Chapter 10: Call Me Richard
Roxanne’s eyes scanned every corner of the room. Every man in a suit suddenly looked suspicious, and every masked memory from the lounge came rushing back. Was he watching her right now? The thought sent a nervous flutter through her stomach.
Before she could even finish processing the possibilities, Christian’s fingers clamped tightly around her wrist, dragging her forward.
"Come on," he hissed under his breath, his smile never fading as he guided her through the crowd. "I need you to meet the senior partners."
Roxanne nodded numbly, her throat tightening as she forced herself to swallow. Her eyes frantically darted from face to face, searching for that pair of dark, predatory eyes in the crowd.
Christian came to a halt in front of a circle of wealthy investors, and Roxanne instantly donned her flawless, practiced smile, murmuring the standard, polite greetings.
But then, just a few feet behind her, a smooth, gravelly baritone cut through the ambient noise of the ballroom.
"Yes, I agree. That is an exceptionally lucrative deal."
Roxanne froze mid-sentence, her eyes flying wide as the deep, velvet cadence of the voice drifted across her bare shoulders. It’s him.
The realization hit her like a whirlwind. She snapped around sharply, her silk dress hissing against her legs as she desperately sought out the speaker. But there was only a dense wall of uniform black tuxedos. The stranger had vanished back into the crowd.
"Are you alright, Mrs. Westbrook?" one of the older executives inquired, noticing her sudden panic.
"Oh, she’s perfectly fine," Christian smoothly cut in before Roxanne could find her voice, his tone dripping with patronizing ease. "My wife is just observing tonight. She gets a bit overwhelmed by the noise."
The men offered polite, knowing nods, and Roxanne forced her stiff lips into a tight smile, her heart hammering a chaotic rhythm in her ears. "Of course," she said lightly.
The walls of the ballroom felt like they were closing in on her. She needed air, needed to escape him before everything would be ruined.
"Please, excuse me for just a moment," Roxanne murmured, taking a step back.
But before she could even take a second step, Christian’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her forearm, anchoring her to the spot. Roxanne turned her head sharply, staring at him. Christian stepped closer, his posture rigid and his eyes darkening with controlled annoyance.
"The most important person in this room and this entire city is over there," he said quietly, his fingers digging slightly into her arms. "Don’t mess this up for me."
The warning in his voice sent irritation surging through her chest.
Christian leaned closer. "If you do," he continued through clenched teeth, "I will never forgive you."
Before Roxanne could respond, Christian tightened his grip on her hand and guided her across the ballroom. She inhaled slowly, forcing herself to steady her breathing.
The crystal chandeliers overhead cast golden light across the room, while the soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses filled the air.
Roxanne smoothed her dress with her free hand and pasted on the polished smile she had perfected over years of standing beside Christian at events like this. Inside, however, her nerves were a tangled mess.
Christian maintained a tight, sweaty grip on her hand as he steered her toward a secluded corner of the ballroom where two men stood conversing over tumblers of amber scotch.
"Good evening, Mr. Vance. Good evening, Carl," Christian greeted them, his usual insufferable arrogance instantly evaporating, replaced by a tone of pure submission.
The sudden, pathetic shift in her husband’s posture surprised her, but Roxanne kept her smile perfectly locked. Christian eagerly turned to her, his chest puffing out with false pride.
"This is my wife, Roxanne," he announced, flashing a plastic smile at the men. Before Roxanne could even draw breath to speak, he gave her a sharp nudge from behind, his fingers digging into the bare skin of her open back.
The jaw of the man on the right tightened, but he said nothing.
"Go ahead, Roxy. Say hello to my boss," Christian said, his cheerful tone out of place.
The two men shifted their attention to her. The older of the two extended a polite hand. "Good evening, Mrs. Westbrook. It’s wonderful to see you again," Carl said warmly.
Roxanne smiled, the professional mask slipping effortlessly into place. "Good to see you again, Mr. Carlton," she replied, shaking his hand with a brief, elegant nod.
"Hello, Roxanne." The second man spoke, and the world violently ground to a halt.
Roxanne froze. The voice was familiar. No. It’s impossible.
A cold wave rushed through her body as the deep baritone settled somewhere low in her chest, awakening memories she had spent the entire evening trying to suppress. Her fingers tightened around her clutch. No, it couldn’t be.
Slowly, almost against her will, she lifted her gaze. The man standing beside Carl was tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in a charcoal tuxedo that probably cost more than her car. He looked nothing like the masked stranger. Nothing.
And yet, her pulse began to pound.
The eyes. Those eyes, dark, intent, unsettlingly focused. A strange dizziness swept over her.
Christian was talking, or maybe it was Carl. Someone was laughed somewhere close. But the sounds seemed distant, muffled beneath the violent rushing in her ears.
The man extended a hand. "I’m Richard."
Roxanne stared, her gaze dropped to the hand waiting for hers. Large, strong, long fingers. And a vivid memory flashed through her mind. Those same fingers gripping her hip, those same fingers parting her thigh, those same fingers tightening around her waist while he whispered against her ear.
Her stomach dropped. No. No, no. The room suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.
Richard’s mouth curved slightly, not enough to qualify as a smile, just enough to tell her he knew exactly what she was thinking.
Terror exploded through her chest. The lounge. The messages. The sofa. The five hundred dollars she’d thrown onto the table.
Dear God. She had tipped her husband’s boss.
"It’s an absolute pleasure to finally meet you," Richard said smoothly. Then he turned to Christian. "And Westbrook, your wife looks absolutely ravishing tonight."
The emphasis on finally made her blood run cold.
Christian let out a nervous, awkward laugh, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Vance," he stammered, entirely oblivious to the electricity crackling between them. "You’re too kind. Really, there’s no need to be polite."
Roxanne barely heard him, because Richard hadn’t looked away from her once. Not for a single second. And suddenly she knew.
The stranger, the man from the lounge, the man she couldn’t stop thinking about, the man whose mouth had been between her thighs less than two hours ago, was Christian’s boss. Only now, he wasn’t wearing a velvet masquerade mask. He was wrapped in a flawless, bespoke multi-million dollar tuxedo.
A sudden wave of intense heat flooded her face, and she wished with everything in her soul that the floor would simply open up and swallow her whole.
Sensing her hesitation, Christian nudged her again, his fingers pinching her side angrily. "Shake his hand," he ordered through clenched teeth, his voice a harsh, desperate whisper.
The physical jolt snapped her out of her stupor. Roxanne nodded frantically, her hand trembling violently as she forced herself to place her fingers into his massive, warm palm. The contact was electric, sending a sharp spark of heat straight up her arm.
"H-hello, Mr. Vance," she choked out, her voice betraying her entirely.
"Call me Richard," he purred. His fingers closed around hers in a firm, possessive squeeze before he lowered his head and brushed his lips against the back of her hand.
The gesture looked perfectly innocent to everyone else, but the dark amusement in his eyes told her the truth.
He knew exactly who she was.
