by Angel Payne
Have to get away.
I didn’t look back. If I did, there’d even be something about that damn door that evoked Killian, ready to mock me.
Have to get away.
I was in uncharted emotional territory but certain this was the approach to a meltdown. I had to escape. The floors, the walls, the pillars, the building. His building. Watching me. Caging me. Taunting me.
Have to get away!
“Good evening, Miss Montgomery.”
I jumped as a hand descended to my shoulder. All of SGC’s doormen had come to know us all from our daily comings and goings. “H-hi, Walter.”
“Hang tight just a moment. I’ll have the car brought up.”
“No.” I battled to summon a smile. “Thanks but not tonight.”
“You trying to get me fired? You know what Mr. Stone says about you going home unescorted.”
Shit. He had to go and do it. Speak the man’s name aloud. Call to life every reason, from Margaux’s blackmail to my own churning heart, why I could hardly call any breath my own anymore.
The golf ball in my throat gave way to a hunk of glass-covered granite. Tears pushed at the backs of my eyes.
“I’m all right.” The waterworks broke through as I yelled it over my shoulder, racing down the stairs to the sidewalk. “Good night, Walter!”
Out on the street, I quickly blended in with the crowd, grateful as hell for every drop in the human ocean. I fell in step with the late commuters and started walking toward our hotel, setting my mind on recovering my clarity and self-control, hoping lucidity wouldn’t be too far behind. In, out. In, out. I filled my lungs with each breath, inserting a mental chill, brah after each cycle. Chad would’ve been proud.
I resolved to have a balanced dinner at the hotel, then focus on sleeping well tonight. I was worn down, and this unnatural “thing” for Killian had made it worse. I’d just stared into a horrible darkness, and never wanted to revisit that place again.
I was done with Killian Jamison Stone.
Officially, completely, agonizingly, done.
The bustle of the city boosted my confidence. Lively music played from street-level shops. Savory food aromas, representing cultures from across the globe, wafted out from eateries. People around me laughed and swore and yelled. Car horns blasted as traffic rules were bent and broken.
I kept walking, determined to keep my promise. I smiled at a little boy holding an Elmo plush in one hand, his mom’s hand in the other. Took a deep breath of curry-infused air, deciding Indian might be good for dinner.
This was good. Two minutes in. I was doing all right. I could do this. He-who-wouldn’t-be-thought-of remained that way.
I kept walking. Even as a sleek town car swooped to the curb.
A pair of sharp honks cut the air. The town car’s driver had cut off two cars. Their drivers followed with a couple of impressive flip-offs. The town car remained still and impervious, now flashing its hazards, a high-class version of the flip-off. Making nice was definitely not part of that driver’s mission.
I would’ve laughed at the whole scenario, except for the panic that rushed back in the space of three seconds.
The moments it took for me to focus on the vehicle’s damn license plate.
“No,” I snarled beneath my breath.
Had my blissful bubble been too thick to notice it? Clearly, the answer was yes. Clearly, it didn’t have to matter. I could just keep walking. Yes. I’d already vowed not to be this man’s puppet. I couldn’t return to that alarm, that suffocation, that aching, awful need that I’d felt three blocks before, in the heart of the Stone empire’s castle. Forget it. This time, if the man wanted to threaten sending me back to San Diego, he could do just that.
The town car’s back door flung open. Sure enough, Killian Stone unfolded onto the sidewalk. Charcoal suit. Crimson tie. Endless limbs. Proud stance. Penetrating gaze.
Glorious.
Dammit.
I stopped walking. So did over half the women on the sidewalk. Heat curled through me all over again, this time with a not-so-nice possessive streak. What the hell?
He gave me one stare. One. Then simply stood with the car door open.
I rigidly stood my ground. I was not going to do this. My vow was only ten minutes old, and now fate wanted me to climb into a confined space with that man?
That mind-blowing, thought-stealing, logic-altering, man…
Who tilted his head to one side, silently ordering me in.
