He scowls at that, probably wondering how the information was leaked. “No comment.”
Someone shoves a microphone in my face. I flinch, stumbling back into Byron’s chest. “Ma’am, how do you know Mr. Schaffer? Are you two currently dating?”
Byron steps in front of me, growling at the reporter, “No comment.” He ushers me up the steps and into the enormous hall.
I quirk an eyebrow once we’re safely inside. “Engaged to a French politician, hm?”
He snorts, shakes his head. “I’ve been off the market for so long, they’ll pull anything out of their ass to make a story. Sad, really.” He tugs me in the direction of Alice Tully Hall, where the gala will take place. I follow his brisk pace to where people are accepting tickets. Byron passes them over, and now we’re in.
My mouth drops. The lighting is stunning. Green and gold reflects in the span of glass windows. Everywhere there are indoor plants, vines creeping up the walls, the sound of a waterfall somewhere in the room. It’s like they brought the outside indoors for this one special night. White and gold tablecloths blanket the tables. Fresh greenery and piles of antique books make up the centerpieces. Already, the hall is packed with men in black tie and women showcasing the most extravagant gowns I’ve ever seen. These are designer ball gowns, designer shoes, designer handbags. It positively reeks of money.
“Wow.” It’s the only word in my head.
Byron shrugs. “Once you’ve been to one gala, you’ve been to them all. Can I get you a drink?” He guides me toward the bar. Everything is sparkly, clean. Polished silverware. Gleaming china. Champagne bubbling in crystal flutes. The men are clean shaven. The woman are caked in makeup. The air is perfumed with jasmine, rose, lavender.
“Champagne is fine.”
Byron stops at one of the standing tables. “Stay here. I’ll be back.” He vanishes into the throng of people.
Once I lose sight of him, my unease returns. Am I standing properly? Do I look the part or can people tell I don’t belong? How does one act in a place like this? What seems like hundreds of eyes rest on the back of my sweaty neck. Judging me. I wish Byron would hurry up with that drink.
“Good evening.”
The voice—male, smooth—comes from behind me. I turn to see a gorgeous man with gray-streaked brown hair and green eyes studying me in blatant appreciation. He looks to be in his late thirties, yet is fit, exuding masculine confidence. My mouth goes dry.
“H-hello.” I wave, then drop my hand. Leila, why are you so lame?
“Grant.” He offers his hand. I’m pleasantly surprised by the rough calluses, the strength in his grip.
“Leila,” I answer with a nervous smile. “I’ve never been to a gala, in case that wasn’t obvious.”
Grant takes a spot next to me, our shoulders almost touching. He smells good, I’ll give him that. My mind, however, is focused on another man. “You get used to it. Schmoozing is almost second nature to me now.” He laughs like he’s making a joke, except I’m not sure what the joke is. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“It’s okay. The food smells good, at least. I guess it should, considering how much a plate costs at a place like this.” I stutter to a halt. “I’m blabbering. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s refreshing.” The smile he gives me is sleek and professional. Fake. “I don’t mean to be forward, but can I ask you something?”
“Sure, I guess.” I play at my hair to give my hands something to do.
“Are you here alone?”
Chapter 26
Byron
I get sidetracked on the way to the bar. I’m stopped not once, but three times from three separate people. One of them is my old employer. I was twenty years old at the time, and this man helped make my dream a reality simply by believing I could build a company, one that would last. We laugh about old times, and I promise to send him an update once Solonay international goes live.
It’s as I’m heading back to Leila that I catch sight of the man she’s with. I’ve never seen him before. He’s angled his body toward her in interest. The sight is like a slap in the face. Rage tears through my veins, shreds open my chest as the anger mutates into something horrifying and ugly. Leila is mine. Period.
In the time it takes me to reach their table, my face has smoothed. I set down her Champagne, drawing her attention back to me. “Who’s your friend?”
