I dropped the tag onto my desk and allowed myself a moment of weakness. I’d paid for this dress, after all.
She sucked in a sharp breath as my hands closed on her waist, preventing her from escaping, although it became evident escape wasn’t on her mind. As I moved into her space, she melted back into me, my chest becoming a wall for her to lean against.
Thoughts scattered and disappeared, such as logic and propriety and sense, making room in my mind for an unfamiliar feeling of longing. Without my consent, my head dipped, and I pressed my lips to the base of her neck, just at the edge of the dress.
Her shiver moved through her frame, and I experienced it with her, my body translating it into pleasure.
“Thank you,” she swallowed thickly, “for the dress.”
“You’re welcome.” I released her while I still could and stepped back, savoring how she seemed to sway in my absence.
The back section of the Cape Hill Yacht Clubhouse was a ballroom with a soaring pitched ceiling, supported by arches that dropped columns to the sides of the room and didn’t detract from the view at the back. Out the windows and beyond the veranda, the Cape was dotted with piers and boats, and then the water swept out deeper into the Atlantic.
I was pleased for Evangeline. The event appeared to be well attended, and the space was crowded, full with the finest families the town had to offer. It was loud with conversation and laughter, aided by liquor and drugs, some of which weren’t likely procured by prescription.
The Shaunessys were here in the crowd somewhere.
I knew because posters displaying the bachelors and their bios had been posted in the front lounge where I currently stood, and Liam’s pissant son Richard was featured on one of them.
If that snot-nosed kid brought in more money than I did, I’d go down the pier to my yacht, Checkmate, sail away, and never return.
“They’re getting ready to start,” a female voice said from behind me. “Did you mingle at all?”
The gentlemen had been encouraged to be friendly and work the room to give potential bidders a taste, and since I viewed this as a competition, I’d done my best. I’d made small talk as Sophia had coached me, chuckled at things I did not find amusing, and forced myself to smile.
I turned to face my assistant. “Yes, of course.”
She was still wearing the dress I’d given her, and my pleasure at her doing so hadn’t waned all day. The smile that warmed my face now was the first genuine one I’d had all evening.
There was a glass of champagne in one of her hands and her phone in the other, but as she gazed at me, a frown crossed her expression. She thrust the glass to me to hold, and I took it to free up her hand, which she immediately used to reach toward my chest. I stayed motionless as she dug her fingers into the breast pocket of my suit coat and fixed the white pocket square. It was an innocuous gesture, and yet my body thrilled at her touch.
I said it low, so no one would hear it. “You didn’t ask permission to touch me.”
Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Tell me I didn’t have it.”
You are letting this become a problem.
I forced my gaze off her and on to the poster with my picture and bio, gesturing toward it. “Where did you get that?”
“The picture?” She glanced at the signage. “I took it during the sales meeting last week.” Her posture stiffened, realizing I might not approve. “Um, is that okay?”
The image she’d captured was through the glass windows of the conference room, and she must have cropped and edited it, so I filled the frame and was the only focus. I was seated at the head of the table, my gaze turned up at whomever was presenting at the other end of the room. My hair was peppered with gray, more at the temples, but I didn’t dislike how it looked. I appeared distinguished and thoughtful and unassuming.
I exuded a quiet power with that look. Confident, but not pretentious or intimidating.
It wasn’t the brand I had strived for once, but now? This image sold a promise of the new Macalister Hale, older and wiser and worthy, and I was determined to deliver.
Sophia was on edge, waiting for my approval, and her voice faltered. “I think you look great.”
It was unclear if she meant in the picture or in general, but either way was good. “I agree,” I said. “I also appreciate that it didn’t require me to sit for a photographer.”
Unlike the rest of the bachelors, who obviously had. Their pictures reminded me of yearbook head shots. It made mine more visually interesting, drawing the eye, and I would take every advantage afforded me.