Fearless (17 page)

“Drink?” he asks, lifting a bottle of chilled champagne.

“Yes, please!” I say. He expertly pops the cork and pours two glasses. Handing one to me, he holds his up for a toast. “To an evening of pillage and plunder in the name of raising money for cancer.” Lowering his voice he adds, “I fully intend to claim a certain princess as my prize by the end of the evening.”

I laugh as I clink my glass to his. Lifting my chin, I say haughtily, “We'll see about that, Captain. I doubt a common thief such as you is any match for the aristocracy.”

With his eyes dancing, Beckett leans over and kisses me full on the lips. It's a different kind of kiss than the sexually charged ones that have defined our relationship so far. This one is infinitely sweet and almost tender.

“Thank you for coming with me tonight, Emmaline,” he says sincerely. “I think this is the first time ever that I am actually looking forward to one of these events.”

Fifteen minutes later, we pull up in front of the Corinthian, a beautiful old neoclassical style building in the historic downtown district. When we emerge from the limo, we're instantly submersed in another era. Women in elaborate full length gowns mill around with men garbed in cloaks and long tunics. Two minstrels played the harp as people walk through the doors to the check-in desk. Beckett checks us in and takes my arm again as we walk up the stairs to the banquet hall.

The two-story banquet hall is stunning with high ceilings and white marble columns, and it possesses an old world luxury that is perfectly suited for the medieval theme. Round tables decorated with sumptuous gold and crimson linens are set up around the lower floor, leaving room for a dance floor at one end. Beckett stops to say hello to several people as we make our way through the room, introducing me as his date, but he doesn't talk to anyone for long. Instead, he pulls me along as he makes his way to the elegant double staircases at the back of the hall. We climb the stairs to the second level where there are two full service bars, tables set up with games of chess, backgammon, and some sort of dice games, and a small stage where a magician is delighting a crowd of medieval dressed guests.

“What would you like?” Beckett asks, stopping at the bar.

He's making progress. He actually asked what I wanted instead of deciding for me.

“Cranberry and vodka,” I say, asking for my favorite as I try to take in all of the activity going on around me.

I watch a table of men playing a dice game as I wait near the bar until Beckett returns, handing me my drink. As we turn away from the bar, I spot Beckett's dad, who is dressed as a medieval king. With him is an incredibly attractive younger man with slightly curly dark blond hair and enigmatic hazel eyes who is dressed as a rugged huntsman.

“Beck!” the younger man says, grabbing Beckett in an affectionate hug and clapping him on the back enthusiastically. To my surprise, Beckett hugs the man back with a decidedly un-Beckett-like show of warmth. After a long moment of manly back slapping, Beck pulls away and turns to me. “Emma, this is my brother Griffin. Griffin, the beautiful Princess Emmaline Hart.”

I smile at Beckett's brother and hold out my hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you,” I say.

His mesmerizing cat eyes don't leave my face as he flashes me a dazzling, white-toothed smile and lifts my hand to his lips, kissing it. “The pleasure is mine, Princess Emmaline.”

Although it seems innocent enough, the gesture holds an underlying carnality that catches me off guard. Flustered, my eyes seek out Beckett's. He smiles slightly. “This one's all mine, Grif. Don't worry, Emma. Griffin is a professional heartthrob and is used to seducing women, but you're safe. He knows you belong to me.”

For some reason, instead of making me mad, his possessiveness unfurls a rush of warmth through me.

Griffin laughs as Beckett takes my hand from his, wrapping his fingers possessively around mine. “You can't blame a man for trying,” he says to me with a wink. Turning to his brother he adds, “What's with the pirate outfit? I thought you were going to dress as a huntsman with me. What happened to robbing the rich together?”

“The lady has pirate fantasies,” Beckett replies with a shrug.

I flush and look at Beckett in surprise. Did he really change his costume for me at the last minute after I made that offhand comment about the image of him as a dangerous pirate being a turn on? He winks at me and a delicious chill travels up my spine.

