S H A D E S

Sir.

"That movie was a bore." Mike yawned into my shoulder, his voice caressed with the notes of haughty London. "Next year can you please pick something with more thrill and cinematic panache?"

"The Board made the selection," I answered, turning into him to keep our conversation hushed, and, so I hoped, visually flirtatious. Standing well into six feet, Michael Samuels was every bit the dazzling male specimen a girl could ask for in a date.

An impressive broad shouldered frame was encased in a crushed velvet jacket of startling azure with tailored red slacks and a crisp white silk shirt unbuttoned at the neck. He was old Hollywood glamour meets the trendy modern circuit.

"So, darling," Mike swooped a glass of champagne off a server's tray, handed it to me since both my hands were presently unoccupied with anything remotely alcoholic. "Why am I the one here with you tonight and not some gorgeous, available sod panting at your gorgeous heels?"

"Who could hold a candle to you?" I said, tossing back my length of auburn hair. "Who could hold a candle to you?"

"How true," he chuckled. "But there is someone, certainly?"

"Why should there be?" I looked up at him, and straight into thick dark lashes framing arresting blue eyes in dusky gold skin of his distant Indian lineage. A long aristocratic nose and sculpted cheekbones made women look twice and linger the second time around.

It was a shame, I thought for the hundredth time in four years, that Mike was more interested in spending his time in the company of beautiful men as opposed to beautiful women.

A devastating loss to womankind; I was compelled to sigh over the waste.

"Unless you've upgraded your concealer, darling, there must be." His knowing smirk brought a flash of the same look I'd seen on Paul's face earlier in the week. "Sorry, darling, but when a man puts a glow in a woman's cheeks, its hard to ignore the obvious."

"Jesus." I stretched my fingers to my lips to smother the laugh. "Are all gay men so perceptive?"

"All?"

"Paul, my assistant," I said, nodding towards the far end of the room where he stood engrossed in conversation with one of the ladies who worked the administrative pool. "Since I'd invited you to be my date, he assumes you're the source of my 'dewy' skin. He's dubbed you Magic Mike."

Those elegant lips of his turned up into a smile. "I rather like the sound of that." Following my line of sight, Mike scoured the crowd of faces until he caught sight of Paul, head to toe runway perfection in elegant black, and lingered.

"How old?"

"Twenty-four, I think."

Mike sipped from his vodka. "A baby. Single?"

"Mike." I swatted his arm with my metallic clutch. "Can't you wait until the evening is over before you find a young stud to take home?"

"If I did that," Mike arched a dark brow at me, "then all the good ones would be snatched up. Can he be trusted to be...discreet?"

I swirled my champagne, and gave the question a minute's thought before nodding. "I think so, yes. Though you could always have him sign a CA, if you were concerned."

"A Confidentiality Agreement?" Mike's gorgeous face lit up at the suggestion. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

Within the room, photographers circled and as one drew closer, Mike's fingers curled on my arm. We often attended prestigious events together; out of affection and friendship I stood in whenever he needed me as a decoy to ward off rumours and speculation. The price of being so gorgeous, I mused, was that people always stopped to take notice and more often then not, people wondered why a stunning catch like Michael Samuels hadn't taken a wife?