Leila couldn’t help doing the same.
He stood before her in slim black trousers, a white dress shirt in his hands. His strong, muscular chest was bare. She had never seen him in anything but his three-piece suits or a tuxedo, like the one he was in the process of donning, had never seen him looking less than put together, in that controlled way of his, and his current state of déshabillé left her trembling.
He looked like a bronze sculpture in the low light. It took another thousand heartbeats for Leila to process the strong, wide shoulders, the contours of his collarbones, the muscles that put Adonis to shame, the shadows of his flat nipples. Her eyes slipped down to his abdominals, and some distant part of her mind knew that she didn’t need to count . . . the answer was eight, not six.
Oh, Hades.
His black tuxedo trousers were only half-zipped, resting low on his hips. Her heart leaped into her throat and she swallowed hard against her dry mouth. But Valentine didn’t seem to notice her helpless attraction . . . or the way she was spellbound by his dark gaze. By the way it moved over her, from the curls that glowed like sunlight at her crown, disappearing down her back, to her delicate features and sapphire eyes, visible even in the low light . . . over the vintage gold of the bodice that clung to every curve like a lover, before yielding to a sheath of scarlet that hugged her hips and spilled to the floor in a long silk train.
She looked every bit the empress.
Stunningly . . . breathtakingly . . . gloriously beautiful.
How could Valentine not look at her like nothing else existed in this world?
Then he took a step towards her.
Leila’s eyes flashed up to his face.
He took another unhurried step, and, as he approached, slowly slung on the white dress shirt. It hung open on his torso, stark white framing bronze muscles. The air was warm and damp from his shower and the earthy scent of his cologne flooded her brain like opium.
One of Leila’s hands came up, low and tentative, finger curled, as though unsure. But come up it did, and it halted him, two feet away from her.
“What…?” The whispered word emerged softly. She tried again. “What are you doing?”
In answer, he took one more step towards her.
Leila took a corresponding step back. She couldn’t help it; this was so dangerous. But Valentine’s arm snaked around her waist and pulled her forward, erasing her retreat. With this other hand, he gently tucked a wisp of blond behind her ear. Leila almost whimpered, clamping her jaw to stop the sound from escaping.
She didn’t know what was happening.
She was encased in his hold, their bodies inches apart. His fingertips grazed the sensitive shell of her ear, his thumb stroking the plush lobe.
“What…?” Her tentative whisper held a world of confusion.
Then Valentine slowly . . . deliberately . . . took. out. her. earpiece.
Just like that, the arm around her waist loosened and he stepped away.
The moved snapped Leila back to her senses. Somewhat. “Give that back.”
“No.”
Without looking away from her, Valentine’s arm crossed his waist and he slung the earpiece sideways, behind him. She heard it land on his desk and skitter across the wood surface.
Leila’s astonished eyes followed the sound before flicking back to his face.
“I need that.” Her voice was husky, but she no longer sounded confused, thank god. Even if she still felt that way.
“Not tonight.”
“I need it to stay in touch with Ops.”
His dress shirt swung open as he turned away from her, ignoring her words.
“Valentine!” It was the first time Leila had ever uttered his name.
The word halted him, and he looked at her over his shoulder, body tense.
Pressing on, as though it never happened, Leila addressed his profile. “I need comms to do my job.”
After a moment of silence, he responded, “You’ll have to make do.”
“Why?” The word held the barest hint of frustration. Ordinarily, she would never allow it to slip through, but nothing was ordinary tonight.
“The threat level isn’t high, it’s primarily directed towards me, and my condition for accepting personal security was that no one knows about it.” He delivered the words like he was checking items off a list. “That earpiece is a dead giveaway.”
“No one can see it.”
“I saw it.”
“You knew it was there,” she argued. It was true. She always wore her comms.
“So will half the people in the room, who are all used to having security details. An earpiece immediately says that you’re on duty.” He turned to face her. “It defeats the purpose of that dress.”
His eyes skimmed her body and Leila’s heartbeat responded. She tamped down the feeling as best she could.
She wanted to keep arguing. That earpiece was her way to monitor the situation and her early warning system—the way her team would alert her to any threats they detected. But she knew arguing was pointless.
Valentine Kincaid had spoken.
“Tomorrow, I want the budget to buy nano-earbuds.” Although it was a legitimate request, it would be a lie to say that her words weren’t also born of frustration. “They fit so deeply inside the ear that they’re invisible. You need a magnet to get them out.”
“Approved.”
Just like that.
She was unaccountably annoyed at him.
If Leila Rose had an ounce of petulance in her body, and most people had at least that much, it may have—incredibly uncharacteristically—colored her next words. “You don’t know how much they cost.”
“I don’t care.” His words were silky. “Are we done?”
Translation: conversation closed.
