by Angel Payne
More couples danced by. I focused on the women’s beautiful gowns—and the gorgeous shoes beneath—as the minutes seemed to drag by. When the band brought the song to a melodic ending, the crowd submitted a round of well-deserved applause.
Only then did I notice a strange stillness in the room. While the band prepared for their next song, nobody left the dance floor. Couples at the tables leaned and whispered to each other.
Panic fluttered in my stomach. The night had been going so well. If Trey blew things now, I envisioned Andrea ordering an emergency castration for the guy. Surreptitiously, I peered around. The cognizance wasn’t just mine. More members of the crowd, mostly the women, traded eager murmurs as their stares turned the same direction. I pushed from the bar and turned to follow suit.
And instantly gave up the air in my lungs.
The ballroom’s grandly-decorated entrance framed a late arrival to the party, straightening the cuffs on his tailored tuxedo without surrendering an inch of his towering, proud stance. Without a doubt, he was the most perfect man I’d ever laid eyes on.
Killian.
He didn’t linger in the doorway very long—especially after he spotted me. Those endless legs burst into powerful motion, carrying him closer by the second.
I tried to swallow but couldn’t. He consumed every second of my attention. I yearned to—needed to—run, but my feet suddenly felt formed of lead.
I can’t do this. Not in public. Not with you here, Killian—please.
Though I tried to plead to him with my eyes, he didn’t falter in his approach. His steps were broad and determined, his smile a grim curve, his gaze zeroed right in on me. It felt like the entire room gawked at us now. With every step he closed in, heat crept deeper into my chest and cheeks. My heartbeat cranked to Mach ten.
How did he do this to me? After all the events of the last two weeks, how could he do this to me? It wasn’t fair. He was magnificent and flawless. I was speechless and dizzy. The condition worsened as he stopped, mere feet away.
Had an angel manifested in the middle of the room and flown to me, I would’ve been less dazzled. Every detail about him seared my senses. The shine of his hair, slicked back from his face in formal fashion. The scent of his cologne, Mediterranean and musky. The way every thread of his tux seemed fashioned just for him. Even the buttons on his crisp white shirt had black onyx covers, perfectly matching his eyes.
Divine intervention was with me at least a little. The band began their next song, restarting the movement and volume through the room. Regrettably, my heartbeat joined the trend, with no surcease in sight if Killian had any sway on the matter. Without a single word, he pulled the wine glass free from my hand and set it on the bar. I said nothing, trapped in his spell.
He took my hand and pulled out to the dance floor. His eyes never left mine.
I still couldn’t say a thing. He still wrapped me in his thrall.
I opened my mouth, hoping the protest in my head would translate to my lips. The last thing I wanted to do was dance with him, unsure my legs would even carry me. As usual, all my options vanished as soon as he pulled me close. Warm. Strong. Unfightable. Magical.
We swept seamlessly into the midst of the other dancers, though I barely noticed them. The room faded in the shadows of him. The world fell away beyond the force of him. Nothing seemed safe except his embrace, though my mind screamed the perception was a sham. Strike that. It was a mistake—Biblically proportioned. I couldn’t let him literally waltz in here, toppling me off my game with the surprise appearance, before sweeping me off my feet with some fancy dance moves and romantic music. And dammit, I was going to tell him just that—as soon as I could form a coherent sentence again.
Chapter Thirteen
Killian
Though sitting on the board for the zoo was a passion rather than an obligation, the annual gala wasn’t an event I looked forward to. Evening gowns, monkey suits, drunken smiles, political games…no fucking thank you. I almost chuckled every time a society page editor hunted me down at one of these fancy things to request a quote. If this was a picture of what “society” really was, I feared for the world.
But tonight, “fear” wasn’t in my vocabulary. Nor was hesitation. I’d phoned Alfred as soon as the plane crossed into domestic airspace, stating I’d need my tuxedo as soon as we touched down. Though Alfred agreed and was on the tarmac with the new Tom Ford suit, the undertone in all his actions betrayed his belief that I was insane. I’d be nearly two hours late to the party.
