The Highest Price to Pay (5 page)

“So, what do you think?” she asked, not because she really wanted to know, but because she was desperate to distract herself from the heavy tension that had settled in her stomach.

“It is…different.”

“It’s not made out of Lycra or covered in sequins, so I understand it might seem a bit out of the ordinary for you.”

“A commentary on the women I date?”

“Um…yeah.”

“Thank you for that, but I think the press has the commentary covered.”

And he didn’t care. She could hear it in his dismissive tone. Why did she care so much? Not about what the press said about him, but what they said about her. About the way her arms looked in a picture in the paper.

She just cared. She wished she didn’t.

She cleared her throat. “Anyway, it’s a mix of flow and structure, a little bit of Grecian inspired draping and the pleating on the bodice is to help give the model a good silhouette, and to add a more complex design element.”

“If you say so.”

He moved closer and she receded behind the dress form a little bit more. She didn’t know where her bold confidence went. She was pretty certain she’d left it in the club a few nights ago. Darn him for being able to shake her like that.

It was one thing to play at a little bit of flirtation when she was certain a man would do nothing about it. Although when they saw the marks on her skin, they didn’t want to go there. She was confident in the ability to use those physical imperfections as a shield.

But Blaise had touched them. He had looked right at them, not in horror. And he hadn’t looked away and pretended not to see what was so very obvious.

He put his hands out, gripped the hips of the form and turned it slightly, his hands masculine and dark against the frothy, feminine fabric.

“I don’t see any of that, I confess,” he said softly, his eyes locked with hers. “But I can easily imagine a woman wearing it. The way these lines would conform to the curve of her waist.” He ran his index finger lightly over the pleating she’d hand stitched into the bodice. “And these lines here—” he let his finger drift over the gown, up to where the pleating was done more loosely, with wider strips of fabric “—to make the woman’s curves look even more dramatic.”

She sucked in a breath as his finger skated over where the breast would be. She felt her own breasts grow heavy in response, felt her nipples get tight, as though he were touching her.

And all the while one large hand was resting on the hip of the form. She could almost feel the weight of his hand on her body, anchoring her to the ground so she didn’t float away.

He moved his hand down, grazing every fabricated curve on the dress form before gripping the filmy fabric of the skirt.

She could feel it. What it would be like to be in that gown. To have his touch firm and sure, over every swell and hollow of her body, to have him take a handful of the skirt of her dress. Maybe he would push it up next. The fabric would glide over her body with ease, cool and light, while his touch would be hot and heavy in the absolute best way.

The air suddenly seemed thick and it was a struggle to draw breath. A struggle to stop her knees from buckling.

He dropped the handful of fabric he’d been holding, his eyes still locked with hers. The faint whisper of the chiffon, mingled with her strangled breathing and her heart pounding in her ears was the only sound in the room.

Her lips tingled, her body ached. He hadn’t put his hands on her, and yet she felt branded. She felt as though something major, something completely altering, had happened, when all he had done was touch fabric draped over a dress form.

“I certainly wouldn’t mind if my date showed up wearing this,” he said, stepping back, appraising the gown casually as though…as though all he’d ever been doing was looking at the dress.

Because of course, that was what he’d been doing. That was all he’d been doing in his own mind. It was her mind, her sex-starved body that had made it into more than it was. She’d had too many fantasies. Fantasies where men looked past the imperfections of her body and desired
her,
the woman beneath the scars.

Although, even in those fantasies, she never saw herself as damaged. When she thought of being in a man’s bed, his hands moving over her back, her mind saw smooth, flawless skin. Her mind made her beautiful, a match for her dream lover. It was a lie.

And so was the moment she had just conjured up in her mind.

“Great. I think Karen will like it, don’t you?”

“As I said, fashion is not my thing. As a man I can say I would be drawn to the ad.”

“Well,” she said, her throat still tight, “hopefully women like it, too, since they’re the majority of
Look
’s readership.”

“I’m sure they will.”

