Page 4 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 2

And that’s when I hear it, a collective intake of breath from a crowd of people so rarely impressed by anything. I turn and see the crowd part, and in walks Nixon Blake. He’s wearing a tuxedo that looks like it was sewn directly onto his tall, muscular frame. He strides through the crowd, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to make his way to the front of the room completely unobstructed. But that lasts only a split second before hands start jutting out from the crowd, offering handshakes and pats on the back. Soon self-important men are stepping into his path, stopping him for conversations that clearly they think are very important. Women in low-cut gowns pass by him, running hands along his biceps, hoping for, perhaps, a private meeting.

I expect to see him handle it all with confidence and ease, as he does with everything in the office. But there’s no trace of that now. Maybe most people wouldn’t notice it, but having become a student of Nixon Blake’s face over the last several weeks, I see immediately that something’s not right. His jaw is a vice grip of tension, and every muscle in his body looks coiled like the tightest spring. He doesn’t seem to be doing much talking as he tries to make his way through the crowd, it’s more a collection of increasingly terse nods and a few words through clenched teeth. Soon his ice blue eyes are glancing around the room, as if searching for an exit.

Of course, no one else seems to notice these infinitesimal signs of a growing panic. Partly because only I would be studying him quite so closely, but mostly because the people who are accosting him, attempting to hijack his attention, are in these conversations 100% for themselves. They don’t care what Nixon Blake has to say or how he’s reacting. They only care that he’s in front of them, and that they seem to have his attention.

But the more I watch him, the more I become convinced that he hasn’t heard a single word that has been said to him. He keeps trying to push through the crowd, and he keeps getting intercepted. He tries to sidestep, and a woman in a strapless dress, her boobs hoisted nearly to her chin, gets in front of him. And when he frees himself of her, a rotund man with a bushy beard sticks his hand out and begins holding court.

I notice the exact moment when he sees the gilded door hidden in the wall. It’s nearly camouflaged, probably nothing more than a supply closet or storage area for banquet chairs and tables. But Nixon seems to lock in on it like a target. He’s nearly there when I see an older man with a receding hairline and a perfect smile step into his path. I recognize his face immediately, though I can’t quite remember his name. He’s a Senator from … Virginia, maybe? Illinois? Without thinking, I start weaving through the crowd, using my small stature to slip effortlessly through the fray. As I walk, I whip out my phone and do some rapid-fired searching until I find him. Senator Jefferson Ford of Virginia, Republican from Virginia, recently reelected in a narrow victory.

I slip my phone back into my silver clutch right as I arrive at my destination.

“Senator Ford!” I say, sliding myself between him and Nixon. I thrust my hand out to the Senator, who looks down at me with a face full of confusion. “I’m such a fan. I was so glad to see your reelection victory back in November.”

I pump his hand and, as much as it pains me to do it, push my chest out enough that it causes his eyes to linger on the deep V of my dress. And in that moment, I can feel Nixon’s absence behind me. Because I know what to listen for, I hear the soft click of the hidden door, and I know that he’s reached his destination.

Mission accomplished.

Of course, he’s not out of the woods, because within a minute (during which I have to keep making awkward conversation with a Senator who seems intent on ogling my breasts), I can see the vultures descend. They try to look as if they’re not waiting for him, ready to pounce the moment he reappears. Rich people don’t like to look like they want anything. Ever. But they want Nixon Blake’s attention right now, and it’s killing them that there’s no dollar amount that will make him appear.

And so I thank the Senator and excuse myself, positioning myself in front of the hidden door like a bouncer. I put on my most professional smile and use the voice I employed when I worked as a hostess at the Crab Shack, trying to beat back the crowds from the Boston Harbor on the 4th of July.

“I’m so sorry, but Mr. Blake is currently on a very important call,” I say to the two men who look persistent enough to hang around, or maybe even bum rush me. “He really doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

They wait me out for just a minute more before retreating back into the crowd. I let out a long breath. I don’t know what’s going on behind the door that I’m currently guarding, but I know it’s important that I’m here. I know it’s important that I helped him escape. I know that, though he did his best to hide it, he’s vulnerable. And I feel the need to protect him.

I decide to wait for a while longer, because I don’t know how many people saw him disappear behind this door, and I don’t want anyone waiting for him when he finally emerges. Whatever he needs right now, I want to make sure he has it. I don’t have to wait long, though, before the door opens. Just a crack, and he doesn’t come out.

I go in.

He grabs me by arm and pulls be back so quickly that I barely know what just happened. One minute I’m in a glittering ballroom listening to a band play swing music, and the next I’m standing in a darkened room, the musty smell of an attic surrounding me. The shiny parquet floor is gone, and now I’m standing on concrete. All the sounds of the party are muted. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but soon I realize that I was right. This is a storage room for extra banquet tables, collapsed and leaned up against one wall, and stacks upon stacks of chairs.

Nixon takes hold of my wrists, his grip tight as a vice. My hands go cold.

“What are you doing?” He growls, pulling me towards him. “Why are you here?”

“I —“ I pause, unsure how to answer. “I just thought you needed help.”

His chest heaves as he takes fast, deep breaths in and out. “What makes you think that I would need your help?”

“I don’t know. You seemed … upset. Like you needed some space. To be alone.”

“I don’t need your help,” he says again, his voice nothing but a low rumble. His breaths are coming faster, and the sound of them is starting to make me feel lightheaded. Something is very, very wrong. But he pushes away from me, turning to pace the tiny room like a caged animal. “You need to stay away from me. Very far away.”

I can see himself winding up, and I know I have to do something, and fast. So I step in front of him, and my hands float up to his chest, which is rising and falling at a breakneck pace. I rest my palms softly on his heaving chest, then press down with light pressure. He stops pacing, but I can feel that he’s wound so tight he could pounce. “Hey,” I say, my voice low and soothing. “Breathe with me.”

I pull in a long, slow, deep breath through my nose, then blow it out long and slow through my mouth. And though Nixon Blake doesn’t seem like the kind of person who is used to taking direction, it only takes him a moment before he follows suit. His breaths begin to slow, but not enough. He still seems on the verge of hyperventilating. I have to calm him down. Distract him.

“Hey,” I say again, pressing harder on his chest. “Let me help you.”

“You can’t help me,” he says between breaths. “You can’t even begin to know what’s in my head.”

“I don’t need to know. I just need to distract you,” I tell him. “Let me help you with that.”

I reach up slowly until my hand grips the tail of the satin bow at the back of my neck. Before I can overthink it, I give the fabric a sturdy tug. It releases like water, the straps slipping down my shoulders, taking the entire front of my dress with it. It pools around my hips, my bare ivory skin practically lighting up the room. I’m not sure if it’s the slight chill in the room, or the feeling of Nixon’s eyes drifting down, but my nipples pebble, and now it’s my chest that’s heaving.

He lets out one long breath, his chest still for the first time since he arrived in the ballroom.

“Let me take your mind off of everything,” I say, leaning in and rising up on my tiptoes until my lips just brush his ear. “Use me.”

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