“So are yours.”
Deliriously, she laughed at the thought that they wore the same lipstick. She placed her hands on his cheeks and wiped the red away with her thumbs.
“I have a handkerchief,” he said.
“We don’t use handkerchiefs where I come from.”
“That’s okay. I think I like your way better.”
She ended up smearing it over her hands and his face. “I’m making it worse.”
He laughed. “Not for me. How about we clean up and get a drink?”
The reporter studiously avoided them by trying to get someone else’s attention. “You read my mind,” Lola said.
Getting anywhere proved difficult. People stopped Beau every few steps. They each patted their mouths with Beau’s handkerchief as a temporary fix. He held her hand. She let him. What choice did she have? Her hand, and all her other parts, belonged to him in that moment. When Beau turned away from her, Lola touched her fingertips to her lips. She doubted a single camera had missed their display. Johnny might see it.
“You okay?” Beau looked at her hand at her mouth.
“Your scruff tingles,” she said. “You’d think someone going on a million-dollar date would have the decency to shave.”
“I’ll shave tonight if you want. Before bed.”
Before bed. As if they were an old married couple who never spent a night apart. The tingling became stronger as she thought about the fact that his mouth would be on her again and soon—before bed. “I didn’t say I minded,” she said softly, her face upturned to him.
He grunted or something, a deep noise of approval as his eyes jumped between her lips and eyes. “You know just the right things to say, don’t you? I have unfairly high expectations of people, yet somehow you continue to exceed them.”
“And here I was trying to be less than expected,” she said, but she was teasing him. The gap she’d insisted on keeping between them was closing the more comfortable she became. “You do put on a pretty good show.”
He shook his head slowly. “What show?”
“Holding my hand, kissing me for the cameras? You’re sending a message all right.”
“If I am, that doesn’t have to mean it’s a show. I believe you’re mine and no one else’s. I meant what I said to that reporter—tonight, it’s very serious.”
Lola wanted to stay skeptical. It was easier that way. Beau didn’t have her completely convinced there was good somewhere underneath his suit, but she was beginning to doubt it was all bad.
“What are you having tonight?” he asked.
Well vodka with club soda was her go-to drink, but she stopped her automatic response just in time. She wasn’t that girl tonight. “Dirty martini,” she said. “Grey Goose, please.”
Beau ordered for them. She no sooner took the drink than Beau was approached once again, this time by a sturdy, red-cheeked man just as tall as Beau but many years older. “Evening, Olivier,” he said, shaking Beau’s hand. “Nice to see you.”
“You as well, sir.” Beau turned slightly. “This is Lola, my date for the evening—”
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I haven’t seen you at one of these things with anyone lately.”
“I wish I could say your concern with my personal life is flattering.”
“Oh, you know I’m messing with you,” he said, slapping Beau on the back. “You can’t expect an old, married guy like me not to want to live vicariously. You always have a beautiful woman on your arm.”
Lola hadn’t been ignored by any man this much since she’d grown breasts. Even Beau had turned away fro
m her. “I prefer you don’t talk about me as if I’m not standing right here,” she said.
Beau smiled a little and shook his head, but the man turned to face her completely. “Well, shoot. I’m sorry, darling. Where are my manners?”
“I was wondering the same thing about everyone here,” Lola said.
His laugh was more of a guffaw. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air from Beau’s usual type?”
Beau frowned. “Excuse me?”
“She’s the first—” He stopped to address Lola. “You might be the first of Beau’s dates I’ve ever heard speak.”
“Perhaps you should be thankful for that,” she said.
More merry laughing—the man was quickly becoming besotted with her. “I am. I certainly am.”
Beau, on the other hand, narrowed his eyes. “Come on, now. What’d those girls ever do to you two?”
“They had something that was mine,” Lola practically cooed, batting her lashes with exaggeration. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m very possessive of my things.”
Beau smoothed his hand down his tuxedo shirt. “I hadn’t, actually.”
Lola raised one eyebrow, waiting for Beau’s bantering response, but nothing came.
“Lola,” the man said, calling her attention away, “are you as good at keeping Olivier in line as you are me?”
She turned away from Beau and winked. “Better.”
He nodded high with his chin in the air. “I’m impressed.”
“Does this mean you’ll take the meeting?” Beau asked, his wits seemingly recovered.
“Let’s not worry about business right now. Listen, a spot opened up at my table—why don’t you two join me there tonight?”
“We’d be honored, Mayor Churchill,” Beau said. “Table one, is it?”
“That’s right. See you there.”
“Mayor?” Lola asked, gaping as he walked away.
Beau smiled. “Did I not mention that?”
“Oh, God. I didn’t recognize him.” Lola covered her face. “I was just incredibly rude to the mayor of Los Angeles.”