Valentine halted before a low balustrade, and Leila gazed out at the panorama. Above her head, suspended from a baroque dome, were dozens of breathtaking chandeliers with thousands of shimmering crystal prisms reflecting light throughout the ballroom. Below, women dressed in gorgeous evening gowns and men in tuxedos swirled around the sunken dance floor, like a fairytale.
All over Las Vegas, Valentine’s Day was being celebrated in spectacular style—with acrobatics, special effects and fireworks, like at Le Rêve or Cirque Du Soleil, by helicopter and balloon rides over the neon city, countless weddings in quaint chapels, world-class dining experiences overlooking the glittering strip, at private parties in extravagant penthouse suites and dazzling nightclubs, with light shows on Fremont Street and spectacular displays by the fountains of Bellagio—so much glitter to gild so much sin.
But nothing compared to Seraglio’s Aşk.
“Are you ready?” Valentine’s quiet words floated down to Leila.
She looked up at the man standing beside her. Dark eyes met hers.
She nodded, slowly.
Her job tonight was to protect him. That was her job every day, but she didn’t think that’s what he meant when he asked if she was ready.
As Valentine led her towards the stairs on their right, music swelled from the chamber orchestra on the balcony at the far end of the ballroom. There were arched balconies around the entire upper level where people could look down on the ballroom, like through a portal into a secret world.
At the top step, Valentine drew Leila’s hand close to his body, supporting her as they began to descend the marble staircase, scarlet silk trailing behind.
At the half-landing, they paused.
The chandeliers slowly dimmed, until the ballroom was lit only by candles in sconces and lanterns that seemed to float in the darkness. The music quieted to a whisper and the ballroom below became silent as anticipation filled the air.
Light suddenly illuminated the landing where Leila and Valentine stood. It haloed Leila’s hair and made the scarlet of her dress glow like fireflies. Her breath caught as she looked up at Valentine, his dark hair gilded and the black of his tuxedo somehow deeper and darker.
He took her breath away.
Then he spoke, his commanding voice carrying across the ballroom. “Welcome . . . to Seraglio’s Aşk.”
The words had no sooner left his mouth than the music swelled, and sparkling light began to fall from the balconies around the ballroom, like fiery waterfalls showering the dark room in embers. Magnificent banners suspended invisibly across the ceiling unfurled like silk in the wind, all shimmering movement and crimson secrets.
The room erupted in wonder.
Valentine took a step towards the final flight of stairs, and Leila followed.
Together, they descended into the ballroom.
When the pyrotechnics finally came to an end, the chandeliers once more lit the room. But the crimson silk banners muted their light into a romantic glow, fit for lovers who wanted to steal away to one of the hidden alcoves or curtained areas, or shelter behind any of the marble pillars that ringed the ballroom.
The air was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold desert night. It was redolent with the scent of flowers woven around the pillars in a seductive play of white marble, green leaves and lush petals, or that overflowed from gilded urns around the room.
As Valentine and Leila reached the base of the stairs, they were surrounded by patrons eager for his attention. He wasn’t the richest man there—he didn’t come from wealth and everything he possessed he’d earned himself—but he was the man who commanded Seraglio, who had wrought that privilege, and it alone was enough to draw them to him.
Leila listened as he made conversation. There was no idle chit chat. He was not a man who threw away words. He could never be called charming—he was too remote—but Leila knew he didn’t see himself as superior. Rather, he made no pretenses, and his arrogance lacked the entitlement that characterized so many powerful people.
There was also the solicitude with which he treated her, which would not be apparent to anyone other than Leila. She had become accustomed to it after working beside him for two years—although it had taken her months to recognize how loyal he was to his employees when she first began working at Seraglio.
Like tonight.
No matter who approached them, without fail, Valentine introduced her. Leila Rose. Seraglio’s Chief of Security. No one was permitted to look through her or to treat as a pretty ornament, as beautiful women on the arms of powerful men are so often treated. When curiosity was aroused by a female Chief of Security—subconscious gender bias at its best—and questions inevitably followed on topics that ranged from national defense to gun control, Valentine looked to Leila to answer, since she was best qualified.
She’d always appreciated the way he treated her. It was one of the reasons he’d earned her utter loyalty. But tonight, she did not want to be distracted making conversation with Sin City’s elite. She would prefer to fade into the background. Although, if she was honest, that was impossible in this dress. Instead, she’d settle for being a pretty ornament so she could devote her attention to surveilling the ballroom and the guests.
Beside her, Valentine seemed normal. There was no indication that anything had changed between them. But Leila knew she hadn’t imagined what occurred in his office. She was far too aware of it. Yet he was acting like nothing happened.
She found it disconcerting—at a time when she could not afford to be disconcerted.
With one ear on the shifting conversation, Leila scanned the room. It was difficult; the romantic lighting limited her ability to see distance and detail. The remainder of her attention she kept on the people—the potential threats—around Valentine.
