“He’s pissed.” Charlie snatches the last donut. “He’s going to yell at you next. Doesn’t bode well for the evening.”

I grab my sweater and slide out of the booth. “I can handle him.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow. “You can always call me if you need a ride home.”

“I can handle him.”

“Don’t drink anything until after he’s blown off some steam. You know what you’re like.”

“I can handle him.”

“Yeah? So why are you shaking so badly?”

***

“Take a deep breath, baby. The feeding frenzy is about to begin.”

Max helps me out of the limo and onto the red carpet outside Davies Symphony Hall. Cameras flash and people stare, as San Francisco’s high society parade down the sidewalk at one of the city’s most anticipated society events. And me. Makayla Delaney. Imposter. What I wouldn’t give to be home on my couch in my sweats eating ice cream. I concentrate on not catching my three-and-a-half-inch emerald stilettos on the carpet.

“Huntington, over here.”

Max stops and turns us to the right, his hand firm around my waist. “Pose and smile,” he whispers. Millions of cameras flash, and suddenly I can’t see.

“Aaaaagh. Turn off the sun.” I throw my hand over my face to shield myself and Max grabs my arm and pulls it down. “They want to see your face, not your hand.”

“I didn’t realize a look of sheer terror would sell papers,” I mutter under my breath.

Max gives my name to no less than a dozen reporters and introduces me as his girl. Usually, I like to be Max’s girl. Today, however, the endearment grates on my nerves. In this strapless A-line taffeta and organza cocktail dress, my face caked in three inches of makeup, and my hair ironed and teased, all courtesy of the resourceful Eva and her swanky boutique, I feel much older than a girl—at least twenty-five.

“Maybe you should introduce me as your woman,” I tell him when we step inside the lobby. Although only five o’clock, the black-tie gala is already in full swing, with a sparkling wine reception and a string quartet.

Max chuckles and hands our ten thousand dollar tickets to the usher at the door. “You want me to say, ‘this is my woman’? Should I grab your hair and grunt too? Beat my chest?”

“Mmm. I’d like to see that.”

Brushing a kiss over my hair, Max whispers, “No one will doubt you are my woman. You are exquisite. You’re going to knock their socks off.”

“None of the women are wearing socks.”

“Then you’ll knock off their panties.”

“Max!” I give him a gentle shove. “What’s got into you this evening?” He is over-the-top playful tonight. So playful his good humor almost seems forced. Maybe he’s still angry about Assgate. He still hasn’t chewed me out. Best get him drunk and stay cheerful, and maybe he’ll forget about it.

“Just looking forward to an evening with my woman.”

Once inside, we are thronged by curious patrons. I grip Max’s hand and plaster myself to his side. He introduces me to politicians, movie stars, directors, authors, CEOs, an assortment of chairwomen, and a dirty dozen young blondes with bad nose jobs. I perfect air-kissing by imagining I am a chicken. Heeding Charlie’s warning, I turn down the copious amounts of champagne in favor of water. By the time we are called for dinner in the Tent Pavilion, I am ready to float away.

The tent has been decorated with yards of azure, draped fabric and thousands of blue peonies, which are also scattered over linen-covered tabletops.

“This is unreal,” I breathe, spinning around.

“This is unreal.” Max slides his hand under my skirt to caress my bottom. “It’s so short. Barely enough to cover you, and yet it does.”

“Stop it.” I slap his hand away. “What if someone sees you?”

“They’ll wish their hand was up your easy-access skirt too.” He leans over and whispers in my ear, “Go to the restroom and take off your panties.”

“What?”

“Take them off.”

“Are you on drugs?” I stand in front of him and check his eyes to see if his pupils are dilated. Nope. Normal, except for the wicked glint. “I don’t do things like that.”

He runs his hand up and down my bare back, his fingers tickling my spine until I arch toward him. “You did this morning and last night, and the night before that, and the night before that.” My body goes from calm to shaking with sexual hunger in a heartbeat.

Max threads his fingers through my hair and tugs my head back, exposing my neck to his featherlight kisses. “Bring them to me,” he rasps.

My heat rises quickly as if he had kindled my fire. I take a deep breath and pull away from him, my body trembling inside and out. My token resistance is crushed beneath his creativity, and my body’s unquenchable need to be devoured by him again. I am a bad, bad girl.

Ten minutes later, I am back at the table, bare. My panties are tucked inside my tiny apple-shaped evening bag. “I hope we don’t have a car accident on the way home,” I grumble. “My mother would be horrified to find out not only was I not wearing clean panties, I wasn’t wearing panties at all.”

Max pulls out my chair and leans over to whisper in my ear. “Don’t sit on your skirt.”

“Why?”

His voice drops, nearly to a whisper. “It’ll get wet.”