Leila looked away mutinously, aware that tonight she had less control of her emotions than usual. Normally, Valentine Kincaid was a glacier and she was an iceberg. All their dealings were carefully cool. Never disrespectful, or wholly impersonal, because even if it was unspoken, there was mutual regard. She knew this not because he was effusive with praise. For him, ‘good job’ was like an oasis in the desert—extraordinary and rare. She’d heard him say it on only two occasions. Once, to a maid who had found a piece of jewelry worth tens of thousands of dollars that belonged to a guest who had lost it weeks earlier, when, had she kept it, no one would have been the wiser, and once to seven-year-old guest who had sneaked up on (not really) and ‘neutralized’ three of Leila’s security team with a super soaker water pistol.
If his praise was cool, his reprimands were icy. Not that Leila had ever been subjected to one—but then, she’d never given him a reason. But when a Seraglio employee got something wrong, and it was because of carelessness or negligence to the like . . . well, the staff called it an ice dissection. Valentine Kincaid eviscerated with cold reprimand.
But when a man like that asked for your opinion and followed it—most of the time—let you do your job the way you saw fit—most of the time—and never tolerated disrespect towards you from anyone—at any time—then the existence of respect became something you knew. Bone deep.
But everything between them had always been cool and controlled.
Until now.
Valentine turned towards his desk and reached out a hand. Leila heard the sound of clinking, like marbles, then he turned to her.
Why-oh-why was he walking towards her again?
Once more, he stopped in front of Leila. So close that his wide shoulders eclipsed everything else. He held out his hand and Leila instinctively raised her own. He dropped something into her palm.
She looked down. It took her a moment to realize that she was holding a metal shirt stud.
What exactly did he expect her to do with it?
She looked up at Valentine’s face.
It was a mistake.
She was an intelligent, strong, capable woman, but with him this close, in a dark room, half-dressed,
feelings that she kept ruthlessly caged were about to break free. Her eyes became lost in grey pools and her hand fisted the metal stud until it bit into her skin.
She couldn’t hold his gaze. He’d see everything.
She dropped her eyes, down over the strong column of his throat, his Adam’s apple, the ridge of his collarbone, following the line of his sternum until her gaze was filled by bronze skin framed by white shirt.
Leila swallowed, and fought an almost overwhelming desire to touch that strip of skin.
She should back away. Leave the room. Let him finish dressing alone.
She for sure should not reach out her hand towards the edge of his shirt.
She for sure should not slip her hand, holding the stud, between that edge and his skin.
But she did.
Leila’s knuckles brushed Valentine’s chest and she trembled. That tiny touch was enough to instill the sensation of strong, silken muscles. The intimate contact made her heart flutter and the tips of her ears feel hot.
For interminable moments, she used both hands to work the onyx stud through the first empty buttonhole, her knuckles softly grazing his skin.
After several moments that seemed to last forever, it was done.
But before she could draw back her hands, Valentine presented her with another onyx stud. Again, she took it without thinking. But this time he placed it in her hand, and, for an instant, his fingertips skimmed her palm and Leila trembled.
Once more, she worked the stud into place, softly, carefully, pretending she was focused on her task and not on those torturous moments when they touched. And so it continued, like a moment outside time, as Leila slowly worked her way down his chest.
Finally, after the fourth stud was secure, her hands dropped to her sides. Other than that, she didn’t move. The moment had woven a spell on her, perhaps on them both, and all the cool complacency that characterized their interactions was absent. In its place was a moment that was shocking in its intimacy, and Leila didn’t know what to do. She was having trouble processing anything other than the new—but irrefutable—knowledge that everything glacial about Valentine Kincaid was a facade.
And this knowledge left her helpless.
She fought against it, with everything she had. It was that fight that made her tip her chin up and utter his words back to him: “Are we done?”
Valentine looked at her as though . . . as though he could divine all her secrets and knew she couldn’t take any more of whatever . . . this . . . was. He took a step back, giving her space.
Leila was both grateful and disappointed, and the dichotomy of those two emotions, fighting for dominance, left no room for anything else. So she simply stood there, watching as Valentine pushed the studs through the buttonholes on the opposite side of his shirt, slowly closing it. The way that he moved, the surety of his actions, slow, methodical . . . it was undeniably masculine.
Then he lowered his trouser zipper and Leila’s breath caught in her throat. But he only tucked in his shirt. The way he did it, though, standing so close to her . . . like he was commanding her to watch.
They were crossing so many lines that she’d lost count. Personnel would have a field day. But what was there to complain about? Leila came to Valentine’s office while he was dressing, and he continued to dress? He dressed too sexily? Her helping him dress—maybe that was grounds. But it wasn’t like Valentine summoned her for that purpose. She’d arrived early.
If Leila had given him back that first onyx stud, that would have been the end of it.
But she hadn’t.
Now, some boundary had been crossed and she was uncertain how to un-cross it.
Worse, she was uncertain whether she wanted to.
How did she know this?
Because she could not take her eyes off him.
Not when he finished tucking in his shirt and zipped and hooked his trousers. Not when he turned and gave her his broad back as he walked to his desk. Not when he put on his shoes. Not when he picked up his cufflinks from the desk and looked at her with a question.
