by Nikki Sloane
Macalister and I had a lot in common. He knew more about me than anyone else in the world.
And he’d told me I was more than enough.
Those damned dots blinked and disappeared. Once again, he was having difficulty composing a response. I started to write a follow-up to downplay it, but the dots returned, cycling through until his message was delivered.
Macalister: I am surprised. Your aim is usually impeccable.
I slowed and stared dubiously at the screen. Was this why he’d hesitated? So he could make a joke? I furiously punched my thumbs on the screen, tapping out my question, but before I could send it, his next message rolled through.
Macalister: I missed you as well. Looking forward to seeing you tonight.
I nearly dropped the phone in my excitement.
Opulent gold leaf work decorated the arches of the cathedral ceiling in the lobby of the Boston Opera Theatre. The red damask wallpaper was full of old-world drama. Black carpet with matching gold scrolls covered the marble staircase that led up to the balcony, and overhead, a three-tiered crystal chandelier hung, looking as old and beautiful as Boston itself.
I hadn’t been to the theatre in years, and not since they’d restored it to its original grandeur, but growing up, I had adored musicals. The revitalized space took my breath away. It was perfect at setting the mood too. The best shows could take you to a different world, and this lobby was the holding area to start that transition. I already felt like I was somewhere new and surreal.
The cavernous room was full, with most guests enjoying a cocktail before heading inside to find their seats. I went to the bar, ordered a glass of white wine, and snapped a few pics for Instagram while waiting for Macalister and Evangeline to arrive.
There weren’t many faces I recognized as I surveyed the crowd. I had a few friends who’d take any excuse to dress up and try to make the society pages, but it wasn’t likely there were many photographers here at an opera premiere hoping to catch a glimpse of celebrities.
Wait . . . was that Richard Shaunessy?
He was the last person I would have expected to like the opera, but then Blythe Andrews appeared at his side, carrying two drinks, and passed one to him. That made sense. She’d been a big theatre freak in high school and tried to make it in New York for a time, but it hadn’t worked out. I hadn’t heard they were dating yet, which meant this was probably their first time.
She was way too pretty and nice for him, but I smiled to myself. I bet she knew what she was doing. She’d wrangled a date out of him to this black-tie opera premiere because she wanted to go . . . not because she wanted to spend time with cokehead Richard.
“Sophia,” came a deep, familiar voice from behind me.
Looking forward to seeing you tonight.
I wanted to shiver but commanded my shoulders not to move. Macalister had told me there was nothing between him and Evangeline, but I still had to mentally prepare myself for a long night of them looking like a couple.
He’d always looked good in a tux. It was the same classic one he usually wore with a black bowtie and white shirt with pleats and a line of black buttons down the front. His ice-colored eyes skated down my body from head to toe, taking in my dress. He’d seen it earlier—I’d texted him a picture of the one-shoulder dress that was such a soft pink, in certain lighting it looked white. It had an oversized bow on the shoulder, one large loop of it dropping down over my front. The skirt was A-line and had a slit all the way to my hip, but it was unlikely anyone would catch the band of white lace on my underwear there.
I’d already shown it to the one person I wanted to see.
I felt amazing in this dress, and a big part of it was the way Macalister was looking at me. Which he shouldn’t be, even as it made me dizzy and my heart beat faster. “Where’s Evangeline?”
“She messaged when I was on my way to pick her up. She’s ill.”
“Oh, no. She’s not coming?”
His eyes didn’t reveal whatever he was thinking. “No. You will take her place and join me in the box.”
A thrill flashed through me, and I clutched my wine tighter, hoping my eagerness didn’t show. The boxes were on the same level as the balcony, meaning the people inside were often visible to much of the audience. I dropped my voice and glanced around. “You think that’s okay?”
He gave a pointed stare. “I won’t sit by myself.”
He was right; it would look strange to see him there all alone. I swallowed thickly, keeping an even tone while my insides raced with excitement. “All right.”
The theatre itself was just as beautiful as the lobby had been. Gold filigree and ornate plasterwork decorated the arch over the black stage. The rich red curtain was trimmed in gold fringe and draped closed across the stage.
The box was its own separate balcony, and the two armchairs in it were wide, with low backs and the cushions covered in plush red velvet. The chairs angled toward the front, and as I took the seat to Macalister’s left, I felt like I was on stage. Rather than sing to the audience from the balcony like Eva Perón, I looked down at the playbill in my hand.
“What language is this opera in?” Macalister asked as he unbuttoned his tuxedo jacket and lowered in his chair.
“English. It’s a modern opera that premiered in Chicago, and they’ve been trying to bring it here for a while. Your grant made that possible.”
There was an edge of relief in his eyes. He was glad it’d be in a language he understood. “I wasn’t aware opera could be in English. I thought those were musicals.”
I shrugged. “I thought so too, but no.”
