I wait for the guy to take a breath, and squeeze Creighton’s arm. His attention shifts to me immediately, his dark eyes soft and . . . affectionate?
A wave of warmth slides through me, and for the first time since we climbed out of the limo, I’m not completely on edge and miserable. I need to learn to be comfortable by his side while he shines in his own spotlight. He’s a compelling man and I’m proud that he’s mine, but I have so much to learn before I’ll ever be confident in his world.
I clear my throat quietly to interrupt the close talker. “I’m going to excuse myself for a moment. I need to freshen up.”
Proud of myself, I mentally pat myself on the back for using a ladylike term rather than saying something like I’m going to take a piss. Considering the company I’ve been keeping for the past few weeks—like Boone and my band and the roadies—I probably deserve bonus points for that one.
I slip my hand from where it’s been clutching his arm—good Lord, I think I left a sweaty handprint on his tux—but Creighton grabs it before I can withdraw it completely. He turns toward me, ignoring the now silent man, and uses my hand to pull me closer. He places his half-full drink on the tray of a passing waiter, and lifts his other hand to my face.
I watch the liquor as it’s carried away, unsure what the hell Creighton is doing. PDA? I didn’t think he was the type, and I’m certainly not. My thoughts stall as he lowers his head to my ear.
“If I promise to stop talking about boring shit, will you promise to hurry back?”
I smile at his request. Leave it to Creighton to say something to make me feel a little less out of place.
“If I don’t get lost.”
“Good enough.” His lips graze the very spot his breath just touched.
I step back, my eyes darting up to his. The warmth and affection are still burning in them.
As I walk away from the safety of his presence, a feeling of unease fills my chest.
Once I leave the ladies’ room, I take my time making my way back to Creighton. It’s not intentional, I just keep getting distracted by all the cool exhibits. Who wouldn’t? It’s not like I’ve been here before, but I definitely plan to come back.
I pause in front of a piece of artwork on the wall that’s all wire and metal music notes. It sings to me. Given that music is my life, I can’t help but be drawn to it—and it’s not crazy ugly like some of the things I’ve seen tonight.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
I turn to see a gorgeous woman with white-blond hair and a striking Kelly-green silk dress clinging to her every curve. Her boobs may be fake, but if they are, they’re the expensive kind of fake that makes it hard to tell. I feel like a guy checking out her rack and drag my eyes up to hers. Vivid green, just like the dress.
She doesn’t seem to notice my minor detour because she’s studying me in turn. Her eyes don’t catch on my chest, but on the necklace.
“Well, Creighton’s certainly gotten more generous. That Harry Winston is to die for.”
I can’t read her tone. She doesn’t sound catty, but . . . something else.
“Thank you.”
She holds out a hand, and I can’t help but notice her perfect manicure. “I’m Annika Frederickson.”
We shake hands, and I open my mouth to say my name, but she beats me to it. “And you’re Holly Wix Karas.”
I think it’s interesting that she tacks the Karas part on, but I’m not going to dispute it. It’s just that most people who recognize me wouldn’t think to do that. But something tells me that she doesn’t recognize me from CMT, because I can’t picture her watching that channel, and on top of that, she already mentioned Creighton. She’s obviously part of his circle.
“It’s nice to meet you.” I release her hand and turn halfway toward the door. “I should probably be getting back.”
She nods politely, and I’m a dozen feet away when she says, “I hope the third time’s truly a charm for Creighton. Does that three-strikes rule apply to marriages? I suppose not, considering how many men and women I know are on husband or wife number four or five.”
My body freezes, but my brain races, repeating her words over and over. The blood rushing in my ears drowns out the noise from the crowded event only a hundred feet away.
Third time’s a charm? Three strikes?
What. The. Hell. We had the ex-wife discussion, and Creighton told me about Shaw.
I smooth over my shock and turn back toward Annika. Her head is tilted toward me, as if she’s waiting for some kind of reaction.
I’m doing everything I can to keep from giving her one beyond saying, “I don’t know who you think you are—”
She smiles, condescension practically radiating brighter than her perfectly white teeth. “Because I suppose I didn’t introduce myself properly.” She holds out her hand again. This time her perfect nails look like claws.
“Annika Mitchell Karas Frederickson. I believe you could call me the original Mrs. Karas.”
I don’t shake her hand this time. I just stand there dumbly, in who-knows-how many hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of diamonds, and stare at this woman. Now I see the calculating gleam in her eyes, and I have no idea how I missed it before.
“Oh, I take it he didn’t tell you about me. Not surprising. It must still be painful for him to talk about. I was the one who left him, after all.”
I’m blinking rapidly, trying to take in what she’s saying. “When? When were you married?”