The Rogue's Fortune. Cat SchieldЧитать онлайн книгу.
to get rid of the former wedding planner to the middle class. Josie Summers, Elizabeth’s boss, had saddled her with Brenda because as always Josie had underestimated what Elizabeth could handle. It was the woman’s second event as Elizabeth’s second in command, and rubbing elbows with Manhattan’s rich and famous was spotlighting exactly why Brenda wasn’t ready to be here. Instead of projecting a confident, capable vibe as she moved invisibly through the party, Elizabeth’s assistant had badgered a server in front of Bunny Cromwell, one of the city’s most prolific hostesses, and scolded a bartender for not making a city councilman’s drink properly.
“I can’t relax,” Brenda exclaimed, her sharp tone catching the attention of two nearby guests. The women exchanged disgusted expressions. “And you shouldn’t either.”
Plastering on a serene smile, Elizabeth seized Brenda’s arm above the elbow, fingers pinching ever so delicately. “I’ve got everything under control here. The auction will be starting in a half an hour. Why don’t you head home?”
“I can’t.” Brenda resisted Elizabeth’s grip as she was hauled toward the screens set up at one end of the enormous loft space to conceal the food prep area from the party-goers.
“Sure, you can.” Elizabeth used her soothing voice as she marched the older woman away from the party. “You’ve put in so many hours this week. You deserve to get out of here. I can handle the rest.”
“If you’re sure.”
As if Elizabeth hadn’t handled larger parties in the three years since she’d graduated from college and taken a job with Josie Summers’s Event Planning. Granted, this was Elizabeth’s first A-list crowd. The first event that had given her butterflies before the guests arrived and began to murmur their approval over the way she’d transformed a dull, empty loft space into a sophisticated, elegant venue.
“I’m positive,” Elizabeth said. “Go home and tuck your beautiful daughter into bed.”
It was well past ten and Brenda’s six-year-old daughter was probably already fast asleep, but Elizabeth had figured out the first day she’d worked with the woman that everything Brenda did was for her little girl. It was the only thing about the woman Elizabeth liked. And envied.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Elizabeth waited until Brenda had gathered her purse and disappeared down the long hallway toward the elevator before she headed back to the party.
“Well, hello.”
She’d almost managed to forget about Roark Black in the ten minutes she’d been dealing with Brenda, but here he was, less than five feet away, leaning his broad shoulder against one of the two-foot-wide columns that supported the ceiling.
Damn. Up close the energy of the man was astonishing. He practically oozed lusty masculinity and danger. He’d forgone the traditional bow tie with his tux and left the top buttons undone on his white shirt. Rakish and sexy, he set her pulse to purring.
You swore off bad boys forever, remember?
And Roark Black was as bad a bad boy as they got. Even his name gave her the shivers.
Yet earlier, there she’d stood, daydreaming about what it would be like to slide her fingers through his thick wavy hair. Brown in color, the shade reminded her of her great aunt’s sheared beaver coat. She’d loved the sensual drag of the soft fur against her bare skin.
“Can I get you something?” she asked.
One side of his mouth lifted. “I thought you’d never ask.”
His tone invited her to smile at his flirting. His eyes dared her to strip off her black dress and give him a glimpse of what lay beneath.
She swallowed hard. “Is there something you need?” The second the question passed her lips, she wished it back. Was she trying to play into his hands?
“Sweetheart—”
“Elizabeth.” She shoved out her hand all professional like. “Elizabeth Minerva. I’m your event planner.”
She expected him to take her hand in a bone-crushing grip. Instead, he cupped it, turned her palm upward and dragged his left forefinger down the middle of it. Her body went on full alert like a state penitentiary with a missing prisoner.
“Roark.” He peered at her palm, the skin glazed blue by the indirect lighting that illuminated the space. “Roark Black. You have a very curvy…” His attention shifted and the next thing Elizabeth knew, she was drowning in his penetrating gaze. “Head line.”
“A what?” Her dry mouth prevented anything more from emerging.
“Head line.” His fingertip retraced its invigorating journey across her palm. “See here. A curvy head line means you like to play with new ideas. Do you, Elizabeth?”
“Do I what?” The air in the loft had grown thin in the last sixty seconds. Light-headed, she was having trouble getting enough oxygen.
“Do you like playing with new ideas?”
Bad boy. Bad boy.
Elizabeth cleared her throat and retrieved her hand in a short jerk that made Roark’s crooked smile widen and heat rush to her face.
“I like creating unique party spaces, if that’s what you mean.”
It wasn’t. His smirk told her so.
“I like what you’ve done with the place.”
More comfortable talking about her job than herself, Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest and surveyed all she’d accomplished in the past twenty-four hours.
“There wasn’t much to it when I got started. Just a concrete floor and white walls. And those incredible arched windows with that spectacular view.” She pointed out the latter, hoping to steer his unnerving stare away from her.
“I heard you came up with the idea of a slide show to honor Tyler.”
Tyler Banks had died the year before. A thoroughly disliked human being, no one had any idea that he’d been behind twenty percent of all major New York City charitable donations in the past decade.
“While he was alive, he might not have wanted anyone to know all the wonderful things he’d done, but so many people were helped by his generosity. I thought he deserved a proper tribute.”
“Beautiful and smart.” His eyes devoured her. “Okay, I’m hooked.”
And so was she. Naturally. Bad boys were the bane of her romantic existence. The worse they were, the more she wanted them.
From everything she’d heard and read about Roark Black, she’d expected him to be an arrogant, unprincipled jerk. Gorgeous and sexy, to be sure, but with questionable ethics. The sort of guy she’d have tumbled head over high heels for a year ago.
But after what had happened with Colton last October, she’d sworn on her sister’s grave that she was done with all bad boys.
Unfortunately, since those seemed to be the only sort that tripped her trigger, her love life had been in sad shape these past twelve months. Which explained why her hormones had jerked to attention the instant Roark strolled into the party.
“I suggest you get unhooked, Mr. Black,” she said, hoping her tart voice would counteract her sweet, gooey insides. Honestly, it was embarrassing to let a man, even a sexy, gorgeous one, turn her into a marshmallow.
“You don’t like me?” He didn’t appear particularly concerned that she didn’t. In fact, he seemed as if he might just relish the challenge.
“I don’t know you.”
“But you’ve formed an opinion. How is that fair?”
Fair? He wanted to play fair? She didn’t believe that for a second. In fact, she suspected if she gave him the slightest encouragement, she’d find herself in a bathroom