Chicago whirled and bustled around us. Couldn’t they see the ground tilting beneath me, the sky careening, my world shifting?
He walked toward me. Correction: prowled toward me. My eyes widened. With what? Fear?
No.
Arousal?
Nailed it.
He was sexual prowess on two legs. It was both rapture and torture to watch him. As he strode closer, I found myself hypnotized by the flexes of his thighs alone. I tried stepping back, but the crowd trapped me now. A couple of pedestrians bumped me, swearing as they passed. That didn’t ease Killian’s tension level.
“Claire.” His voice was a harsh warning. I battled to ignore him, whipping my head side to side, but my pounding heart led my gaze back to him. Marvelous. Our cat and mouse act had me so jacked up, I didn’t know whether to stay or run—a perfect summation of the last three weeks.
Men on the street stopped with their women now, mere feet from where I’d obviously grown roots. Many pointed and whispered as they recognized Killian.
“Claire.” He used a stricter tone.
“What?” So did I.
A pulse ticked in his jaw. He took a long breath before walking over and gently pulling on my elbow. When he spoke again, his voice was only loud enough for my ears. “Beautiful fairy…come get in the car.”
Wisely, he followed it with a nervous glance. In the end, I didn’t care. I jerked away and slammed my glare to his face. “You do not get to call me that. Ever. Are we clear, Mr. Stone?”
His features hardened to the texture of the sidewalk again. The effect wasn’t softened by the single chunk of black hair that the wind pushed across his forehead. “Get in the car and we’ll discuss—”
“No. We won’t ‘discuss.’ There’s nothing to debate except for the fact that I’d rather walk five miles in these,” —I stabbed a finger at my four-inch Manolo Blahnik peep-toes— “than get in that car with you.”
“Claire.” His eyes turned the color of hurricanes. “Dammit!”
“What the hell are you doing, anyway? Stalking me?”
“I arrived at the lobby right after you,” he growled. “Walter mentioned that you were crying, so—”
“I wasn’t crying.”
“The hell you weren’t.”
“I wasn’t crying.”
He brought a finger beneath my chin. Given the brutality of his tone, his tender tug was a surprise.
Once my face was high, the black probes of his gaze awaited mine. Hell. His eyes pulled me apart from the inside out. I swallowed as he shifted closer, consuming the last space between us. A sizeable crowd had collected, and thankfully one of us had the sense to squash the dramatics. He leaned in so his lips brushed against my ear.
“Get in the car, Claire, or you’ll be cleaning up your own mess by morning. I’m not here to hurt; I’m here to help. What part am I not making clear?”
He backed away by a steady step, then another. God, he was gorgeous.
He was also right.
More stupefied than ever, I finally relented. Before I climbed in with my purse, I let him stow my briefcase in the trunk.
Silence stretched as the car moved into traffic again. That was just fabulous by me. I never communicated well when I was furious, and despite his attempt at playing gentleman on the street, anger percolated in my blood. I crossed my arms and looked out the window, unable to fully pick apart the feeling. Was I more pissed at his high-handed move, or that it had instantly turned me on?
“You ne
ver should’ve—”
“What the hell were you—”
We fired our attacks at the same time. Killian swept out a hand, palm up. “Ladies first.”
Self-righteous bastard.
“By all means,” I crooned, “after you. That’s what you’re used to, right?”
He blew out a harsh breath. The gravel beneath his reply was just as stark. “Miss Montgomery, I’m so far out of familiar territory with you, it scares the hell out of me.”
I forced myself to peer out the window again. His words were as beautiful and riveting as his face.
I couldn’t fall prey to either.
It had been less than an hour since I hung up with Dad. The pride in his voice still warmed my soul. How proud would he still be of a daughter he had to visit in jail once a month? And what would Killian do if he found out? Player or not—and the more I researched him, the more I was convinced of the latter—the man wouldn’t think twice about cutting ties to another potential scandal for his family.
About cutting me.
