Spiker wanted to kill him. The pain in his chest deepened. His lungs throbbed, and he cleared his throat as though he might choke. A cold sweat dusted the back of his neck. The confines of his tuxedo tightened like a silk straightjacket. What the hell was happening?
He glanced at his half-empty champagne flute. Goddamn it. Had he been poisoned? What was this, an acute heart attack? Panic interwove with his weak-link theory. Buck hadn’t learned his lesson from the Jason Green fiasco last year.
Other couples joined Oliver and Vanka on the dance floor, obscuring Spiker’s direct line of sight. He needed to signal Vanka and get the hell out of this place. He refused to fall over dead in a purple fucking castle.
He lost sight of Vanka, and the pain changed, as though distress had climbed into his lungs. A knot formed in his trachea. She could hold her own while waltzing—what the hell was the matter with him?
Then Spiker saw them among the tight crowd of dancers. The formal waltz had given way to a more personal hold. Vanka had Oliver’s avid, lurid attention. The cold sweat on Spiker’s neck climbed to his temples and pounded them like a kettle drum. He wasn’t dying. This was jealousy.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Vanka had been played and could not stand it. Alec had known exactly why no one was dancing yet, and she’d played into a line that he’d probably used a dozen times before. Still, she stayed in character and even managed to stifle an eye-rolling groan at that insipid bow. The joke was on him, though. She wasn’t stepping away until she learned exactly what she needed to.
Alec seamlessly moved her through a three-quarter turn. “You make this look easy.”
Did he think her an idiot? She smiled and bit her tongue.
“And that dress . . .” He fanned the fingers pressed against her shoulder blade, testing and calculating how she might react.
Vanka wanted to tell him he wasn’t anywhere near as smooth as he might hope, that his subtleties landed like wet cement and only worked because of his bank account. But telling him the truth wouldn’t help her meet her goals. Perhaps another day. There was a bigger problem at hand. Alec Oliver seemingly had a scene to play out. There was no telling how long this might take. Spiker wouldn’t sit on the sidelines all night, and if the night called for dancing, she’d much rather wrap herself in Spiker’s embrace.
Vanka smiled like she’d set a trap and held Oliver’s gaze. “What usually happens after this?”
He feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”
“Does that dress make me look like a fool?”
Alec grinned as if he knew Vanka was on to his game. “Not in the slightest.”
“Because it is one of my favorites,” she added.
“I can see why.” He effortlessly maneuvered between the couples who had joined them in dancing. “Tell me something—”
“You first,” she said with a hint of sex and tease. “What happens next, Mr. Oliver?”
His eyes twinkled, and she recalled the way he’d called her Mrs. Fagan. Alec drew her closer. His pupils constricted. “Usually”—he paused and tried to read her face—“the husbands go home alone.”
“Usually,” she pressed, certain he wasn’t telling her about advances that had been shot down. “But not always?”
“Not always,” he audaciously agreed.
Alec enjoyed it when the husbands watched him with their wives. “That’s what you prefer?” Vanka asked.
“You’re very upfront.”
“I’m . . .” Vanka searched his expression for the right thing to say. “Curious.”
The salacious truth glimmered in the hint of his impish smile. “I like many things, Mrs. Fagan.”
“Naughty,” she chided, and measured his reaction.
“What do you like?” he asked.
This was the moment she’d been waiting for. Her lips curled. “Priceless art. Incalculable antiquities. Rare gems. Shall I go on?”
Alec laughed hard enough to mess up his footwork. “That’s not what I thought you’d say.”
“Everyone has desires.” She noted Spiker in her peripheral, and as they neared him, she thought he might step onto the floor and tear Alec’s head off.
Alec followed her gaze and then made a point to pull her closer. “As it turns out, I collect things that you might enjoy.”
“That’s what they all say,” she challenged, whispering, “and I always end up so disappointed.”
“I can promise you, that wouldn’t happen.” His hand smoothed down her back. “Tell your husband he should go home.”
The idea of ordering Spiker away nearly made Vanka choke on her tongue, and the fact that Alec Oliver simply expected her to believe him because of who he was almost made her groan. “You’re asking for a lot on credit.”
“Look around.” Alec dipped his mouth close to her ear. “I think I’m good for it.”
Ugh. Arrogance wasn’t a good look on him. “If it’s not my dress, then what has convinced you I’m a fool?”
“You’re negotiating?” he asked.
“I want to know it’s worth my while as well,” she countered.
He laughed. “Insurance riders get you hot?”
“Depends on what’s on them.”
“Picasso—”
“Everyone has a Picasso—”
“An avant-garde—”
She dramatically stifled a yawn. “It’s getting late.”
“A bronze from Sparta.”
Her eyebrow arched. “Sparta?”
“Yes. As in ‘We are Sparta!’ Sparta.”
“Ah, that Sparta.” She’d called it. He would reference the movie. “A bronze?”
“A mask.”
Her heart launched into her throat, and she didn’t hide the visceral reaction. Alec would see it and pounce.
“It’s less than a hundred feet away.” He caressed her back. “Tell your husband to go home, and I will take you on a private tour to see it.”
She brushed a strand of hair off her left cheek and tucked it behind her ear, signaling her partner. “That sounds like a—”
Spiker appeared and broke in, manners be damned. “I’d like to cut in now.”
Alec stood his ground and smiled, releasing Vanka as though their game had just begun. “A rain check?”
Vanka let Spiker pull her against his chest. He smelled like strength and safety and blocked her from Alec’s view. “We’ll have to get back to you.”
The wolfish growl in his voice made her pulse flutter. Spiker moved her away from the billionaire. They glided over the floor as though she were dancing with her very own American James Bond. She’d let him call the shots, so long as he kept her folded into his chest.
When they stepped from the dance floor, Vanka wasn’t ready to let go. Spiker shifted her onto his arm. “That guy’s a dick.”
Vanka quietly laughed, and her bearings returned. “A little fetishy, too.”
Spiker stopped abruptly. Protective wrath ticked in his jaw muscles. “What the hell did he say to you?”
Not a lot had been said, but that didn’t matter. “He has the Lacedaemonian Mask.”