by Naima Simone
The growl prowled up his throat and out of him before he could contain it.
“I—I need to go,” she whispered, already shifting back and away from him. “I—” She didn’t finish the thought, but turned and waded into the crowd, distancing herself from him.
He didn’t follow; she hadn’t said no, but she hadn’t said yes, either. And though he’d caught the desire in her gaze—his stomach still ached from the gut punch of it—she had to come to him.
Or ask him to come for her.
Rooted where she’d left him, he tracked her movements.
Saw the moment she cleared the mass of people and strode in the direction of the double doors where more tray-bearing staff emerged and exited.
Saw when she paused, palm pressed to one of the panels.
Saw when she glanced over her shoulder in his direction.
Even across the distance of the ballroom, the electric shock of that look whipped through him, sizzled in his veins. Moments later, she disappeared from view. Didn’t matter; his feet were already moving in her direction.
That glance, that look. It’d sealed her fate.
Sealed it for both of them.
Two
Shay Camille Neal pushed through the doors leading into the huge, industrial kitchen that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Michelin-star restaurant. With a world-famous chef renowned for his temper as well as his magic with food, a sous chef and army of station and line cooks bustling around the stainless steel countertops and range stoves, the area hummed with activity.
Under ordinary circumstances, she would’ve been enthralled, attempting to soak up whatever knowledge she could from the professionals attending. But the current circumstances were as far from ordinary as chicken nuggets were from coq au vin.
First, as a member of one of the oldest, wealthiest and most influential families in Chicago, she usually attended the Du Sable City Gala as a guest, not a server. But when her best friend, Bridgette, called her earlier in the afternoon sounding like a foghorn had replaced her voice box, Shay had agreed to take Bridgette’s place as a member of the catering staff. Though her friend owned and ran a fledgling food truck business, she still helped mitigate expenses and pay her personal bills with jobs on the side. The position with this particular catering company was one of her regulars, and Bridgette couldn’t afford to lose the gig.
Shay had planned on skipping the gala, anyway. Facing a night at home with another binge of House of Cards on Netflix versus actually working in the periphery of a famous chef, the choice had been a no-brainer. Besides, Bridgette had assured Shay that most of her duties as an assistant to the line cooks would keep her in the kitchen.
Still, she’d donned a wig, dark brown contacts and glasses, as well as Bridgette’s uniform. Because while she’d decided to skip out on the social event of the season, her older brother, Trevor, and his fiancée, Madison Reus—Senator Julian Reus’s only daughter—were attending. Trevor already didn’t approve of Shay’s friendship with Bridgette. If he caught Shay doing anything less-than-becoming of the Neal name, especially because of her best friend, he would lose it. And Shay was pretty certain he would consider prepping vegetables and serving champagne cardinal sins.
In her defense, though, when the catering supervisor shoved a tray of sparkly wine at her and ordered her to make the rounds of the ballroom, she couldn’t exactly say no.
Still, everything should’ve been fine—would’ve been fine—if not for one Gideon Knight.
Smoky desire coiled in her belly. She set the almost empty tray on one of the stations and pressed a fist to her navel. Not that the futile gesture extinguished the glowing embers.
Swallowing a groan, she strode toward the back of the kitchen and the employee break room. Shutting the door behind her, she entered the bathroom and twisted the faucets, thrusting her palms under the gushing water. Her quick version of a cold shower. Shaking her head at her foolishness, she finished washing her hands, but afterward, instead of returning to the kitchen, she stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. But it wasn’t her image she saw.
It was Gideon Knight.
They’re like peacocks, spreading their plumage, desperate to be noticed, and here you are among them, like the moon. Bright, alone, above it all and eclipsing every one of them.
She exhaled slowly, the words spoken in that all-things-secret-and-sinful voice echoing in her head. In her chest. And lower. With any other man, she would’ve waved off the compliment as insincere flattery that tended to roll off men’s tongues when they came across the heiress to one of the largest financial management conglomerates in the country. The compliments meant nothing, like dandelion fluff on a breeze. No substance and changing with the wind.
But not with Gideon Knight.
There had been a ring of truth in the blunt observation. As if his description of her wasn’t an opinion but fact. She’d just met him, but she couldn’t shake the sense that he didn’t dole out flowery compliments often. As he’d stated so flatly, he didn’t play games.
She believed him. But it only deepened her confusion over why he’d approached her of all people. To most of the attendees in the ballroom, she’d been invisible, inconsequential. Just another staff member there to serve them.
But not to him.
Even in a room full of Chicago’s wealthiest and most glamorous people, he stood out. In the way a sleek, silent shark would stand out in a pool of clown fish.
God, she was officially losing it. And she laid the blame squarely at the feet of Gideon Knight.
Because, really, how could any woman stare into those midnight eyes and not forget everything but how she could willingly drown in them, even as he submerged her in a pleasure as dark and stunning as his gaze?
