Chapter 2 - The Invitation
By nine-thirty, the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Grand Hotel ballroom reflected the glittering lights of downtown Minneapolis against the dark, snow-dusted sky. The live orchestra on the elevated stage transitioned from light dinner jazz into a slow, sweeping waltz.
Around the room, couples began to rise from their tables, moving toward the polished oak dance floor under the giant crystal chandeliers.
At Table Nine, the atmosphere had become unbearable for Blair and Wesley. Unable to handle the crushing, silent weight of Leandro’s presence, Wesley had muttered a pathetic excuse about making a phone call and practically dragged Blair toward the bar on the far side of the hall.
Clare sat comfortably in her seat, enjoying the quiet. For the first time in her life at one of these corporate networking events, she didn't feel like an outsider peeking through a window.
"They're cowards," Leandro remarked quietly, watching Wesley’s retreating back near the bar.
"They're just mean," Clare corrected gently, smoothing the navy fabric of her dress over her knees. "Mean people are usually weak underneath. It takes a lot of effort to be cruel to strangers for no reason."
Leandro turned his head to look at her fully. The soft glow of the wall sconces lit up his scarred profile. Many people shrank away when he looked directly at them, unnerved by the jagged lines and the milky, still surface of his left eye.
Clare didn't flinch. She met his gaze directly, her soft hazel-green eyes warm and steady.
"Does it bother you?" Leandro asked suddenly.
"What?"
"The way they look at you," he said bluntly. "The way they moved your place card. The quiet little comments."
Clare let out a quiet, huffing laugh, looking down at her polished fingernails. "I’m thirty years old, Mr. Vitali. I’ve been a big girl since I was twelve. When you don't fit into the narrow, airbrushed box that people think women ought to live in, you learn very quickly that their opinion of your weight says everything about their character and nothing about your value."
She looked back up at him, a sharp spark of humor in her eyes.
"Besides," she added softly, "I think you know a little something about people making assumptions based on how you look."
Leandro went still.
Slowly, a real, full smile spread across his face—not a smirk, not a cold mocking curve, but a genuine, breathtaking smile that transformed his harsh features. The deep scars across his cheek didn't disappear, but suddenly they didn't look like a monstrosity. They looked like armor.
"Touché, Ms. Donnelly," he said quietly.
He set his napkin on the table and stood up.
At six-foot-three, with his massive chest and broad shoulders filling out his dark suit, Leandro Vitali towered over the surrounding tables. Several security guards near the VIP entrance immediately straightened up, their eyes darting toward him.
Leandro stepped around the corner of the table, stopped directly in front of Clare, and extended his right hand.
"May I have this dance?" he asked.
The ambient noise of Table Eight, Table Ten, and Table Eleven died instantly.
Clare blinked, looking up at his outstretched hand. His palm was broad, his fingers long and strong, with faint silver calluses near the knuckles—the hands of a man who worked with structural steel before he sat in executive boardrooms.
"Mr. Vitali," Clare whispered, her voice faltering slightly for the first time all evening. "I... I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why?" he asked calmly, his hand remaining perfectly still, waiting for her. "Are you afraid of my scar?"
"No!" Clare said quickly, her cheeks flushing warm. "No, of course not. I... I’m not a light woman, Mr. Vitali. I don't float across dance floors like Blair Kensington. I’m five-foot-eight, I’m heavy, and I’m wearing twelve-dollar pantyhose."
Leandro didn't pull his hand back. His single good eye burned into hers with an intensity that made her chest tighten.
"I don't build glass towers out of paper, Ms. Donnelly," Leandro said, his voice dropping into a deep, velvety purr that sent a sudden shiver straight down her spine. "I like substance. I like strength. And I am asking you to dance."
Clare looked at his broad, steady hand.
She looked across the room, where Blair and Wesley were currently standing near the bar, watching Table Nine with wide, horrified eyes. She saw dozens of high-society women in sparkling silver and gold gowns whispering behind their hands, staring at the scarred monster holding out his hand to the plus-size woman in the department store dress.
Clare swallowed hard.
She placed her hand in his.
May you like
The moment her fingers brushed his skin, his hand closed around hers with a warm, firm, unyielding grip. He pulled her up smoothly from her chair as if she weighed no more than a feather.
"Follow my lead," Leandro murmured, resting his broad left hand firmly against the small of her back.
