by Amelia Wilde
“I got one for you.” I hold out the shot glass to her, but she squares her jaw.
“I’m not drinking.”
“I’ve got a driver, if you’re supposed to be DD.”
“I’m not drinking. Even if you have a million cars and a million drivers. I don’t drink at clubs or parties.” She grips the glass she’s holding in her hand a little tighter. “This is Coke.”
“Up to you.” I shrug, and as Adam and the rest of the group count to three and down their shots, I follow along, feeling the burn of the whiskey as it hits the back of my throat. Then I abandon both glasses on the table behind her.
“That was nice of you,” she says, with a hint of sarcasm in her voice, her eyes focusing on a point behind me. “I’m sure there are other women who are dying for you to buy them a drink, so I won’t take up any more of your time.”
I laugh. “That’s where you’re wrong.” She frowns a little. “You don’t want to drink? That’s fine. But now…now I’m intrigued.” I step a little closer to her, and I’m close enough to breathe in the scent of her hairspray and coconut shampoo. “Why would a stunning woman like you be standing here by herself by this table all night? I want to know. But more than that…” I edge in, farther than I have before, until my lips are only inches from her ear. “I want to see if I can convince you to dance.”
She inhales sharply, and it almost sounds like a gasp, and then she opens her mouth to reply.
3
Kennedy
The warm whisper of his breath near my ear makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and a rush of heat spiral down my spine to the hidden space between my legs, which is scarcely covered by this barely-there dress that Leah forced me to wear. The tiniest part of me is glad that she did, because the intense look in his eyes is something between lust and real interest, and I’m almost positive the dress has something to do with it—but most of me is fighting the urge to turn and disappear into the crowd, leaving this rich, seductive stranger behind.
“I don’t like dancing.” It’s a lie, and the first one that comes to mind once I break myself out of the spell he’s cast over me with his voice.
“You don’t?” His tone is casual, but he’s still standing so close that every word out of his mouth sounds like a heated proposition. “But you’re in a nightclub, and all your friends—” He pulls himself back to glance over at where they’re standing with his friend. “—are having the time of their lives.”
“It’s easy to have a good time when you’re buzzed. Or, in some of their cases, drunk.”
“So it’s not that you never drink. You’re not drinking tonight.”
I gather up all my courage and look him straight in the eye. In the flickering lights beaming from the DJ station, I can see that he has dazzling green eyes that turn my core molten hot. “I don’t drink at parties.”
He furrows his forehead. “That’s a strange place to refuse to drink.”
“I have my reasons.” Reasons that I’m not going to get into with a perfect stranger. Fine. Not a perfect stranger. I’ve seen his face more times than I can count on the gossip blogs, and quite a few times in the newspapers, but for the life of me—for the absolute life of me—I can’t remember his name.
He looks back at me with a steady gaze. “You really don’t like dancing?”
A flash of irritation spikes through my gut. “It’s not really any of your business if I like dancing or not. I don’t even know you.” My heart pounds against my ribs, making my words seem insincere at best. It’s true—I don’t know this man, this sexy specimen with his dark, silky, wavy hair and pressed white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his body underneath, without any doubt from the way his muscles flex when he moves, chiseled and lean.
The corners of his lips turn up into a smile. “You don’t know me yet.”
“I don’t want—” Something catches my gaze from the corner of my eye—Leah’s sash. I lock onto it like she’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic. “Leah!” I shout her name even though she’s barely four feet away from us, using the thrumming volume of the music as cover. I jerk my head to the side, begging her with a glance to come rescue me the way she used to do in college, when some frat boy or another was getting too handsy at the bar, but she shakes her head.
She bends to say something into Cassandra’s ear, and then all of them are moving back out onto the dance floor, the stranger’s friend Adam in tow.
“Leah!” I call her name again, but she only looks back over her shoulder and mouths have fun.
When I turn my attention to look back at the stranger—and God, he is handsome, in the dark kind of way that I always imagine in my private fantasies—he’s grinning at me.
“This is no laughing matter.” I keep my voice as serious as I can, but he’s not having any of it.
“You’ve been abandoned by your friends. I don’t think you have any other choice but to talk to me.”
“False. I could walk out of here right now, and—”
“And leave your best friend’s bachelorette party?” He laughs, the sound low and sensual, and it sounds so delicious that a little part of me caves right then. It’s one of my personal rules not to get involved with any men I meet in a club. And I never do anything that may come with more risk than it’s worth. The man standing in front of me right now is all coiled risk and dark energy, the kind that’s dangerous to touch but exhilarating to experience.
And it’s true. My friends are somewhere out on the dance floor, having their own fun.
The stranger gestures toward the booth behind us. “We don’t have to dance, if you don’t want to. But we could sit and talk for a while.”
I can hardly argue with that. It’s been my excuse all night that someone needs to guard the purses. Someone needs to be keeping tabs on everyone to make sure we’re still within a safe margin for alcohol consumption. So, with a nod of my head, I slide into the booth. He slides in after me, the movement stirring up his scent—something spicy and understated, something expensive. I do my best to ignore the new slickness building warm and moist between my legs.
