The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club) (11 page)

I knew, and that was the problem. But I couldn’t afford the dress—the price tag had been well into four figures—and Carter was looking at me so earnestly, so badly wanting me to accept his generosity, that I couldn’t find it in my heart to refuse. I thought of what Betty had said about how I needed a light touch. Well, maybe Carter needed someone to be gentle with him, too. “Just this once,” I said, and he bent to kiss me, right there in the middle of Bergdorf Goodman, and for once I didn’t even care who was watching.

* * *

T
he ball started that evening at 8, at a venue uptown. The car pulled up outside the building, and I gawked out the window at all the women in their fancy dresses, the men wearing tuxedos. They mingled on the sidewalk, laughing and talking. Everyone looked so glamorous.

I would have been much more worried about my appearance if Betty hadn’t given me her approval. I knew she had probably picked out the dresses for many of the other women who would be at the ball. Even so, I’d kept my makeup simple and done my hair in a basic chignon, too nervous to take any risks.

“Stop worrying,” Carter said. He put one hand on my knee, and leaned in to give me a kiss. “You look incredible. You’ll put everyone else to shame.” He kissed me again. “Are you ready?”

“I guess so,” I said.

“We’ll go straight inside,” he said. “We won’t stop for pictures.”

Pictures
? My stomach clenched, but Carter was already getting out of the car, and I had no choice but to follow him.

Lightbulbs flashed, blinding me. “Mr. Sutton!” someone called, and someone else said, “Carter, who’s your date?”

I ducked my head, clinging to Carter’s arm as we walked toward the building. I hadn’t been expecting photographers. Carter had obviously known, and he hadn’t told me—maybe to keep me from worrying? But I wished he had given me some warning.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, leading me through the front door. “There are usually a couple of lifestyle reporters at these events. They won’t be allowed inside.”

I took a deep breath, calming myself. “Okay,” I said.

The interior of the building was everything I expected it to be: huge, luxurious, filled with red velvet and marble. Party-goers swarmed the foyer, their voices echoing in the cavernous space. A string quartet played in a corner, and waiters dressed in black circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres. 

Carter led to me a marble pillar at the foot of a staircase leading up into the darkness. “I’ll take your coat,” he said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Alone, I smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from my dress and tried to look inconspicuous. My dress was too bright, too attention-grabbing. Nobody else was wearing yellow, and I was afraid that everyone would look at me.

Carter returned before I could work myself into a panic. He took my arm and said, “We’d better make the rounds. There are people here who expect me to speak to them.”

“Do I have to talk to people?” I asked. I would do it if I had to, but I wouldn’t like it.

“Not much,” he said. “I’ll introduce you; just tell them you’re pleased to make their acquaintance. I don’t intend to spend very long talking to anyone. In and out.” He smiled at me. “Then we’ll eat, and listen to the music.”

“That sounds nice,” I said. Maybe we could find a corner to hide in.

He led me through the crowds, moving confidently into the sea of people. As we passed, I heard murmurs from other guests. Even among these people, all of them wealthy and powerful in their own right, Carter was worthy of notice.

Scraps of conversation reached my ears. Everyone was talking about Carter. And, I realized to my horror, about
me.
“Shade of yellow,” someone said, and, “That
dress
.”

“How sweet,” I heard someone say, “he brought the help.”

My face flamed. Of course that was what they thought about me.

And, in a way, I
was
. I didn’t clean his house or cook his food, but we didn’t meet at the gym or a coffee shop, or a society function or a country club. We met because I served him a drink.

“Carter, my boy,” a voice boomed, and I looked up—and
up
—to see a tall man with a huge belly beaming down at us.

“Frederick, how are you?” Carter ask, and they vigorously shook hands. “I have to go speak with Cortland, but let’s get together soon to talk about that merger. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, wonderful,” the man bellowed, and Carter steered me away into the crowd.

“See? You didn’t even have to talk to him,” he murmured in my ear, and I placed my hand over his and squeezed it gratefully.

“Who’s Cortland?” I asked.

He grinned. “My mother’s dog, circa 2003.”

