Desiree guided Lauren down the peon side of the carpet and into the hotel, and Alex disappeared from sight. Her bruises began to throb in time with each heartbeat, each step away from him.
“Do you happen to have any ibuprofen?” she asked the event publicist.
“If I don’t, I’ll find some.” Desiree’s lips quirked. “Otherwise, Mr. Woodroe is likely to feed me to the lions as tonight’s grand finale.”
Dazed and hurting, Lauren didn’t respond to the other woman’s wry remark.
But she thought about it as the medic examined her. She thought about all of it.
Desiree’s words. Alex’s volcanic fury at Lauren and for Lauren. Her own response to such fierce protectiveness.
In that moment, in his enraged concern, he’d put her first. Even above his own charity, his own professional obligations.
It felt … odd. Disorienting.
No one ever put her first.
Not even her.
Not until now.
9
BY THE TIME LAUREN MADE IT TO THE BALLROOM, HAIR combed, dress straightened, ibuprofen swallowed, the event was well underway, and Alex was nowhere in sight.
Desiree paused and listened to someone speaking through her earpiece, murmuring something in response. Then she turned to Lauren. “I need to go, I’m afraid. Are you okay on your own?”
Lauren nodded. “Thank you for all your help.”
“No, thank you for making sure our guest of honor remained unscathed.” The publicist’s smile looked genuine. “Your table is at the front of the room, right in the center. A woman with a clipboard would normally check your name against the list for the VIP section, but I’m sure she knows who you are by now. You’re kind of a big deal.”
Lauren winced.
Her fame might be fleeting, but it was also unwelcome. She didn’t want scrutiny. For her own sake, but also to protect Alex’s privacy. No one outside the show needed to know she was serving as his minder.
“According to my assistant, the intruder is now at the police station, and officers there have your information if they need to get your statement. In the meantime, you shouldn’t have any more trouble, and if you do, just ask to speak to me.” Desiree shook Lauren’s hand. “Take care, Ms. Clegg, and I hope the rest of your evening is significantly less eventful.”
When the other woman strode away, Lauren followed at a more leisurely pace, allowing herself a moment to study her surroundings. The expansive ballroom was entirely filled with auction attendees, most of them already seated at the round tables dotting the space. Others still clustered near the silent auction pieces displayed at the back of the room, lined up for the open bar, or stood chatting in small, sparkly clumps of humanity. A small army of discreet servers wound between tables, offering hors d’oeuvres to the assembled crowd of people who were—in general—much wealthier and more beautiful than she was.
For a moment, her feet slowed almost to a stop, as her disorientation dizzied her.
Then the chandeliers overhead dimmed, and the chatter began to hush as stragglers returned to their tables and everyone in attendance turned their attention to the stage. Without further delay, Lauren hustled to her assigned spot, locating it without trouble. As promised, the clipboard-wielding woman near the front tables waved her along without a word, and Lauren sank at last into her cushioned seat with a sigh of relief. She’d made it in time, if only by seconds.
The other seats at her table were filled with familiar, famous faces. Carah Brown. Maria Ivarsson. Peter Reedton. A couple of other people she vaguely remembered from movie screens at her favorite local theater.
She didn’t pay them a bit of attention beyond a single glance, because she’d finally spotted Alex. He was walking beside Desiree and ascending the steps to the stage. Just a few words from him, and the publicist began laughing as she took her position at the edge of the platform. Because he was a natural-born charmer, that man. The Pied Piper of too-serious women.
He stood behind a lectern on the brilliantly lit dais, the microphone positioned perfectly for his height, his midnight suit sleek, his face and body beautiful enough to make her teeth ache.
He was brighter than any spotlight.
The wattage of his star power left afterimages behind her eyelids, and that was before he even opened his mouth.
“Good evening,” he said, voice rich and confident and amused. “I suspect you know who I am already, but if you don’t, please let me introduce myself. I’m Alexander Woodroe, and I play Cupid on Gods of the Gates. If you haven’t seen the show, you likely think I fly around in a diaper for a living, but no. I save that for the weekends.”