Platinum (Facets of Passion) Page 13

  “Say you’ll let me take you to that charity ball.”

  She pushed at his chest and wrinkled her nose. Figured he’d just find another point of weakness. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

  “I know the schmoozing scene. You’ve been to one fancy party, you’ve seen them all.”

  She got up and found her glasses. Steel reclined casually on the floor, as if he wasn’t paint-smeared and gloriously naked, the dare gleaming in his eyes. It wasn’t that easy and he knew it. For all her parents knew, she’d be bringing Brandon, since she’d been too much of a coward to say otherwise.

  Hell, for all they knew, she was the same person she’d been a week ago. And that just wasn’t true anymore.

  They’d know it the moment she walked in with Steel. No more keeping him to the basement, to the dark shadows. Afraid of what everyone would think. What they would say about her now.

  She brushed ineffectually at the paint on her own body, and the dragon on the wall caught her eye. It possessed a brash fearlessness, a passionate ferocity she almost didn’t recognize. But that was her too. An unafraid part.

  “It’s good,” he told her again and she knew he meant more than just the painting.

  “No.” She put a hand on her hip and cocked it sassily. “It’s brilliant.”

  * * *

  “How do I look?” Steel emerged from her bathroom, clean-shaven, sharply groomed, and posed a la Michelangelo’s David. He cut a mighty fine figure in the tuxedo. No surprise there. Something about a rough man set inside those perfectly tailored lines. Contrast again.

  “Amazing. But you did not have to rent the Armani tux. You’re going to blow all that commission money.” She surveyed herself in the mirror again. “And when I said you owed me a new outfit, I meant something for everyday. Not this.”

  The gown clung to her like a second skin—and showed a great deal of her own skin along with it. The collared neck, black with iridescent beading that matched her skin, was all that held the dress up, falling into separated strips that parted to show the smooth space between her breasts. Backless, the gown resumed at her hips and draped in panels of alternating black and silver-white. The slits between them showed coy glimpses of her legs when she walked.

  At Steel’s urging, she’d left her hair in a straight fall down her back—mostly because it at least helped cover her some. Still, the gown was…too much.

  “I look washed out,” she fretted. “I can’t pull off black.”

  “That’s because your makeup is wrong,” Steel replied easily. “Let me fix it.”

  “Now you do cosmetics?”

  “Paint is paint. Come here.”

  Feeling sulky, she edged past him into the brightly lit bathroom. Steel laid a towel on a clear spot on the counter and started pulling out various pots and tubes from a MAC bag.

  “You planned ahead.”

  He flashed her that wicked grin. “Always.” He lifted her by the waist and set her down on the towel, placing a kiss on her forehead. His hands lingered on her waist.

  “Althea, darlin’, you look beyond gorgeous in this dress, but what the hell are you wearing under it?”

  “Pantyhose? They’re these nylon things that women wear—maybe you’ve never heard of them?”

  He lifted the panels of her skirt. “Why do they look like what nurses wear?”

  She sighed. “Because even nude stockings look too dark on me. I have to buy white ones so my legs don’t look like they belong to a different person.”

  “Let’s take them off. Then you will be all the same person.” With a wink, Steel reached up under her skirt and started working the control-top down her hips.

  “Steel! I can’t go without stockings!”

  He regarded her somberly. “Oh. They check at the door for that kind of thing?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You were planning on throwing your skirts over your head while dancing then?”

  “Of course not!”

  By this time he’d pulled the hose off and slipped her silver high-heeled shoes back on. He smoothed his hands up her bare skin. “Much better.”

  “Now I need panties.”

  “No, you don’t. This is more fun.”

  “For you, maybe.”

  “And you. Gives you something else to think about.”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “Being nervous about introducing me to your parents.”

  “Steel, I—”

  “Hold still.” He slid her glasses off her nose and set them aside. “Jim Morrison said that the most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are—a subtle kind of murder. No, don’t say anything. Just think about it.”

  She watched him, his face intent while he applied the cosmetics, wielding the tiny brushes with his usual skill. He wouldn’t let her look, but she could imagine it, from the feel of the colors lining her lips and eyes. She could always wash it off. If there was time.

  “What time is it?”

  “Stop fretting.”

  “I’m not. I just can’t be late is all.”

  “Shh.”

  She subsided, mentally tapping her fingers. She’d rather be late than remind people of Lady Ga Ga’s evil twin.

  “Okay, you can see.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “If I look like a prostitute, you will pay for this.”

  “You insult my artistic integrity.”

  She scooted herself off the counter, the silky dress falling around her now nude legs, and wheeled around to catch herself in the mirror, watching her own mouth fall open in shock.

  “Give yourself a minute to get used to it.”

  “I don’t know myself.”

  “Is that bad?”

  She turned her face from side to side, trying to examine it like she would a piece of new art. No longer a watercolor, she had become an oil painting.

