You've Got Male (27 page)

And she still had feelings for Dixon she would rather not have.

Damn. She’d really hoped she could go without admitting that to herself for a little while longer—like, say, the rest of her life. Denial had served her nicely since that feverish night the two of them had spent together. Well, except for the morning after, of course, when she’d woken up half thinking she was in love with the guy. Okay, maybe more than half, she made herself confess. But since he’d made it clear that he didn’t share her feelings, denial had been her best and truest companion. She’d assumed that denial would be her date to the party tonight, too. Alas, it was looking like a no-show.

Story of her life.

But she wouldn’t think about that, she told herself. She wouldn’t think about Dixon or what had happened that night in her room or how he had shunned her at dinner or how she felt about him. And she wouldn’t think about Adrian Padgett or having to set up a meeting with him or going out into the big, wide world of the unknown. She would empty her mind and go on autopilot and she would move through the crowd below as if it didn’t exist. She would go straight to the bar and ask for a scotch—straight up, double, if you please—and then she would retreat to a far corner of the ballroom and stay there. She would drink her drink—and a few more besides—and she would look for her parents. Then she would lift her glass to them both to show them that she was here and she was behaving. And then she would escape to her room.

Simple plan. No problemo.

She would not look for Dixon, she further instructed herself. She would not constantly scan the crowd for a mere glimpse of him. She would not speak to him. Would not dance with him. Would not acknowledge his existence in the workings of the universe. And she would not think about what her life would be like without him once this assignment drew to a close.

She took a deep breath and approached the stairs.

I have nothing to fear in this moment,
she assured herself as she went.
In this moment, there is nothing to fear….

D
IXON STOOD NEAR THE
sweeping staircase that spilled into the massive Nesbitt ballroom, scanning the crowd, feeling impatient and trying to remember the name of the man he’d been speaking to for ten minutes. It was nothing personal. The guy was pleasant enough. Dixon just had his mind on other things, that was all. Like, for instance, how he felt like an idiot in the rented tux he and Gillespie both had been instructed to wear to this party upon pain of death. Or, at the very least, upon pain of being browbeaten by Carly Nesbitt at dinner every night for the remainder of their stay if they
didn’t
put the damned things on.

Dafoe. That was the man’s name. David Dafoe. Like the writer, only with a different first name. And not a writer. Dixon had been talking to him about his beverage business—see, he had been paying attention—and trying hard not to think about how badly he himself wanted a beverage. Preferably a double bourbon, straight up. Instead he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stick straight up. He spun quickly around, and although he had no idea where to look, his gaze flew immediately to the top of the steps, where he saw a woman who looked very much like—

“Ms. Avery Nesbitt,” Jensen the butler announced from his perch on the top step, just as he had announced every guest that evening.

But where the other guests had warranted little more than the occasional nod and/or smile of recognition and/or acknowledgment from the crowd below—if that much—Avery’s appearance was met with total and complete silence, and every eye in the room fell upon her.

The reaction was enough to make Dixon have a panic attack. He couldn’t imagine what Avery must be feeling just then.

He waited to see if she toppled down the stairs like a Slinky. Or if she cried out something like “Property is theft!” or “Better Red than well-bred!” or “Viva Guevara!” Or if she lobbed a cream pie in the general direction of her father. Or even if she just stuck out her tongue at everyone present and said, “Neener neener neener.” But she did none of those things.

Instead she strode gracefully down the steps without paying attention to anyone. And she looked incredible doing it. She was dressed in a way he’d never seen her dressed before, wrapped in a fine, filmy fabric that appeared at turns green and turquoise, depending on how she moved under the lights. Her hair, that glorious mane of inky silk Dixon had found so intoxicating during their lovemaking, had been cut shorter by a foot, but somehow the way the tresses danced on her bare shoulders only made her more feminine, more beautiful.

Because she truly was beautiful. Only now did Dixon really see that. Though it wasn’t the outer trappings that had done it. She’d been beautiful that first time he saw her, too. He’d just been too blind to see it. Now, though…He closed his eyes and opened them again, thinking he must be seeing more than was actually there. But on second glance, Avery still looked elegant and refined, she still made her way gracefully down the stairs, she still looked beautiful.

And she still wasn’t panicking. Which was ironic, because Dixon could feel panic deep in his belly, clawing its way to get out.