“Let’s start over,” he says, leaning back against the cushions. “I’m Gideon Hawke, and you’re… absolutely gorgeous. What’s your name?”
That’s how it starts.
Once his name is hanging in the air between us, what I do know about him comes rushing back. All in all, it’s not much. Gideon Hawke is a reckless playboy who loves women, expensive vacations, and irresponsible stunts. He’s always being photographed in some tropical paradise or another, jumping off high cliffs and generally trying to end his life too early. I laugh when I hear him speak his name.
“It’s not a common name, but I don’t think it’s funny.” He gives me a faux pout, and then his expression slides back into a thousand-watt smile.
“I’m not laughing at your name. The pieces are coming together for me now, and you’re—” I shake my head.
“I’m what?”
“You’re not my type. Kennedy Carlisle, by the way.” I extend my hand in the dorkiest movement possible, but Gideon shakes it with a certain seriousness. When our palms touch, something electric jolts between them, so strongly that I stifle a gasp. It doesn’t faze Gideon. He drops my hand and looks me straight in the eye.
“How could I not be your type? I’m sitting in a booth with you when we could be dancing.”
“I don’t know why. Under any other circumstances, you would be dancing, with some supermodel, probably.”
“Supermodels are overrated.” He looks directly at me when he says it, and a blush creeps through my entire body. “Anyway, I’m not interested in supermodels. I’m interested in you.”
“I’m not going to dance with you.”
He waves his hand in the air between us. “Dancing aside. Why have you been standing here all night guarding the table like this place is full of purse snatchers?”
I sigh. “For one thing, maybe it is full of pur
se snatchers. Maybe that’s how they afford the cover.” He laughs, but he doesn’t interrupt. “For another, I’m not really concerned about the purses. I’m concerned about my friends.”
“I’m concerned, too.”
“About what?”
“I’m concerned that if you don’t dance with me, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”
4
Gideon
It’s a throwaway line, shit I’ve said to women in clubs and bars all across the planet, but something flashes in Kennedy’s eyes. Kennedy Carlisle’s big blue eyes go dark with an emotion I can’t decipher, and she sucks in her breath like I’ve hit a nerve.
For all I know, I have. The air between us has tensed, almost as if all the oxygen has been sucked away. Even if it was silent in the club, I would still be deafened by how loud my own heart is beating. All it took was that stiffening in her back, the appearance of that unreadable expression in her eyes, and I’m struck by a new desperation to know more about her.
This is more than some stupid bet with Adam, a voice whispers in the back of my mind.
And what did I say? “I’m concerned that if you don’t dance with me, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.” I have a funny sensation in my chest that if she doesn’t dance with me, I will be the one regretting it for the rest of my life.
“What do you know about—?” She cuts herself off, looking away for a brief instant, her long eyelashes shading her eyes, and then she looks back at me, this time confident and assured. “You know what? Fine. I’ll dance with you.”
“We don’t have to—”
“Oh, now you’ve changed your mind?” Her jaw is set in a determined line. Then she leans in to me. “Are you really going to make me climb all the way around this absurdly large booth?”
How could a woman who’s so fiery be the wallflower? I only have time for the thought to cross my mind before she’s practically straddling me, pushing me out of the booth. Or at least she would be if I didn’t spend time every morning in the gym for this reason—to guarantee that I’m always ready for a real adventure.
I step out of the booth, and she’s right behind me, tugging her dress down. She’s even abandoned her glass of Coke on the table.
I edge toward the dance floor, but I can sense that she’s still standing in place, not following me. When I turn around, she’s reaching up to pat her palms against her hair, which is its own work of art, the soft curls pulled back into a structured spill at the back of her head. She might have been all bravado a moment ago, but there’s a little tremble in her hands that gives her away.
It’s dare after dare with her. Adam might as well have had nothing to do with this. I have the sense that if I back down, that if I offer her an out right now, she might retreat back to that booth and this—whatever this encounter is—will be over.
So I up the ante. I offer her my hand like we’re about to go ballroom dancing. There it is again—that lift of her chin, a flash of defiance in her eyes, and she slaps her palm down on mine.
I tug her toward the dance floor, pretending not to notice the heat ebbing between our hands, the way the electric sensation of touching her—even just her hand—is making my heart throb with excitement. More than my heart is excited and throbbing with an increase of blood flow, but this isn’t the moment to reveal that to Kennedy.
Kennedy. I repeat her name over and over in my mind, relishing the fact that I know it at all.
Who the hell have I turned into in the last fifteen minutes?
Kennedy Carlisle shouldn’t feel like a risk to me. It shouldn’t be such a rush to have talked her into dancing with me. I’m not even sure that I did. But something I said made her change her mind.
Then we’re part of the crowd, bodies surging all around us, and she starts to move.