  Fine black eyeliner rimmed her pale blue eyes, with mascara just a shade lighter. Layers of gray shimmered out, growing lighter toward her brows, where a silvery glow highlighted the brow bone. He’d darkened her brows more than she usually did, creating a finer arc. Her lips weren’t the blow-job crimson she’d feared, but a deep rose. A dusting of the same rose highlighted her cheekbones, expertly blending into the pure white of her skin.

  It was vivid, striking, but with the dramatic gown, the look worked.

  “No. It’s not bad.”

  He kissed the side of her neck. “Do I hear brilliant? I love it when you say I’m brilliant.”

  “I never said you were brilliant—just your art.”

  He grinned at her in the mirror. “It’s the same thing.”

  “You wish. Should I leave off the glasses?”

  “Your call. I love your sexy librarian look. We should do that sometime. You could put your hair in one of those tight buns and reprimand me for being noisy and returning my books late.”

  “I’m ignoring you.”

  “You wish.”

  She pressed her lips together and slipped the glasses into her beaded evening bag. “We need to go. The limo Daddy sent will be out front by now.”

  “I’m kind of surprised you go along with that bit.”

  “It’s convenient and he insists. Some battles are just not worth fighting.”

  “At least now we can have a little fun in the back with what you’re not wearing under your skirt.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  * * *

  They were late, but within a polite margin. Glittering ladies murmured in genteel voices, holding crystal highball glasses and flutes of champagne, while the tuxedoed men laughed more loudly. A string quartet played a
gentle backdrop of sound while the big band set up in the ballroom. In between, the array of white draped tables gleamed with silver and fountaining fanciful centerpieces.

  These were her people—she recognized nearly every face—her extended social family from her earliest days when she spied on her parents’ parties from the stairwell. She was no longer that little girl, however. Especially with her body humming from Steel’s limo games. He’d reminded her the driver could see her face, then worked his hand up her skirt to lightly torment her pussy, leaving her to stare out the window and practice her best cool expression.

  If his goal had been to distract her from her nervousness, as it seemed to have been since she agreed to bring him as her date, he’d succeeded. At least temporarily.

  Steel’s hand settled on the small of her back, warm and protective. She glanced up and he smiled at her. “Doing okay?”

  “Yes. Fine.” Ironic that he was supposed to be the fish out of water here, in the midst of her tribe. Yet he looked completely at ease, unbearably handsome in his tux, taking in the scene with his characteristic enthusiasm. It was because he was totally comfortable with himself, she realized. He had found his way and was ashamed of nothing at all. He didn’t care what all these people thought of him—and that gave him the freedom to just enjoy. A freedom she’d never had.

  Or that she’d never taken. He was right that she cared too much about these things.

  He rubbed her back a little. “Want something from the bar?”

  “Yes, some champagne—oh, good lord, here come my parents already. Gird your loins.”

  “If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you gird them for me later.”

  Her mother swept up, catching her mid-giggle. “Althea, sweetheart!” Hyacinth Taylor Grant embraced her in a cloud of Chanel, her touch as wispy as a breath of dandelion fuzz. “You look…well, I was going to say you shouldn’t be wearing black, but you look quite radiant. And who is this handsome young man?” Her mother slid her a brief questioning glance, far too socially savvy to wonder aloud what had become of Brandon.

  “Mother, I’d like for you to meet Steel—he’s a sculptor and painter.”

  “Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Grant.” Steel took her hand in both of his and flashed her that dazzling smile.

  “Call me Bootsie—everyone does,” her mother cooed. “Is our Althea carrying your work at Chalkstone? I should stop in to visit. I’ve just been ever so busy planning this event! I swear every year I’ll give up the responsibility, but then they just beg me to stay on and I just can’t say no… What happened to your father? I swear he was just behind me. Hunch! Come meet Althea’s new young man.”

  “Hunch?” Steel asked quietly, moving closer and taking her hand.

  “Old nickname—he used to play football at Clemson,” she whispered back.

  “Hunch and Bootsie, huh?”

  “Hush.” She elbowed him and her father stepped up, front and center, pumping Steel’s hand.

  “Benjamin Grant. Good to meet you.”

  “Hunch, this is Steel…I didn’t catch your last name, sugar?”

  “McReady,” Steel answered, his lips quirking as he sensed her surprise, though he didn’t look at her. “Mike McReady, actually. But everyone calls me Steel.” He winked at Bootsie, who visibly fluttered in pleasure and then pursed her lips in thought.

  “Mike McReady? That name sounds familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “You might, ma’am.”

  “You won one of my art scholarships, yes?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thanks to your foundation. You changed my life.”

  Bootsie playfully tapped Steel’s muscled arm with her folded lace fan. “And now you’re a successful artist being shown by the best gallery in town. You should be our poster boy. Tell me about your work.”

  Althea was just as glad Steel hadn’t had time to get her the flute of champagne she’d been about to request, because surely she would have snapped the stem by now.

  “Actually, Mother, I—”

  “How is Chalkstone faring?” Her father frowned at her and she found herself shrinking back, only Steel’s firm hand at her waist stopping her. “Stan mentioned that you might be having financial issues.”

