kissably bare.

The fabric looked silky; just looking at it made him want to feel its texture between his fingers.

It skimmed her body. Breasts. Waist. Hips. Thighs. It hung in a way that was demure even as it hinted at what lay beneath: breasts he had yet to taste, though he knew they would be sweet on his tongue; hips seemingly made for his hands to grasp; that hot delta between her firm thighs.

The gown was artfully slit from hem to thigh. Each time she moved, he caught a glimpse of tanned flesh.

His body went rigid.

He was on the verge of a monumental erection, the kind he hadn’t had in public since he’d learn to control his body’s needs at the age of sixteen.

The possibility of making a fool of himself was bad enough. Even worse was the realization that it was she who would make a fool of him, just as she had done before.

No, he thought coldly. That was not going to happen.

“What a surprise.”

“Yes,” she said. “I was thinking the same thing.”

He almost laughed. Her eyes were like pools of ice, her tone glacial, but she was smiling as politely as he.

And no wonder, he thought, as he caught the glow of a flashbulb from the corner of his eye. They were on display, a pair of actors trapped in a bad play, and she wouldn’t want ugly publicity anymore than he would.

“Yes,” he said, “isn’t it? When Alene told me you were here, I was…dumbstruck.”

“Such a nice, old-fashioned word. Dumbstruck.”

“Ah. She told you, too.”

“A few minutes ago.”

His smile tilted. “And you came looking for me.”

Her laughter was the kind no man ever wanted directed at him.

“You wish.”

Such disdain. Such hauteur. Such ego. It was enough to change his plans.

“Yes, I do. You saved me the trouble of looking for you.”

He’d surprised her. He could see it in the swift narrowing of her eyes.

“You were looking for me?”

Another flashbulb went off. He looked in its direction, saw the camera, saw a couple of cellphones aimed at them. Still smiling, Luca closed the couple of inches separating them and clasped her elbow.

He felt her stiffen. She was going to jerk free, or at least she was going to try, and there was no way he’d let that happen.

Deliberately, he tightened his grasp.

“Lights, camera, action,” he said, very softly, bending his head so that his lips were almost at her ear. “Or don’t they say that in your world?”

“Whatever do you think you’re doing, Bellini?”

“What I’m doing is saving your ass, McKenna. Put that ego of yours away and trot out what little you know of good manners. In other words, smile and look as if you’re thrilled to have found me…unless, of course, you want to be on every cheap gossip blog by midnight.”

She glared at him. Then he saw her throw a quick look over his shoulder, saw knowledge of their growing audience register in her eyes.

“Shit,” she whispered.

He laughed. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Oh, Luca,” she said gaily, “that’s so amusing!”

She threw back her head and laughed. He imagined dipping his head lower and pressing his mouth to the elegant curve of her throat.

It was an image he didn’t need right now, and he forced it out of his head and replaced it with a grin.

“I thought you’d like it,” he said.

Then, still holding her elbow, he led her through what was now a fair-sized group of gawkers, into the ballroom and to his table.

* * *

There were six other people seated with them.

Two psychiatrists and their spouses, plus a portly man and his seemingly anorexic wife.

The shrinks—one male, one female—were politely reserved.

The portly man was effusively friendly.

“Jim Holland,” he said. “From Staten Island. This is my wife, Verna.”

Luca shook hands all around. So did Cheyenne. He searched for a conversational gambit, thought of saying that though he’d lived in New York, on and off, for years, this was the first time he’d met someone who actually lived on Staten Island, but caution suggested that might not go over well.

Besides, he didn’t need a conversation starter.

He had the only one that mattered, seated next to him.

Cheyenne was what everyone wanted to talk about; she was the person they wanted to talk to. Not even the evening’s entertainment—a famous rock band and its even more famous lead singer—were enough of a distraction to change their focus of attention.

They all recognized her. Even the shrinks seemed excited to meet her—or, at least, as excited as Luca figured people who spent their lives trying to seem unflappable could get.

“I saw you on one of those huge Times Square billboards,” one of them said.

“Oh, yes,” his wife added. “In that soap ad. What was the brand?”

“Gardenia Body Shampoo,” Cheyenne said politely.

Gardenia Body Shampoo. Luca remembered the scent of her naked skin. Was that what she’d smelled of? Gardenias?

“And you did those jeans ads,” Verna Holland said. “I bought a pair.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Of course, they didn’t look on me the way they’d looked on you.”

Nothing would look on any woman the way it would look on Cheyenne, Luca thought, although what she’d always look best in was her own naked skin.

“I heard a rumor that you’re donating your ranch in Tennessee to the organization,” Shrink Number Two’s husband said.