So Leila was not expecting his arm to wrap around her waist and haul her forward, against his body. She ignored the way her breath caught and looked over her shoulder for the danger, at the space where she’d been standing.
“I’m so sorry,” a male server said profusely, clutching a silver platter of glasses. It was obvious that someone had bumped him, and he would have spilled champagne down Leila’s dress had Valentine not pulled her close.
“It’s fine,” she said, voice hitching. Then Leila forgot the server’s existence as she turned back to Valentine. Her head was nestled under his jaw, and her breath skittered across the strong column of his throat. Not even in his office, when she’d fastened the rose in place, had they been this close. Every point of contact, from her breasts, nestled against his chest, to her pelvis, brushing his hip, was alive with sensation.
Leila trembled.
Valentine must have felt it because his chin brushed the top of her head as he looked down at her.
Her mind was a jumble of thoughts.
He had been so quick to protect her. Even from such a little thing. His reaction time and his instincts were impressive, and, Leila swallowed, as she acknowledged something she’d rather leave buried in the depths of her subconscious, she found those things sinfully attractive.
Aware that her attention was not on the room, the way it needed to be, through sheer effort of will—failures on her part came with dire consequences—Leila stepped back.
At least, she tried to step back.
Valentine refused to release her.
She rested one small hand on the black lapel that had so briefly cradled her cheek and exerted pressure. The arm banding her waist loosened but didn’t give way. Instead, without a word, Valentine pulled Leila away from the small group where they stood, which included two Hollywood actors, a notorious tech entrepreneur and Sin City’s illustrious mayor. Once they were clear, Valentine let her go of her waist and took her hand, returning it to its earlier position on his arm.
Leila was relieved.
For an instant, her certainty that he was not the kind of man to force a woman to stay in his arms when she did not want to be there had been challenged.
The real q
uestion was, did Leila really not want to be in his arms?
She shouldn’t be wondering that now, and she hated herself, just a little, because her focus was so divided. Mostly, because it worried her. She didn’t want to fail in her duty to protect Valentine, but, despite all her discipline, she simply could not prevent her reaction to him.
Valentine kept Leila close as he guided her through the crowded ballroom, past archways that led to small antechambers, richly decorated with Persian carpets and luxurious furnishings, and past magnificent ice carvings, lit candelabras and golden urns overflowing with flowers.
At first, she thought he must have a destination in mind, but she soon realized that he was simply avoiding the company of others. Whenever someone made eye contact, he would nod politely but keep them moving, as though they had a previous engagement. The tactic provided relief from all the attention directed their way.
“So this is how you do it,” she said in an undertone.
“Do what?”
“Avoid people when you’re in the midst of them.” She scanned the room. “I’m impressed.”
“If only I’d known it was so easy,” he murmured.
“What?”
“Impressing you.”
Leila’s eyes shot up to his face, but Valentine was staring out over the crowd. It would be wisest to not respond, she decided. Instead, she asked a question. “Does it get tiresome?”
“What?”
“This…” Her hand swept out to indicate, well, everything before them.
“No one enjoys every aspect of their job.”
Leila was not surprised. She could tell that despite the extravagance, which admittedly had its own allure, tonight was a chore for him.
“Is the Aşk one of the things you don’t enjoy?”
“Today is Valentine’s Day.”
“I don’t…?” she trailed off, shaking her head to indicate that she didn’t follow. She had thought perhaps the reason was because, despite all its grandeur and fantasy, the Aşk lacked sincerity. It glittered, but it wasn’t gold.
“Maybe I wanted to be with someone,” he murmured.
Those words startled Leila, and her chest tightened. “Why didn’t you bring her?” The question escaped despite Leila’s best efforts. She looked up at Valentine.
His penetrating gaze met her.
For a moment, she wondered if . . .
Desperately, Leila broke eye contact.
That’s when she realized that their wandering was no longer aimless. As she saw Valentine’s destination, Leila stopped short, her hand dropping from his arm. “That is not happening.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes . . . It is.”
“No. It’s not.”
“I promise to spin lots so you can see all corners of the room.”
Leila’s eyes widened. Had that been a joke? She didn’t think she’d ever heard him make one before, although she was sure she’d seem glimmers of amusement cross his face on the rare occasion. Before she could protest further, Valentine grasped her wrist and tugged her forward, leading her down the two shallow steps to the sunken dance floor.
Then he knelt at her feet and grasped the train of her dress. He stood, placing a small loop on the underside of her skirt around her wrist, so that the scarlet satin fell in lush folds, leaving her free to dance. She was unsure how he’d even known it was there—she hadn’t.
The next moment Leila Rose realized that things between them were not normal.
That Valentine Kincaid had not forgotten what passed between them in his dark office.
One strong arm wrapped around Leila’s waist, drawing her close. His hand clasped hers, extending it until her scarlet train fell in a silk fan between her wrist and the marble floor. His hand on her back was firm, grazing her skin where her bodice dipped low. Leila’s long curls trailed over his hand.