As soon as the illicit thought entered her head an image of him crouched over her, all that midnight-black hair loose from its knot and flowing over his shoulders, tumbling around them, flashed through her mind. Her heart thumped against her chest, and she exhaled an unsteady breath, that flame of unwanted desire dancing low in her belly again. With a mental shove, she thrust the hot image out of her mind, but the vision of how he’d looked just moments ago, when she turned for one last glance, refused to be evicted as easily.
His tailor, whoever he or she was, must’ve been in love with Gideon because his tuxedo traced his powerful but lean frame. From the wide shoulders and chest that tapered to a slim waist and down to long, muscular legs, he was the picture of urbane elegance and wealth. Strength. Beauty.
Imperial.
The word leaped into her head, and though she wanted to scoff at the description, she couldn’t. It fit. With the beautiful eyes, the sharp slant of cheekbones, the arrogant nose, the wide, sensual, almost cruel curve of his mouth and the rock-hard jut of his jaw, he reminded her of a long-ago king from a mysterious Asian country, standing on a wall, an unseen wind teasing his long black hair as he surveyed the land he ruled. Hard, shrewd, somehow removed from the masses.
He would’ve been completely intimidating if not for the incongruity of all that hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head. Someone so polished, so sophisticated, so rigid in his appearance wearing a...man bun.
It was the rebellious flouting of the unspoken, constricting rules that governed their social realm that had stirred a curiosity she couldn’t erase. Even now.
You’re being ridiculous.
Shaking her head, she emitted a sound of self-directed disgust and yanked a brown paper towel from the dispensary. She quickly dried her hands, tossed the now damp towel in the trash and strode from the bathroom. With at least another three hours of work ahead of her, she couldn’t afford to remain hiding back here any longer. More prep work awaited her, as dinner hadn’t even been served yet—
The door to the break room swung open, and she barely managed to stifle her startled gasp.
The tall, imposing figure of Gideon Knight filled the doorway.
Her heart lodged in her throat. What the hell was he doing back here? But only seconds passed before the answer whispered through her skull.
You.
Denial, swift and firm, rose within her. But it couldn’t extinguish the kindling of desire and traitorous, foolish hope.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, swiping her already-dry palms down the sides of her pants. And when his gaze took in the nervous gesture, she cursed herself for betraying her agitation to this man.
“Looking for you.”
Excitement fluttered in her before she could smother the reaction. Crossing her arms over her chest, she frowned. Fought the instinctive urge to retreat from the intense, sexual magnetism that seemed to pour off him and vibrate in the room.
“Well, I need to return to work.” She pretended to glance down at the slim, gold-faced watch on her wrist. “So, if you’ll excuse me...”
An emotion crossed his face, but was there and gone before she could decipher it. Probably irritation at being told no. “I wanted to apol—”
But the rest of his explanation snapped off as the room plummeted into darkness.
Three
A cry slipped out of Shay, panic clawing at her throat.
The deep, thick dark pressed down on her chest like a weight, cutting off her breath.
What was going on? What happened? Why...?
“Camille.” The sound of that calm voice carrying an undercurrent of steel snapped her out of the dizzying fall into hysteria. Hands wrapped around both her upper arms, the grip firm, steadying. His voice and his touch grounded her, although her pulse continued to thud and echo in her head like a hammer. “Easy.” One of his hands slid up her arm, over her shoulder and slipped around the back of her neck. Squeezed. “Stay with me. Breathe.”
She closed her eyes, as if that could block out the utter lack of light. Still, she latched on to him—his voice, his fresh yet earthy scent of wind and sandalwood, the solid density of the forearms she’d at some point clutched. Seconds, minutes—hell, it felt like hours—passed while she focused on calming her racing heart, on breathing. And soon, the sense of being buried alive started to lift.
His hold on her arm and neck never eased.
As the initial bite of panic slowly unhinged its jaws, the weight of his touch—the security and comforting effect of it—penetrated her fear.
“—I’m sorry.” Embarrassed, she heard a wobbly chuckle escape her. Belatedly, she loosened her grip on him and dropped her arms. “God, I don’t... I’m not even afraid of the dark,” she whispered.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he reassured her.
His hands abandoned her neck and arm, but one located and clasped her fingers. In the next instant, a pale blue glow appeared. A cell phone. The illumination barely pushed back the inky thickness surrounding them, but it highlighted his face, and relief weakened her knees. Only moments ago, she’d wanted to get as far away from him as possible. And now her eyes stung with gratefulness for his serene presence. For not being alone.
“I need to go see if I can find out what’s going on. Here.” Holding the cell out in front of him, he carefully guided her to the couch against the far wall. Still holding her hand, he lowered her to the cushion. “Will you be all right? I have to take my cell with me to try and either get a call or text out. I promise to return in a few minutes.”
“Of course.” She nodded, injecting a vein of steel into her voice. God, she was stronger than this. “I’ll be fine here.”
In the cell’s minimal light, she caught his steady, measuring stare. “Good,” he said after a few moments, returning her nod. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappeared, returning her to the dark. She focused on maintaining even breathing, reminding herself she hadn’t been catapulted into a deep pit where terrifying, malformed things lurked, eager for the chance to take a bite out of her. She really shouldn’t have watched Stephen King’s It last night...
