“Ohh, formal,” she said, tilting her chin up at him.

He took advantage of her nearness and kissed her lips, moving his hips with hers to the steady beat of the song. “Would you let me pick you up for the RSD dinner? I was thinking of renting a limo.”

That laugh again. It’d be the death of him. He’d thought arguing with Lily was fun, but tickling her funny bone? Infinitely more fun.

“How very low key of you,” she said.

“Well, we’re coming out. May as well do it in style.”

Her hand slipped from his shoulder to his chest. She stopped dancing. “What will everyone think?”

“Who cares?” he said. And really, who did care? “I’m a kickass designer. So are you. People hire us to design, not because we do or do not sleep together.”

She was quiet for a beat, then said, “I guess you’re right.”

“So?”

“Okay.” Her smile wasn’t full force, but he’d take it. “You can pick me up. But not”—she poked him in the stomach—“in a limo.”

He bent and scooped her up, that incredible butt resting in both his palms, and dropped her onto his bed. He undid his button fly jeans, tossed them aside, and then joined her.

They made love again and this time she was on top, her breasts swaying in front of his face, her hair cascading down her back. Afterward, she collapsed next to him, rolled over, and pressed that sweet backside against his front.

He held her tightly, one arm around her, and listened to her breathing even out. The soft scent of her hair invaded his senses as he tried to remember if he’d ever made a better decision than seducing Lily at Willow Mansion.

He couldn’t think of one.

Chapter Eighteen

Lily stared out the passenger side window, chewing on her bottom lip. Marcus could see she was nervous—if not by the lip-chewing thing, then in the stiffness of her posture. And he could feel it to, in the clamminess dampening their linked hands.

He pulled his sports car into a parking space outside the convention center, killed the engine, and turned his head. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be nervous.”

She jumped slightly, like he’d startled her, her delicate throat moving as she swallowed. Other than her apparent nerves, she looked drop-dead gorgeous in a clingy emerald green dress (short, as per his request) and high, high shoes. When she’d opened her front door, he’d forgotten how to speak for a moment. His eyes had coasted along her beautiful, pale breasts, bursting out of the deep V formed by the wraparound dress. Truth told, those breasts were still distracting him, and if that wasn’t enough, he had the no-panty thing to contend with.

“What are you wearing under that dress?”

“Nothing but a new bikini wax,” she purred.

God help him.

But their playful banter had died halfway to the conference center, and she’d fallen silent for the remainder of the drive.

“You okay?” Out of habit, his eyes dipped down to her cleavage before meeting her gaze.

“Sure. Of course.” A nod of her head, then, “Are you?” She let go of his hand to straighten his bow tie.

The annual dinner was formal, and no joke. Industry brass would be there—people from big name firms, other designers, owners, and high-paying customers. Hell, Reginald London’s firm was presenting Marcus with his award tonight.

“I’ll be better once I’m off that stage,” he told her, meaning it. He may have pulled a win out of his back pocket when he’d practiced with her in his bedroom, but his mind had been firmly on winning her nude dancing.

“You’ll be great.” Her smile was not genuine, and he didn’t like when she wasn’t blunt with him.

“Dammit, Lily.” He unbuckled and got of the car, walking around to her side. By the time he reached her door, she was climbing out. “What’s the problem?”

“Excuse me.” She sent a furtive look to the left then to the right.

“Who the hell are you looking for?” he asked, raising his arms in exasperation.

“No one. I just… Now that we’re here, I think tonight is the wrong time to go public.”

“Why?” He was done letting her off the hook.

“Because you have to concentrate on your speech.”

“Lame.”

“And I’d like the attention to be on you, not on us as a couple.”

“Lily.” He stepped close to her and she backed away, leaning against his freshly washed car. “We’re not celebrities. I doubt anyone will notice beyond our circle of friends. I’m not planning on some massive PDA, I just don’t want to have to think about holding your hand or not holding your hand, or eating off your plate if I want a bite of your dinner.”

“I’m not sharing my dinner.”

He ignored her attempt to distract him. “I mean it. I’m not going in there and putting on a show. We go in, arm in arm, and to hell with anyone who might have a problem with it.” He palmed her jaw and leaned in.

She turned her head.

He dropped his arm and straightened. “Are you kidding me?”

“You bring a different girl here every year.” Now she was angry, her eyebrows down, her voice raised slightly.

“Who cares? I’m here with you this year, McIntire.”

A car pulled into the lot, its headlights cutting across the darkness, and her next words were quiet. “I care, Marcus. People talk. And the last thing I need are rumors bouncing around that I’m sleeping with the designer of the year to further my career.”

“That’s stupid.” Who would give a shit if they were sleeping together? He was missing something. Some big piece of the puzzle wasn’t sliding into place.

“Not my rules,” she said.

“So, what? You want to go in separate? Leave separate? Care to synchronize our watches or have a signal? I can pick you up a block away if you like.”

“Thanks for taking me seriously.”

He took a deep breath, pulling in a lot of patience and little oxygen, and then blew out a gusty sigh. They weren’t going to resolve this in the few minutes before they walked in, clearly. And he didn’t need the stress of Lily pissed at him when he had to remember not to faint on stage.

“Fine,” he said, leaning against the car next to her, arms folded. “You first. I’ll give you a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” To his complete dissatisfaction, she held her head high as she clipped inside and didn’t spare him a single glance.

There was more going on here than she was saying. She wasn’t confiding in him, and that pissed him off as much as it concerned him.

…

“There you are!” Joanie. Smiling, happy, lovely Joanie. Lily’s best friend swished over to her. She was draped in a stunning blue, floor-length gown. Clive, looking dapper in a black tuxedo, followed behind his wife, two glasses of champagne in his hands. Joanie hugged Lily briefly, then peered over her shoulder as she pulled away. “Where’s Marcus?”

“Marcus?”

“Yeah, guy you work with,” Clive said blandly. “My best friend.” He handed over a flute to Joanie and offered Lily the other.

She accepted, and filled the awkward space between the question and her lame answer by taking a sip. “Not my turn to watch him, ha-ha.”

Her eyes swept the room in search of Emmett. Before, when she’d agreed to let Marcus drive her to the dinner, she’d been able to brush off the fact that Emmett would be here, and that he’d see her on Marcus’s arm. She’d liked the idea of it, actually. Then, tonight, as she pinned her hair up and spritzed perfume over her classy but revealing cocktail dress, she played another possible scenario in her head. Emmett seeing her with Marcus and telling Reginald London that Cameron Designs as a firm was wholly unsuited for the task of designing their superstore. And after Reginald had witnessed Marcus and Lily leaving the Camerons’ house together…what would he think? Of course, while she was having her little panic attack, she also considered the possibility that Reginald wouldn’t care at all. Joanie and Clive were married, and obviously sleeping together.