“Texas,” Cheyenne said, smiling politely.

“Do you raise horses?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You have a ranch, but no horses?”

Cheyenne’s smile tilted. Luca saw that the conversation was making her uncomfortable. Good, he thought coldly. Let her be uncomfortable.

“I don’t breed horses, but I do own two.”

“Ah. On your Tennessee ranch?”

“It’s Texas. And no, I don’t have—”

The lady shrink put her hand over her husband’s.

“Are you interested in equine therapy?”

Cheyenne seemed to hesitate. “It’s an interesting field.”

“What I mean is, do you have a personal interest in it?”

“Now, Beverly,” the shrink’s husband said, smiling broadly, “don’t pry.”

“I’m not prying. I’d never pry. I’m just curious, is all. Equine therapy is a relatively new field and no one seems to have a firm set of statistics proving whether or not it’s effective over the long term. I thought, if Ms. McKenna had actually experienced it, her opinion would be interesting.”

Cheyenne’s smile had grown fixed. She seemed more than uncomfortable; the word that came to mind was desperate.

Good, Luca thought again or, at least, that was what he wanted to think, but there was something in her eyes, a trapped expression…

He put his napkin on the table, rose to his feet and drew back her chair.

She looked up at him.

“They’re playing our song,” he said briskly.

He figured the odds were good she’d tell him they didn’t have a song or that she’d sooner dance with a hippopotamus, but she got to her feet and said, “Yes, they are.”

He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. She went into his arms, but she kept what felt like the length of a football field between them.

He wasn’t going to tolerate that.

She stiffened as he drew her closer.

“Try looking like you’re enjoying this, McKenna.”

“Our song?” she said.

Luca had no idea what the band was playing. Now, he listened. And then he laughed.

“
Say Something
.”

“I just did.”

“The song. It’s called
Say Something
. Seems appropriate, don’t you think? Especially the first line. ‘I’m giving up on you.’”

Her face was turned up to his. For a couple of seconds, her expression didn’t change. Then she smiled.

She had an amazing smile.

“I wouldn’t have picked you for a man who knew much about popular music.”

Luca turned her in a slow circle.

“I would not have picked you for a woman who would permit the blathering of fools to bother her.”

She tried to draw back, but he wasn’t going to tolerate that, either.

“Relax,” he said softly. “Feel the music.”

They moved together slowly for a few minutes. Then she sighed.

“I hate when people pry.”

“They wanted to know more about you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Luca said, surprised at her naïveté.

“Yes, why. Why would they want to know more about me? I’m a stranger to them.”

“You’re not. At least, that’s how they see things. You’ve been in their homes, on their television sets, in the magazines they read.”

The music had changed.
Midnight
, by Coldplay. The song was as slow and plaintive as the last one. It suited what he felt, suited the feel of having her in his arms. His hand slid down her spine, settled just at its sweet indentation. He lowered his head a little, enough so he could smell the light scent of her skin and hair.

If they were alone, he thought, if they were alone…

“That they’ve seen me pretending doesn’t entitle them to ask me personal questions.”

Her answer puzzled him.

“Pretending?”

“It’s what models do.”

He turned her again. The floor was crowded; they had little space to maneuver in. That was fine with him. It meant he could keep her close.

“That’s an interesting way to put it. That what you do is pretense.”

“What else would you call it?”

“I don’t know. Acting, perhaps.”

“It’s the same thing.”

Dio
, she felt wonderful in his arms.

He didn’t want her to feel wonderful. He didn’t want to think about how perfectly her body fit his.

And he sure as hell didn’t want to think that the time they’d spent in that motel had been pretense. A meaningless exercise of body and brain, her cries, her flushed face nothing but an act.

An act he’d bought into, same as he was buying into it now.

Except, goddammit, he wasn’t.

He turned her again. And again. They moved into a tiny area that, for the moment, was all their own.

“It is unreasonable to expect strangers to know when you’re being real and when you’re not.”

“It doesn’t matter what strangers think.”

“An interesting philosophy.”

Maybe the tone of his voice suggested something. She pulled back, but only as far as his encircling arms would permit.

“Thank you for getting me away from the table,” she said, “but I’m fine now. I’d like to go back and get my purse and—”

“And run.”

“I’m not running, Mr. Bellini. I’m simply going home.”

“Mr. Bellini. Such formality from a woman who shared my bed this morning.”

Color swept into her face.

“I knew it wouldn’t last,” she said.

“Oh, it lasted,” Luca said, deliberately misunderstanding her. “It would have lasted even longer if you hadn’t run.”

“I was referring to your pathetic show of courtesy,” she hissed. “I should have known it was meaningless.”