If the office had been on the first floor, it would have a guard restricting access to it.
“Ready?” Raphael asked.
“Sure.”
We stepped to the right in unison and began weaving our way from one group of people to the next. The second floor would have to wait. We had just come in and the guards were still watching us, and if they were good, they had probably nailed my identity by now. We had to circulate until they focused on someone else.
Forty minutes later, we had made a complete circuit of the room. The old Raphael used to be expert at small talk. He spoke to men about business, paid women subtle compliments, and everyone loved him. The new Raphael at my side seemed grimmer and less willing to chitchat. Despite his looming at my side like a dark but gorgeous shadow, we managed to ferret out the location of the office from a clueless older couple who had been invited there before. Anapa’s lair of doom was on the second floor on the south side of the house. Coincidentally one of the first-floor bathrooms was on the south side too, a fact I discovered when I went to fix my hair.
The music grew louder. Couples were dancing, in the middle of the floor, swaying back and forth. The alcohol was going as fast as the waiters brought it out. A few people looked good and sauced on Anapa’s superior grog. The small talk went from weather and harmless gossip to spicier topics and meaningful stares as the booze lowered inhibitions.
Raphael took my hand and led me to the middle of the floor.
“What are you doing?” I asked through my smile.
“If I have to listen to another recount of how Malisha from Accounting hooked up with Clayton from Legal, I’ll lose my mind.” He turned me, still holding on to my hand, maneuvering me into a classic dance pose. His arm slid around my waist and I shivered.
“So you thought dancing would be better?”
“Yes.” He began swaying. “Pretend to enjoy it.”
“A handsome man, a great party, lovely food. What’s not to enjoy? Oh wait, the man is you.” I began swaying, too. I was really good at swaying. He would regret ever pulling me on this floor. “You like screwing with me, don’t you?”
“Well, since we decided not to screw each other anymore, I have to get my fun somehow.”
Since we’re playing that game… I tilted my face up to his and gave him a lovesick gaze.
“Do you have to sneeze?” he asked.
“Be quiet. I’m pretending to enjoy your company, just as you said.”
“Try not to strain anything.”
“Oh, I won’t. I’m very good at faking it.”
That shut him up.
We kept swaying. Standing close to him like this, all but wrapped up in his arms, was pure torture. I leaned closer to him and made a small noise, not quite a growl, not quite a purr, made from desire and lust. Raphael focused on me, like a hungry cat on a mouse.
“You should take me to the bathroom to make out,” I told him.
A flash of ruby fire exploded in his irises and melted. He leaned closer, pulling me to him. “What?”
“You should take me to the bathroom to make out,” I repeated into his ear. “There is no way we can make it up that staircase. We can use the bathroom window to get to the second floor.”
Raphael’s hand slipped from my waist to cup my ass. A little electric zing dashed through me.
“Wow, straight for the goods, huh?”
“Can’t just make out right out of the blue.” Raphael’s grin was pure evil.
We swayed for a bit more.
Raphael squeezed my butt.
“Seriously?”
He shrugged a little. “Faking it, honey, you remember.”
I wrapped my arms around his neck, stretched against him, like a lazy cat wanting a stroke.
At the other end of the room someone shattered a glass. The room collectively turned toward the sound. Raphael took my hand and we quietly slipped away into the left hallway. It was mostly deserted. Two guys milled about at the wall, engrossed in a discussion that involved phrases like “asshole” and “like he runs the damn place.” They didn’t pay us any mind.
A small sign on the door to the right said, BATHROOM.
Raphael tried the door. The handle didn’t turn in his hand. Occupied.
A security guy stepped out from the room down the hallway, a severe unsmiling block of a black suit complete with an earpiece.
Raphael pushed me against the wall and braced my body with his, catching my right arm above my head and pinning it against the wall with his left. The oldest cliché in the playbook.
He studied my face for a tiniest second, bent down…His lips touched mine.
I wanted to kiss him. I wanted him so badly and that need blocked out everything else. And why the hell couldn’t I kiss him? So what if he had a fiancée-to-be? I didn’t owe her anything. Being good was overrated.
Raphael licked my lips, demanding, seducing. His teeth caught my lower lip, pulled lightly. I had him all to myself. In this moment he was entirely, completely mine.
I opened my mouth.
He lingered, kissing my lips, slowly, surely, as if we had all the time in the world and there was no need to hurry. Little electric shocks shot from my heart all the way to my fingertips.