Kennedy Carlisle might not like dancing. Kennedy might not even want to dance now. But none of that stops her from being, by far, the most sensual, intoxicating, and erotically enticing dancer I’ve ever seen.
She closes her eyes, lithely moving her arms above her head, swaying her hips with the bass of the music, and I feel like I’m tipping over the edge of the Grand Canyon, falling hard into her orbit. The way she shifts her body underneath that little black dress makes it look like she’s totally at home becoming one with the music, totally comfortable, totally in control.
Then she opens her eyes. When our gazes lock again, she misses a beat.
But I’m not willing to let this moment end, and I move in close to her, sliding one hand onto her hip and moving us both with the beat again. She recovers, raising her chin an inch, and takes a big breath in.
It’s different, out here in the middle of the crowd. It’s the two of us in a little space that’s only ours, even though we’re surrounded by at least one bachelorette party and a sea of other people dressed like tonight is the night they’re finally going to get shadowed by the paparazzi on the way out.
We move together, Kennedy’s arm settling tentatively on my shoulder. I can feel every breath she takes.
“I never do this.” She says it softly, but we’re so close that I catch the words over the music.
“Never do what? Go to the club? I don’t believe that for a second.”
“Dance with strangers.”
I smile down into her face, and she answers with her own tentative smile. “I’m not really a stranger. You know my name.”
“Gideon Hawke.” She says it again like she’s tasting it on her tongue. “I don’t know anything else about you, other than that you’re—you’re very wealthy. And you like to do risky things.”
“What risky things do you wish you could do?” I put my other hand in hers and spin her, still moving with the music, so that her back is the barest inch away from my chest, and lean down to whisper into her ear. “You never dance with strange men—what else have you avoided doing all your life?”
She gives a strange little laugh. “Avoided?”
“Nobody chooses not to dance with someone like me.”
“You’re very modest.”
“You’re very beautiful.”
She takes another quick little breath and turns back to me, putting both hands around my neck, her hips rolling and dipping with the music. It’s pure sex, and it’s starting to drive me wild. “Skydiving.”
“What?”
“You asked me what risky things I might like to do. I’d like to be able to say that I went skydiving.”
“But you don’t actually want to do it.”
“Who the hell would want to jump out of a plane? Other than you?”
I laugh out loud, and she joins in.
“What else? There’s more, Kennedy Carlisle, and I’m dying to know. What other risks have you always wanted to take?”
5
Kennedy
“You’ll say anything, won’t you?” I keep my tone light, but I’m burning up. My skin is hot and flushed, and I feel like I might spontaneously combust. Gideon dances like a panther about to pounce, like his body can’t possibly contain the inferno of raw energy raging to escape, and the sensation that escalates inside my body each time he touches me—his hands glancing against my hips, against my waist—triggers an internal craving in my core that’s urging me to pounce on him.
And I would, if I would only let my body do what it wanted to do.
Instead, I keep the lightning bottled up tight, stopping myself from running my hands down the front of his shirt and ripping it off him, sending the buttons flying to expose what I’m absolutely certain is a hard, chiseled chest and washboard abs.
“That wasn’t a pick-up line.” His breath wisps against my ear and I instantly sense more aching need pooling between my legs. “I want to know. What else do you want to do before time runs out?”
I want to make a crack about how melodramatic it is to talk about time running out when, from what I can remember, Gideon isn’t much older than I am, but I can’t—because I know. I know how short time
can be. I know how, in an instant, one choice can change everything, and permanently.
I’m back in the car, hurtling forward, fumbling for the clasp on the seatbelt, trying to fit the two ends together. It’s hard to do with blurred vision and shaking hands, but it seems like the most important thing I’ve ever done. If only this would slide into the connecting piece.
“There’s a lot I want to do,” I say, taking in a big breath of him. Including you. The thought alone brings color rushing to my cheeks. I’m not the kind of girl who notices men like him—in the club, a stranger…a wealthy stranger. I don’t pay attention to them because I know what it means to let someone else have even the slightest bit of control over your life, and it’s not worth the risk.
It’s not worth the risk, I repeat firmly to myself, even as Gideon’s hands brush alluringly against my hips.
Somewhere in the crowd behind him, Leah emerges, catching my eye. She’s dancing at the edge of our little group, Gideon’s friend wrapped seductively around one of the other bridesmaids, and when she sees that my arms are thrown around Gideon’s neck, that his hands are firmly grounded on my hips, that we’re definitely alone together in the middle of this crowd, her eyes go wide and she flashes me two thumbs up. He’s so hot, she mouths, and I shoot a glare in her direction, my eyes narrowed.
She’s right. He’s by far the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life, and the way he’s moving his sexy body against me—gracefully, sinuously, but without being gross—is lighting up every nerve ending in my body like a matchstick.
“Don’t leave me,” he says, and I whip my gaze back to his, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck standing straight up.
“What?”
“Don’t leave me hanging,” he repeats, and my pulse surges in my veins. “What else is it that you want to do?”