by Amelia Wilde
Shit.
She stops half a step in front of me, searching my face, and then she leans in, her violet eyes sparkling. “Can I help you find someone?”
Her words are hooks in my heart, and my brain snaps back into action. “I think I’ve found exactly the person I’m looking for.”
Chapter 3
Juliet
Holy shit, Weston Grant is hot.
My heart is in my throat just from looking at him, and it’s a miracle I can string two words together. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve been determined to excel at this job from the first day, I’d probably be a babbling mess right now. As it is, I can feel a giggle bubbling up from my chest. I choke it back down, just managing to keep my expression calm and coy.
Of course the sexiest billionaire in New York City would show up tonight at the Rose. Of course the sight of him, live and in living color, would turn my brain into a hot mess of lust and want just seven hours before my Torts exam.
There are dark-haired guys, and then there’s Weston Grant. I thought I knew how unbelievably sexy he was from seeing pictures of him in magazines and every newspaper covering New York gossip, but seeing and watching him in person is a different story.
And he’s looking at me.
The way he’s looking at me—and the heat rocketing through my entire body—pushes away everything else I know about Weston Grant, which is that he’s not only the most sought-after single man in the city.
He’s one of the most ruthless businessmen in the country. His pharmaceutical company gobbles up smaller firms and never, ever turns down an opportunity to make a hefty profit. I don’t know much about the ins and outs of the pharmaceutical industry, but I’ve read enough articles to know that he takes people for all they’re worth.
“You’re not looking for me.” I get the words out just in time to not miss a beat. “I promise.”
His green eyes glimmer in the low lighting. “I promise you, I am. I’ve been looking for you all night.”
I raise my eyebrows, sure the look on my face clearly expresses my disbelief. I’m extremely doubtful that I’m the one he’s been looking for.
“I’ve been here all night,” I say. Thinking about Garratt v. Dailey and Paslgraf v. Long Island Railroad. For a blinding instant, it all seems so stupid. I could have been thinking about Weston Grant, and the way his body flows in his clothes, custom-tailored just so to accent the cut and rippling abs I know are hidden underneath. I know because whenever Weston Grant is photographed with a woman, the gossip sites also like to run a picture of him in a swimsuit on some super-yacht in the tropics. Those pictures all feature different women as well, but the focus is all on his body, and especially his perfect abs.
Get a grip, Juliet.
The only way you can become a member of the White Rose is if you’re ultra-wealthy members, so there’s no explaining why my heart is racing over Weston Grant when every other table in the establishment is stacked with men who could pay for my entire law school tuition in one swipe of a single credit card.
It’s probably because they’re not looking at me like Weston Grant is looking at me right now. His green eyes remind me of dazzling emeralds in this light, and they’re burning right into my core.
I swallow hard. I need to end this conversation, because conversations like this are dangerous on just about every level. If I’m going to pass my exam tomorrow, I absolutely cannot keep talking to Weston Grant…unless he’s seated at one of my tables and wants to order a drink. If I’m going to pass law school, I have to hustle back to the bar and put in another drink order for Tables Five and Table Seven. And if I’m going to get myself under control, I need to tear myself away from him right now. He is all wrong for me.
There’s a movement near my elbow, and then someone’s lips are at my ear.
It’s my manager, Greg. “Table Nine wants a tapas tray.”
Weston’s eyes skip from me to my manager, and then his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
A hot flush spreads from the base of my neck all the way to the base of my spine, followed immediately by an icy dash of reality. I lift my chin an inch, affixing my regular White Rose smile on my face, and nod to Greg as if he’s just told me a secret. That’s the type of vibe we try to cultivate at the Rose—not some giddy law student getting starstruck by a billionaire, especially when she’s literally surrounded by them.
I don’t even know who that woman is. Certainly not me. I have goals. I have lives riding on every single hour of my day. Well, one life in particular.
Greg disappears among the tables again. Weston still hasn’t taken his eyes off me. “You’re a waitress here?”
A twist of disgust lurches in my gut at the tone of his statement. We might have just shared a little magic moment, but this isn’t some Cinderella story. I’m not even looking for one. I’m just at work, doing my job, and clearly feeling the pressures of tackling the first year of law school on too little sleep. But I’m not embarrassed to be working here, even if Weston Grant has a problem with it.
I don’t give a damn what Weston Grant thinks.
I grit my teeth and give him my best grin. “You couldn’t tell by the uniform?” His eyes glide down the front of me, and I settle one hand on my hip. “Are you joining a party, or may I help you find your way to your table?”
He nods past me. A glance over my shoulder is enough to know that the rest of Table Five—including the man who’s still practically licking his lips—is staring at us. Another blush runs over me. I hate it.
But Weston Grant doesn’t remove his eyes from mine and step around me like I’m a piece of furniture.
No.
Weston Grant takes a step closer and stares directly into my eyes again, giving me a half-grin that has me weak in the knees. When he steps forward once more, I can feel the heat of his breath against my ear, though he doesn’t lean quite as close as Greg just did. I maintain my professional smile into the space behind him in case anyone is watching. I’d bet all the money in my bank account that everyone is looking.
