by Amelia Wilde
My breath hitches in my throat. God, I want to be the kind of woman who can banter, who can keep up this delicious flirtation for hours on end, but Gideon keeps stumbling onto real questions that burn right down to my core, burn in my heart. “Do you keep your girlfriends safe?”
He leans down, lips almost—almost—brushing against the silky bare skin of my neck. “I don’t have many girlfriends. But when women are with me, they couldn’t be more safe.”
I frown. “Even when you’re jumping out of a plane?”
“Even then.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
He laughs, his green eyes glinting in the flashing lights. “No, but I can tell you want me to.”
“I don’t—” I shake my head. I have half of a mind to pull away from him, to end this little game right now, but the urge to keep touching him is so strong that I pretend it’s a more defiant move to keep my arms steady on his shoulders, keep my hips swaying with the beat, almost grazing the front of his pants, but not quite, not quite. “I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”
He turns me around in place, pulling me a little closer, and I try to catch my breath. It’s not that dancing is taxing. It’s that breathing in his scent is making me a breathless, reckless version of myself, like the entire planet is shifting underneath me and I can’t quite keep up with it. Gideon is the only anchor.
I catch another glimpse of Leah in the crowd, grinning at me like I’ve just won the lottery, and my heart aches a little. It’s her bachelorette party, and I’ve spent all night on the defense…just like I have every other time we’ve gone out. If it makes her this happy that I’m dancing with a rich, hot, practical stranger, then I can probably afford to cut loose.
A little.
Because this is just for one night. Not even a full night, really. More like a couple of hours. Men like Gideon Hawke don’t spend their lives with anxious, regular women like me. My heart pounds a little faster. I’m not exactly starstruck, but it didn’t occur to me until this moment that this might be my one chance to have a little fun with a guy like him.
But what can he possibly see in me?
I force that thought out of my mind. I look damn good tonight, and even if I’m not a member of New York City’s upper society, I’m not the bottom of the heap, either.
“What’s stopping you from going to Hawaii?”
“Skin cancer.” Gideon laughs out loud. “Seriously. It’s pretty risky to spend so much time in the sun, and with beaches like that, I’d never want to go inside. Plus, there’s the whole concept of flying for so long over the ocean, which—”
“You have to learn to relax.” Gideon’s voice curls into my ear, and my body responds before my mind can shut it down, every muscle lapsing deeper into the beat of the music, into his body.
“What have you always wanted to do?” I blurt out, because he’s dangerously close to me now, and even though I want to give myself over to this night, I’m not quite there yet.
Gideon’s expression turns dark and intimate as the music raises another decibel, cascading over both of us like a wave. I can’t take my eyes off his lips. I hang onto the silence between us, waiting for his answer.
Chapter 6
Gideon
I’ve always wanted to be here with you.
That’s the first thought that springs to mind when Kennedy parts those perfect lips and asks the question, but I could never say something so stupid out loud. I just saw her for the first time tonight. There’s no ‘always’ about it.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway. I don’t know if it’s the drinks or the music or the way I came to this club tonight with no expectations beyond finding a pretty woman to charm for the evening, but there’s something rich and heady about being with her, dancing with her. The sensation pricks at the back of my mind like I’m simply meeting the one woman I did always want.
But that would be impossible, because I’ve wanted so many women over the years that they’ve all started to blur together.
Except there’s something about Kennedy...
“I’ve always wanted to take a gorgeous redhead to Hawaii.”
She throws back her head and laughs. “You’ve done that.”
“I have not.”
“I swear I saw a picture of you with one of those celebrities…she had her hair colored for a movie she was starring in…”
“A dye job doesn’t count.” I grin down at her, sinking deeper into those intoxicating blue eyes, flashing with the reflections of all the lights in the club. “And that was Tahiti, not Hawaii.”
“So a man like Gideon Hawke could have a bucket list, after all.”
Item number one on that list: spend more time with you. My heart pounds in my chest, but I force my breathing to remain steady, remain calm, even as the throbbing of the music picks up the pace and Kennedy matches it with her motions, her hips bumping gently against my hands.
“Of course. Even a man as fabulously wealthy as I am hasn’t had everything he could dream of.”
She rolls her eyes. “You can buy anything your heart desires.”
“Not quite anything.”
She catches something in my voice when I say it, and beneath the colored lights a blush rises to her cheeks. When she bites her lower lip, shifting her eyes back up at me, I almost lose it. “Do you mean…you can’t buy love?” Her tone is light, joking, but I look at her with a deadly serious expression.
“You can buy some kinds of love.”
Her mouth drops open. “Like the kinky kind?”
It’s the last thing I expect her to say, and I burst out laughing. Kennedy smiles like she’s pleased with herself, but then her expression goes a little hazy, like she’s actually considering what it might be like to experiment with a pair of handcuffs or a satin ribbon tied around her wrists. I stifle the urge to tell her that she can come home with me right now, and I’ll show her how unbelievable that can be.
We’re in new territory now, and she’s the one who’s taken us there. I can’t help but follow. I lean down and put my lips level with her ear. “Didn’t you know? Even the kinky kind can be had for free.”
