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  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 say in the matter. Without a single word, he pulled the wineglass free from my hand and set it on the bar. I said nothing, trapped in his spell.

  He took my hand and pulled me 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 that 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, damn it, I was going to tell him just that—as soon as I could form a coherent sentence again.

  Chapter 13

  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 the moment the plane crossed into domestic airspace, stating I’d need my tuxedo as soon as we touched down. Though Alfred had agreed and had been 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. Damn it, 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 artfully draped into a one-shouldered bodice that nipped against her waist and 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 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 know 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 exotic spices. 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 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 and 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 le
ast 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, damn it.”

  “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?”

  “I’m leaving. Good night, Killian.”

  Her retort was more a seethe, retightening my tension level. Was I ever going to solve the Rubik’s Cube of this woman again? Though I inhaled deeply to temper my own tone, it was impossible to wean all my frustration from it. I followed her retreating figure into the lobby as she waited in front to the elevator bank. Just as I caught up to her the door to an available car opened, and I stepped in with her, capturing her once again. The air was heavy with our breaths, the anxiety between us higher than ever before.

  I bit the bullet. Kissed her into silence. It wasn’t a move of passion—it was a smack of anger, and she all but spat at me in the seconds after. I answered her with a small, one-sided smirk. “Claire, my sweet, you taste like Häagen-Dazs.”

  She glared. “What?”

  “Yep. At least a few quarts. Probably an exotic flavor to remind you of home, like piña colada. You’d never go for chocolate if you wanted to wallow in a really good mope.”

  She shoved against my chest and then spun to the button panel and punched the number for a random floor, escape the only thing on her mind. “What are you even talking about? This conversation is over. This, Killian, is over.”

  I moved up behind her, even more calm and confident in my steps—yet never more invigorated in my life. “So you’re acknowledging there’s a ‘this’?”

  “No!” she shot. Relief sagged her shoulders when the doors slid open. “I don’t know what I’m—” She jolted to a stop, her gown swishing around her legs, her head dropping into her hands. “Damn it, don’t you understand?” She laughed bitterly before muttering, “Of course you don’t. How could someone like you possibly comprehend the terror I feel every time—”

  “What?”

  I whipped around to stand in front of her again. So much for feeling in control. She stripped that shit from me the moment tears encroached on her voice. All of them sparkled in her eyes when she raised her face toward me again and confessed in a little rasp, “Every time I look at you and feel all the things that I do.”

  I was really going for the idiot punch card tonight. Ten paralyzed silences and you got a free smoothie with your next visit to Moron-land. But I had no idea how to process what she’d just confessed with such precious, honest simplicity. I hadn’t shaken it, kissed it, or aroused it out of her—so now it turned around and smacked my ass with pure shock. And when I should’ve been taking elated advantage of it, I stood there like a dumbfuck while she burst with an anguished sob, sidestepped me, and ran out to the terrace.

  The Shanghai Terrace was one of the city’s most popular open-air restaurants, with its trendy Asian vibe, but had closed early tonight, likely because of the brisk spring wind now whipping at the red drapes on the four-poster couches positioned across the patio. I barely noticed the gusts as I followed her—fuck it, chased her—and caught her by the elbow, slamming her against me once more.

  “Tell me,” I demanded, lowering my face inches above hers. I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t need to. She knew what I demanded—and that I wouldn’t let go until she’d surrendered the words. The certainty of that knowledge glistened in her eyes. And the dread.

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t, Killian. Please—”

  “Why?” I heard the vicious bite in my growl and didn’t care. She’d talked about secrets during the hour that had changed everything, back on the tarmac at Midway. I followed instinct in chasing that subject now. “Is it Andrea?” I charged. “Margaux? Do they have something on you? I can
protect you, Claire. You just have to—”

  “No.” She struggled again, but I had her by the waist now, resolute against making the mistake of letting her go again. “No. That’s only the start of it, okay?” She squeezed her eyes shut, releasing tears down her cheeks. “God! If that were all there was to this now. If only—”

  “What?” I demanded when she didn’t fill that telling pause. “If only what, Claire?”

  She drew in a shaky breath. “If only I hadn’t gone to you in the plane. Or answered the phone when you called last week…” Wind rushed across the terrace, pulling thick strands of her hair out of its twist, tangling with the tear tracks across her high cheeks. “And stopped myself from getting lost in you. Giving too much of myself away to you.”

  I caressed a hand up her face. Dropped my forehead to hers. She felt so damn good in my grasp—her body tiny and sheltered by mine. So perfect. So right. “Why is that a bad thing?”

  She reached up too, trying to push my hand away. But after a second of hesitation, she meshed her grip into mine instead. “When is being lost a good thing?”

  The wind blew stronger. I didn’t need a second sign. If the elements themselves were letting go of doubt and inhibition, then I was ready too. “If I’ve got to walk away from you, then I never want to be found again.”

  Her face turned up. So did her lips. Her stare, glowing like illuminated amber, seeped warmth and completion through me. “Oh, Killian…” She murmured it like a chastisement but rose up on tiptoe in a gesture of entreaty. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  I had no idea who kissed who first, nor did I care. With the fusion of our mouths, I finally had fulfillment for my soul. I clutched her body tightly, letting my fingers press into the flesh exposed by her gown’s scooped back, rejoicing as her arms slipped beneath my jacket and found my nape and scalp.