That happened three more times—people speaking to Carter, who gave them a polite brush-off and kept moving—before he got cornered by an older woman, probably his mother’s age, who seized him and said, “Carter Sutton, you are a terrible creature for not telling me you would be here tonight!”

Carter kissed her cheek. “Mrs. Chanler, it must have slipped my mind,” he said. “How are you? How’s Delilah?”

“Gorgeous and still single,” the woman said, eyeing me. “Although I take it you’ve been snapped up already.”

“Mrs. Chanler, this is Regan Cabatu,” Carter said, drawing me forward.

I didn’t try to shake the woman’s hand. I gave her a polite smile. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I said.

Her mouth pursed like she had tasted something sour. “Yes, quite,” she said, and turned back to Carter. “So, tell me, how is your mother?”

Just like that, she neatly cut me out of their conversation. I stood at Carter’s side, feeling awkward and wishing I could go hide behind the drapes. Carter kept inhaling and saying, “Well,” clearly trying to make his excuses and escape, but Mrs. Chanler wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise. She went on and on about her daughter and her dogs and her tennis lessons, until I felt like screaming.

Someone cleared their throat behind me. I turned to see two women, probably about my age, standing there sizing me up. One of them, a tall blond, gave me a frosty smile.

I knew that look: like a dog pissing to mark its territory.

“You must be the reason Carter hasn’t been returning my calls,” the woman said. She looked me up and down. “What is it that you do?”

In for a penny. I refused to be ashamed. “I’m a cocktail waitress,” I said.

The woman exchanged a glance with her friend. “How... interesting.”

“What do
you
do?” I asked.

The woman laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “I don’t ‘do’
anything.
Only the lower classes work to earn their keep.”

I stared at her. Was she serious?
The lower classes
? Were we in a Charles Dickens novel?

Unexpected rage filled me. I hated these people, with their galas and their art openings and their money they wasted on haute couture and pampered little dogs. They all thought they were better than me just because they were born with silver spoons in their mouths. I said, “I’m glad to see you’re doing your part to parasitize the global economy,” and turned my back on the both of them.

I heard shocked gasps behind me, but I ignored them. What were they going to do? Have me thrown out? Tell Carter I had been rude to them? Somehow I got the feeling he wouldn’t care.

He finally managed to extricate himself from Mrs. Chanler, and we moved on through the crowd. He said, “I saw you talking to Juliette. I hope she didn’t say anything horrible. She’s an awful person.”

“She said you aren’t returning her phone calls,” I said.

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, because I hate her. She makes my skin crawl.”

That made me feel a little better—that the woman hadn’t been rude to me because of anything about
me
, but just because she was an odious human being. “She seemed a little, um.”

“Awful?” Carter asked. “I hate coming to these things. Poor Regan. I shouldn’t have asked you to suffer with me.” He looked around the room, scanning for something, and then said, “Let’s stuff our faces with hors d’oeuvres and then get out of here. Do you want to?”

“God yes,” I said, and he laughed.

We waded back out of the crowd and found a quiet spot against one wall. Carter told me to stay put and wandered off, and came back with two small plates loaded with hors d’oeuvres: bacon-wrapped asparagus, bruschetta, crab canapes. I’d eaten dinner before Carter picked me up, but I wasn’t about to turn down free food. That was one of the first things you learned when you were poor: if it was free, put as much of it in your stomach as you possibly could.

We ate, and listened to the music, and then Carter said, “Have I told you how incredible you look in that dress? Because you look incredible.”

I smiled at him. “I liked Betty. She was really nice to me.”

“She’s a peach, but I don’t want to talk about Betty right now.” He ran one hand down my bare back, from my shoulder to my hip, and I leaned into his touch. “I want to talk about getting you home and into my bed.”

Oh
. I nearly choked on my canape, and looked around to make sure nobody was in earshot. But we were alone, and Carter’s gaze was hot and dark, and I felt myself responding to him, just like I always did. “That sounds, um. Way better than staying here.”

He slid his hand down even further, until he was cupping the curve of my ass. “I’ll go get our coats.”

