The Million-Dollar Question, page 7
Evan—or actually his agency’s page, but still—had liked her Facebook page, and she’d returned the “like,” but that meant less than nothing.
It was all too weird. Annoying. Of course, then she got annoyed at herself for being annoyed in the first place. So juvenile.
This was definitely a sign that she needed a group, a posse, something. The lack of a large social circle wasn’t new for her—because she moved around a lot, she tended to have more acquaintances than actual friends—but the disappointment over it was new. Maybe it was because she really did want to put down roots here, and knowing that made her more aware of the sparseness of her life in general.
She owned no furniture—another reason why she’d chosen to live with a roommate in a furnished apartment—and very little “stuff.” She’d moved her entire life to Miami from Chicago in a rented Subaru Forester with room to spare. Memorabilia and keepsakes and that kind of stuff had always lived in a rental shed in Tampa, waiting for the day she’d settle down or retire.
If Miami was going to be that place, then she needed to start building a life here—one beyond the studio. It was a little scary to contemplate, and the fact she was annoyed at Evan of all people drove home how much she needed to just commit and get started on that. She’d been here three months already; what was her excuse? Beyond the niggling worry that her contract wouldn’t be renewed next season. She’d never been without a job or an offer before; she wasn’t going to be unemployed.
Maybe the fact she wanted this so much was driving the fear she wouldn’t get it.
But she also knew that worry was just asking for failure. If you worry you will fall, you will fall. It was advice she’d passed on to hundreds of young dancers—and it was good advice. She needed to listen to her own platitudes.
She’d just have to work under the assumption that everything would work out the way she wanted and that Miami would become home. The worst-case scenario? She’d have to rent a bigger truck when she moved.
So by Friday, she’d made her first major purchase, and she luxuriated with her laptop on the wonder that was a new mattress and bedding and surfed the internet in well-supported, high-thread-count comfort. She felt oddly grown up.
She’d given up on wondering what kind of friends she and Evan were supposed to be, so she was quite surprised when her phone rang and Evan’s name popped up on the screen. “Hey.”
“How’ve you been, Liv?”
“Good. Busy as always. You?”
“The same.”
They were the masters of inanity. And she was getting the feeling that Evan did it on purpose, just to throw her off balance. But for someone who’d been wondering if or when Evan was going to call, she was remarkably without a topic of conversation. “So what’s up?”
“Do you work tomorrow?”
“I’ve got rehearsals until three, why?”
“Would you like to go to a party tomorrow night?”
She needed a minute to process that question. Dinner was different than a party. Dinner was simply food, and people had to eat. She was helping Evan expand his arts education. They could make as much or as little out of those as they needed. A party with his friends was a whole other animal. That might be an actual “date” and did she want to go there?
Evan had to be a mind reader because he seemed to pick up on the thoughts whirling through her mind. “It’s a business thing. One of my clients is having their holiday party early to beat the after-Thanksgiving rush, and it’s so much easier if I bring a date.”
So it was a date, but not a “date.” She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
She started to ask how a date would make it easier for him, but stopped herself before she asked the single most ignorant question ever. Evan was young, good-looking, successful and single. “So, in reality, you need a beard.”
He laughed. “More like a shield.”
“Do I get combat pay?” she teased.
“Free food and booze—and this client goes all out, so it should be quality food and booze. Well worth the splurge.”
“While I do the arm-candy-small-talk-thing? Um... I don’t know.”
“One, while I’m sure you’ll make great arm candy, don’t feel you need to hang on mine every second of the evening. Two, Matt Abrams is a big supporter of the arts scene, so between him and his family, friends and clients, there’s a good chance you’ll find some arty and cultured people there to talk to.”
That got her attention. “Matt Abrams as in the Abrams Corporation?”
“Yes. Why? Is that a problem?”
The Abrams family were like gods in the Miami arts and humanities scene. A concert series, a lecture series and an entire wing of the art museum carried their name. The MMBC ballet board genuflected at the mere mention of the family. They were already donors, of course, but meeting and mingling in a social situation—well, it wouldn’t hurt her to be personally known by any of them.
And, a little voice reminded her, she was still in need of a sponsor. An Abrams corporate event had to be a good place to find one.
“Olivia?”
She’d been spinning too long again. Evan was going to think she was mentally deficient in some way. “Formal or semiformal?”
“Cocktail is fine. Do you have a dress?”
“Of course.”
“Then I’ll pick you up around seven-thirty.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Hanging up, she gave herself a congratulatory mental pat on the back. Seems she hadn’t been making such bad choices, after all. Her reward for not being tacky and asking Evan for the sponsorship was entry into the very social circle that could provide exactly that.
Being Evan’s friend definitely had benefits.