“Camille.”
She jerked her head up, and once more that rush of relief washed over her as Gideon and his beautiful light appeared in front of her again.
“Hey,” she said, unable to prevent the emotion from flooding her voice. “Were you able to find out anything?” Please let it be something fixable and short-lived, like the owner of this mansion had forgotten to pay his power bill.
“Blackout,” he explained, tone grim, and her heart plummeted toward her stomach. “I wasn’t able to get a call out, but I was able to send and receive a couple of texts to a contact on the police force. It’s citywide. They’re advising people to remain where they are, which,” he continued, his full lips flattening for a brief second, “won’t be an issue with us. I overheard security speaking to the chef and his staff. The tech guru who owns this overcompensating monstrosity of a home installed a so-called cutting-edge security system. And with the blackout, it’s malfunctioned. We’re all locked in for the foreseeable future.”
She expelled a pent-up breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Where was Trevor? Were he and Madison okay? What about Bridgette? Sick and in the dark? More than ever, Shay cursed leaving her phone in her car. Bridgette had warned her that her supervisor frowned on the staff having cells on them, so she’d stashed hers in her glove compartment, but now...
“We’re going to be fine, Camille,” Gideon said, his rough silk voice dragging her away from her worried thoughts. “Most likely, the blackout will only last several hours, and hopefully the boy genius will have his system worked out by them,” he finished drily.
In spite of the anxiety over her brother and friend that still inundated her, she snorted. “Boy genius?”
Gideon arched a black eyebrow. “Have you seen him? He can’t be more than twenty-three. I swear, I can still smell the milk on his breath.”
This time she snickered, belatedly palming her mouth to contain her amusement. “So you’re what? The ripe old age of thirty? Thirty-three? And if you’re here as a guest, then that means you must be at least wealthy or connected enough to have been invited. Which makes you what, Mr. Knight?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “An idle man living off his family name and money? Or a successful businessman in his own right?”
She didn’t know him, but he struck her as the latter. There was nothing about him that screamed idle. No, the sharklike intelligence that gleamed from his dark eyes belonged to a man who forged his own path, not one satisfied with walking the one others had paved for him.
He didn’t immediately reply, but treated her to another of his intense gazes. He seemed to peer beneath skin and bone to the soul. To her secrets. With effort, she didn’t shirk away from his scrutiny, instead notching her chin up and meeting his eyes without flinching.
Something glinted in his gaze, and the faint light from his phone tricked her into believing it might be admiration.
“I own and run a start-up that provides privately held companies with their equity needs. I suppose you can say we’ve been successful.”
The vague and carefully constructed answer didn’t stop recognition from rocking her. Start-up? As in KayCee Corp start-up? He couldn’t possibly be the Gideon Knight, founder of the corporation that had taken the financial world by storm five years ago? If so, he was either exceedingly modest or being cagey with information.
Because KayCee Corp had been more than “successful.” The electronic platform serviced major businesses, helping them track their shares with its top-of-the-line, unrivaled software. They’d recently announced their intentions to branch out and work with companies that were rolling out their initial public offerings. Though Trevor tried to keep Shay securely ensconced in the Social Development branch of RemingtonNeal Inc., their family business, she knew of KayCee Corp. Knew that Trevor desperately longed to acquire it.
Her wig, contacts and glasses concealed her true identity, but she still lifted her fingers to her cheek as if Gideon could see beneath the camouflage. Her throat tightened. Now would be a good time to come clean about who he sat with in the dark. But something held her back. Something, hell... She could identify it even without him searching her soul.
In that ballroom, Gideon Knight had gazed upon her with fascination, admiration...hunger. And he’d had no idea she was Shay Neal, heiress to a global financial empire. Not that she was an ugly duckling in a lake full of swans, but she bore no illusions. Her money, social status and connections were often just as much, if not more, of an allure than her appearance.
But not for him.
Even now, his dark stare roamed her face, lingering on her eyes before drifting over her cheekbones, her jaw, her mouth. Though it belied reason, she swore she could feel his gaze stroke over her skin. An illicit, mysterious, desire-stoking caress.
And here, in the isolated depths of this mansion, she wanted more.
Even if just for a little while.
The cloak of anonymity bestowed her with a gift of boldness—of freedom—she didn’t ordinarily possess.
“I wonder what’s going through your head right now?” he murmured, drawing her from her thoughts. “And would you honestly tell me?”
That would be a no. “Careful, Mr. Knight,” she drawled, tone dry. “You’re beginning to sound a little too Edward Cullen-ish for my comfort.”
“Last time I checked, I didn’t sparkle in the sunlight or age out at eighteen years old. Although I do admit to a little biting. And liking it.”
A blast of heat barreled through her, warring with surprise over his recognition of her Twilight reference. Curling her fingers into her palms, she willed the searing desire to abate, but it continued to burn a path along her veins.
“Still blunt, I see,” she said, and no way could he miss the hoarseness rasping her voice. “You weren’t lying when you claimed not to play games.”