W
e stumbled into Carter’s apartment, laughing and kissing, Carter’s hands on my hips. “Where should I have you,” he asked me between kisses, “the sofa? The dining table? The living room floor?”

“What’s wrong with the bedroom?” I asked, fumbling with his bow tie.

“Ah, a traditionalist,” he said. “If you prefer the bedroom, the bedroom it shall be.” He unzipped my dress and slid it to the floor, and then stopped, confounded by my shape-wear.

I laughed at his expression. “You have to go in the bedroom and wait for me,” I said. “Taking this stuff off is really undignified.”

“Whatever the lady wants,” he said. He winked at me and strolled down the hallway toward the bedroom.

Alone, I peeled down the shape-wear and worked to ease it over my hips. Betty had said it was absolutely necessary to preserve the line of the dress, but in retrospect, I should have just worn a slip. It would have been easier to take off, and I needed to be naked
now
.

Carter always did this to me. One touch, and my body went from zero to sixty. It would have been a little terrifying it if weren’t so incendiary.

I wasn’t wearing any underpants beneath the shape-wear, and when I finally struggled out of it, the cool air of the apartment felt refreshing against the overheated flesh between my legs. I was already swollen with desire just from making out with him in the car. A few kisses, and I was desperate for more.

Still wearing my heels, I walked down the hallway toward Carter’s bedroom. I probably looked ridiculous, strutting around in high heels and no clothes, but I thought Carter would like it, and that was the only thing that mattered. I stopped in the doorway and struck a pose, one arm over my head.

Carter was shirtless and unzipping his trousers, but he paused with his hands on his fly and gazed at me. I felt pretty foolish, but I held my pose, and the heat in his eyes made my mouth go dry. Whatever I thought about myself, he found me desirable. It made me feel powerful, that I could make a man like Carter look at me like that.

“You need to come over here right now,” he said, and shoved his pants down over his hips.

He was wearing his usual black boxer-briefs underneath, and I let myself stare at his strong thighs, his ass, the heavy bulge of his erection. Most of the time, he was so well-dressed and
civilized
, all buttoned-up and tidy, and it was easy to forget what lay beneath all of that, that under the clothing and the polished manners, Carter was a
man
, and he was used to getting what he wanted.

And what he wanted, right now, was me.

I crossed the floor and stood in front of him, skin prickling, nipples hard. Even with my heels on, he was still tall enough that I felt small and delicate beside him. And I liked that feeling, like he would protect me from all the dark things in the world, the monsters in the closet, the wolves in the forest. He slid his hands down my bare back and over the curve of my ass, and squeezed gently.

“How much do you trust me?” he asked.

What a loaded question. Did he want me to give him an exact amount? A percentage? “I trust you,” I said, hedging my bets.

He grinned. “That’s a non-answer. You’d do well in the boardroom.” He moved one hand lower, sliding between my legs, dipping into my wet slit and teasing at me. “You can use your safeword.”

“I know,” I said. Of course I did. I didn’t think there was any way that I could forget it.

“Will you use it if you need to?” he pressed, fingers rubbing my clit, making my breath catch in my throat like a fish-hook.

“I’ll use it,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said. “You will, won’t you?” Our eyes caught, and the memory of the last time I’d used my safeword passed between us, a little painful, but it had turned out okay. He smiled, a wry twist of his mouth, and pushed his fingers into me, a sudden thrust, pressing me open.

I arched my back, sinking deeper onto his fingers, welcoming the intrusion. The alchemy of our bodies created fire between us, just like always, turning all of my molecules into gold. I felt hot and open around him, aching, wanting more but not yet, wanting to relish what I had now. It was already so good that wanting anything more would be greedy. Well, I
was
greedy. I wanted everything that Carter could give me, all at once, no holding back.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, mouthing at my neck, the soft skin behind my ear. He slid his other arm around my lower back, holding me close against him, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, clinging to him, relying on him to hold me up while he slowly made all of my muscles liquefy. My knees wobbled, my thighs quivered, and I would have melted to the floor if he wasn’t holding me up. I throbbed and burned, speared on his fingers, wanting him. I wanted him all the time, day and night, every moment of my life, even when he held me so close that we breathed into each other’s mouths.