Clearly, the man didn’t grasp my intent. I didn’t give a shit about attending the party. I only wanted the perks. One in particular.
Now, I swiftly scanned the room for her.
Frustration set in when my first pass didn’t yield any results. Dammit, had Claire left already? I couldn’t just show up at her hotel room door, not after the fumble of an ending to our “phone exchange” last week, but I damn well would if that had to be part of the plan.
And what the hell “plan” would that be, Kil?
I scowled deeper, tempted to tell my psyche to fuck the hell off. No, I didn’t have a “plan.” No, this wasn’t like me. Yes, I was aware of both facts, neither of them huge enough to surmount the motivation that had brought me here tonight. This cavern in my chest was so deep I was surprised there weren’t miniature tour groups tromping through it, shining flashlights into the new fathoms that were carved by the day. More accurately, with every conversation I’d managed to secure with Claire.
That wasn’t right, either. A “conversation” was defined by the active participation of both parties. The woman’s one-word replies and business-only brevity were the equivalent of leaving a wad of cash on my nightstand and slipping out of bed before dawn. I’d never initiated such a scenario, let alone endured one from the receiving end. My questions about her behavior, whether subtle or direct, had yielded nothing but a tight, polite change of subject from the woman.
That stopped. Tonight. Even if she was already in bed—holy God, I could only hope—I would hunt the woman down and drill to the heart of why she’d persisted at widening the emotional distance between us. Didn’t I warrant dialogue that consisted of more than “Mr. Stone” and statistics sheets? Hadn’t we come further than that?
If she still wanted to keep her pajamas on after we talked, fine. But treating me like a complete stranger was not acceptable anymore.
My second scan of the crowd delivered a direct hit. Instantly, I was glad the pajamas promise had only been made to myself. Seeing her again led to an immediate renege on the oath.
Damn.
She’d truly turned into my living, breathing queen.
Her hair, swept off her face into a regal twist, shone like spun candlelight. The sparks in her eyes were just as brilliant, intensifying as they reacted to the strange hush befalling the room as the band ended one song and prepared for the next. She twisted around, wine in hand, threatening to drag my tongue out of my mouth with her beauty. The slender cut of her shoulders. The graceful grip of her hands on the glass. The creamy glow of her skin, encased so perfectly in that dress. Dear fuck, that dress. Its ice-blue fabric was artfully draped into a one-shouldered bodice that nipped against her waist then flowed around her hips, swirling down in layers that moved like water with every subtle shift she made.
I couldn’t stop staring at her in that dress.
I couldn’t stop wondering how it would come off of her the quickest.
Without deviating my gaze, I began my march across the ballroom to her. I’d achieved three steps of that goal when the diversions started coming. Bunny Persipine had a seat saved for me at the board of directors’ table, “just in case.” Harry Treacle happened to be sitting with Richard Branson, who had a new merger idea to discuss. Harry’s daughter, a sophomore at Vassar home for a spring break she clearly wanted to remember, flashed a winking wave from behind her father. As soon as I looked at all three of them, they backed off. It was a small consolation to kno
w my bother-me-now-and-you’re-dead attitude was still in good working order.
Unfortunately, Claire Montgomery had as much game in that department as I did. Her posture stiffened and her features tightened as I closed the last ten steps to the bar. But she didn’t run. Aside from the ramrod now jamming its way up her spine, she didn’t even move. I pulled encouragement from that and breathed deeply. An incredible bouquet hit my senses. Her perfume, a richer choice tonight than her usual, filled with notes of spice and bergamot. The wine in her hand, a vanilla-influenced white. The ever-present lavender in her hair, made more luxurious by the product slicked into it.
Like an imbecile, I became the one who couldn’t move.