When I pull back, she’s blushing even more furiously than before. “What do you think, Kennedy?” I raise my voice over the volume of the music. “Is something like that on your bucket list?”
She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. “I’m—I’m—”
“Speechless at how attracted you are to me?”
The grin that crosses Kennedy’s face is like nothing I’ve seen before, and in that instant, it’s like I already know her. She presses her hips into my hands with confidence now, the protective armor around her falling away for a moment, and she locks her hand around her other wrist and tugs my face closer to hers, looking at me with narrowed eyes. “Who said I was attracted to you?”
I let my gaze linger as it trails slowly down over all of her body, straight to her feet, and I take my time bringing it back up to finally meet her eyes. “Body language. It’s hot.”
Kennedy pulls back a few inches and sucks in a breath. With a smile on her face that’s mischievous and sexy and somehow innocent at the same time, she releases her arms from around my neck and turns, her perky ass swaying in time with the beat.
She has to know that I’m aching with desire for her, that I’m rock hard against the fabric of my boxers, but she doesn’t glance down. She only stares into my eyes when she turns and looks at me over her shoulder. Her lips, soft and shimmering in the dim light, part slightly, and I start to move in closer so that I can hear whatever it is she’s going to say. I’m desperate to hear what she has to say.
I’ve only taken one step forward when a crowd of women in sequined dresses descend on us, Adam in the middle, and come between me and Kennedy. A cold spear of irritation pierces my gut. What the hell...?
One of them, a tall blonde with her straightened hair falling past her shoulders, shouts over the music. “I have a surprise for the bac
helorette! I splurged a little bit—”
“No, you did not!” cries the one wearing the tiara atop a mass of dark curls, but the blonde doesn’t miss a beat.
“—and booked us a suite at the Peninsula!” The rest of the women cheer, throwing their hands above their heads in excitement, but I can’t look away from Kennedy, who is wearing an expression somewhere between surprise and frustration.
“Wait—” I hear her say it, but the blonde either doesn’t hear her or chooses to ignore her.
“The champagne is chilling, the car is waiting out front, and I’m dying to take a dip in the hot tub. Follow me!” She wraps her arm around the girl wearing the tiara and starts to lead them in a sparkling procession off the dance floor. At the last moment, Kennedy is surrounded by three of them, laughing and teasing her, and the other people on the dance floor surge into the empty space they leave behind, cutting me off from her.
No way. No way am I letting her get out of here without—
In the crush of people, I can’t get to her side again, and the three women encircling her hustle her out into a car waiting by the curb in front of the club. I can hear the bass booming from the interior.
Just before her friend climbs into the car, I manage to reach forward and snag her elbow.
“Her number. Kennedy’s number.” I spit out the words like a man drowning. I follow them up with my most charming smile.
She adjusts her tiara on top of her head. “I don’t know, Gideon Hawke. Do you really deserve it?”
Chapter 7
Kennedy
“Absolutely, Mrs. Bishop—I’m happy to go over that again with you. I have a booking for two weeks at Disney’s Four Seasons beginning March 15, and I’m putting together a comprehensive list of dining reservations beginning March 17, beginning with a character breakfast that morning.”
“Private? Or one of those awful things with all the tourists?” Mrs. Bishop’s nasally voice wavers, as if having to attend a buffet breakfast with commoners would be the end of her.
I consult the list. “Yes. I’ve arranged private reservations whenever possible, but some of the venues—”
As usual, she switches gears before I’ve finished my sentence. “Of course, Kennedy, I understand—we can’t be shutting down every restaurant in the park. It’s just that Arthur will be so shaken if we’re surrounded by strangers when he’s about to meet his idols.” She lets out an indulgent laugh. I’m not sure that her four-year-old son will actually have his sense of security compromised if, in a stunning twist of fate, other guests are attending the most popular theme park in the country on the same day, but it’s not my place to comment.
It’s simply my job to coordinate.
I laugh along with her, pretending to be in on the joke. “You’re in good hands, Mrs. Bishop. Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”
“Not now, Kennedy.” Irritation tinges her voice, and I almost let a genuine laugh escape. I didn’t call her, but you wouldn’t know it. “I’ll be in touch.” There’s a click as she disconnects the call.
I put the handset back in the cradle and lean back in my seat. This morning at the agency has reminded me why I might possibly need to use up some more of my vacation time. My entire body is still wound tight from the weekend, but there are at least ten urgent calls waiting for me to return from Sunday alone. My clients are not patient people.
But they pay me enough to afford my own one-bedroom apartment in Sunnyside, which has to be one of the least exciting neighborhoods in Manhattan.
It’s perfect for me.
I sigh a little, thinking of the sun streaming in through the window in my living room, and wish I was curled up on the sofa with a hot mug of tea in my hands.
Of course, even in this daydream of taking another vacation day, the tea is just a prop, something for my hands to hold while I picture, in excruciating detail, Gideon Hawke’s handsome face.