CHAPTER FIVE
OLIVIA WAS A HIT at the Abrams’s party, and Evan congratulated himself on his excellent idea. She was elegant and charming, mingling easily with the other guests and a whiz at party small talk. She’d confessed in the car on the way over that meet and greets were as much a part of her repertoire as Swan Lake, as they were essential for... something. He hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should have because Olivia in a little black sparkly number had fried much of his brain. A simple back sheath that looked demure from the front dipped low in the back to show the sculpted muscles of her shoulders and the long line of her spine from her upswept hair to the small of her back. The hem stopped high enough on her thigh to showcase those amazing legs without looking trashy. Although he’d managed to get his tongue off his toes—eventually—every now and then he’d catch sight of her unexpectedly and all his blood would rush south again.
He wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold up his end of this “friends” deal—simply because he couldn’t guarantee he’d be able to keep his hands off her for much longer. Not and keep his sanity intact, too. He had to be a masochist to even consider it. Olivia’s uneven, hot-and-cold flirting was an added stumbling block, as he couldn’t quite tell where her thoughts were heading.
But tonight, they were here as “friends,” and repeatedly introducing her and explaining their relationship—”my best friend’s sister”—should be enough of a reminder to keep his hands in his pockets. But since he rarely brought women to business events, questions about the true nature of their relationship were clear in everyone’s eyes.
It was probably in his, too.
Olivia didn’t require constant attention, which was nice, allowing him to socialize and mix business in as needed. These people were potential new clients for his agency, and he needed to work the room. But she was also usually near enough to function as that all-important shield, keeping enough speculation alive to prevent any other women from making their move.
A couple of hours into the evening, Matt Abrams made his speech, thanking everyone for another great year. Then the band started playing and people headed for the dance floor.
Olivia was chatting with a woman he vaguely recognized as the wife of one of the city managers as he sidled up beside her. They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, then the woman made her excuses with a smile and left them alone.
“Having a good time?”
“I am. Thanks for bringing me. And you were right—the food is great.”
He hadn’t seen her go near the buffet, but that was neither here nor there. Olivia was also going easy on the booze, nursing a glass of champagne while others were starting to feel their buzzes. When he offered to get her another, she shook her head. “I’d rather stay sober. I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of all these people.”
He inclined his head toward the dance floor. “Then why don’t we go dance?”
Olivia shook her head. “I said I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.”
“No one’s expecting any fancy moves out of you, Twinkletoes.”
“Well, that’s good.”
He reached for her hand, but she shook her head. “I don’t really dance.”
“You don’t dance?” He was waiting for the punch line.
“Not like that, I don’t.”
“Wait... you’re actually serious, aren’t you?” When she nodded, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing, which earned him a withering look from Olivia.
“If I go onto the dance floor, people expect a lot out of me,” she explained. “Like I’m supposed to be Ginger Rogers or something, even though my idea of a waltz is a lot different than theirs. It’s embarrassing when I can’t deliver what they expect. All dance training is not equal.”
“I’ll lead then.”
Her eyebrows went up. Slightly suspicious and disbelieving, she asked, “You can dance?”
“Well enough not to step on your feet.” He held out his hand again. She still looked suspicious. “Come on. What happened to trusting your partner?”
She cut her eyes at him, but didn’t acknowledge that conversation otherwise. “You’d better not make me look bad,” she warned, but she put her hand in his and let him lead her to the dance floor. Once there, he was able to pull her decently close to him in a special sort of torture. She smelled amazing and his hand found warm bare skin above the deep drape of her dress.
At first, Olivia was stiff in his arms, but after a few minutes, she relaxed a bit and followed his lead. It was nothing fancy—he stuck to the basic steps and she picked them up quickly—but Olivia was obviously impressed when she smiled at him. “You’re good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“Because I am. I didn’t peg you as the dancing type.” The teasing smile took a little of the sting out of her words.
“Ah, well, I like women, and women love a man who’ll take them dancing.”
Olivia laughed. “That explains it, then. I knew there would be a good reason. So where’d you learn to dance like this?”
He led her through an easy turn and into a shallow dip. “The Recreational Dance Society of Jacksonville. Beginners always welcome.”
“Really? In college?”
“Yes, really. Why the disbelief?”
She shook her head. “I just can’t picture eighteen-year-old Evan Lawford taking time out of his partying to take dance lessons.”
“Like I said, the ladies like it.”
“I believe it, but you need a better story.”
“Why?”
In all seriousness, she said, “Because the lady might not like to hear that you only dance in the ongoing quest to get into her panties.”
He had to respect her blunt honesty. “Then what story should I tell?”
She really seemed to be thinking about it. “Um... Like your mom teaching you when you were little. Maybe dancing around the kitchen with your feet on hers. It’s a sweet image and would work nicely.”
