She straightened Kayla’s sling. “Love what you’ve done with your hair,” she said approvingly, and led them forward to the cameras.
The next hour was tough, but Kayla did her part, smiling and gracious, making small talk with people who stared over her shoulder looking for a celebrity to talk to. And she did enjoy a few conversations with the normal people dotted among the fakers and phonies. Some of them were famous.
Jared returned when his obligations allowed, Seth and Moss flirted with her behind his back, and she had a good time. Then a great time, when they all escaped the formal part of the evening and found a table together. Dimity ordered champagnes and Skyped Zander and Elizabeth in New Zealand, who led the toasts.
Kayla was leaving the powder room toward the end of the evening when she glimpsed Simone Dumont. Dimity had already warned her that the French journalist was covering the event.
The other woman had no idea Kayla had watched her hit on her husband in Edinburgh. No idea of the havoc she’d wreaked on their marriage. But she’d also been the catalyst for forcing them to grow together, grow stronger.
So Kayla acknowledged her with a polite smile. “Hello, Simone.”
The Frenchwoman looked her up and down, “Pardon…do I know you?”
“You spent a few days on tour with Rage,” Kayla prompted helpfully. “I’m Jared Walker’s wife, Kayla. You crashed our family day in Paris.”
“Oh yes, Kayla. You did not want your children photographed because you detest publicity. And yet you are here at one of the biggest events of the year.” Her delicate shoulders rose in a Gallic shrug. She wore a little black dress and looked like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“It’s a big night for us.”
“For Jared, yes. A wonderful song. The tonal qualities remind me of Wild Horses—the Stones’ version—also the way the hook builds melodically. You’re looking confused, but you were never into the…what’s the word?”
“Mechanics,” Kayla supplied. “No, I have to settle for being the inspiration. Enjoy your evening.” With a nod, she prepared to move on.
“And you are looking so, well…so jolly,” Simone said. Not pronounced jolie—pretty in French—but very firmly as jolly. “And your dress, so very red. Festive. I think though I preferred the one like mine, that you wore to the last awards party in Paris. Black is so slimming.” She made a thin silhouette with her hands.
How had she ever allowed herself to be intimidated by this mean-spirited woman? What had Zander called Simone? That pretentious Gallic kiss-ass.
“Goodbye, Simone,” she said. “You take care—” She stopped. Before the security guard denied her entry, Kayla had glimpsed Simone at the party and tried to get her attention. She’d thought the French woman hadn’t seen her. “The party in Paris,” she repeated.
Simone’s gaze slid away. “I must go.”
“Before you do, I wondered if you could translate a phrase into French for me?”
“Bien s?r.”
“I’m married.”
Simone lost her savoir faire. The two women looked at each other, then Kayla smiled. “Actually, don’t bother. I think we both understand each other.”
Jared was laughing with Seth and Moss when she returned to the table, and she stopped to enjoy the view.
“You better be looking at me,” he teased. It was so good to be able to joke about this stuff again.
She put a sway in her hips as she walked toward him. Lush, sexy, confident. Watched his gaze smolder. Sliding into her seat, she casually picked up his hand and put it on her thigh, waiting until he registered her lack of undergarments.
Leaned over and whispered in his ear. “About that leash…”
Chapter Sixteen
When Kayla exited the hotel’s marble bathroom, Jared was already sprawled in the bed. Against the crisp white sheets, he was black-haired, stubble-jawed, with a dusting of dark hair on his chest and arms, his winter-pale skin warm with life. Her eyes went to the tattoo sharply delineated on his muscular arm. The top sheet barely covered him, a deliberate tease she suspected.
Well, two could play.
She’d tied the sash of her green satin robe so when she walked it fell open along the length of her legs. Almost, not quite indecent. The neckline crossed high over her breasts and would have been modest but for the way it clung to her nipples, clearly outlined under the thin fabric.
She turned on every light as she walked toward him, every lamp, every switch until the room was ablaze. Stopped at the end of the bed.
“I’m not wearing the corset,” she said.
“Oh?” He waited.
“I’m saving it. Tonight, I’m not wearing anything.”
Tonight, I’m taking back my power. She half slid the robe off her shoulders, stopping when her breasts were almost bare. “Unless,” she pouted, “you’re disappointed?”
“Betty,” he growled, his eyes hooded, waiting, wanting.