Page 4 of 3 Stolen Kisses

He picks out tight dresses for her and makes her play hostess, topping up drinks and making small talk with men twice her age. He doesn’t go so far as to let them touch her—orIdon’t, anyway—but it’s a well known fact these days that the beautiful Wainwright daughter is a key attraction at these parties.

Because Ali is stunning. Far prettier than she even realizes; unearthly in her beauty, with that thick dark hair and those big blue eyes. And her father loves to show his good genes off, flaunting his daughter like he flaunts his mansion and his fancy cars. As if he deserves all the credit for it, somehow. As though his supermodel ex-wife wasn’t involved in making her too.

I warned Charles earlier today: his guests got bolder over the season last year. They went from admiring Ali from a distance, like a priceless painting, to pressing closer, trying to chit-chat. Trying to flirt.

Charles laughed my warnings off, his goddamn juicer rattling on his kitchen counter as he squished orange after orange for his breakfast. The man has a private chef, but he insists on being the only one to touch his beloved gadgets.

If only he was half as protective over Alison.

“I’ll talk to her,” he’d said, then promptly called her in and lectured her on not getting cornered in a coat room tonight. As though it’s onherto keep herself safe, and if someone crosses a line, it’s because she got sloppy and let the side down.

Such bullshit. I nearly cracked the marble kitchen counter in two, I was gripping it so hard, watching Ali blush and stammer her agreement.

That isnotwhat I wanted.

I was trying to help her. Trying to get her out of these parties, since she clearly hates every minute.

Ali pauses on the terrace by the doors, firming her shoulders and taking a deep breath. Then she plunges back into the party, back into the heat of the crowd, a ghostly white pearl pinging off her dress and bouncing over the paved stones.

Heart in my throat, I follow her slowly. Giving her a chance to put some distance between us, since I clearly freaked her out back there. Must have done something or said something that made her skitter away like that.

Fuck. Was I looking at her funny? Staring at her with all the hopeless longing I carry around for her, all day every day? The yearning carved into my big, ugly face?

My knees crack as I crouch down by the doors, picking up the dropped pearl and rolling it between my finger and thumb. It’s just like Ali: small, delicate, precious, unmarred.

Beautiful. And wasted on these wild, hungry crowds.

They part like an ocean when I head back inside, my broad shoulders cutting a merciless path through the kitchen. I walk slowly, eyes flitting over faces and hands and furniture and patches of shadow, cataloging every detail. Weighing up present and future risks.

Thatman by the giant, stainless steel refrigerator is a real estate mogul, a man who buys up whole streets like others buy trading cards—and he’s also an angry drunk. Right now, his face is flushed. He’s getting close to the point when he’ll start swinging, which means it’s time for one of us to stuff him politely in his car. Let his long-suffering driver take him home.

I walk on, making eye contact with one of my men by the door and jerking my chin at the mogul. My guy steps forward, slipping easily through the crowd.

Over in the living room, the lights are dimmer, the bodies twined together as they dance. Some of the women here tonight are famous actresses and singers; others are premium escorts. One or two are CEOs and lawyers in their own right, but not as many. Those businesslike women don’t tend to have much patience for Charles Wainwright and his parties, and it’s no mystery why.

Women like that fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously. Are they really gonna risk it all for a single night of empty hedonism?

Charles always says they’re too frumpy to be invited, but we all know better. He’s just a piss baby about rejection.

My gaze zips to Ali, like always. That girl draws me like a magnet. Even when I don’t have eyes on her, even when she’s in another room, some part of me is alwaysawareof her. On alert, muscles bunching under my clothes, ears straining for her sweet, husky voice.

She’s squished herself between the monstrous Christmas tree and the wall, hiding away from the party guests between the branches. Watching them with glassy eyes and down-turned lips, her sadness clear even from across the room.

Fuck.Did I really do that? Did I mess up with her that badly on the terrace?

Or has someone else crossed a line?

My pulse thumps in my ears as I stride through the room, cutting a steady path through the dancers, the music loud enough to rattle my teeth. It’s hot and sweaty in here, the air tangy with a chemical mix of perfumes and colognes, so maybethat’swhy Ali looks ready to cry. She’s always been easily overstimulated.

She sees me coming, and her jaw firms. Something sparks behind her blue eyes, something defiant, but by the time I’ve reached her, she’s folded in on herself again. Pale fingers fiddle with the Christmas tree branch that cuts across her middle.

“I decorated the tree last week,” Ali tells me, her quiet voice cutting through the music somehow. Even when she mumbles, I always hear her every word. I’m tuned to her. “Then Dad got an interior designer to redo it.”

My stomach hurts. “I know.”

“So that’s on my Christmas wish list, too.” Her fingers brush over the green needles. “A tree I can decorate and make as messy and unsymmetrical as I like, with homemade ornaments and cheap tinsel. And no one pulls it down afterward and redoes it.”

She’s changing the subject, keeping us away from whatever happened back there, but if this is what Ali needs…

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