Free Command Performance by Annabel Joseph Page B

caliber still had to play nice. And, well, this might be another opportunity for Miri. David had an eye for pretty ingénues and a very pretty one was slinking around somewhere behind Mason’s back. Gritting his teeth, he clapped David on the arm just as hard and met him head on. “David—” he began, reaching behind him for Miri.
    “Mason, you dog,” David crowed. “Whose stroke of genius was it, having you squire Mireille Durand around town?”
    Mason froze in the act of nudging Miri and suddenly wished she was miles away. “David—” Mason said again.
    “Did a double take when I saw you with her at the Golden Globes, but then a friend spelled it out for me.” The portly man held up his drink as if in a toast. “From sexpot to sweetheart, and your image is restored. Great campaign. Who does your PR?”
    Mason frowned. Was it his imagination or was everyone in the room suddenly staring at them? In the deepening silence, he felt rather than heard Miri move away. He felt the loss of her warmth, the loss of her presence. Ah, Miri, don’t let them see you fall apart. They’ll just enjoy it, and they won’t forget.
    David pulled a face. “God, hope I didn’t just put my foot in my mouth. Or your mouth. Didn’t see her back there.”
    “Excuse me,” Mason replied in a carefully modulated voice. He turned from Ferris, now gleefully, falsely apologetic, and scanned the room, ignoring the assessing glances. Which way had she gone? Jeremy caught his eye and nodded in the direction of the bar. Mason strolled that way, unhurried and serene. Acting. Unpleasantness followed David Ferris like a stench, but this unpleasantness affected Mason directly. And it affected poor Miri in a very big, public way.
    The bar area was crawling with people. Whether by savvy or pure instinct, she’d done the right thing and not hidden. She was seated halfway down the leather-trimmed bar, looking small atop an oversize wooden stool. She was having an animated conversation with the bartender. The man turned away. As Mason approached, he saw him pour three generous shots of raspberry vodka into what was otherwise a perfectly disguised Shirley Temple.
    Mason took the stool to the right of Miri as the bartender delivered the brightly colored drink. Mason waited for her to speak, bracing for wrath, reproach. He deserved whatever she dished out to him.
    She took a small sip of the concoction. “Keeping up appearances for your ‘campaign,’” she said. “I asked if he could make a Shirley Temple that would get me drunk.”
    Mason blinked, took out his wallet, and slid the bartender a hundred dollar tip. He ordered vodka straight up for himself. “I’m sorry, Miri.” Mason wanted to hold her, wanted to soothe her. His hands made helpless fists in his lap. “I’m so sorry.”
    She looked at him sideways. “It’s true?”
    Somehow, those words pained him more than anything else she could have said. She had doubted. Wonderfully, she had assumed David Ferris was full of shit, but Mason couldn’t backtrack now. He decided on pure honesty, because she deserved no less.
    “At first, dating you was a PR maneuver. Yes. I didn’t tell you because... I don’t know. It seemed so calculated.”
    She choked a little on her drink. “That’s because it was calculated.”
    He leaned closer, wary of eavesdroppers. “But I’ve enjoyed our time together. That’s not a lie, it’s the truth. I started dating you as a PR stunt but I’ve enjoyed every moment I spent with you. I’ve been missing something genuine, something pure in my life. I didn’t realize that until I met you.” He looked over at her. She was tonguing the cherry from her drink with a complete disregard for what it might do to any man watching. He did a quick scan of the room. Yes, several men leering.
    “Can I have your cherry?” he blurted out, literally wanting to make the damn cherry go away, but then the other meaning hit him and he felt a rush of heat to his