“Friend of yours?” he heard David Dafoe ask.

Until that moment, Dixon had completely forgotten he was standing in a crowded room. He’d been aware only of Avery and himself. And he’d been aware of them in a way that wasn’t exactly appropriate for a man standing in a crowded room.

He turned to his dark-haired companion with the neatly trimmed mustache and beard. “I wouldn’t say that,” Dixon replied absently. Because he hadn’t considered Avery a friend since meeting her. He’d considered her…something else.

“Girlfriend?” Dafoe asked.

“God, no.”

“Oh, so it’s someone you’d rather not see here at all,” Dafoe said.

“No, that’s not it, either,” Dixon told him.

“Oh.”

The single-word response, uttered by someone else, was the perfect response, Dixon had to admit. Frankly he couldn’t think of much else to say himself besides
Oh.
Because as he watched Avery descend the stairs, taking each one with what he knew must be painful care, his brain turned into pudding. And not even tapioca, which at least had a little substance and nutritional value. No, his brain went right to the instant variety. Store brand. Stirred with a fork. Then spilled on the floor. And stepped in. No thoughts entered or left his brain. There was just sheer, unadulterated response.

Of course, that response was so flagrant that thinking about it would have caused him to spontaneously combust, so it was just as well he couldn’t think. But Avery commanded every scrap of his attention, and Dixon willingly surrendered it.

Little by little the crowd began to stir again around him, after it became clear that Avery wasn’t going to use the party tonight as a vehicle to either a) humiliate herself or her family beyond the pale or b) humiliate herself or her family beyond the pale. But Dixon couldn’t make himself look away. David Dafoe started talking again, but damned if Dixon heard a word of what the man said. Which was a shame, because he was a very nice man.

He just wasn’t Avery.

Excusing himself from the conversation as quickly as courtesy allowed—oh, all right, he just blew the other guy off with a hasty “Gotta run, Dafoe”—Dixon strode straight for the stairs Avery was nearly finished maneuvering, arriving at the last one the same time she did. But she was looking at her feet—though whether to aid her navigation of the steps or because she was too terrified to look at the crowd, he couldn’t have said—so she didn’t see him until she was literally toe-to-toe with him. When she saw his feet opposite her own, however, she glanced up. And he saw immediately that, contrary to her seemingly calm condition, she was indeed terrified and close to coming apart.

“I need a drink,” she whispered.

Dixon nodded, but instead of steering her to the bar, he took her hand in his and led her toward a door on the opposite side of the room that exited into a smaller sitting area. A handful of people had congregated there to escape the noisy throng in the ballroom, but it was a considerably less threatening environment.

“No, Dixon, I said I need a drink,” Avery repeated as he guided her in that direction.

“You don’t need a drink,” he said. “You just need a smaller room.”

“No, I—”

“I’m right here with you, Avery,” he told her quietly, pulling her close. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“But—” she tried again.

“Just trust me,” he told her.

“But—”

“Trust me, Avery.”

“But—”

“Please.”

That single, softly uttered word seemed to be more powerful than any other cajoling or bullying he’d attempted with her since meeting her. Even more powerful than that first night at her condo, when he’d lain atop her to keep her from bolting. With one simple
Please,
he managed to calm her, sway her and win her over. So obviously his mother had been right. It really was a magic word.

Avery said nothing more, but nodded. She followed as he threaded his way through the hordes of guests, pushing her body against his when the crowd thickened and grew noisier at the center. Automatically, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer, dipping his head to hers so that he wouldn’t be towering over her so much. He felt her go tense beneath him and stroked her bare arm lightly with his fingers in an effort to soothe her. Strangely, the more she relaxed at the gentle caressing, the more Dixon tensed.

Her skin was so soft beneath his fingertips. And with her body pulled against his the way it was, he was surrounded by the scent of peaches. She smelled the way she had the night he met her, the way she had the night the two of them had made love. But where those occasions had both been born of desperation, even fear, tonight Dixon felt…

Well. He had to think about that for a minute, because he honestly didn’t recognize the warm, wistful sensation seeping through him. Tenderness, he finally decided. He was amazed that he was able to recognize it, having never felt it before. But that had to be what it was. Because it was unlike anything he’d ever felt for a woman. And it was wrapped up with a lot of other feelings he didn’t normally have for the opposite sex. Admiration. Affection. Intimacy. Respect. A desire to protect her, even knowing she could fight for herself.

