Up ahead a man stood near one of the pillars, wearing a dark brown suit, forearms on the balustrade, head bouncing to the music as he surveyed the action below.
Simone paused.
She couldn’t see his face. Craning her neck to get a better look in the dimly lit interior, she only saw the back of his closely shorn head and the height and shape of his body. He was a big guy, with a wide neck and broad shoulders.
Inexplicably, her heart began to race. She blinked a few times and quietly circled behind him.
Now she could see his profile, and had a good look at a strong jaw. Her heartbeat quadrupled, pounding so fast she placed a restraining hand against her chest. What the heck was wrong with her?
She continued to move, silently cursing when she staggered. She shook her head briskly to clear the dizziness, but doing so only worsened the disorienting feeling and she flailed her hands to regain balance.
The movement caught the stranger’s eye, and he turned suddenly. Simone managed to face him, legs spread apart to keep her balance. She placed a hand to her queasy stomach.
He left the railing and came toward her, his face furrowed in concern. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
“I…” She couldn’t even talk, and he remained silent, giving her ample opportunity to fully examine him.
He looked like an African god dropped into modern society, wearing a chocolate suit and matching tie. Even under the conservative attire, she could tell he had a firm body. All man, he was easily six foot three. He had a dark brown complexion, as if he’d been dipped in maple syrup, a beautifully broad nose, and lips so thick and luscious-looking they were downright indecent.
Dark brown eyes scoured her frame, dragging down the length of her body with the same intense inspection she gave him. His right eyebrow lifted a fraction higher over his eyes, and her nerve endings heightened at the attention, the hairs on her arms standing on end.
“Ma’am, are you okay?”
The sound of his voice again—deep and decadent as the finest chocolate—made her insides tremble.
Opening her mouth to speak, Simone flayed her hands in a flustered, inane movement that affirmed how rattled she was by him. Finally, she regained control of her limbs and pointed up. “I-I’m at the rooftop party.”
He nodded his understanding. “Oh, you’re a guest at the divorce party?”
“I’m throwing the party for one of my friends.”
“Oh.” He came forward, his smile friendly, its brilliance rivaling the colorful strobe lights that crisscrossed the ceiling. “I’m one of the owners of Club Masquerade. I hope you’ve been enjoying yourself.”
Simone wanted to say what a good time they were having, and how pleased she was with the service they’d received so far. She opened her mouth to speak those very words, but they didn’t come.
The building nausea chose that very moment to make its presence known in a horribly embarrassing way. Instead of words issuing from her mouth, the liquid contents of her stomach bubbled up and spewed from her lips—all over his shoes.