When Valentine stepped towards her, Leila stumbled in her gold Louboutins.
His arms tightened, pulling her closer. He held her securely, until she found her feet.
They didn’t speak.
Leila didn’t have words.
The moment his arm had circled her waist, she’d recalled the moment in his office when he removed her earpiece . . . earlier in the evening when he had sheltered her against his body. This made three times, in the space of only a few hours, that she had been in his arms.
She’d never once been in his arms in the two years that came before.
Then they began to dance.
Leila felt like a princess at the ball. If this was a fairytale, the crowd would fall back while he swept her masterfully around the dance floor in dizzying swirls and lifts. But this wasn’t a fairy tale, and neither Valentine nor Leila wanted the attention of others. If anything, his goal was to lose themselves amongst the other dancers; to become—if possible—invisible.
The dance was elegant . . . graceful . . . but more than anything . . . private. They were in the middle of the ballroom with others twirling around them. But the few square feet of marble at the center of the sunken floor were theirs, and theirs alone, hidden from view by the dancers and the darkness.
As she followed his lead, Leila was aware of the texture of Valentine’s tuxedo under her hand, his warm breath stirring the hair at her temple, and every inch of corded muscle banding her waist.
She could feel his gaze on her.
Valentine Kincaid had most definitely noticed her reaction to him in his office.
And he was noticing it here.
Leila followed his orders. She gave him her loyalty. She protected him and Seraglio.
He categorically could not move out of the box she had placed him in.
At least, that was what she told herself.
But it seemed it might already be too late.
She avoided his eyes, as she had since they began dancing, while Valentine kept his promise and spun them in graceful revolutions.
Then the orchestra changed songs.
This one was slower.
More intimate.
Valentine’s arms tightened. He drew Leila closer, until the golden embroidery of her bodice met the crisp white of his shirt and she could feel onyx studs pressing into her. Valentine pulled their clasped hands in to rest between their bodies. He turned Leila’s hand so it was flat against his chest and covered it with his own. She felt his heartbeat under her palm. Her body nestled into his warmth.
“Look at me.”
Leila fought the urge, but the way he said it . . . She took a shuddering breath. Then she tilted her head and obeyed his command.
Grey eyes held her trapped as their movements slowed, until Leila was little more than swaying in Valentine’s embrace.
For long minutes, he held her like that in the dark center of the dance floor, hidden from the world. Leila desperately fought the urge to lower her head to Valentine’s shoulder, close her eyes and succumb.
She looked up at him, breath thready. “I’m working,” she whispered. Why was he making it so difficult for her to do her job?
“So am I.” His voice matched hers.
“This . . . is not working.”
“We’re taking a break.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?”
Were they really having this conversation? “We’re too exposed. I have to maintain focus.”
His eyes changed. She saw something in them she had never seen before. And there was nothing neutral about it.
Valentine released Leila from his embrace, grasping her wrist as he turned away. He pulled her in his wake, across the dance floor, up the two low marble steps, weaving through the crowd as he headed towards the northwest corner of the ballroom. There were fewer people here, and when he pulled her to the far side of one of the wide pillars, there was no one.
Valentine’s hands came to Leila’s shoulders and he pressed her against the pillar, until the lush ivy and blooms embraced her from behind. He was at h
er front, encased in shadows.
In the crowded ballroom, they were alone and hidden from view.
7
Leila felt vulnerable as Valentine kept her pressed against the pillar. She was profoundly aware of his physical strength, so much greater than her own. But it was feminine awareness, not fear.
Leila was highly skilled; she knew how to fight and how to defeat much stronger opponents. But that didn’t matter here. Nor did the knowledge that Valentine would never hurt her. She was simply unfamiliar with the kind of vulnerability that came from this degree of attraction.
Valentine released her shoulders as he stepped closer, until his body grazed Leila’s and he filled her vision. He rested one forearm against the pillar, beside her face. His other hand cupped her jaw, long fingers cradling the soft skin. His thumb whispered across the corner of her lips. The dark, intimate moment became darker and more intimate.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was butterfly soft.
“You said we were too exposed.”
And he thought this was better? Leila looked up at Valentine helplessly.
Bad things happened in dark corners.
She trembled at the press of his big body against hers, his thumb at her lip.
Very bad things.
“Now we’re too secluded. It’s dangerous,” she said in that same soft voice.
She wasn’t only talking about the threat to Valentine. She was also talking about the threat to herself.
“It’s worth the risk.”
“I disagree.”
“Why?” Dark eyes stared intently into sapphire.
“I have to protect . . . Seraglio.” She substituted the hotel’s name at the last moment. “That’s my job. I’m more qualified to assess risk than you.”
“So tell me,” he commanded.
“This…” her hand gave a tiny, helpless flutter at her side. She barely noticed the loop around her wrist slip free, sending scarlet silk cascading to the floor. “…compromises my effectiveness. It’s dangerous. I’m at a disadvantage.”
Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart Page 90