“I don’t care if you are a waitress. I’m dying to know your name.”
I suck in a breath. Weston Grant doesn’t just look good. He smells good. His scent is smooth and rich and spicy, more opulent than anything or anyone else in the room with us right now.
“Of course,” I say, pulling back a little. I’m at work. Professionalism is a must. “My name is Juliet.”
His eyes crinkle, and for a moment, I think he’s going to make the same tired Romeo joke that every man in Manhattan has already made at least once. “Juliet, I have a better offer.”
“A better offer for what?”
“A better offer for you.”
I purse my lips into a smile that’s part polite, part warning. “I’m not looking for any offers.”
And I’m not. Now that the spell has been broken, I just want to get away from Weston Grant. I don’t need him—or anyone else—assuming that I’m here just to fleece people for money. In a way, that’s every waitress’ job, but I don’t need whatever kind of offer he’s got in mind. Especially if it’s going to be paid for off the backs of people who desperately need the drugs he develops and sells to make his billions.
“It would be worth your while.”
What is he saying? A hot spike of anger jolts through my gut.
“I see.” The smile on my face turns sharp, and just in time I pull it back into place. “How about this offer, instead, Mr. Grant. You have a seat, and I’ll bring you a drink. What are you having?”
Chapter 4
Weston
The words drip off her tongue in the same sensual tone she’s been using this entire time, and at first it doesn’t even register that she’s dismissed me without even hearing what I have to offer.
I’ve been looking into those vivid violet eyes since the moment she materialized from behind Gideon. I’m entranced by the flashes of emotion that remind me of miniature lightning storms, roiling across the surfa
ce of that unusual color, and disappearing behind her smile before I have a chance to decipher them. I’ve been looking so deeply into them, nearly entranced, feeding my pulsing desire to know more about her, that it hits me like a tsunami when I catch her meaning.
“A drink?”
“Yes…anything the bartender knows how to make, at least.” Juliet is nearly purring the words, and something inside me falters. For years, I’ve been the one who pursues. The one who claims. And in all those years, not a single woman has ever turned me down. Not for a drink. Not for anything. And it’s true—those dalliances are short-lived. I get tired of them, bored by their shallow personalities and little dramas, after only a week or two or three. Maybe a month. But a “no” disguised as an invitation to enjoy the rest of my evening? That’s something that’s never happened. “If you’ll excuse me, though…”
Juliet inclines her head, then looks back at me. I want to step closer to her. I want to do a lot more than that, if I’m being honest. If we weren’t in the middle of the White Rose, if she wasn’t working, I’d sweep her away into a private corner and let things heat up. There’s something fiery about her, something that stirs me. She knows who I am, and still wasn’t interested in meeting up secretly later on. I understand the division between the wait staff and members, but....
Under the heat of her gaze, I step aside. “Let me know if you need anything,” she offers over her shoulder as she walks away, her red lips framing into a sultry smile. “Anything at all, Mr. Grant.”
I can’t do anything but stare after her, watching the way she moves in that dress. Over her curves, it doesn’t seem like a simple black dress. It seems like dark magic, something so expensive and fine that even I couldn’t afford it or be worthy of it.
“Wes!”
Gideon’s voice breaks into my thoughts, and then the rest of the guys at the table join in on an obnoxious chorus that cuts off just before it starts to cause a stir in the White Rose. How did Cross get guest memberships for these other two idiots? I know Gideon has been a member since he first launched his business here, and I’ve been one since college.
I take my seat at the table, and Cross claps me on the shoulder. “Did you get caught up with our waitress?”
I give him a look. “Did you?”
“I would have if she’d given me the time of day.” He’s drunk, his dark eyes narrowed, and a swirl of envy boils up through my chest. Did he say something to her before I got here? As far as I know, everyone who comes to the Rose is well aware that harassing the waitresses means an instant membership revocation. Of course, everyone also knows that many of the waitresses are flirty and gorgeous, so it’s a fine line. Juliet wasn’t about to let me get close to crossing it.
I’m completely baffled.
Gideon pushes a drink across the table toward me. He’s clearly already ordered. “What happened, Wes? Did she turn you down?”
I grin at him, trying to cover up that I’m utterly fucking confused by what just happened. “Who says I propositioned her?”
It’s his turn to give me a pointed look. “You always offer. I’ve never seen you look at a woman like that and neglect to ask her out.”
I laugh out loud, taking a sip of the drink. It’s whiskey—not my favorite, but in light of the circumstances, it’s better than nothing. I need something to steady my nerves. I need something to help me get a grip on the massive hard-on that’s currently tormenting me with no hope of release in sight. Even the bucket of cold water Juliet dumped over my momentary fantasies wasn’t enough to stop me from burning the image of her into my mind.