I twisted my arms again, battling the tightness in my throat, the exhaustion in my body, and the turmoil in my mind. I lost the skirmish. Everything piled up in one awful moment. Tears welled, traitorous and hot, threatening to spill down my cheeks. I gritted my teeth against the attack.
I felt the padded leather dip as he slid closer, making me plaster myself to the wall of the car. His starched handkerchief came into my vision. I wordlessly accepted it.
Embarrassment surged. If anyone on the street had caught my behavior on a cell phone, he and I would be all over the internet in fifteen minutes. Had I thought about that at all? Of course not. Because when this man zeroed all his attention on me, I couldn’t function beyond the mental capacity of a Barney the Dinosaur special. “I’m—I’m sorry,” I stammered, “for the drama queen antics. The ambush? Still not okay. But neither was my stab at Sarah Bernhardt’ing the reaction.” It killed me to finish. “If—if you want to release me from the team, it’s okay.”
A warm hand scooped mine up. “No.”
I dared a glance at him. “No?”
“No, I’m not letting you go.” His grip tightened a little. If it was possible, his gaze darkened. “Because I’m just as sorry.”
“Huh?”
I raised my face to study him more intently. A smile tugged his lips. I stared harder. I’d never seen such a change in him before. It was as if a soft focus filter got thrown over our interaction. The whole effect made me woozy, without the pleasure of the wine beforehand. I would’ve felt gypped, except the new look transformed him, Mr. Darcy style, from brooding and stunning into approachable…and remarkable.
“Finally,” he murmured, “you’ll look at me.”
My mouth remained open. “I’m trying to figure out why you’re apologizing.”
He brought his other hand up so he could flatten mine, engulfing my fingers between his long, strong ones. Despite his confident hold, his smile descended into a subtle grimace. “You were right. About the nickname. Using it on you was out of line. You weren’t the only one working through a little tension out on the sidewalk.” He took a deep breath through my stunned silence. He’d been stressed back there, too? “When Walter told me you’d been crying, all I could think about were those tears blurring your vision while you tried tromping down the street in those heels, and—”
“I don’t tromp.”
“But you did share that story about your mother with me. I treasured that night, Claire. Every moment of it. You trusted me with that information, with your secrets. I don’t take that kind of trust lightly.” His head dipped a little. “I sure as hell never meant to abuse it.”
I had no idea what to say. How to react. My mystification became utter shock as he opened his grip, exposing my hand before lifting it to his mouth. As he touched his lips to my knuckles, I shivered beneath waves of both hot and cold. He lingered over my flesh, his plea for forgiveness turning into an urgent appeal for more.
I yanked my hand back into my lap.
Who was this guy, and what had he done with the controlling sonofabitch who normally occupied Killian Stone’s skin? My brows bunched. Black, white. On again, off again. Loki then Thor. This game was worse than any I’d ever had to play with the media, the most capricious gang of double-talkers in the universe. I couldn’t do it anymore. Not with him. Not when my heart was the damn playing field.
I was throwing in the towel. In this case, the handkerchief. I flung the white square while crawling forward to knock on the divider between us and the driver.
“Please pull over and let me out,” I called.
“Dammit, Claire. Stop!”
“No, Killian. You stop.” My temper, in all its blazing Irish glory, was ready for this shit now. “What part of stop do you just not get?”
His fist wadded into the handkerchief. He glared back with eyes that actually flashed at me, onyx ignited. “What the fuck are you—”
“Exactly. You have no damn idea what I’m talking about, do you?” I crumpled to the floor of the car, my knees beneath me. “I want off your crazy ride, Stone.” My voice broke and I didn’t care. “Please, please don’t tell me you’re ‘lost’ about this, because you’re not. For the last three weeks, you’ve taken me to the strangest carnival of my life. Every day, sometimes every hour, is a different damn experience. Every time I turn a corner, I never know what to prepare for—and whether I’ll be racing to get in line for another spin or dashing to the trash barrel to barf my guts out.”
His jaw tensed. The glints in his eyes got sharper. “And it’s all my fault?”
