Feeling drunk off success and empowerment, she marched to one of the empty tables and sat, eyes peeled for waitstaff. Michael tucked a hand into his pants pocket and strode toward her with a relaxed bearing worthy of the runway. All of him was worthy of the runway, but there was also something about that suit. It looked expensive and excellently tailored, yet somehow more chic than anything she’d ever seen on other men.
He stretched out next to her, close enough that their thighs pressed together, and propped his arm on the seat behind her. She liked that. A lot. It made her feel like he was staking a claim on her.
“What brand is this suit? I love it.” With the barest hesitation, she smoothed her hands over the lapels and crisp shoulders of the jacket.
Searching her eyes, he smiled a slow, beautiful smile. “It’s custom made.”
“My compliments to your tailor.” She checked the inside and was even more pleased when she couldn’t detect the bunching of hasty seams underneath the fine silk lining. Expert craftsmanship.
“I’ll tell him.”
“Maybe I should switch. Does he do women’s apparel? Is he terribly busy?” As she spoke, she couldn’t help running her palms down his chest, loving the firmness of his body beneath the starched cotton of his dress shirt.
“He is very busy.”
She sighed in disappointment. “My tailor is all right, but she thinks I’m crazy. She stabs me a lot, too. I’m not convinced it’s always an accident.”
His muscles tensed underneath her hands, and he sat up straighter. His voice had an angry edge as he asked, “You mean she stabs you on purpose?”
Was he upset . . . on her behalf? The thought sent warmth bubbling throughout her body, and whatever grudges she’d harbored against her vindictive tailor were forgotten.
“In her defense, I’m very picky. She calls me her diva client,” Stella said.
“That doesn’t make it okay. She should have better control of her pins. It’s not that hard. Even when I was ten, I still—” He pressed his lips together and raked a hand through his hair. “What things are you picky about?”
“Oh, well, I . . .” She drew her hands toward herself and laced them together so she couldn’t tap her fingers. “I’m particular about the way things feel on my skin. Tags and scratchy, lumpy seams, loose threads, places where the fabric is too tight or too loose. I’m not a diva, I’m just . . .”
“A diva,” he said with a teasing smirk.
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Fine.”
A waitress in a short black skirt and a tight white top bearing the club’s logo sauntered to the table.
Michael handed her Stella’s credit card. “We’d like to reserve the table for the rest of the night. Water for me. Stella?”
He wasn’t drinking, too? She wasn’t sure she wanted to do it alone. “Something sweet, please.”
The waitress arched an eyebrow but gave a professional nod. “Coming right up.”
After the waitress disappeared, Michael explained, “I’m driving.”
She smiled. “I like this responsible side of you.”
“Michael is always responsible, aren’t you, man?” A stranger appeared out of nowhere, and Stella watched in awe as he helped himself to the sofa opposite them. He wore a tight black T-shirt over bulldog-hunched shoulders and kept his hair buzzed close to his scalp. She tried not to stare rudely at the intricate tattoos decorating his muscled arms and neck, but it was difficult. She’d never seen so many tattoos up close.
Michael sat forward. “Quan—”
The stranger gave Michael a hard look. “No, I get it. You must have lost your phone or something.” Switching his attention to Stella, he said, “I’m Quan, Michael’s favorite cousin and best friend.”
Cousin. Best friend. Her nerves jumped into high tension. She held her hand out over the table. “Stella Lane. Nice to meet you.”
He stared at her hand with an amused expression before he shook it and sprawled back against the sofa. “So he does have a girlfriend, after all. Let me guess, you’re a doctor.”
As she opened her mouth to correct him on both accounts, Michael wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against his side. “Stella’s an econometrician.”
She gazed up at him in confusion until she realized he was worried she’d divulge his escorting to his cousin. Then, she mentally rolled her eyes. Her social skills were bad, but they weren’t that bad.
Quan surprised her by leaning toward her with a bright expression. “That’s related to economics, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Has she met Janie yet?” he asked Michael.
Who was Janie?
But Michael didn’t appear to hear the question. His attention was focused on a petite blond woman seated at the bar. When she patted the empty bar stool next to her, he cursed under his breath and got to his feet. “I’ll be back in a second.”
Stella’s body went cold as she watched him stride to the bar. He sat on the indicated bar stool, and the blonde trailed her fingers down his arm. They spoke, but their words couldn’t be heard above the music and the noise from the growing crowd.
When had so many people arrived? Their numbers had almost doubled since she’d entered. More continued to file into the club in a steady stream.
“I-is that Janie?” she asked.
“I don’t know who that is, but it’s not Janie.” After glancing at Stella’s face, Quan smiled slightly. “He clearly didn’t want to talk to her, okay? You have nothing to worry about.”
But it didn’t feel like she had nothing to worry about. The blonde laughed at something Michael said and edged closer to him. Enviably luscious breasts flattened against his arm. Whatever happened next was blocked from view as people gathered around the bar.
“Are there usually this many people here?” Stella asked.
“Nah.” Quan rubbed at the scruff on his head and stretched his neck side to side. “This popular DJ is spinning tonight, so it’s busier than normal. The acoustics are really good here. Prepare to be blown away.”
She swallowed past a lump in her throat, and a sense of foreboding settled in her gut. Since when was being blown away a good thing? Hundreds of bodies packed the room now. Far more than she’d anticipated.
A grating electronic boom erupted from speakers built into the ceiling, and Stella’s heart lurched so hard her chest hurt. The room flashed red before flames began dancing up the walls. The crowd screamed with excitement while Stella struggled to breathe. Lasers and smoke. The grating receded, and ephemeral, orchestral sounds whispered over the room. Before she could attempt to relax, a beat picked up in the background, gaining speed with a slow buildup.
“Don’t look so scared,” Quan shouted. “That’s not real fire. It’s just LED lights and projectors.”
The waitress appeared out of thin air and plopped a drink onto the table. She said something, but Stella couldn’t hear it. In two blinks, the waitress vanished into the mass of moving bodies. The music worked toward some kind of climax, and the people grew agitated as it neared.
Stella picked up the drink and took a large gulp. Lemon, cherry, and amaretto. She wished it were vodka, or, better yet, straight ethanol. It would work faster that way.
Quan gave her an amused look. “Thirsty?”
She nodded.
Loud digital sirens screeched, silence hung over the room for a good five seconds, and a melody cascaded from the speakers. Without warning, the bass resumed at a frantic, adrenaline-inducing speed. The crowd went wild.
Her heart pounded in a dizzying rush, and fear threatened to swamp her. Too much noise. Too much frenzy. She bottled up her emotions and buried them deep inside herself, forced herself to take slow breaths. As long as she looked calm on the outside, she was winning this. The music raced, but time crawled.
The bodies shifted so she got a clear view of the bar. The blonde was playing with the collar of Michael’s shirt, leaning in too close.
She sealed her lips over his.
Stella flinched like someone had slapped her. She waited for him to push the woman away. She waited for what felt like ages, waited until the crowd moved again and blocked her view.