Not that Dixon dismissed or disliked women. On the contrary, he generally took them very seriously and liked them very much. His partner was the strongest human being he’d ever met, male or female, and he was deeply devoted to her. But his feelings for Avery were so different, so varied and so numerous. He just responded to her on so many levels, in ways he’d never responded to women before.

He knew she was still scared and frantic, and maybe that was what had brought on his sudden urge to take care of her. But she was strong enough, too, he knew, to combat the fear that would have paralyzed her as recently as a couple of weeks ago. Maybe she hadn’t won the battle yet, but neither had she succumbed to it as easily as she had before.

The moment they left the ballroom and entered the small parlor, he guided her to a window and pushed it up to allow in the cold night air. He sat her on a love seat beneath it and said, “Breathe. Slowly,” he added when her first few breaths were little more than shallow gasps.

She nodded and did as he instructed, closing her eyes and inhaling a deep, level breath. She held it for a moment, then released it slowly, then drew in another in much the same way.

“That’s it,” he told her. “You’re okay, Avery. There’s nothing here to hurt you. Nothing to be afraid of. You’re just fine.”

She opened her eyes, fixing her gaze on his face. She really did look different tonight, he thought. Not just in her mode of dressing but in the rest of her, too. Her glasses were gone, but her eyes still looked huge. This time, though, it was because they were shadowed by silvery powder and darkened with mascara. Her mouth was made fuller by the presence of dark lipstick, her elegant cheekbones defined by a dusky blush. He couldn’t understand the presence of cosmetics. Her skin was already flawless, and her eyes and mouth had already wreaked havoc with his senses. Now that her features were so much more prominent…

Well.
Havoc
was way too tame a word for what was being wreaked inside him now.

“You cut your hair,” he said, not sure why he’d chosen that moment to remark on it, and bothered by the disappointment he heard in the comment. It was none of his business what she decided to do with her hair or her face or any other part of herself.

She must have picked up on his tone of voice, because her expression fell. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I think it’s great,” he said. But even he thought his enthusiasm sounded phony. “Just…” He lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “You look different, that’s all.”

She seemed horrified by the remark. “Different?” she echoed, sounding crushed. “But I wanted to look like everyone else.”

“Why?” he asked, confused. From what he knew of her—which was a lot—Avery Nesbitt had never been one for conformity.

“Because I didn’t want anyone to notice me,” she said.

Dixon couldn’t help smiling at that. “Tough luck, Peaches. That’s not going to happen. You’ll be a standout no matter what you do.”

She said nothing for a moment, then very softly remarked, “You haven’t called me that for a while.”

“Called you what?” he asked, puzzled.

“Peaches.”

He honestly hadn’t been aware of doing it just then. Strangely, it didn’t bother him to realize he had. What was even stranger was that he identified it for what it was—a term of endearment—and that didn’t bother him, either.

“And you don’t seem mad at me for calling you Peaches,” he said.

She lifted one shoulder and let it drop, something that brought Dixon’s attention to the creamy expanse of naked flesh exposed there. Okay, now he was bothered.

“Maybe I don’t mind being called that anymore,” she said.

And maybe someday, Dixon thought, he’d find out why she smelled like peaches.

No, he immediately told himself. He would never find that out. Because in a few weeks his time with Avery would be over. With luck, she’d be making physical contact with Sorcerer in a matter of days. With a little more luck, OPUS would have Sorcerer behind bars right after that. With a lot more luck, Dixon would forget all about having ever made Avery’s acquaintance. Which, now that he thought about it, was the strangest thing yet. Thinking about not having Avery around, he suddenly didn’t feel lucky at all.

“You really are a standout, Avery,” he said, surprising himself further. He’d intended to change the subject. “Don’t try to be like everyone else, no matter how they try to make you feel. You’re special. Don’t let anyone ever make you think you’re not.”

Her expression changed not one whit when he said it, but her eyes seemed to go darker somehow, deeper, more expressive. And it was with no small astonishment that Dixon realized there were tears welling in her eyes. Before he had a chance to say anything—not that he had any idea what the hell he was supposed to say—she was turning her back on him. He watched in silence as she swiped a finger under first one eye, then the other, listened in more silence as she sniffled a couple of times. But he had no idea what to do.