Page 8 of Boss Daddy's Girl

I spot a tall, empty table in the corner of the ballroom and make a beeline for it, setting my plate down. Picking at my food turns out to be a disappointment, too--I'm sure it's all delicious, but every bite tastes like ash on my tongue.

"Quite an appetite, eh?" A French-accented voice asks.

Shaken out of my reverie, I look up to see a tall man I don't recognize leaning on the standing table across from me. He's just a little shorter than Drake, with long blond hair pulled back from his face. He's pale, with a ruddiness to his skin that tells me he spends a lot of time outside.

I look down at my plate, towering with the food I planned to share with Drake, and groan internally. "Not really. I was supposed to share with someone but he's disappeared," I lie.

"What a fool. Let me help you. My name is Claude, by the way." He reaches across the table and shakes my hand. I notice his fingers are long and slender, and as he goes for a bite of food, I can't help but notice the all-too-familiar calluses on them. Another serious athlete, then, like Drake.

"I'm Ellie," I reply. I'm not sure why he's interested in me, but he seems friendly enough.

"A beautiful name for a beautiful woman," he replies with a smile. His name strikes a chord of familiarity in me, and I sort through what I know about the people at this conference.

Surprised, I stand up a little straighter. "Are you Claude Vanderhoven?" I ask. "You were a professional climber, but you became a documentary maker instead of a competitive climber?"

His eyes light up with delight. "I am. You've heard of me?"

I laugh a little, remembering. "No, but Drake has. I'm his assistant," I say. "He doesn't care much for cinema."

"Ah." Claude looks a little peeved but shakes it off. "Drake Evans is who you're referencing, then. It does not surprise me that he doesn't enjoy art. He has that neanderthal air about him."

Choking on a bite of my food, I snatch a flute of champagne off a passing server tray and take a few gulps. "Um, not really," I say, coughing a little. I don't know why, but I feel a little defensive of Drake. He might be a pain in the ass, but he'smypain in the ass.

"I don't mean to offend you," Claude says, flashing me a charming smile. "I'm sure you find him a pleasure to work for."

Taking another bite of eggroll to avoid answering, my eyes find Drake in the crowd again, talking to a woman with a tight skirt and low-cut top. He's nodding along with whatever she's saying, and she's laughing and touching his arm. The eggroll sticks in my throat, and I think about how much I want to be in her place for just a moment.

Claude follows my gaze and scoffs. "Looks like your boss is busy at any rate. Come, let me introduce you to my film crew. No one as lovely as you deserve to be alone."

"Oh," I say, unsure what to say. I'm not sure if he's being flirtatious, but I can't think of a way to make a smooth exit. "That sounds nice." Claude comes around the table, taking my hand and leading me through the crowd to where other people gather.

He turns out to be very good company. Claude has his film crew in stitches and even manages to make me laugh, even if I feel off-balance and out of place.

Now that I've entered the chaos of the mixer, though, I notice that I'm not nearly as invisible as I thought I was. People come and go from our little group, entering conversations and asking me thoughtful questions that have me forgetting my angst over my boss. Everyone is shocked I've never climbed, and they're obviously dying to ask me questions about Drake. Those questions I brush off, making it clear that I won't be discussing my high-profile employer.

It's been quite some time since I've had to socialize like this, but I find myself easily falling back into the swing of things, recalling parties in college and the endless networking events I had to attend once I graduated. Over an hour passes before I see a flash of navy out of the corner of my eye and turn to see Drake heading our direction.

His expression is odd. He looks angry but in a subtle, almost predatory way. When he reaches our little gathering, he all but shoulders the man next to me out of the way and slides his arm around my waist.

"I've been looking for you." His voice is gruff and low, rolling over me. His hand is tight on my hip, and when I look up at him in confusion, he just smirks at me and turns to Claude. "I don't believe we've met. Drake Evans."

"Claude Vanderhoven," the man says, holding out his hand.

They shake hands, but Drake's gaze doesn't leave my face. He's being so odd, the heat radiating off him. I can smell his cologne,familiar and expensive, and it makes my head feel a bit dizzy. I need to get some water.

"Your lovely assistant was telling me that you weren't the biggest fan of my work." There's amusement in Claude's voice, but it sounds fake to me.

"It seems like an acquired taste," Drake says.

I'm too shocked to do anything but stare up at him. His smile is sharp, and he looks every inch the cocky rake that he is. Claude clears his throat, obviously offended.

"I think your film is very touching," I blurt. "I haven't seen it, but I read about it in a magazine."

Claude beams at me and gives a self-deprecating little shrug. "A magazine, really?" he says. "Well, that is quite the compliment."

Drake's hand is burning into my hip. He hasn't tightened his grip at all, but he feels like a forge standing next to me. "I'm going to go get a drink," I say, feeling flustered. "Anyone need anything?"

No one does, so I turn and walk away, acutely aware of Drake following me.

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