“Thanks.” Now she just wanted him to leave, so she could forget what she’d just felt. So she could think of him as the pirate and not as the man who had set her body on fire with just a look, not as another thing she wanted that was forever out of reach.

There was no reason for her to want him. In this instance, the scars were offering protection. She shouldn’t want any part of the man he was. Of a man who thought so little of betraying those he was supposed to love.

Focus on that. Not his muscles.

“I did have one other thing I wanted to speak to you about,” he said.

Great. “What?”

“I want to take you to the sort of event that will actually be of practical use to you. I’d like for you to go to the Heart’s Ball with me tonight. Perhaps we can give the media something more to talk about.”

T
HE
Heart’s Ball was one of the biggest charity events in France, if not the world. Tickets were amazingly expensive, and that was only for entry. After that, there was dinner, which would cost around three hundred Euros a plate.

All of it went to fund the Heart association, aiding people with heart problems, helping them pay for medications and surgeries. It also helped the rich and famous rub elbows with each other and give some good PR.

And there was no way Ella could ever afford the cost of the event.

“Are you footing the bill?”

“Naturally. I always pay for my dates.”

“I want to buy my own dinner,” she said, wincing as she thought of giving up that amount of money. “It’s a good cause, and I’d like to support it myself, too.”

She realized, a little too late, that she’d just agreed to go with him. But how could she not? He was right, and the web traffic didn’t lie. If being seen in a club at a minor celebrity’s birthday bash was enough to make the news, then this would do even more for her.

She would love to refuse, would love to say “I don’t need you or your publicity.” But the simple fact was, she did. She needed it badly. Spending time with him was, ironically, the key to getting rid of him faster. The key to getting the money she needed, to getting her control back.

If that meant spending a few hours in his company, she would do it.

Her body prickled with heat, a treacherous physical excitement building in her as she thought of him holding her close to him, like a man would a date. It was highly charged, adult version of the guilt she used to feel as a child when she was about to do something she knew she shouldn’t do.

But she wasn’t going to do anything. She wasn’t. But she couldn’t stop the little pulses of adrenaline from spiking in her, couldn’t hold back the slow arousal that was building along with it.

“I will buy your dinner. You can make a donation in the amount you see fit,” he said, that voice hard and uncompromising. As much as she wanted to argue with him, her bank balance made it seem like a very stupid idea.

“All right, that sounds…no it doesn’t sound fair, it still sounds lopsided.”

“A man should always pay for his date. What manner of idiot do you usually associate with?”

“Oh my gosh, did you really just give me a lesson in chivalry?” she asked, bristling because no one had taken her on a date since high school. And that had ended… badly. Badly enough that she still didn’t like to think about it.

“You seemed to need it.”

“Not from a man like you.” And she regretted that the moment it left her mouth. Because while Blaise could be hard to deal with, he’d never insulted her. And she’d lashed out at him deliberately more than once now, using his past against him. If he’d done the same to her, she would have been devastated. Although, she doubted it was possible to devastate Blaise.

He didn’t react to the barb, not hugely. Nothing beyond the slight tightening of his jaw. “Not from a pirate like me?”

“I didn’t…” She sucked in a breath, regret and oxygen filling her. “Forget it.”

“No, you did, and you’re right. I’m not exactly the sort of person who should give advice on how to live in civilized society, and I don’t claim to be. But one thing I do is take care of the woman I’m with, whether I’m with her for a night or for a long-term relationship.”

She could well imagine that he did take care of them, in a physical way at least. His smooth voice spoke of all kinds of pleasures, pleasures she couldn’t begin to imagine with her nonexistent experience. But physical was about all he would be good for. Nurturing didn’t really seem to be his thing. His track record was poor to say the least when it came to caring for those he supposedly loved.

She looked at him, at his chiseled face, so hard it seemed to be carved from stone, and she felt an instant stab of guilt for the thought. And why, she didn’t know. Only that she, of all people, should know better than to take people at face value.

Blaise seemed almost too comfortable with his role of villain at times. So much so that it made her wonder now what was beneath it.

Nothing. Don’t go there.

