Probably midthirties, judging by the faint lines around his eyes.
And although that wasn’t old, it was almost outside of my generation at twenty-three.
I liked that, too. If his hands were sure, maybe his tongue would be, too. Conversation-wise, I meant.
His black hair was cut close to the scalp on the sides and in the back, with the longer hair on top styled neatly. He was clean-shaven, and his tailored wool tux was a black deep enough to make everyone else’s here look faded. His shoes outshined his Rolex, and thank goodness for that. Men with bling were high maintenance.
And he was handsome. The narrow jaw and high cheekbones accentuated his sharp black eyebrows over stone blue eyes.
He was more than handsome. He was seductive.
I felt a small smile tug at the corners of my lips.
“Thank you,” I said softly, moving my foot back to the floor.
His fingers grazed an inch higher on my calf before letting me go, and I had to fight the chills that spread over my skin.
He was bold, too.
I held his eyes – the color of a cloud heavy with unfallen rain – as he rose, standing tall and not making any move to back off.
“Losing shoes, spilling drinks… Are you normally such a hot mess?” he teased, the confident mischief in his eyes turning everything below my waist warm.
I raised my eyebrows, shooting him a cocky smirk. “Feeling up strange women, condescending remarks… Are you normally so rude?” I asked.
His eyes held a smile, but I didn’t wait for him to answer.
I plucked my champagne flute off the table and glided around him, back to the painting.
If he was the kind of man I’d hoped he was, he’d follow. He was attractive, and I was intrigued, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have to work for it.
I tilted the glass to my mouth, taking in the chilled bitterness of the bubbles on my tongue as I felt him watching me.
“You don’t appear to be having a very good time,” he observed, stepping up to my side.
His subtle cologne drifted through my nostrils, and my eyelids fluttered for a moment.
“On the contrary…” I gestured to the imitation Degas with my champagne. “I was just contemplating how some gasoline and a match would improve this painting.”
He laughed under his breath, and I loved how his eyes shimmered in the dim light of the ballroom. “That bad, huh?”
I nodded, sighing. “That bad.”
Standing next to him, I felt the full measure of his size. I was no shorty at five seven, but even in heels, I still came only to his shoulder. His chest was wide but lean, and I loved that I could make out the muscles in his upper arms when he crossed them over it. Even through his tux.
He looked down at me with the stern expression of a superior. “Do you often have pyrotechnic fantasies?” he asked, looking amused.
I turned back to the painting, absently staring at it as I thought about his question.
Pyrotechnic fantasies? No.
I had lots of fantasies, pyrotechnic and not, but how obvious would I be to tell him that? It was a cheap response to a leading question. I wouldn’t be so obvious.
“I don’t want to start fires,” I assured him, staring at the Degas with the flute against my lips. “I just like standing in the middle of burning rooms.”
Tipping back the glass, I finished off the champagne and turned to set it down, but he took the base of the flute, stopping me.
“How long would you stay?” he inquired, his eyes thoughtful as he took the glass from my hand and set it down on the table. “Before you tried to escape, that is.”
“Longer than anyone else.”
He looked at me quizzically.
“How about you?” I questioned. “Would you join the mayhem in the mad rush for the exit?”
He turned back to the painting, smirking. “No,” he answered. “I’d already be outside, of course.”
I narrowed my eyes, confused.
He grinned at me and leaned in to whisper, “I set the fire, after all.”
My jaw ached with a smile I refused to bestow on him. I didn’t like surprises, but he was interesting, and he looked me in the eye when he spoke to me.
Of course, I wasn’t as interested in his answers as I was in his ability to keep the conversation going. I could indulge in small talk, but this was more fun.
I let my eyes drift away from him.
“I’m sorry you don’t like the artwork,” he said, regarding the piece on the wall.
My thigh quivered with the vibration from my phone, but I ignored it.
I cleared my throat. “Degas is a wonderful artist,” I went on. “I like him. He aimed to depict movement rather than stationary figures in many of his works.”
“Except this one.” He nodded to the piece of the lonely woman sitting in a bar.
“Yes, except this one,” I agreed, gesturing to L’absinthe. “He also tried to show humans in isolation. This one was called ugly and disgusting by critics when it was unveiled.”
“But you love it,” he deduced.