His tongue slid into my mouth and touched the tip of mine. He tasted like Raphael: spice, fire, and need wrapped into one. I licked him, inviting him in. We kissed, every stroke of his tongue, every touch of his hands caressing my body, magnified to an almost painfully intense sensation. Warmth spread through me, my body ready for more. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted his hands on my breasts. I wanted to pull his clothes off and run my fingers down the hard muscle of his chest. I teased him, enticing him, then pulling back, letting him think he could reclaim my mouth and taking his instead.
It felt like coming home. It felt like medicine soothing a raw wound. I loved him so much, and I kissed him, drinking in the cocktail of sweet memories and bitter future.
The bathroom door opened next to us, the sound too loud in my ears.
I stopped and instantly Raphael straightened. A short man who had come out of the bathroom gave him a thumbs-up with a “Go you!” smile and headed down the hall. The security man was nowhere in sight.
The kiss had torn a gaping hole inside me. I wanted Raphael. I wanted to hold him and to know that he was all mine. I wanted to make love. I needed a cold shower.
I had to get myself together and I needed to decide how bad I was going to be, because making love to him in this bathroom right now would be really, really bad.
Raphael held the bathroom door open for me. I stepped inside. He followed and locked it.
Get a hold of yourself. You can do it. It was just a stupid ruse anyway.
He had the most self-satisfied look on his face. He’d wanted me to melt right there and now he felt all smug because he’d gotten under my skin. Apparently I was a toy.
You bastard. Okay, let’s see how you like this.
I pushed him against the door and kissed him again, sliding my body against his, nibbling, licking, purring in his arms. He went for it, hook, line, and sinker. I let him start stripping his jacket off and broke away.
“I think the bars on the window have silver in them, don’t you?”
He stopped, his tuxedo halfway off his shoulders.
“It’s good that I brought gloves.”
“Andrea!”
“What? Oh, you mean the kiss? I’m sorry, I wasn’t quite finished. I’m all done now, no worries.” I patted his chest. “Your virtue is intact. You won’t have to confess anything to Rebecca. It was just one kiss. It didn’t mean anything.”
His snarl was music to my ears.
I turned to the window. It was near the ceiling that it was just wide enough for us to get through. The bars formed a rectangular grate that gleamed weakly in the light of the moon, too pale not to be a silver alloy. Silver meant burned hands. I’d handled silver bars with bare hands before. It felt like grabbing something dipped in acid.
I opened my clutch and took out my glass cutter and my gun, a black shirt, and a pair of cloth gloves. Behind me Raphael paced the length of the bathroom like a caged tiger.
All my hormones were still in overdrive, and my whole body was humming. My hands shook a little.
Inside the bag was a carefully concealed zipper. I unzipped it, and where a normal clutch would have had a lining, this one had thin shoulder straps and extra material that allowed it to be unfolded into a larger backpack. I’d had it custom-made some time ago.
“Fancy.” Raphael commented.
“Glad you like it. Now I know what to get you for your birthday.”
“I want mine in blue,” he said. “To match my eyes.”
“Whatever you say.” I slipped on the gloves. “The window is barred. Could you lift me, please?”
He wrapped his hands around my legs and picked me up without a word. He didn’t just lift me, he embraced me, caressing me without moving his hands. I was still keyed up, and when he touched me, I almost groaned.
Oh, it was on now. We were playing a sadistic little game, and I wouldn’t lose to him.
I grabbed the grate. Solid. I braced one knee against the wall, and yanked it hard, pushing against Raphael. The grate came free. Raphael lowered me to the floor. I slid the grate behind the vanity, next to the trash can, slipped off my shoes, and turned my back to him.
“Could you unzip me?”
He touched my neck and drew my zipper down, slowly. A delicious little thrill ran through me. I had no idea I had so much bouda in me.
I stepped out of the dress. Underneath I wore a tiny black bra and spandex bike shorts. I slipped the shirt on, rolled my dress up, packed it, my shoes, my lucky bracelet, and my clutch into the backpack, and buckled the belt diagonally across my chest.
“Swiss Army Purse,” Raphael observed. I heard the familiar playful notes in his voice. The kiss must’ve thrown him off balance, but he’d recovered now, and he was up to something. “Any handcuffs in there?”
“No, why, do you think I’ll need some?”
“Depends on what you’re planning to be doing and with whom.”
