The Platinum Collection: A Convenient Proposal. Maisey Yates

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      He chuckled. “No. I like strippers just fine, but a private room is more my style.”

      She didn’t know why, but the idea that he enjoyed strippers disappointed her. It shouldn’t, because she shouldn’t be surprised and she shouldn’t care at all. But she did.

      “Well. That’s something at least,” she said.

      “Oh, Victoria, you need to learn to let out a breath,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his arm slung indolently over the back, his leg stretched beside the table, rather than being shoved beneath.

      “What does that mean? That I’m uptight? If you have a question as to why, I refer you to the personal tête-á-tête we had only moments ago.”

      “One mistake and you have to change who you are forever?”

      “One life-altering mistake that ruined things for my family. That destroyed the relationship I had with my father and lost him the respect of his peers.”

      “Do you suppose Nathan changed because of you?”

      The question hit her in the face like a cold, wet rag. “No,” she said, feeling her insides constrict, tightening into a ball. “I don’t suppose he did. Well, his life changed on some score since he obviously got a chain he was very invested in acquiring so I changed his...life for the best. Oh, that utter bastard.”

      “Time does not heal every wound.”

      “No,” she said, her tone fierce. “I’m hoping an engagement arrangement resulting in my getting London Diva back will cure my more serious wounds, though.”

      “It’s a good plan.”

      The servers returned and whisked their plates away, replacing them with the very famous beignets, topped with a mountain of powdered sugar and served with café au lait.

      “Lovely,” she said, reaching for the small white mug.

      “Before we indulge,” he said, the word sounding far more wicked than she would like, “I say we go and see the happy partiers of Bourbon Street.”

      She was curious. Whether she should be or not.

      “All right. When in Rome...observe the Romans I suppose.”

      “But don’t step into the arena?”

      “As we are not citizens of Rome, I suppose that might be our fate.” She picked up her mug and raised it high. “Those who are about to die salute you.” She took a sip, then placed it back onto the table before standing and smoothing down her pants. “Now, let’s go gawk at some revelry.”

      She followed him around the curving balcony to the side of the hotel that provided a view of Bourbon Street, the hub of debauchery in New Orleans. At least, the hub of open debauchery. She imagined private debauchery took place any number of locations.

      The streets below were packed full of people, holding up traffic at cross streets. They were carrying open glasses of alcohol and weaving back and forth.

      Women in lingerie were standing in front of shops beckoning passersby to come in, and group of men lingered in front of a club wearing next to nothing, calling out to people, too. And then she saw them, a group of women in black, waving up to the balconies, and one lone woman in white, a tulle veil covering her hair.

      “That would be the hen do,” she said.

      “I imagine so.”

      She crept closer to the edge of the balcony, using the bride’s bright white ensemble as her focal point. “They are...”

      “Very drunk.”

      “To say the least.”

      She wondered what it would be like to be down there, soaking in the light from the neon and the gas lanterns, right in the middle of the party instead of hovering so far above it. She was always above it. And that was really how she liked it. But still...she wondered.

      She felt Dmitri move in closer to her, felt his heat as he closed the distance between them.

      Her breath caught in her throat, the sultry night air thick and somehow sensual now, where before, with the sunlight shining through, it had been a bit overbearing. Now somehow it seemed erotic.

      And she had no clue what she was doing applying that description to anything. She was not the sort of woman to think of things in those terms. But then, she wasn’t the sort of woman to get dry mouth at the sight of a tattoo and a little bit of forearm muscle. And yet, with Dmitri she seemed to be.

      Suddenly, she ached. Ached for all the things she hadn’t had. For the normal everyday desires that had been stolen from her when she was sixteen, ripped away from her along with her father’s company and her trust. In other people. In herself.

      Replaced instead with shame—shame about her feelings, her body, her judgment.

      If not for that, she might have been down there, too. Maybe had a group of girlfriends she could relate to, and she could drink with and trust that they would lead her back to the hotel unharmed. She might have had a man waiting to marry her the following weekend. One she might have loved. One who might have even loved her back.

      One who would take her to bed and give her pleasure. Hold her all night.

      Yes, for some reason the sight of all of that normalcy below made her very acutely aware of just how abnormal she was. Just how separate.

      But she wasn’t all alone, not as she usually was. Dmitri was here. So close she could feel the heat from his body. And a voice deep inside of her spoke clearly enough and loudly enough that she could understand. She wanted to touch the heat. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to be cold. Here where everything was so warm, why shouldn’t she be?

      As though he had read her thoughts, he placed a hand on her waist, leaning in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “And what do you think of the party?”

      “I’ve never been a part of anything like that. I mean, at university I saw parties like that, but I never took part in them.”

      He moved his thumb up and down, smoothing it over the indent of her waist and leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “You never let yourself play, do you? Are you always so good?”

      “The way I see it,” she said, her voice, her breathing so obviously labored, “we get a certain amount of mistakes allotted to us in the beginning. If we overplay our hand we might lose everything. I overplayed my hand. My mistake amounted to a whole lot and I’ve never seen the point in taking a risk since. I feel I was lucky not being disowned entirely after putting my father’s livelihood and reputation at risk the way that I did. You know, Nathan was married.” The reason he had never touched her, which had become clear later. While Nathan had seen no issue with luring her into an emotional affair, he clearly hadn’t seen it as being unfaithful so long as he didn’t reciprocate and so long as he didn’t touch her.

      They had kissed but nothing more. Not for a lack of trying on her part. That last night together, before she’d found out the truth, she’d met him in her room, naked. And he’d...he’d covered her with a blanket. СКАЧАТЬ