Leila looks nervous, which in turn makes me nervous. And I’m never nervous. How does she know this man? An ex-boyfriend, maybe? “Byron, this is Grant. He just introduced himself.”
So he’s not a blast from her past. He’s a nobody. I can deal with nobodies. Offering my hand, I say, “Byron Schaffer.”
The man startles as he accepts my hand. It’s a satisfying sight. “CEO of Solonay, right?”
I pull my hand from his and rest it on Leila’s lower back. She jolts at the contact. Another satisfaction. I curve my palm around her waist, letting my fingers curl into her curves. A shudder runs through her. The man, Grant, notices, and frowns. Good. As long as it’s clear that Leila is off the market.
“Correct,” I say. “And you are?”
He shrugs. “Just a guy doing business. My grandmother had Alzheimer’s, so I try to give back when I can.”
I narrow my eyes at him. From a certain angle, he looks familiar. “Grant. Grant McKinley.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You’d be correct.”
Leila is confused, so I explain. “Grant is also in the tech sector. His company deals with medical patents.” Which would explain why he’s at the gala, in addition to having a personal connection to the cause. We don’t run in the same circle, but I’ve heard of him. His company is based out of San Francisco. Or at least it was.
Grant slaps a hand on the table. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone. Leila, it was nice meeting you. Byron.” With one last nod, he takes his leave. I’m glad to see him go.
As soon as he’s out of sight, Leila scowls and hits my chest. “You scared him away with your whole alpha persona.”
I snort and capture her hand when she tries to swat me again. “That’s because he was trying to take what’s mine.”
Her mouth purses. “I’m going to overlook the mine comment. He was being friendly, that’s all.”
“Friendly? I can assure you, the man only wanted one thing, and it wasn’t polite conversation.”
Leila looks skeptical, but for now, I let it go. The last thing I want to do is have a conversation about another man. “Your drink.” I offer her the flute of Champagne.
She accepts it with a word of thanks and swallows it in one go.
“Someone’s thirsty.” And yes, that was an innuendo.
“Sorry.” She ducks her head, sets the glass onto the table. “I’m kind of nervous.”
“Don’t be. You’re doing great. Just be yourself.”
“So… trip over anything that moves, spill red sauce on my dress, and make awkward conversation?”
I can’t stop the grin. This woman is everything I need and nothing I thought I wanted. “Exactly.”
Leila’s hand shoots out, clamping down on my arm as I shift away from the table. “Wait.” She looks embarrassed. “Can we stay here for maybe five more minutes? I need to gather my courage.”
Fondly, I brush a lock of hair from her face. My hand lingers against her neck, moves to her shoulder, her upper back, her waist. I pull Leila against me because I’m helpless to resist. “So long as we get to stand like this.”
She rolls her eyes. It’s a fact: Leila Engleton is adorable. “Fine,” she mutters, though doesn’t appear too put-out over the position. Fuck, her curves are insane. The swell of her ass brushes my crotch, and I’m instantly hard. It’s going to be an uncomfortable evening, to say the least.
And now she’s squirming against me, unable to stand still becau
se of her anxiety. I clasp her behind the neck, tilting back her head to expose her throat to my mouth. “Keep doing that,” I growl darkly against her skin, “and you’ll see just how scandalized people will be when I bend you over this table.”
Her gasp catches on a moan as my other hand shifts around her front, a barely-there touch against her pelvis.
Lower.
Leila’s panting as she looks at me, all dark glittering eyes and lips already parted.
“More Champagne?” A waiter offers a tray of glasses. I pluck two and pass one to Leila. She takes a sip, eyeing me over the rim. I’m dying to know her thoughts. If they’re as dirty as mine.
Setting down her glass, Leila says, “This cause is important to you, right?”
“Yes.” I study her as if she’s a newfound species. Pieces of her I understand, and pieces of her I don’t. “How do you know that? I don’t believe I told you.”
Leila makes a face. She traces the designs on the side of the glass, denying me her eyes. I catch her chin, lifting it. She blinks in surprise but doesn’t pull away. “Peg told me.”
