Clara's strapless gown hugged her curves, its exquisite tailoring accentuating her delicate frame. The sight of her smooth, porcelain shoulders seemed to pierce Lance like needles.
"What's it to you?" she hissed, glaring at him with knitted brows.
Blind rage coiled in Lance's chest—a tangled mess of frustration with no outlet except the overwhelming need to take her away. In one violent motion, he seized her wrist and yanked her upright from the chair.
But before his grip could tighten, James—fresh from the restroom—knocked his hand away.
Lance let out a hollow laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Got a taste for secondhand merchandise, Mr. Lancaster? I know all her sensitive spots—"
"Enough!" Clara's voice shook with rage.
He trailed off, smirk widening as he watched for Jame