The senior Dr. Black reaches past his sons to hug me, and the conversation turns to his memoir. As they talk, I realize that while the three men are vastly different in both appearance and personality, they share an affectionate camaraderie. I'm intrigued by this side of Beckett that I haven't seen before. It makes me realize that while we know each other intimately in so many ways, in other ways I barely know him at all.

Before long, several attractive women join us, obviously jostling with each other to talk to Griffin, and the elder Dr. Black excuses himself to go look over his speech.

“Shall we?” Beckett says, placing his hand on the small of my back and expertly guiding me toward the games area.

We have barely gone half a dozen steps before we're intercepted by a group of elegantly dressed men. Beckett introduces me to each of them, but other than one who I think I recognize from his urology practice, I have no idea who they are. They're all clearly doctors because they quickly become engrossed in an animated discussion about the merits of robotic surgery. Bored, I entertain myself people watching, and when that grows old I wander over to watch the magic show.

Twenty minutes later, dinner is announced and Beckett comes to find me just as the magician finishes his show.

“I'm sorry,” he said, lacing his fingers with mine. “Unfortunately, shop talk and networking are a big part of these galas. I've been neglecting you.”

“It's okay,” I say lightly as we head downstairs to the dining area. Walking down the stairs causes the balls to roll gently inside of me, keeping me on the faintest edge of arousal. “Thanks to your gift, I'm far from bored.” I make a face. “And I certainly don't feel neglected.”

He smiles with satisfaction. “That was the idea,” he admits. “I know how these things can be and I wanted you to remember who you were with and what you have to look forward to later.”

The smoldering look in his eyes, combined with the mild tension the balls create, make me squirm slightly under his gaze.

He leans down and presses a kiss to my lips. “I'll try to be more attentive,” he promises.

Once we're downstairs we find our table, which is near the front in what seems to me to be prime real estate. Beckett must be pretty important to rank a table this close. Introductions are made around the table, and Beckett is instantly drawn into conversation with the man seated next to him, whom he had introduced as the chief of staff at Memorial Hospital. I sigh. I certainly can't expect him to ditch his boss to talk to me. Unfortunately, the seat next to me is empty, and after exchanging pleasantries with several women across the table from me, I give up. They seem friendly enough, but they're too far away for us to carry on an extensive conversation without practically yelling.

Dinner, a beautiful presentation of herb crusted rack of lamb, sliced potatoes with a buttery sauce, and asparagus, has just been served when an attractive woman who looks to be in her early forties slips into the chair next to me. She is wearing an exquisite red velvet gown trimmed in gold and somehow manages to pull off the gold crown that completes her outfit. I wonder briefly if she actually is some sort of royalty. She carries herself with that air of confidence and entitlement that seems to come naturally to people who are born with everything.

Glad to finally have company, I smile at her and say, “Perfect timing! This looks fabulous.”

“It should!” the woman says irritably. “I've just spent the last hour making sure of it! I swear, you can hire the best caterers in the world and they still manage to screw something up.”

Her sharp eyes dart around the table, assessing who is seated where. For one long minute her gaze rests on Beckett, who is still talking to the hospital's chief of staff and hasn't noticed her arrival, and then shifts to me.

“And who might you be?” she asks.

“My name is Emmaline Hart,” I answer, holding out my hand. “I'm here with Beckett Black.” The woman stares at me and then places her napkin in her lap, deliberately ignoring my attempt to shake her hand.

“Indeed,” she says. “And what do you do?”

“I'm a writer,” I say carefully, unsure if it's an overture at civil conversation or not.

The woman smiles then, but it's a hard smile that doesn't reach her eyes. “Well, isn't that droll?” she says.

I stare at her, equally stunned and angry at her unabashed rudeness. As unwarranted as it is, people are usually strangely fascinated when I tell them what I do for a living; most people think the life of a writer is infinitely more glamorous than it actually is. At the very least, it's usually good for a few minutes of conversation. This woman, however, is not only unimpressed, she acts like I just told her I'm the scullery maid. I'm not sure who she is, but I know I don't like her. Apparently the feeling is mutual, although I have no idea what I might have done to offend her.