As soon as I breathed her in, all of her energy wound tighter through me. The air between us arced and zapped with unseen voltage and heated to the same tangible pressure as the first time we met. In many ways, it felt as rickety as that moment again too. After our time together on the plane, we’d parted so quickly; the ending of last week’s phone call had doubled down on that awkwardness. Now all those carnal memories danced in the air between us, satyrs we had no idea what to do with. We were back to square one with nothing but left feet and a lot of unresolved issues.
The difference? I was no longer seven thousand miles away. I was in a position to pry that wine out of her hand, set it on the bar, and replace it with my grip instead.
And I did.
I was in a position to use that hold to yank her toward the dance floor, giving me a socially-acceptable excuse to get her close to me again. Really close.
And I sure as hell did.
Her backlash wasn’t unexpected. I dug fingers into her rigid back, ramming her hips against mine while pushing at her feet, taking the lead in our steps. She huffed and resisted. I grabbed her left hand, twisted her fingers into compliance, and shoved at her feet again. Though the song was a contemporary tune that required only the most basic moves, I had a message to convey with unmistakable authority. Only one of us was in charge right now.
“Mr. Stone.” It was less a greeting than a snarl.
I lowered my eyes and lifted my lips. “Miss Montgomery.”
“You’re really late.”
“And you’re fucking beautiful. But I’m sure every single man in the room has told you that already. Probably a few of the married ones, too. Bastards.”
She was too tense to surrender a giggle but I hoped she’d at least relax the posture. No joy on the goal—though, for a tiny moment, the shards in her eyes turned to molten honey. The artful blush on her cheekbones was joined by a pair of natural flushes.
“This is a bad idea,” she muttered.
“The last time you said that to my face, the results were goddamn awesome.”
Her adorable nostrils flared. “That’s not happening again.” When I purposely replied with nothing but silence, she persisted, “All right, how’s this one? I’m in five-inch heels, dammit.”
“Then perhaps it’s best you hang on, so we don’t cause a spectacle.”
She huffed. “Perhaps it’s best that you let me go back to work.”
“Michael’s on Trey watch now. I watched your pass-off. My brother’s nearly won his gold star for the night, anyhow.”
She tugged up her chin. “Good. Then that means I can…”
“Stay right here with me.” I took advantage of the chance to directly meet her gaze. “Where we can have a little chat.”
Her features twisted as if my words were needles in her neck. “I don’t know if I want to ‘chat’ with you, Killian.”
If her words hadn’t cracked from such pain, I would have rejoiced in them. At least we were back to “Killian” instead of the name on my goddamn office door.
“That’s exactly why we’re going to stay right here—all night if necessary.”
Her brows shot up. Then her eyes narrowed. “You’re completely serious.”
“And you’re still completely beautiful.” I tilted my head a little. “You’re also completely right. I’m pretty fucking serious.”
She fumed through at least four bars of the song before gritting, “What the hell do you want, Killian?”
Wasn’t that the sixty million dollar question of the night? As such, the answer deserved a pause for careful thought. Trouble was, I already had the words prepared. I’d been able to focus on little else during the entire flight back from Beijing. “We’ve climbed off the Tilt-A-Whirl, right?”
She slanted a glower up at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, just checking. Because I swear I’m still stuck at the carnival—and now I’m lost in the goddamn Haunted Maze.”
She tossed back a huffing laugh. “Aww, is that so?” As she flopped her head in the other direction, accusation sliced from her gaze. “Demons around every corner, huh?”
I blinked, confused more than ever—and doubly determined not to relent to her now. “Demons don’t scare me,” I stated. “Darkness does.” Did she hear the deliberate solemnity I gave the words? The message I wove into them? “Why have you tossed me into the dark, Claire?”
She brought her head level, though her gaze descended to the center of my tie. “I’m not sure that’s a question for me, Killian.”
“The hell it isn’t.” I punched the words through my teeth, the verbal equivalent of grabbing her chin. When she jerked her stare up to my face, I was waiting with a hard glower. “I’m not about to leave on a plane and you sure as hell can’t hang up on me now.”
Her lips flattened. “I didn’t hang up on you.”