“Ah.” I pull away, putting distance between us, both physical and emotional. I am, of course, aware of what my employees talk about, one of them being me. Do I expect my employees to like me? No. Do I expect them to respect me? Yes. But gossip has a way of making its rounds. I’m sure I pissed someone off at some point. Speaking ill of me was fodder for the fire. “I see.”
As if sensing my withdrawal, Leila says, panicked, “It wasn’t her fault! I made a comment about your mother and she got angry at me. I was talking about things I didn’t know anything about. She was only protecting you.”
I nod, a slight motion. Why does it hurt knowing Leila was pulled into the gossip? Because I care what she thinks of me. I’m not an evil person. I don’t want her to see me as such.
“That’s why I fly to Florida every month,” I explain. “To visit my mother.”
Her mouth pinches. I don’t want Leila beating herself up over a mistake, but I want her to know the why of things. My mother gave her life to ensure my brother and I wouldn’t fall prey to the circumstances of poverty. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give her.
“Did Peg tell you about my childhood?” I ask, watching for a reaction.
She shakes her head, mute.
Normally, this isn’t something I’d discuss with anyone. No one knows about my upbringing except Peg, my mother, my brother, and now Leila.
“My father walked out on my mother when my brother and I were toddlers. My mother was forced to work two jobs to make ends meet. We lived in a cramped one-bedroom apartment until I was in middle school. My brother and I shared the bed, while my mom took the couch. She worked in an office during the day, then worked nights as a server. Sometimes she wouldn’t get home until two or three in the morning.”
Leila shifts closer to me. It’s not pity I see in her gaze. It’s compassion.
“This went on for years. We never had nice things. Always thrift store clothing or hand me downs. Food stamps. We went to church a lot, not because my mother is religious, but because they had free babysitting, free food. It wasn’t until my brother and I reached high school that I realized how poor we were. Our father was out of the picture. My mother barely had the energy to take us to doctor appointments, much less care for herself. She must have aged twenty years in the span of ten.”
“How old were you when she started showing signs of memory loss?”
I shrug. “Not very old. Fifteen? Sixteen? It was a gradual thing. First, it was misplacing her car keys. Then it was forgetting to lock the door. Then it was forgetting birthdays and major holidays.” With each word spoken, I’m dragged back into the past, those dark days of confusion for my mother, not knowing how to help her. My brother felt the same.
I sigh. Talking about my past always drains me. But if I’m to move forward with Leila, I want her to know the ugly parts too. “Once I graduated high school, I made a promise to myself. I would do whatever it took to make sure my future children didn’t grow up the way I did. A few years later, I founded Solonay.”
Leila stares deeply into my eyes. I’m afraid of what she sees. Weakness? “That explains it,” she says.
“Explains what?”
“Why you’re so controlling.”
I glare at her. “Are you psychoanalyzing me?”
“Maybe a little,” she whispers, pinching her thumb and forefinger together, head tilted playfully. I have half a mind to slam my mouth against hers to shut her up for good. “You never felt in control growing up, so you’re making up for it now with your company. I mean, me?” She taps a finger to her chest. “My parents died in a car crash when I was very young. I was raised by my grandmother. Then my grandmother passed and I went to live with my aunt. Then she kicked me out and I went to my other aunt. I never had stability. Hence, why my life is a wreck.” She speaks matter-of-factly, without shame.
Suddenly, the playfulness disappears. Her expression grows serious. “I’m sorry about your mother, though. That must have been painful for you.” She curls her hand around my bicep in comfort. And for the first time in a long time, I let someone else comfort me. It’s not much, but it’s enough.
Another ten minutes pass. We discuss my childhood, and hers. Leila is stalling. After another five minutes of rambling, I tug her from the table. At some point, she’s going to have to face this fear of socializing. Sometimes it’s better to jump than dip your toes in.