He snorted at the idea and Olivia gave him an odd look. “There’s no way I could say that with a straight face,” he explained. “I come from a very conservative religious household. No dancing allowed.”
“None?”
“No. Dancing inspires lust.” He said it with snark, but his father was being proven partly right even as he spoke. Evan was certainly lusting after Olivia right now. Much more of this and he was going to have to loosen his hold to put more space between them before Olivia felt that lust.
To his surprise, she collapsed into giggles. “What’s so funny?”
“You. Taking dance classes to rebel against your parents. That’s got to be the strangest, yet most civilized form of rebellion I’ve ever heard of.”
“Hey, there was plenty of other rebellion,” he said in his own defense. “And long before college, thank you very much. There was just no place I could learn to dance in Arrowwood.”
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “A whole town of people who don’t dance? Did you grow up in that town in Footloose or something?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Call me Kevin Bacon.” When she continued to stare at him, waiting for his response, he finally shrugged and offered, “When your father is a hellfire preacher in the town’s biggest church, no one is going to teach you to dance, even if you ask nicely.”
Olivia was incredulous. “You’re a preacher’s kid? Oh. My. God.” She started to laugh, but pressed her lips closed instead, making the sound come out as an unladylike snort. “That explains oh-so-much about you.”
Damn it. He’d assumed she knew, but this proved that Jory had kept his promise and that information to himself. But the last thing he wanted was amateur psychology from Olivia. “Actually, that explains nothing about me.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Well, you’d be wrong.” To throw her off-topic and off balance, he led her into a more complicated pattern that had her nearly tripping over her feet to catch up.
She shot him a dirty look, clearly aware of why he’d done it. But “I thought you said no fancy moves,” was all she said about it.
“Sorry. I thought you could handle it.”
“You thought wrong. I still don’t know what I’m doing.”
There was a sigh in her voice that changed the subject nicely, even if she didn’t mean for it to. But they’d been dancing—literally and figuratively—long enough.
He leaned close enough to drop his voice but still see her face. “Do you need a bit longer to feel me out, learn how my body moves and how we fit together?”
He felt her stiffen at the reminder of the words that had been haunting him, and she stumbled slightly again. She’d put the idea out there, though, so she had to have been expecting it to come back on her. A pink flush, evident even in the low light of the room, crawled up her chest to her neck. “I’m not sure we’re quite in sync yet.”
His thumb stroked the soft skin of her back, and he felt the muscle beneath jump in response. “I think we’re getting there. You just need to let go and trust me to do my part.”
That flush had made it to her cheeks, and he could see her pulse fluttering in the base of her throat. But when she lifted her eyes, they met his evenly. “That’s the thing, Evan. I’m not sure I can.”
And, that, sadly, was the truth. Even if Evan looked shocked to hear it.
She knew perfectly well what Evan was capable of—and honestly, it only made it more difficult to make decisions. She had plenty of memories of exactly how they fit together, what his hands felt like and how he moved. And since he’d had nine years to improve on his technique, the possibilities made her knees a bit wobbly.
But knowing what he was capable of cut both ways, because she knew what he wasn’t capable of, either. That’s where she’d gotten burned before. And while she could talk a good game this time, she had to be honest with herself, too, and she wasn’t completely sure she trusted herself to be okay with where that limit of capability was.
Evan was the scariest kind of womanizer: he genuinely liked women, and he could be caring and sweet—up to an extent. She didn’t think it was an act he pulled just to lure women into his bed, because he didn’t need to pretend anything to get women to accept a no-strings fling. The fact that easy, sexy charm probably wasn’t an act was what made him so dangerous. Even knowing what she knew, even after he’d hurt her before, even telling herself exactly where the line would be going in... it still didn’t bode well for her in the end.
And she’d be a fool to set herself up for the hurt—however unintentional—this could cause.
“You can’t what? Let go? Or trust me?” Evan asked. There was tight humor in his voice—he didn’t seem angry or hurt, just curious, surprised and maybe, just maybe, a touch offended.
The song changed, and Evan altered his pace, but not the steps—which they’d now repeated enough that she didn’t have to think too much about her feet. But it did remind her that they were not alone: a couple hundred of Miami’s wealthy and elite surrounded them. “This isn’t an appropriate place for this conversation, Evan.”
It was a viable, reasonable excuse—and she’d jumped on it for exactly that reason.
“There’s loud music and lots of booze. No one’s paying any attention to us, sweetheart.”
Okay, different tack. She might as well be up-front and honest. “I thought we were going to be friends.”
“We are. Look at us. Perfectly friendly.”
“Then why are you making a pass at me? I thought you said you’d respect my wishes.”
“I said I’d respect it if you said ‘no.’ I didn’t say I wouldn’t ask.” He pulled her a little closer and the effect was devastating. “And you haven’t said ‘no,’ yet.”