She wasn’t going to allow herself to pretend that he wasn’t exactly who he appeared to be, just because she wanted him to be. It was something she’d done with her parents for years until the stark realization had hit her that they would never, ever love her more than they loved themselves. Would never be able to look beyond their own grief to see hers.

People didn’t change just because she wished they would.

“What time is the ball?”

“Eight,” he said, brushing his fingers lightly over the front of the gown that was still pinned to the dress form, making another little zip of sensation shoot through her.

She clenched her teeth. “Then you’d better go so that I have time to get ready.”

“It’s meant to be a costume party, by the way.”

The excitement was back, building, growing, along with a little bit of anger, anger that he so easily called a response from her body. And desire to get revenge. To make him burn with the same physical discomfort that she burned with every time she looked at him.

To make him ache for her, as she did for him.

“Now, a costume, I can do.”

Everything at the old châteaux where the Heart’s Ball was held was draped in glittering lights and gemstones. Swathes of fabric hung from the ceiling, and ornate, hand folded paper hearts had been placed on every surface. All of it spoke of an excess that had long ago stopped impressing Blaise. Although it certainly had at first. All of it, the wealth, the grandeur had been a source of fascination to him when he’d returned to Paris at the age of sixteen. When he’d left, he’d been a boy, but after eight years away he had been ushered into a whole different world. His family, his father and brother, had wealth and influence he could scarcely remember, and they had welcomed him into it.

But in the fourteen years since, he had begun to see the grime on the highly polished facades of the elite that frequented these events. He had been tarnished with it himself, had gone on to spread it to others.

No, the setting held no appeal to him. But Ella, her body wrapped in crimson lace that barely covered her long, shapely legs, lace that gave hints of the pale skin beneath without revealing too much of her lovely curves, she had the power to turn his head. Interesting since it had been at least three years since a woman had possessed the ability to do anything but arouse him in a generic, physical sense.

Passing sexual interest was common enough, but the burning ache of desire that Ella had ignited in his gut was another.

“What are you supposed to be?” he asked, taking her hand, a hand that was covered by fingerless, lace gloves, and leading her down into the ballroom.

Her lips, cherry-red tonight, curved into a smile. A gold mask covered part of her face, making her eyes look even brighter, more mysterious. “I’m temptation.”

Yes, she was. And three years ago, he would have set out to give into that temptation with single-minded focus. He would have allowed his desire for her, for the satisfaction of his flesh, to overrule his mind.

But he wasn’t that man now. He had seen where that led. He believed in control now, in the denial of that part of himself when it was appropriate to deny it.

“What are you supposed to be?” she asked, giving his black suit a critical once-over.

He leaned in, the scent of her, light, feminine, teasing him, making his stomach tighten with arousal. “I’m a man who does not like to wear costumes.”

He was rewarded with a laugh, a genuine laugh that seemed to bubble up from somewhere deep inside of her. “Well, I sincerely doubt anyone will challenge you over it.”

“I would imagine not.”

His reputation was too cemented, too ingrained in the minds of everyone here for them to give him so much as a wrong look. But he knew they all thought unflattering things. He was the boy who was all but raised by wolves in the wilds of Africa, as far as they were concerned. The man whose father had welcomed him back, sent him to the best college, attempted to make a success of him. The man who had taken his father’s efforts and made a mockery of them by betraying his brother, the older man’s much beloved heir.

Fine, he used the public’s perception to his advantage. It left him free to do what he liked, it gave him very little competition, mostly because the general public imagined there was no low he would not stoop to.

And he thought they might be right. Was there any lower for him to go? He seriously doubted it.

“That isn’t fair you know,” Ella said, giving him a smile, a genuine one. A strange thing for him to be on the receiving end of.

“Why is that?”

“I dressed up.”

“Yes, you did.” The lace looked so delicate, it would be easy to tear from her body, exposing her to him, one gossamer strip at a time. He could kiss the color off of those cherry lips. He would maybe leave the mask, though. It made for a very naughty image. Ella, naked except for the golden mask.

