“Yeah. People are saying that we aren’t doing this for real, so we’re going to show that we are. I even had a few paparazzi tipped off, just to be sure.”
“There are going to be photographers?” My voice is slightly shrill. “Can we just skip that part? Barron didn’t say we needed to be photographed or anything.”
“Nope. Barron won’t rest until everyone’s satisfied the auction was real. But don’t worry, the vultures won’t be able to follow us in or anything. It’s an exclusive steakhouse. They won’t get past the door.”
That’s a minor relief, I guess. “But what about between the hotel and the restaurant?”
“We’ll probably get some attention when we leave the hotel here, and definitely once we arrive at the steakhouse. But I go there every time I visit Vegas, so they’re expecting me and they know what to do.” Nate puts his hands on my shoulders. “Trust me, Ms. Parker. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I look into his beautiful eyes even as my mouth goes dry, and my stomach churns. I really hate the attention, but like he said, nobody’s going to be able to get inside to take photos or ask me ridiculous questions.
Besides, I trust Nate. If he says he won’t let anything happen to me, nothing’s going to happen to me.
I nod. “Okay.”
Chapter Fourteen
Nate
I take a quick shower, then let Evie have the bathroom. There’s still an hour until dinner, which will—hopefully—be enough time for her to get ready. I put on black slacks and pale blue dress shirt, then roll up the sleeves. I read somewhere that women find forearms sexy. I don’t know why. They really aren’t that special as
far as male body parts go. Abs are much better—and a more logical choice. You have to work your ass off to get decent abs. Use them more during sex, too.
I put on a Rolex and study my forearms. They’re looking extra defined, since I’ve been doing a lot of wrist curls and farmer walks. Tonight will be a good time to test them on Evie. Maybe they’ll imbue her with such lust that she’ll leap across the table and rip my clothes off.
Of all the fantasies I had starring Evie—and I’ve gotten pretty creative over the past few months—none of them had Barron making us go out. I wasn’t going to press her about the date she won because I knew she wasn’t going to get involved beyond helping me out with Georgette. Besides, I want her to go out with me because she wants to, not because of the auction.
What I still can’t figure out is who the hell is behind all the asinine speculation and ugly gossip. I’m not the only one who hired somebody to bid on them. It’s inevitable if you don’t want to go out with any of the potential winners. Or if you don’t want to bother with a date but want to help the cause anyway. The auctions aren’t just about raising money, because straight donations would net just as much and be a lot easier. They generate publicity and awareness as well. They let the world know there are a lot of people who could use some assistance. Every time Elizabeth does an auction like this, charities see an increase in donations—mostly in money, but also in time.
But until now, nobody gave a damn. And certainly nobody badmouthed Elizabeth. My mind conjures up Georgette’s furious face when she realized she lost, but not even she would go this far. Besides, she’s probably back in rehab or whatever now. Her parents must’ve heard about the scene she made at the auction. And losing her bid to get me probably caused a relapse.
Regardless, when I find out who’s been fucking with Elizabeth, I’m going to rip them a new one. Or two.
About five minutes before we have to leave, Evie comes out. My breath catches in my throat. She’s gorgeous in a pale cream cocktail dress and a pair of nude pumps. The outfit is modest, but gives her an air of innocent allure, like a fresh bloom waiting to be discovered and admired. Her makeup is light and barely there. I love that she isn’t hiding her beautiful face under layers of foundation and colors. But most of all, I thank the stars that she’s let her hair down. It looks so soft and touchable that my fingers itch with the urge to tunnel through the golden mane.
She flushes. “Do I look okay?”
“Perfect,” I say. “You look perfect, Ms. Parker.”
“I’m glad. I wasn’t sure.” She looks down at herself. “I’m not very good at this sort of dress-up stuff. And don’t want to embarrass you.”
I don’t tell her that she’d look beautiful no matter what she was wearing. I also don’t tell her I’d make the restaurant let her in even if she were in a tattered potato sack, because I’m Nate Fucking Sterling and I won’t let anybody make her feel bad. “You could never embarrass me, Ms. Parker. On the contrary, I’ll be the envy of every man in the city.”
The flush on her cheeks deepens. God, why isn’t this a real date? If it were, I’d tease her, then kiss her. The hell with being seen; we’d spend all evening and the rest of the night right here in the suite.
But it’s not, and she’s already going above and beyond to bail me out. “I know you’re nervous about the whole orgy thing, but I promise I’m not going to do anything you don’t want,” I say, offering her my arm. “We’ll just have a nice dinner—you can order anything, not just what’s listed on the menu—and then spend the rest of the evening doing whatever we both feel like doing.”
She lays her hand in the crook of my arm. It feels warm and right through the thin fabric of my shirt. I wonder if she’s noticing and admiring my forearms until I realize she’s busy studying the rest of the suite.
Goddamn it. “Shall we get going?”
We walk out together.
“I’ve never been to Vegas,” she whispers like she’s confessing a grave crime.
“Well, we’ve rectified the ‘never been’ part. Ever gambled at a casino?”
“No. Never.”