It’s all that’s been on my mind, all that I’ve been able to think about, since we left the club on Saturday night. There was nothing I wanted to do more in my life than to have been able to leap back out of that car, push Leah away from me, and kiss him. My heart aches when I think back on that moment, perched in the back of the car with the other bridesmaids, all of them still shrieking, as I tried to breathe deeply and prepare for the ride to the Peninsula, while every cell in my body was desperate to have Gideon’s hands on me again.
I close my eyes, shutting out my office, shutting out the day, and force myself to focus.
I cannot let myself get hung up on a couple of hours spent with a man who’s so far out of my league that he’s probably forgotten my name already. Gideon Hawke probably isn’t even in the city anymore—by now, he has to be halfway across the planet, jumping off some stupidly high cliff or flying through the jungle on a zipline reserved exclusively for rich people.
I can’t help but laugh at that image—a luxury zipline? Does such a thing even exist?—and then the Executive Travel Coordinator in me takes over. If it does exist, a client of mine will eventually want to book it, so I should know about it.
I spend fifteen minutes doing the research—it turns out that there are luxury zipline packages available, though the ziplines themselves are just your run-of-the-mill stainless steel cable—and when I see what’s included, I purse my lips. I could put together a more luxurious experience than what’s being offered that also includes a high-speed trip over the canopy.
By lunch, I’ve checked off three more calls from my list, started planning another client’s vacation to Aspen for this winter, and had to snap myself out of vivid daydreams about Gideon at least twenty times.
I definitely need a change of scenery.
I yank my purse out of my desk drawer and throw it over my shoulder, before tapping on my supervisor Marina’s door to tell her that I’m walking down to the Halal cart on the corner to grab some lunch.
It’s a breezy August day, and midtown Manhattan is soaked in sunlight. The heat beats down on my shoulders as I walk the two blocks to the food cart, buy a chicken gryo, and then eat it while I stroll back to the office.
I can’t take a single bite without thinking of him.
It’s ridiculous. It’s absolutely ridiculous to be so enamored with a man I met at a nightclub, who I danced with once, who pestered me about things I’m never going to do. This is exactly the kind of distraction that could lead a person into making poor decisions, and that’s the last thing I need to be doing with the rest of my life.
I’m halfway back to the office when my cell phone rings in my purse.
I dig it out with one hand, smiling when I see the name on the screen.
“Hey, Abby. What’s up?”
“How’s my famous travel agent sister?”
I laugh out loud. “Not famous. Just a travel agent. Is there anything new in Westport?”
“Same old rotten view of Lake Champlain. I’m thinking of going for a swim.”
My heart twists in my chest. If it wasn’t for me, Abby could just go for a swim without having to coordinate an entire team of people. “It’s that kind of day, isn’t it? It’s hot as hell in the city.”
“You should go for a swim.”
“I would,” I sigh, “but I don’t have a private pool. This guy I met at the club on Saturday, though…”
“Oooh,” she squeals. “Was he hot? Was he rich? No, start with the bachelorette party. Which bridesmaid is the bitchiest?”
I take the last bite of my gyro and toss the tin foil into the next garbage can I pass. “It’s a toss-up,” I tell Abby, “and I want to tell you everything about it, but I’m back at work. Can I call you when I get home tonight?”
“I’ll be holding my breath!” she jokes, then hangs up on me before I can turn sentimental.
Riding the elevator on the way back up to the Ruby Reservations offices, I let myself imagine Gideon, dancing with that animal sensuality, one last time. I’m not going to let him take over my life. I’m go
ing to throw myself back into my work. At least in the office everything will be normal, routine…safe.
“Normal” lasts for another ten seconds, and then it shatters into a million pieces.
Chapter 8
Gideon
“Peter, I don’t want to have this discussion a thousand times. Move the assets to wherever you think they’ll have the greatest return on investment, and then report back to me on how it’s going. If we need to make adjustments, we’ll make adjustments.”
I need to make a different kind of adjustment right now, because while Peter, the new CFO I moved into the position last month, has been droning on about some minor changes he wants to make to some of Hawke Entertainment’s financial structure, my mind wandered back to Kennedy.
It’s a good thing I’m sitting at my desk, because I’m rock-hard and the tent pole in my pants would be all too obvious if I was standing up.
This has been the longest Monday of my life, and it’s not even one o’clock yet.
“I just want to confirm with you one more time that—”
“Peter. Do what you have to do. I’m ending the call now.” I stab at the button on my phone that disconnects the call, then I drop the receiver back into place. I don’t have a reputation for being a tyrant at the office—at least, nobody has said that to my face—but today, of all days, I don’t have the patience for people like Peter.
For one thing, I’m busy cancelling the trip I’d planned to the Amalfi Coast.
For another, I’m waiting on the outcome of something far more important than Peter’s lack of confidence in his own decisions. I make a mental note to review his performance after the next quarter, and then I let myself get back to the real task of the day: making contact with Kennedy.
I spent all day yesterday thinking about what to do with the scrap of information her friend gave me outside the car, when Kennedy was still so close I could practically smell the scent of her shampoo, my muscles tingling with the urge to reach into the car and drag her back out, rush her back to my penthouse on the Upper East Side, and—