Carrick blinked slowly. "I may not be the most sociable of men, but I'm told that my reputation precedes me. They'll know exactly who I am."
He saw no need to tell Hermes at this juncture that Carrick's reputation was as much for the rate at which he appeared to buy and lose bed slaves and the whispers of the illegal means by which he made his money as it was for his Spartan heritage. The fact that he had recently gone public about his relationship with an alpha werewolf only blackened his name further. Carrick hardly cared. He had long ago realised that notoriety and danger were even more usual social lubricants than charm or charity.
He got out of the car and drew Hermes hand into the crook of his arm. "Shall we?"
A slave took their coats with a bowed head and downcast eyes, while another opened the doors to the ballroom. They passed through the throng of evening-wear clad Supernaturals and their slaves, Carrick leading them to a table in the corner, far enough away from he orchestra but permitting easy access to the dance floor. Carrick settled in, his eyes sweeping the crowd. He had already noticed the appreciative glances thrown both his and Hermes' way.
He indicated the bar o one side of the room. "Why don't you get us some drinks? I'll have a blood scotch, and you can have anything you like. I wouldn't know, but I'm told the champagne is excellent."