“No,” I admitted. “It’s not all your fault. I’m the one tied into the big, screwy knot, after all.”
“Why?”
“You don’t see?” I answered his silent scowl by throwing up my hands. “You really don’t see how I have to bust my ass to prove myself on this team? That even though I was hired for my talent and not my dad, everyone now assumes I’ll free-skate because he’s engaged to the boss? And gee, get this: I’m this weirdo who thinks my dad should have happiness now, after sacrificing so much for his only daughter. I think that if he wants to be in love with Andrea Asher, Lord help him, that he should have that gift, even if it means I’ve got to work three times harder than everyone else.”
“I do see that,” he stated.
“All right, then listen to this. What I haven’t needed in this house of mirrors is the extra sugar high. Do you get that? I’m having enough trouble keeping my balance without all the extra temptation of lust and fantasies, courtesy of the man at the top of the food chain. Thanks to you, I seriously don’t know whether I’m coming or going, backward or forward—”
I interrupted myself with a huff as a wolfish smile spread across his face. What was the man up to now?
“Lust?” he drawled. “And fantasies?”
I dropped my head into my hands. “Why is this car still moving? Goddammit, Killian, let me out or I’ll call nine-one-one and tell them I’m being held against my will.”
I yanked my phone out and swiped the screen.
Killian pulled it from my grip and slipped it to the ledge behind his head.
In its place, he gave me a perfectly-chilled glass of Chardonnay.
I fought against the temptation by fuming harder. “This is not letting me out.”
“Traffic is heavy. We can’t just pull over. Calm down and take a sip. Being this upset isn’t good for you—or me.”
I hated waving good-bye to the kinder, gentler Killian, but at least I knew this arrogant bastard. “Thanks for the advice, Daddy.”
He barely flinched. “You have a father, Claire. I’m not him.”
Ahhh. No flinch, because he saved all the bark for his voice. I’d earned the wrath this time, so I took a sip of wine as an olive branch. I recognized the flavor the moment it crossed my lips, but I didn’t want to let on. It was one of my favorite vintages from one of the wineries in Temecula. Did the man norm
ally have the car stocked with Temecula wine or was this a recent thing…as in the last three weeks?
It was best I didn’t know that answer. It was really best I didn’t drink anymore, or let the vintage’s buttery warmth slide deeper through my veins. I wanted—needed—to stay pissed at him. Damn. Why did he do this to me? Press all my buttons at once?
I reverted to habit. Closed my eyes and began counting backwards from ten.
“What are you doing?” Killian’s voice was soft.
“Trying to calm down.”
I kept counting. Four. Three. Two. One. When I opened my eyes, it was to see him shucking his Armani jacket before settling back in front of me.
“Did it work?”
“Did what work?” I snapped.
“Are you calmed down?” A smile spread across his lips. Crap. It was that smile, the one Lucifer himself had taught the man. He loosened his tie, another move that screamed player, but my libido refused to see or hear all the warning signs. She was too busy harmonizing with the devil behind his smirk. Traitorous bitch.
I set my wine back in the car’s holder. Slammed my hands against both my thighs, trying to ignore that I was on my knees, on the floor of the Stone Global town car, at the feet of the company’s chiseled demigod of a CEO—and fighting to ignore the obsidian depths of his stare, alive with every sinful possibility for the situation.
I clashed with myself, as well. Because my mind flared with all the same scenarios.
“Dammit.” I balled my fists. “What the hell is going on here, Stone?”
He stroked his chin with one graceful, beautiful finger. “That question’s only as complicated as you make it, Miss Montgomery.”
His diplomacy smoothed me out a little more. I welcomed the chance to take a deep breath. “Okay. I think we need to put all our cards on the table.”
“About what?”
“You know what. This. Us. Whatever this all is or isn’t. I just want the truth, so I can get off this Tilt-A-Whirl and stop making an ass out of myself on a daily basis.”
He slipped that mesmerizing finger to his lips. “I agree.”