Despite her traitorous eyes, Leila raised her chin mutinously. This time, he could do it himself. She thought a hint of dark amusement crossed his face, but it was gone so quickly that she couldn’t be sure. It only took him a moment to secure the links in place.
Then he turned up his stiff white collar and slung the black bow tie around his neck.
He sent another look her way.
Leila gave a slow, deliberate shake of her head; left . . . then right.
But she still couldn’t look away from where he stood facing her, squarely in front of his desk, impenetrable eyes fixed on her sapphire ones, manipulating the silk into a perfect bow tie with such mastery that he looked like Lucifer dressing for dinner.
Leila knew instantly that this man was as equally competent in the art of inserting shirt studs and cufflinks. Knew that he didn’t need her help at all, no matter that he kept asking for it. Without ever saying a word.
Once the bow tie was done—when had one ever looked so sinful?—he donned a minimal black vest that emphasized his height and the strong lines of his torso. Then he crossed to the corner by the en suite and took his black tuxedo jacket from the valet stand. As he walked towards her, he casually shrugged it on—as though he’d done it a thousand times—deftly securing the button at his waist.
Damn him.
Valentine removed something from his desk as he passed, but it was hidden from her view. It was only when he stopped in front of Leila and extended his hand that she saw what he held.
A red rose.
Leila looked at the offending bud. Its petals had just begun to open.
For long moments he offered it to her, but she didn’t respond.
So long, that by all rights, he should have given up.
But he didn’t.
He just waited . . . for her to say no, the way she had with the cufflinks and the bowtie, or to take it from him.
Leila raised hooded sapphire eyes to meet his dark gaze, as though searching for something.
An eternity passed.
Then another.
Finally, she took the rose.
From the moment when she first entered Sanctum, Leila had not moved from her place by the door, in that pocket of golden light.
Now that changed.
She stepped forward, into the shadow of his body. Closer than she’d yet been. She reached up, hands resting on the black silk of his lapel, and slipped the rose into place.
“Thread the stem through the loop at the back.” His quiet command broke the silence, and Leila resisted the compulsion to find his eyes. Tipping her face up to his would be far too dangerous. Instead, she concentrated on controlling the deep rise and fall of her chest and securing the rose over his heart.
The instant she was done, she stepped back.
Her gaze traversed his body and she worked hard to control her reaction, to ensure that it wasn’t visible even though she felt it over every inch of her skin. The bespoke tuxedo emphasized his masculine strength and beauty, and he wore it like it was second nature. In that instant, Leila realized there was nothing sexier on this earth than Valentine Kincaid in a tuxedo.
She turned her face away.
The image of him when she first entered the room flashed across her mind and she instantly revised her assessment. How could she have forgotten what he looked like in only half a tux? And he’d gone from sexy dishevelment to urbane sophistication in less time than it took her to walk from the penthouse to Sanctum.
Valentine Kincaid was breaking the rules.
The mutually unspoken but understood rules.
And Leila had no idea what to do about it.
5
Leila walked beside Valentine along the softly lit corridor that led from Sanctum and the other executive offices to Atrium. He paused at the lobby threshold and Leila stilled beside him. She’d been avoiding his gaze, but now she glanced up to see why he stopped.
> She found him looking down at her. When she met his eyes, he tipped his chin. Leila followed the motion to see him offering her his arm. She flicked her eyes back up and found his still on her face.
She was on the verge of hating that penetrating gaze.
Leila looked away, through the arched opening ahead of them, steeled her jaw and curled her hand lightly around his arm.
Then everything changed.
Normally, when they walked side by side while inspecting the hotel, distance separated them. It was the General Manager accompanied by the Chief of Security. The moment she took his arm and they walked into the lobby, that distance was gone.
Now, Leila Rose was being escorted by Valentine Kincaid.
It felt so right it scared her.
She didn’t know what to do with that feeling, as she hadn’t with so many things tonight.
They crossed the cavernous lobby, past massive marble pillars and priceless artworks, under the stained-glass ceiling and crystal chandeliers, in front of the openly staring front desk staff.
Even their footsteps on the marble sounded right together.
Before she was ready, they reached the threshold to the ballroom.
Valentine paused, as though giving Leila a moment to gather herself before they entered.
She dragged in a deep breath, the vintage gold of her bodice following the rise and fall of her breastbone. Then she turned to the security officer stationed discreetly beside the palatial arches. “Tell Lee Hyun-Woo I’m off comms.” She knew her second in command would adjust accordingly.
Then she looked up at Valentine Kincaid and nodded, unsure what would come next.
6
Stepping into the Aşk was like stepping into another world.
A lush, redolent, sensuous world of soft gleaming gold and deep vibrant silk.
The grand entrance that Valentine escorted Leila through led to a landing at the top of a magnificent imperial staircase, with divided marble flights of stairs leading down from each side, curving symmetrically to meet at a gilded half-landing before continuing into a lower flight of wider steps that trumpeted out at the base.
Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart Page 89