He would know it was her, though. There was no question. Even in his fantasy of her, the marks on her arms were there, the discolored skin on her neck. The scars that signified her as Ella, and not just some faceless woman.

Ella felt as though Blaise was looking straight through her gown, which was, admittedly a little on the daring side. It was thin, but with enough fabric to obscure the bits of her body that needed obscuring, either for public decency or for her own vanity.

At the moment, she was very grateful for the mask. It felt like a little something extra to hide behind.

“When do we get to sit down to this extravagant dinner?” she asked, eager to get a table between them, something to help divide his focus, because at the moment it was very much on her mind and it made her feel totally edgy.

It had been empowering, putting on the short, shocking dress in her bedroom, imagining getting back at him for the episode in her studio. She’d wanted to put him off his footing a little bit, like he’d been doing to her.

But no, he was still making her feel uncomfortable when she should be feeling confident. Clothes usually did that for her. That was just one reason fashion had become such a passion for her. By taking control over her looks, by playing to her own strengths, she could completely change people’s perception of her. And that appealed to her immensely.

It was failing her now, though. She felt like she’d overplayed her hand a little bit. Because when he’d come to pick her up and his golden eyes had slid over her, appraising her, he’d looked like he might devour her.

And what would she do with a man like him if he did decide to do that? What would he do with her?

Probably run screaming from the room once he got the dress off, horrified that he had nearly sullied himself by making love to someone who was so disfigured.

Maybe her scars weren’t that bad, but they were all she saw when she looked at her body. And she hadn’t been tempted to try to find out what someone else might think, not since her disastrous prom date with the boy whose aim had been to get her top off so he could see just how ugly she was.

Not since the only comfort her mother had been able to offer was a softly murmured, “you used to be so beautiful.”

No, she hadn’t felt like trying since then. And if she ever did…it would have to be with someone she really knew. Someone who really cared for her. Not someone who was just lusting after the facade she managed to show the world.

“Later, I think they want to give everyone a chance to schmooze first.”

“Is that the technical term?”

“I believe so, but I have never been one for it.”

She could believe that. Blaise didn’t seem to care what anyone thought about him. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to be aloof half the time.

It was opposite to the way she handled social situations. If she feigned confidence, if she was the one to instigate conversation, then she had the control. It was the same idea as the daring lace dress. Show confidence no one can question, and they’ll be too afraid to issue a challenge. Combine that with her scars, something that seemed to set most people on edge, unsure of whether to look or look away, and she usually had the upper hand in social situations.

Unfortunately it didn’t seem to work that way with Blaise. Of course, she expected there was very little in the world that could possibly intimidate him. He seemed outside of laws and, therefore, exempt from the usual reactions she got from those around her.

In fact, he met her challenges head-on. Even touching her. She could feel it still, if she thought back to that night at the club. His fingers drifting over her skin, skin that had been untouched by anyone other than herself. Who else would want to touch it?

She still didn’t know why
he
had.

“Well, maybe we can schmooze with each other,” she said, regretting it as soon as it left her lips. “What I mean is…we can talk business.”

“Right,” he said, snagging two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. He handed one to her and she took it, grateful to have something to hold on to. Grateful to have something to distract her.

The way he was looking at her, the way he had been looking at her, from the moment he’d seen her tonight, set her teeth on edge and made her body feel restless, aching. Needing. Wanting.

But there were just too many reasons why not to give in to all the demands of her body. And even if she did try to give in, there were two people involved. Facing the rejection, the look of disgust on his face, should he decide he didn’t want her once he unwrapped the entire package…she didn’t want that. She could survive it, but there were a lot of things she could survive that she didn’t necessarily want to experience.

“Right,” she said lightly, taking a sip of her champagne. She didn’t want it going to her head. She didn’t really have a legendary alcohol tolerance and Blaise already made her feel dizzy without adding anything else into the mix.

“How is the gown for
Look
coming along?” he asked, those wicked golden eyes appraising her, making her insides feel like warm liquid honey. He was reminding her of just what had happened earlier in the day, that gown acting as the centerpiece to her mini downfall.