Blackmailed Into His Arms

Grabbing her small red clutch, she left her bedroom and headed downstairs. Her foot had just cleared the last step when the doorbell rang. She moved across the foyer, her high heels clicking on the polished parquet floor, and opened the door.

The sun was beginning to set, but it was still light enough to make out every detail of Chase’s broad, masculine form. And that form was positively mouthwatering in a tuxedo.

His black hair was slicked back instead of being left in its usual, carefree style, making him look sexier and more sophisticated.

She started to lick her lips, then remembered the recently applied lipstick and forced herself to rein in her roving tongue.

“Wow,” he muttered, reading her mind. “You look fabulous.”

“Thank you,” she said, then did a little pirouette in the doorway. “Does my dress meet with your approval? It’s slinky, sexy, shows off my breasts and bottom and is even—” She turned again, flashing the expanse of her back, left completely bare by both the dress and her upswept hair. “—backless.”

“Nice. Very nice,” he drawled. Reaching out, he ran the knuckle of one index finger along her spine, from the small of her back to the nape of her neck.

She shivered, both from his touch and the low, suggestive tone. If she wasn’t careful, they would end up rolling around on the floor of her father’s entryway and miss the party altogether.

Slowly, she turned around to face him, placing her hand on her stomach in an attempt to quell the butterflies swooping and swirling inside.

“Should we go?” she asked.

With a heartfelt sigh, he hung his head and let his arm fall back to his side. “If we must.”

She smiled, following him onto the front stoop and closing the door behind her.

He helped her into the car, then walked around and took a seat on the driver’s side.

It took nearly half an hour to reach the hotel where the fund-raiser was being held. When they arrived, Chase passed his keys to the valet before rounding the hood, opening her door and taking her hand as she stepped out.

With her arm linked at his elbow, they strode through the luxurious hotel’s lobby, took the elevator to the fourth floor and crossed to the entrance of the decorated, already packed ballroom. For a minute, they stood at the open double doors, taking in their surroundings.

Just before Chase took a step to lead her inside, Elena tipped her head and glanced up to meet his gaze.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said in as innocent a tone as she could muster. Then she stood up on tiptoe and leaned close to his ear to whisper, “I’m not wearing panties.”

I’m not wearing panties.

I’m not wearing panties.

I’m not wearing panties.

The ballroom was crowded with people, most of whom he knew, many of whom he’d done business with. A hundred voices mingled together, raising the volume to near headache level.

And still, all he heard was those four words Elena had whispered in his ear a split second before they’d stepped into the party.

Stepped. Yeah, right. He’d been so stunned by her erotic admission that he’d been frozen in place. Riveted to the spot, his entire body hot and flaring like a lit match tip with unleashed passion. She’d had to practically drag him the rest of the way into the room. He couldn’t have taken a single step on his own if his life depended on it.

And, frankly, he hadn’t wanted to. The last thing he’d wanted to do at that point was mingle with business acquaintances and make small talk all night. He’d have rather written a sizeable check to tonight’s charity—whatever the heck it was, anyway—and dragged Elena off to the nearest bed. His, hers, one of the hotel’s … he honestly didn’t care.

But even though she’d prodded him to do the right thing and go through with his plans for the evening, he heard nothing but her voice echoing in his brain.

I’m not wearing panties.

His gaze slipped—not for the first time—to her rear end, which swayed beneath the slithery, shimmery material of her gown when she moved.

If she hadn’t told him she was naked beneath, would he have figured it out on his own?

Maybe. Lord knows he’s spent his fair share of time staring at her derriere.

Then again, probably not. It wasn’t like he was an expert on women’s underwear or panty-lines.

But now that he knew … man, now that he knew, he couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything else.

People kept coming up to him, Elena kept pulling him from place to place to chat, and he didn’t think he’d heard a word any of them had said. She’d thoroughly scrambled his brain and sent every ounce of blood in his body just below the equator.

“Can we leave yet?” he whispered in her ear the first chance he got, pressing himself along her back so she would know exactly why he wanted to get out of there.

With a wide smile on her face for everyone else’s benefit, she cocked her head in his direction and said, “We just got here. It would be rude to leave so soon.”

He took the plate she offered, covered with a little bit of everything from the dinner buffet, while she turned back to get something for herself.

Leaning close, he let his breath stir the hair at her nape. “Then let’s find a dark corner somewhere so we can be alone.”

She laughed, the sweet tinkling sound going straight to his gut. His fingers clenched so tightly on the plate in his hand, he was surprised it didn’t shatter.

