Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77171 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Heat. Desire. Lust.
Fuck. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve had a good lay.
I look away abruptly and step back from the board.
Attraction to Samson Vexley is exactly the kind of complication I don’t need.
He’s a lead. That’s all.
A door.
One I intend to open.
He’s relevant because of who he is. Because of what he might know. Because he stands closer to the center of this than anyone I’ve managed to get near.
That’s it.
Not because of the way he looked at me.
Not because I didn’t walk away.
I close my eyes a moment, try to steady my breathing.
When I open them, my phone lights up on the desk. I reach for it. A text from an unknown number. I tap the screen to open the message.
I shouldn’t have walked away from you.
My pulse jumps, hard enough that I feel it in my throat.
He found me.
Samson Vexley.
Already I know this message is from him.
He noticed me. Did he feel something too?
I should delete it. Block the number. Put distance between myself and whatever this is before it turns into something harder to manage.
Instead, I stand and stare at the screen.
I shouldn’t have walked away from you.
I swallow.
What if he hadn’t walked away?
Already I know the answer. We would have ended up in bed.
And I’d be in more of a fucking mess than I already am.
5
SAMSON
I shouldn’t have walked away from you.
The message shows as delivered. Then read.
Good. She saw it. I wait a little longer to confirm.
She’s not going to answer.
Most people would. Even if only to deflect. A question, a half-answer, anything to keep the line open without giving anything away.
She gives me nothing.
I lean back slightly and let that settle.
She didn’t step back from me last night. Didn’t fill the space with chatter or nerves. She held it.
She’s doing the same thing now.
I pick up the phone again.
Dinner tomorrow. Eight. I’ll send a car.
I don’t ask if she’s free. I don’t ask where she is. I don’t ask for an address.
I send it and set the phone down.
I won’t check it again. If she ignores it, she ignores it.
But she won’t.
The confirmation comes the next evening, though not from her.
From the driver. She got into the limo without comment.
I smile.
I chose an upscale restaurant that isn’t trendy. I don’t need the paparazzi trying to snap photos of Samson Vexley with his new flavor of the week. That’s not what this night is about.
My table is ready. It’s in a back corner with a clear view of the room. I like to be aware of my surroundings without actually being among them.
I sit, keeping my attention to the entryway where the host leads patrons to their tables.
And at eight o’clock on the nose…
In walks Delaney Cross.
Not early. Not late. On time. I respect that. Most women like to be what they call “fashionably late.” In my vernacular, that simply means “late,” which means they don’t respect me or my schedule enough to be prompt.
She pauses behind the host. It’s slight. Most people wouldn’t notice it. A fraction of a second where she doesn’t move forward.
She looks around the room, taking in the other diners, the tables, until her gaze lands on me.
A slow heat builds low in my body. Did she know I’d be watching her? Did she know I’d notice that she looked at everyone and everything else before she looked at me?
I stand as she crosses the room.
“Here you are, Ms. Cross,” the host says.
He begins to pull out her chair, but I shake my head. He bows and leaves while I help Delaney into her seat.
Nothing about her is designed to stand out. Brown hair, loose around her shoulders. No elaborate style to catch attention. It falls where it wants, which is what makes it perfect. It’s the kind of hair most people wouldn’t remember after the fact.
I will.
Her eyes are more silver-gray than blue. Easy to miss if you’re not looking closely.
I am.
Her body follows the same pattern. Tall. Lean. Clean lines. No exaggeration anywhere. The dress skims her frame instead of clinging. It follows the length of her legs, the narrow line of her waist, the soft curve of her chest.
Nothing about her demands attention, not even the silver scales pendant she touches from time to time as if she expects it to disappear.
And still—
I can’t stop looking at her.
It isn’t any one thing. It’s the way everything fits. The way she moves like she belongs exactly where she is, even in a room that isn’t hers. Every subtle thing about her combines in a way to make her strikingly beautiful.
“Thank you, Mr. Vexley,” she says after I push her chair closer to the table, letting my hand linger on her shoulder a little longer than necessary.
Her voice is even, though there’s the faintest shift underneath it if you’re listening for it.