“If by droll you mean unusual, the work I do is actually pretty mainstream,” I say evenly. “If by droll you mean amusing, it certainly is that.”

She looks at me appraisingly. “Sheath those claws, little kitten,” she says. “I didn't mean to insult you. It's just that Beckett tends to date women who are doctors. I assume you are Beckett's date?”

I nod, studying her more closely. “How do you know Beckett?” I ask.

The woman waves one ringed hand dismissingly. “I've known Beckett for years. In fact,” she adds confidentially, “he has been my date to this gala a time or two.”

“Indeed?” I say, mimicking her tone. “So you're a doctor, then?”

“Well, aren't you a feisty one! How absolutely fascinating.” The woman takes a sip of her champagne and then leans close to me. “How does that work out with Beckett? In my experience, Beckett likes his women a little more, how shall I say it, compliant. Unless of course, you misbehave to get his attention. Not that I blame you. He is quite good in bed.”

I want to throttle her but I rein it in, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of letting her know the impact her words have on me.

“I'm sorry,” I say evenly. “I don't believe I caught your name.”

Just then, Beckett turns to say something to me and his eyes harden when he sees the woman seated next to me.

He says in a mocking tone I've never heard before, “Emma, this is Camille Penworth. She is a huge supporter of cancer research, isn't that right, Camille?” He looks at her coldly. “In fact, she is the chair of tonight's gala.” Turning to me he says, “Would you like to dance?”

“Sure,” I say, placing my hand in his. I can practically feel the daggers aimed at my back as Beckett leads me onto the dance floor. He pulls me close, resting one hand on my hip and capturing my hand with his other as he expertly leads me around the dance floor. The balls roll provocatively inside me, the resulting pleasure a jarring contrast to the way I'm feeling.

“I don't think I've ever met a more unpleasant person,” I say with a sigh. “Who is she?”

“The organizer of the gala,” Beckett says curtly. “I told you that.”

“I know that!” I say with exasperation. “I want to know who she is to you. She seems to know you pretty well.”

Beckett's face hardens. “She's nothing to me.”

“Oh, okay,” I say sarcastically. “I'm glad you cleared that up! She hates me at first sight, insults me, knows you like your women submissive and tells me how good you are in bed. What a relief to know that she's nothing to you!”

As if summoned, Camille appears next to us on the dance floor. “Do you mind if I cut in, dear?” she says to me.

“Oh, by all means,” I say angrily, pulling away from Beckett. “Be my guest.”

I don't look back as I walk off the dance floor and make my way upstairs. I find Beckett's dad setting up a game board of chess. He smiles when he sees me.

“Would you like to join me in a game, my dear?”

“I'd love to,” I say, trying to rein in my emotions as I sit down opposite the sweet old man that I've grown fond of. Too bad his son is an asshole.

Several minutes into the game neither one of us have any of the other's pieces. I capture his bishop and hear a gasp. I look up from the game, and I'm surprised to see that we have an audience. Noticing my confusion, Griffin, who is standing nearby, leans toward me and says under his breath, “Dad's a bit of a chess legend. No one can beat him but Beck. But don't let that intimidate you. And by all means don't go easy on him! He'll never forgive you.”

I grimace. I am thoroughly done being intimidated by this group of snobby, pretentious socialites. I block out the crowd, concentrating on the game in front of me. Thirty minutes later, I make my final move and say triumphantly, “Checkmate.”

The crowd cheers and several of the men rib Dr. Black good-naturedly.

“Well played, my dear,” Dr. Black says, getting to his feet. He winks at me. “I believe my son has met his match in more ways than one.”

“We'll see about that.”

I turn in surprise at the sound of Beckett's voice, searching the crowd for him. I don't have to look far. He materializes next to the chess table looking more than a little dangerous in his pirate costume, his features unyielding, his eyes forbidding, and his mouth set in a hard line.

“I'll take the next match,” he says. “If you're brave enough to play again that is, Princess?”