Cross makes a joke about his upcoming wedding, and the attention at the table shifts away from me to him. He’s clearly been taking advantage of his bachelor status tonight, and his eyes dart from the people around the table into the wider restaurant far more often than should be necessary. I wonder if his fiancée is having her own party. I wonder if she even knows about this one.
And I wonder what Juliet could possibly have against me.
I also wonder what her last name is.
The whiskey is gone before I realize I’ve been drinking it, and the conversation at the table swirls around me, the voices blending together.
I can’t leave it like this.
I just can’t.
I’m not the kind of man who leaves a place at the end of the night in defeat. Either I call it quits, or I get what I want. It’s an approach that’s served me well in business and made me one of the most successful business moguls in the city. In the country. I’ve been relentless in driving Grant Pharmaceuticals to the top of every conceivable market while making people’s lives better—for the most part—and that’s not an easy feat. It’s true—the bottom line is my main priority, but you don’t get to my level without making putting profit at the top of the list.
There’s no way a woman like Juliet is going to mar my perfect record. Not a chance.
By two, Cross has had enough, and he stands up like a conquering hero and surveys the rest of the White Rose, a look of drunken satisfaction plastered on his face. In the seat next to him, Gideon texts his driver to bring the car around.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” I push back my chair, putting my glass down on the table.
“Go get her, Wes,” Gideon says, his eyes shining. He’s no stranger to the thrill of the chase. He just gets it from his old adrenaline-junkie standbys now that he has Kennedy.
I give him a snarky salute and turn away from the table.
I find her in a hidden alcove near the bar, the evening’s final tab slips in her hands, tallying up tips. She’s absorbed in the process, biting her lip, and the delicate curve of her neck takes my breath away.
“Juliet.”
She looks up at me, and for a moment her face is unguarded. Then that smile—that perfect shield of a smile—slips back into place. “What can I do for you, Mr. Grant?”
I hold up both hands in mock surrender. “Just one thing.”
“And that is?”
“I lied.”
She narrows her eyes in suspicion.
“There’s not one thing, but two things. One, will you tell me your last name?”
She considers for a long moment. “James. And the second thing?” There’s a slight chill in her tone that tells me she’s waiting impatiently to get back to the task at hand.
I take a step forward, close enough that her scent catches the air around me, but not close enough to touch her, even though my hands ache to touch her. “Consider my offer.”
Chapter 5
Juliet
If nothing else—and Weston Grant is many, many other things, just by the sight of him—but if nothing else, he’s bold.
His green eyes are locked steadfastly on mine, and he’s not displaying an ounce of vulnerability in the way he’s holding himself. His eyes are bright in a way that even a night of drinking and dancing can’t explain. He’s throwing down the gauntlet, but only because I threw one down first.
I lay the slips down on the granite countertop next to the computer system we use for inputting orders, perched back where nobody in the club proper can see it. A thrum of excitement resonates down through my body, despite the fact that I’m exhausted. I’ve had a full day of classes followed by a full night at the Rose.
I shouldn’t even be having this kind of conversation with Weston Grant. I should be directing all of my energy toward school and work and making sure my dad still has a place to live at the end of the week.
But something about him is filling the air around us with an electrical charge I haven’t felt in months. It’s been a heavy summer, a heavy year, and there’s nothing like being pursued like this, by a man with a body that has every nerve of mine straining toward him but who is utterly and completely out of my reach.
Except for right now.
“The drink wasn’t enough for you?” It’s not the answer he was hoping to hear, but one side of his mouth quirks upward into a smile that makes the throbb
ing heat between my legs intensify.
“If I recall correctly,” he says, lifting his chin, “that was your offer. You haven’t heard mine yet.”
“What could you possibly have to offer a cocktail waitress you’ve just met?”
The grin spreads wider across his face, and he takes one more step forward—not enough to breach the boundary of what’s strictly appropriate at a place like the Rose, but close enough that it sucks some of the air out of the tiny alcove. “I think a better question is, what don’t I have to offer?”
Images flash rapid-fire through my mind: waves lapping at the shores of tropical islands, the smooth leather on the seat of a private plane, and Weston Grant, shirt opened to reveal washboard abs that I can run my hands over, leaving marks with my nails in the dead of the night.
Right now, standing here under the scrutiny of his sparkling green eyes, I can’t say that I don’t want all of those things. I can’t. My legs are aching from standing in these heels for a shift and a half at the Rose, and my mind is barely grasping the facts about all the cases I worked so damn hard to memorize just this morning. With a man like Weston Grant, I wouldn’t have to worry about any of this. Not in my imagination, anyway.
But that’s not reality.
In reality, I’m not the kind of girl who says yes to a man she meets at work, in the middle of the night, just because he’s rich and devastatingly handsome and—for reasons I can’t even begin to understand—interested in me.
For the moment.
He’s probably had too much to drink. He’s probably just talking to me on a dare, or as a challenge, or because the rest of the night was a bust…although I can’t fathom why any of his nights would ever turn out any way other than how he ordered it up with whatever tier is above the Visa Black Card.
So what if he’s come up and talked to me twice? It’s bold, yes. But it’s not unprecedented.