“I’m not going to sneak off with you in the middle of this event so you can have your wicked way with me.”

Her voice was moderately chastising, but her eyes glimmered with a sensual, teasing light.

“Then you shouldn’t have told me about your underwear,” he growled.

She blinked a couple of times with supreme innocence, then replied with equal innocence, “But I’m not wearing any.”

His teeth snapped together hard enough to crack his molars. “That’s what I mean,” he hissed through tight lips.

With both their plates filled, she sashayed away from the buffet and toward the large round table where they’d been assigned seats with three other couples he recognized, but barely knew. Chase had no choice but to follow. When they reached the table, Elena set her plate at her place, then took his and did the same.

Still with that overly bright smile on her face, she moved close to him and whispered, “That was just an aperitif. A tiny treat to keep you interested until this little soiree is over, when we can go back to your place and do all of the things I know you’re fantasizing about right now.”

He studied her for a minute, nostrils flaring as he breathed heavily through his nose. She had no idea how close she was coming to being thrown over his shoulder and hauled out of there like a sack of grain. It would cause a horrified uproar, and their pictures would probably be in the morning paper, but at this point he honestly didn’t care.

Then she moved even closer, brushing against him from shoulder to thigh as she took her seat from the side closest to him rather than farthest away.

“I promise it will be worth the wait,” she murmured softly before sitting down.

Rather than tempering the desire that thrummed through his veins, her words threw fuel on the fire. But there was something to be said for waiting, wanting, letting arousal build to a near-agonizing level.

And when he finally got her alone, he would hold her to her promise. There were at least sixteen highly evocative images simmering in his brain at this very moment, and he intended to make sure they executed every single one.

He pulled out his own chair and sat down, muttering for her ears only, “It better be.”

She smiled at his attempt to pout and patted his knee.

For the next hour, they picked at their meals, sipped champagne and chatted with the people around them. Chase couldn’t have cared less about what anyone was saying, but he was well-schooled in the art of schmoozing.

After the food and drink and requisite speeches, everyone got up from their seats and once again began to mingle. This was when he could lean in and say, We’re out of here, and drag her off the way he’d been dying to all night.

He put his hand on her elbow, prepared to do exactly that, when a small gaggle of tall, willowy, attractive women sidled up to them, their gazes sweeping over him before settling on Elena.

“Elena?” one in a low-cut lavender gown queried. “Elena Sanchez?”

“Yes?” Elena returned, her eyes warm and welcoming, as they’d been all night. Chase was beginning to think of it as her “polite public demeanor,” the way she interacted with everyone from his business associates, to the chairwoman of tonight’s fund-raiser, to the servers who milled around clearing tables and making sure no one’s glass ever became truly empty.

“I thought it was you,” the other woman practically squealed, taking Elena’s hands in both of her own and giving them a squeeze. “I haven’t seen you in years. Since high school.”

The other three women in the little clique nodded and smiled just as widely. But when Elena didn’t seem to recognize them, the one in lavender clucked her tongue and gave her an admonishing eye roll.

“Tisha Ferguson. We went to school together. Of course, I’m Mrs. Ferguson-McDonald now.” She waved her left hand, making sure everyone in a six-foot radius got a glimpse of the huge diamond weighing down her ring finger. “I married very, very well.”

To keep from scoffing Chase tightened his jaw until the bones nearly cracked. She’d married well. Well, bully for her. So had every other woman present. A person couldn’t spit in this room without hitting a woman who had married very, very well.

“Tisha!” Elena said. “Of course. You look wonderful, I barely recognized you.”

Leaning in, the two women kissed—that double cheek thing Chase had never understood. Then Elena’s glance slid to the other women standing just behind Tisha.

“Leslie. Stephanie. Candy. It’s nice to see you again. How have you been?”

The five of them chatted for a few minutes, with Tisha—the obvious spokesperson for the group—monopolizing most of the conversation. Finally, when there was an opening, Elena turned to him and attempted introductions.

“Do you remember Chase Ramsey?” she asked the four of them. “He went to school with us, too, though he was a year or two ahead of us.”

The three standing back a bit smiled and nodded, but Tisha tipped her head and studied him more closely through narrowed, heavily painted eyes.

“Chase Ramsey. You’re not …” Her glossy pink lips, previously pursed in thought, widened a split second before she broke into a high-pitched, cackling laugh. “Oh, my God! Chase Ramsey. I remember you now. You’re that pathetic farmer’s son who asked Elena to dance at that Christmas party at her parents’ house. You should have seen your face when she turned you down. Oh, it was priceless!”

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