Pride (In Wilde Country 1)

“Such a nice, old-fashioned word. Dumbstruck.”

“Ah. She told you, too.”

“A few minutes ago.”

His smile tilted. “And you came looking for me.”

Her laughter was the kind no man ever wanted directed at him.

“You wish.”

Such disdain. Such hauteur. Such ego. It was enough to change his plans.

“Yes, I do. You saved me the trouble of looking for you.”

He’d surprised her. He could see it in the swift narrowing of her eyes.

“You were looking for me?”

Another flashbulb went off. He looked in its direction, saw the camera, saw a couple of cellphones aimed at them. Still smiling, Luca closed the couple of inches separating them and clasped her elbow.

He felt her stiffen. She was going to jerk free, or at least she was going to try, and there was no way he’d let that happen.

Deliberately, he tightened his grasp.

“Lights, camera, action,” he said, very softly, bending his head so that his lips were almost at her ear. “Or don’t they say that in your world?”

“Whatever do you think you’re doing, Bellini?”

“What I’m doing is saving your ass, McKenna. Put that ego of yours away and trot out what little you know of good manners. In other words, smile and look as if you’re thrilled to have found me…unless, of course, you want to be on every cheap gossip blog by midnight.”

She glared at him. Then he saw her throw a quick look over his shoulder, saw knowledge of their growing audience register in her eyes.

“Shit,” she whispered.

He laughed. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“Oh, Luca,” she said gaily, “that’s so amusing!”

She threw back her head and laughed. He imagined dipping his head lower and pressing his mouth to the elegant curve of her throat.

It was an image he didn’t need right now, and he forced it out of his head and replaced it with a grin.

“I thought you’d like it,” he said.

Then, still holding her elbow, he led her through what was now a fair-sized group of gawkers, into the ballroom and to his table.

* * *

There were six other people seated with them.

Two psychiatrists and their spouses, plus a portly man and his seemingly anorexic wife.

The shrinks—one male, one female—were politely reserved.

The portly man was effusively friendly.

“Jim Holland,” he said. “From Staten Island. This is my wife, Verna.”

Luca shook hands all around. So did Cheyenne. He searched for a conversational gambit, thought of saying that though he’d lived in New York, on and off, for years, this was the first time he’d met someone who actually lived on Staten Island, but caution suggested that might not go over well.

Besides, he didn’t need a conversation starter.

He had the only one that mattered, seated next to him.

Cheyenne was what everyone wanted to talk about; she was the person they wanted to talk to. Not even the evening’s entertainment—a famous rock band and its even more famous lead singer—were enough of a distraction to change their focus of attention.

They all recognized her. Even the shrinks seemed excited to meet her—or, at least, as excited as Luca figured people who spent their lives trying to seem unflappable could get.

“I saw you on one of those huge Times Square billboards,” one of them said.

“Oh, yes,” his wife added. “In that soap ad. What was the brand?”

“Gardenia Body Shampoo,” Cheyenne said politely.

Gardenia Body Shampoo. Luca remembered the scent of her naked skin. Was that what she’d smelled of? Gardenias?

“And you did those jeans ads,” Verna Holland said. “I bought a pair.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Of course, they didn’t look on me the way they’d looked on you.”

Nothing would look on any woman the way it would look on Cheyenne, Luca thought, although what she’d always look best in was her own naked skin.

“I heard a rumor that you’re donating your ranch in Tennessee to the organization,” Shrink Number Two’s husband said.

“Texas,” Cheyenne said, smiling politely.

“Do you raise horses?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You have a ranch, but no horses?”

Cheyenne’s smile tilted. Luca saw that the conversation was making her uncomfortable. Good, he thought coldly. Let her be uncomfortable.

“I don’t breed horses, but I do own two.”

“Ah. On your Tennessee ranch?”

“It’s Texas. And no, I don’t have—”

The lady shrink put her hand over her husband’s.

“Are you interested in equine therapy?”

Cheyenne seemed to hesitate. “It’s an interesting field.”

“What I mean is, do you have a personal interest in it?”

“Now, Beverly,” the shrink’s husband said, smiling broadly, “don’t pry.”

“I’m not prying. I’d never pry. I’m just curious, is all. Equine therapy is a relatively new field and no one seems to have a firm set of statistics proving whether or not it’s effective over the long term. I thought, if Ms. McKenna had actually experienced it, her opinion would be interesting.”

Cheyenne’s smile had grown fixed. She seemed more than uncomfortable; the word that came to mind was desperate.

Good, Luca thought again or, at least, that was what he wanted to think, but there was something in her eyes, a trapped expression…

He put his napkin on the table, rose to his feet and drew back her chair.

She looked up at him.

“They’re playing our song,” he said briskly.

He figured the odds were good she’d tell him they didn’t have a song or that she’d sooner dance with a hippopotamus, but she got to her feet and said, “Yes, they are.”

He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. She went into his arms, but she kept what felt like the length of a football field between them.

He wasn’t going to tolerate that.

She stiffened as he drew her closer.

“Try looking like you’re enjoying this, McKenna.”

“Our song?” she said.

Luca had no idea what the band was playing. Now, he listened. And then he laughed.

“Say Something.”

“I just did.”

“The song. It’s called Say Something. Seems appropriate, don’t you think? Especially the first line. ‘I’m giving up on you.’”

Her face was turned up to his. For a couple of seconds, her expression didn’t change. Then she smiled.

She had an amazing smile.

“I wouldn’t have picked you for a man who knew much about popular music.”

Luca turned her in a slow circle.

“I would not have picked you for a woman who would permit the blathering of fools to bother her.”

She tried to draw back, but he wasn’t going to tolerate that, either.

“Relax,” he said softly. “Feel the music.”

They moved together slowly for a few minutes. Then she sighed.

“I hate when people pry.”

“They wanted to know more about you.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Luca said, surprised at her naïveté.

“Yes, why. Why would they want to know more about me? I’m a stranger to them.”

“You’re not. At least, that’s how they see things. You’ve been in their homes, on their television sets, in the magazines they read.”

The music had changed. Midnight, by Coldplay. The song was as slow and plaintive as the last one. It suited what he felt, suited the feel of having her in his arms. His hand slid down her spine, settled just at its sweet indentation. He lowered his head a little, enough so he could smell the light scent of her skin and hair.

If they were alone, he th

ought, if they were alone…

“That they’ve seen me pretending doesn’t entitle them to ask me personal questions.”

Her answer puzzled him.

“Pretending?”

“It’s what models do.”

He turned her again. The floor was crowded; they had little space to maneuver in. That was fine with him. It meant he could keep her close.

“That’s an interesting way to put it. That what you do is pretense.”

“What else would you call it?”

“I don’t know. Acting, perhaps.”

“It’s the same thing.”

Dio, she felt wonderful in his arms.

He didn’t want her to feel wonderful. He didn’t want to think about how perfectly her body fit his.

And he sure as hell didn’t want to think that the time they’d spent in that motel had been pretense. A meaningless exercise of body and brain, her cries, her flushed face nothing but an act.

An act he’d bought into, same as he was buying into it now.

Except, goddammit, he wasn’t.