The night goes as expected: with a lot of mingling, drinking, and eating. At one point, I get pulled into conversation with one of my investors. He’s curious about business, as is to be expected. That’s when I notice Leila squirming next to me.
I grip her arm. “Something wrong?”
“Bathroom,” she whispers.
I point in the general direction. “I’ll be here.”
She nods and heads off. I watch the back of her head to make sure she arrives there safely, then return to my conversation. Ten minutes of back and forth, question and answer, redirecting, and Leila still hasn’t returned. I’ve stopped paying attention to the discussion, as my mind is fixated on Leila.
“Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to excuse me. My date seems to have gotten lost on the way from the bathroom.” With an apologetic smile, I go in search of Leila and find her in the long hallway leading to the bathroom. Only she’s not alone.
It’s that man. Grant something or other. He stands too close. I see red.
“Leila,” I bark.
She jolts, turns toward me, as does the man. He nods politely and continues to the men’s bathroom. I stride toward Leila, snapping out, “I thought you were coming back? Now I see your mind was occupied by someone else.”
“It wasn’t! I was coming out of the bathroom and Grant was going the other way, and we ran into each other. I was telling him about Henry, that’s all.”
I glare at the shut door to the men’s bathroom. No one is going to encroach on what’s mine.
I expect her to answer my ire with fury. Instead, something in her face softens. I’m blindsided by the compassion in her gaze. Then she goes one step further and slips her hand into mine, as if in reassurance. “Byron, if you don’t recognize the effect you have on me by now, then what are we even doing? I couldn’t care one whit who that man is or what he looks like, because the only man I’ve been thinking of this entire night is you.”
I go still in surprise and look down at her. My heart swells with emotion. “Dangerous words, Ms. Engleton.” The tip of my nose trails down the curve of her neck. When I reach her bared shoulder, I press a hot kiss there, nipping the skin with my teeth. “Keep it up and you’ll find yourself in a place you never imagined.”
A shuddery sound escapes her. “And where is that?”
Hands gripping her shoulders, I wait until she lifts her eyes to mine. I wa
nt to see her face. I want to see everything. “My bed.”
Color darkens her cheeks. Ambient light brings out the green flecks in her eyes. “Is that a threat, Mr. Schaffer?”
My grin is positively wolfish. “Ms. Engleton,” I say. “That’s a promise.”
Chapter 27
Leila
The remainder of the gala passes in a blur. First, there’s an extremely lavish, seven-course meal. Then more drinking. Following dinner, the committee climbs on stage to thank their sponsors. I’m bursting with Champagne at that point, so a lot of what is said goes in one ear and out the other.
The entire time, I’m aware of Byron sitting beside me, his thigh pressed against my own, his hot palm burning a hole through the fabric of my dress where it rests against my thigh. It’s so lewd, but how much trouble would we get into if I were to just casually part my legs, allowing him to slip his hand under the dress and touch my sopping core?
We’ve danced around each other this entire evening. He’s touched me everywhere—hands, legs, back, even the top of my ass at one point. I’ve mostly kept my hands to G-rated areas, like his chest and arms. Though his ass looks delectable in his tux pants. Firm. I bet you can bounce a penny off of it.
“How are you doing?” he whispers in my ear. The scent of his aftershave makes me woozy.
I gulp more wine to give my hands something to do. They tremble. “Grood.”
He quirks an eyebrow, fighting back a smirk. “Grood?”
Kill me now. I laugh and set down my wine glass. Enough drinking for me. “Wow. Okay. See, I was trying to say great and good at the same time and—”
“And you came up with grood,” he finishes for me.
Relief washes over me. This guy gets it. “Yes!”
His laughter melts over me like rich, warm honey. “Leila.” Taking my hand in his, he laces our fingers together. “You make me laugh.”
“That’s good, right?” I ask tentatively.
“Very good.” He presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist. The heat of his lips, the small nip of his teeth, makes sweat break out over my body. “Thank you for your patience. It won’t be much longer.”
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