I snorted. “Yeah. Sorry. My bad. You did give that a parting line, right? ‘Thanks for the orgasm. Have a good day, Mr. Stone.’”
She winced, giving me a shred of hope. Some part of her recognized the absurdity of our detachment, as well. The ‘disconnect’ she’d pulled the trigger on. “Killian. Please—”
“Please what?” I snapped. “‘Have a good day, Mr. Stone.’ It was officially the warmest thing you said to me in the last fourteen days.” I was on a roll with the wounded sarcasm, so I went for one more. “I wonder what kind of kiss-off your vibrator got every night.”
She whipped her head around, panicking that I’d been overheard. “Can you at least try to remember where we are?”
I arched both brows. “Start shedding some light on things for me, and I might consider it.”
“Killian.”
“A little goddamn light, Claire.” I yanked her closer as the song ended. I’d dance with her through twenty more if I had to. Thirty. Forty. “I’m not asking for skywriting or a floodlight. Just a sentence or two to help me understand why you sterilized what we’ve shared into nothing more than a business exchange.”
Her laugh, though laced with bitterness, came as a surprise. “That’s funny, coming from the man who seems to like his ‘business exchanges.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She huffed. “No twisty-turny symbolism here, Mr. Stone. I get it now. You simply enjoy fishing off your company pier. You’re the CEO; it’s your prerogative.” Nearly beneath her breath, she added, “If the fish were as beautiful as Kim Xu, I’d probably throw in my pole, as well.”
Remarkably, relief flooded me—right along with outrage. I’d asked for answers, even knowing I might not like them. She’d given me what I wanted, in spades. At least there was something to work with now.
She gasped when I stopped, took her hand, and firmly led her off the dance floor. Okay, her resistance turned the effort into a tow more than a lead but I finally led her into the service hallway behind the ballroom, where only extra banquet chairs and dirty linens were witness to our glares.
I sat her down on a stack of the chairs and held her in place by both shoulders. “Let me clarify this. Kim is your issue here?”
She folded her arms. “Can you just forget I said anything?”
“Not a fucking chance. So let’s start again. Kim is your issue here?”
The muscles bene
ath my hands went taut as her posture stiffened. “There’s no ‘here,’ Killian; therefore, there’s no ‘issue,’ okay?” Her fingers went white as she grabbed opposing elbows. “We were grown-ups with each other before you left. Because we slipped during one phone call doesn’t negate our ability to continue acting like grown-ups. Whatever you and Kim chose to have in Beijing—”
“Was a shit-ton of client meetings, a couple of shopping trips, and one dinner,” I flared, “that concluded with both of us nearly giving ourselves grass soup facials because we were too exhausted to keep our heads up.” When Claire looked like she’d believe my dog ate my homework before buying that, I tugged on both her shoulders, compelling her gaze up. “Kim is a friend, okay? Granted, she’s a damn good one, but she will never be more than that. The only people who haven’t gotten that clue by now are the western media outlets, who conceived the bright idea to turn the two of us into the Stone family side show last week, and…” I petered into silence, connecting conceptual dots while I watched her face. “And who you have to track to the syllable every day.”
She averted her gaze. “It is my job.”
“For which I don’t fault you,” I returned. “But as part of that job, aren’t you also trained to check facts? To ask the subject of the story, who happened to be calling you every day, about the veracity of the damn stories?”
She visibly squirmed. “There were pictures, Killian. Lots of them.”
“Of course there were!” I barked. “I was with Kim a great deal on this trip.” I stepped closer, now grabbing both sides of her waist. “That doesn’t mean I was with her, Claire.”
A long pause grinded by. Her posture coiled tighter.
With a growl, I stepped back.
There was only one way I knew to extract that corkscrew from her spine. Thank fuck Kim would understand.
After a determined lunge, I grabbed Claire and set her on her feet again—if standing on those platforms could be considered ‘footing.’ “Come on,” I dictated, yanking her farther down the service corridor. We reached the end when we arrived at the staff elevators, a perfectly-met coincidence. “Get in.”