  “I’m handling it, Daddy.” She tried to sound crisp and firm, despite the betrayed anger boiling up inside.

  His calculating glance flicked to Steel and back to her. “That’s not what I’m hearing. I just don’t understand how you could be in this fix.”

  “Oh Ben—not here. Let’s get these kids some drinks!”

  “Good idea, Boots. You go. Steel, why don’t you help her?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll stay, sir.”

  “No.” Althea turned and put a hand on Steel’s forearm, steadying herself with the feel of the corded muscle beneath. “Go help my mom. Please.”

  He studied her briefly and nodded. “As you say, Miss Althea.” He brushed a kiss over her mouth before she thought to stop him, and offered his arm gallantly to her mother. “Shall we, Lady Bootsie?”

  Her lips burned where he’d kissed her, like a scarlet badge. Her father swirled his whiskey in his glass, face impassive. “He’s not exactly marriage material.”

  “I’m not exactly in the marriage market,” she shot back.

  “What are you in the market for? Christ, Althea, it’s not like you’re a young woman anymore! When are you going to make something of yourself?”

  “Oh, and getting married and popping out babies would qualify?”

  “At least you’d be less likely to screw that up too.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Isn’t it? We gave you every advantage with that gallery—told you exactly how to set it up for this market. Every predictor showed guaranteed success. Only an idiot could have blown that. And now your trust fund is gone, you’re not married, you have no profession. Tell me, what exactly is your plan that doesn’t include me supporting an old maid when I should be enjoying my retirement?”

  “I have never asked you to support me,” she hissed. “And Stan had no right to tell you my business.”

  “That’s what families do—take care of each other. We love you.”

  Murder with smiles on their faces.

  Steel placed a flute of champagne in her hand and she clutched it, close to dashing the contents in her father’s face. Her mother threaded her arm through her husband’s, chattering brightly about the elegant manners of the nice young bartender and how this year’s catering company was so much better than last year’s debacle.

  Althea held her father’s gaze, determined not to back down this time. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Mother, if you’d like to help me redesign the gallery. A new color scheme.”

  Bootsie clapped her hands in delight while a frown creased her husband’s forehead.

  “I need to do it in time for a reception and solo exhibition in a month, to showcase Steel’s brilliant art.” She cast a questioning glance up at Steel, who grinned at her. She raised her flute in a toast to her father. “All my indicators tell me he’s going to take the town by storm.”

  “Oh! We’re so excited for you, sweetheart. Aren’t we, Hunch?”

  Her father opened his mouth and Bootsie nudged him sharply, so he simply nodded, rewarded by a loving kiss from his wife.

  “I think we’ll mingle then.” Althea slipped her arm through Steel’s. “Come with me. There are people I’d like you to meet.”

  “Lead the way, princess.”

  Her body emptied of all that impotent rage as they walked away, leaving her full of glittering determination.

  “I thought you only called me that in the basement.”

  “Everybody else seems to have a nickname. Why not you?”

  She didn’t know. She’d always been
Althea. Or Thea. No fun alter-ego for her.

  Steel’s lips brushed her cheek, sending a sensual shiver through her. “You were something to see there, princess. All hot and bothered. Makes me want to tie you up and do wicked things to you.”

  She slanted him a look. “You always want to do that.”

  “True enough,” he cheerfully agreed. “Want me to kick that Stan’s ass for you? Or just hold your purse while you do it?”

  She laughed and tossed back the rest of her champagne. He set her empty flute on a nearby tray, took her hands. “Seriously. Are you sure you want to show my work—major change for the gallery?”

  “Yes.” She squeezed his hands. “You know how you said you had too much mad in you, until you channeled it into something you cared about?”

  He nodded, rubbing soothing fingers over her palms.

  “Well, I think I didn’t have enough mad. I might have found some of it now.”

  “Princess—you have enough passion for ten women. I’ve seen it.”

  Yes. She’d seen it, too, in his paintings of her. Wild and alive and wanting. “Yes. And I’ve found something worth fighting for. Several somethings, in fact.”

  Chapter Twelve

  She had fun at the ball, after that.

  Their dinner table included Abby and her date, who knew nothing about art, but at least knew nothing about banking, either. Steel entertained everyone with his wry wit, and Abby kept giving her looks that meant they’d need to dish soon.

  After dinner Steel swept her onto the dance floor—and kept her there. He left her breathless, spinning through song after song with surprisingly effortless style. For the first time she understood why churches wanted to forbid dancing. Moving with him to music felt so much like sex that she found herself forgetting they were surrounded by other couples and that she shouldn’t be contemplating getting her hands on his skin.

  “Is there anything you don’t do well?” The slow dance let her wrap her arms around his neck and toy with the little curls at the base of his neck. Already a shade of beard showed on his jaw.

  He pretended to think. “Nope.” And laughed when she tugged the curls. Then he looked thoughtful. “You’ve already seen it—my bad side. When I push too hard and don’t think and things just kind of…” He shrugged restlessly. “Things get away from me. But you help with that.”