"Chance?"
She's barely said his name, whimpered it, really, when a tuxedo clad arm slides across her torso and the spice of his soap latches onto the draft that flutters down the back of her neck and lifts the flesh into bumps. He's standing at an angle that allows them the privacy she needs but doesn't close them off to the charity event and with his arm across her stomach, he's successfully warded off any potential suitors. He looks dangerous, even cleaned up in a tuxedo, and when he's standing at the side of Ilsa Pucci, his arm around her, and her hands clutching him, they all know that she is off limits and so is he. They've become the topic of gossip at this charity event and despite her best attempt to ignore it, she can't bear another whisper about him.
The way they speak of him, it was almost as if they thought her life was some fairytale wherein the princess takes the unrefined beast and turns him into a man worthy of a royal title. But, that is not the role they play. No longer is she society's queen, a billionaire with a heart of a gold and a handsome husband, but a woman, strong and capable, with the man who both protected her and let her be her own person. Who made her reevaluate the world and accept that for all of the good, there was just as much bad and that one came with the other. And, maybe, he is wolfish and he lacks the grace that society deems necessary to fit in, but she rather likes his rough and tumble personality. She likes the messiness of him, the sheer grit and determination. She likes all of his scars, all of his stories, all of his bravado. Everything that forms that beautiful wolf of a man, even when he's shed his denim and leather exterior and forced himself into a tuxedo, as a favor to her, when really he could have said no.
"You came here as a kindness to me and I do appreciate it but I think it's time for us to go." Ilsa hisses around the illusion of everything being just dandy. That fake smile never was very convincing.
"We've been here five minutes." Chance is rightfully confused. Now, dammit, he didn't put that tuxedo on for a five minute appearance. If he was going to be her arm candy, it better be as long as it took to make every cent paid for this tuxedo worth it. "Hey," he calls her attention. "What's wrong? You look unhappy."
"I'm no longer comfortable here." Ilsa explains simply. "I'd like for us to go home and have a drink. Preferably rum. I'd like to be wearing your shirt and I'd like for you to wear whatever you want. I'd like to be alone with you."
"Alright," Chance nods, confusion and concern melding into one quivering knot in his stomach. She never does this. If she's going to make an appearance, she's going to do it properly, not stay five minutes and ask to be taken home. "We can do that."
She gives him a look. It's sly and when her eyes slip down his front, he knows what she wants. He releases his hold on her and tugs at the black silk tied neatly around his neck. When it's loose enough to not choke him, he shrugs out of his jacket, hands it to her, and rolls the sleeves of her perfectly pressed shirt up to his elbows. A quick hand to his hair restores it back to its natural state of messiness. And, Ilsa looks around to make sure he's garnered the attention of everyone at this damned event. When he's done making himself comfortable, he takes his jacket back, wraps it around her shoulders, before taking her face in his hands. "Let's go home."
Nobody at that charity dance can keep their whispers to themselves when Ilsa walks out, tucked protectively into Chance's side. It isn't until Chance turns and speaks that they think to shut up.
"I don't know you people and with the way Ilsa is acting, I'm certain I don't want to. I'm going to tell you what you obviously want to know. I'm Christopher Chance. I work with her. We specialize in private security. I came with her because we have something between us. We don't define it. We don't have to. It works for us. Now, feel free to speculate about what that might be, you will anyway. While you do, I'll be at home, having a glass of expensive rum, with a beautiful woman."
It makes the papers the next day.
Neither really care. Though, the half hour he spends giggling about it, suggests Winston enjoys it. Maybe a little too much.