When we went quiet, I plucked up my wine and took a sip. I was so fucking nervous, I thought I’d explode, and it was stupid. How many mornings had we been alone in his office discussing secrets? Sure, we’d sat across from each other, rather than together, and we’d been wearing business clothes rather than black-tie, but . . .
And—oh, yeah—we’d kissed a bunch of times and he’d seen me naked and brought me to orgasm.
This isn’t a date. No matter how much it feels like one.
I wanted the show to start so it’d distract from this uncomfortable longing. I pressed my lips to my wineglass and stole a glance at him, only to discover he was staring at me, the open playbill in his lap ignored.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered.
His forehead wrinkled with confusion. “Nothing.”
“Then why are you looking at me?”
His jaw clenched, only long enough to give me a sexy flash of it. “I enjoy looking at you. Have I not made that clear?”
My skin went hot as sparks coasted down me. “Oh.”
I wanted to tell him it was the same for me, but the lights dimmed, the orchestra began, and the curtain lifted, silencing us.
The production was completely different than what I had expected. The only opera I’d ever seen were the flashes of it in movies. A fixed stage with overly made-up women in big gowns standing in the center and belting out high notes in Italian.
Villain opened with a sparse stage and a chorus of young women in contemporary clothes. The music and story were dark and twisted, about a woman sold by her father into marriage to a terrifying rival. Hellbent on getting her revenge, she seduced her new husband and convinced him they should kill her father but fell in love with her husband in the process.
The set design was amazing. I wanted to take a million pictures and post them on Instagram, and slave over the images. The way they could paint the scene with just a few key pieces blew me away, and I was riveted. Macalister was too. At the intermission, he admitted he was enjoying it.
It was sexy too. The scene of the woman’s seduction was provocative and made my breathing go shallow. The chemistry between the leads was sizzling.
Perhaps it was in my nature to always fall for the bad guy, who I believed was secretly good, because during the climactic end sequence, the husband was wounded badly, and
the wife’s emotional song as he lay dying cut my heart in two. I was right there beside her, asking for the devil to spare his life and let him live.
Tears trickled down my face, but I didn’t move to wipe them away, not wanting to call attention to them. My hand was tense on my armrest, itching to move, but I refrained.
Macalister’s cold fingers were abruptly on mine, pulling my hand down between our chairs.
I flinched in surprise, causing a tear to shake loose from my cheek and drip down my neck. We were alone in the box, and no one could see what he’d done, nor could they see how I turned my hand beneath his and laced our fingers together.
At first, I thought he’d done it solely to comfort me, and I had to take air into my body in controlled sips. But my mind was distracted by the woman on stage singing about how the love of her life was dying, and my heart broke further.
Macalister had probably held the love of his life in his arms while she was dying.
Had he taken my hand to find comfort with me as well?
I tightened my grip, and he answered in kind.
A cold, fluttery panic slipped inside me, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. I was already dumb enough that I’d developed feelings for him and gotten too attached. I could not be stupid enough to fall in love with Macalister.
He’d been married twice before. He’d killed his last wife—possibly the first one too, if my mother’s friends were to be believed. He was sure he was cursed.
All of that, yet I didn’t want the show playing out on the stage to end. I swore in my head as the actors gathered and sang the final grand reprise. No matter how beautiful or powerful it was, it wasn’t going to last forever, and I wanted this moment to. The world needed to stop turning so it was just me and him together, our hands linked in this real connection, and I worried that once it was severed, we’d never get it back.
While the rest of the theatre watched the stage, I turned to look at him with my face still wet with tears and glimpsed a sight I never thought I’d witness. Macalister with his guard down. He was stripped bare of his bravado, becoming just a man who struggled to hide all he was feeling.
He was devastatingly handsome, but even more so when he was human and stared back at me like he had the same worry. He didn’t want to fall in love with me.
The audience below was already on their feet at the final note, clapping and whistling their praise, and when the curtain fell, we were out of time. The tension went out of his fingers as he drew away, our hands parting, and I choked back the noise of loss that threatened to escape.
When I’d read the name Oksana Markovic as the composer in my playbill earlier, I’d expected an older Russian woman with a hard look in her eyes, but holy shit, this woman was young and stunning. She’d come out with her husband from Chicago for opening night, and when she learned I was Macalister Hale’s assistant, she asked if I could introduce her, so she could thank him for making this possible.
I’d done that, and now he was somewhere in the crowded lobby, which was hosting the afterparty. Cast members still in costume floated around with the guests and celebrated their success. Erika Scoffield had come over to me early on, taking pictures and chatting before moving on to work the room and visit with other donors. She’d played the lead’s sister, and had been great in it, but I couldn’t help but wonder . . . Did she know how she’d gotten the role?
Her father did. He’d thanked Macalister soon after she’d landed the part, so I’d bet she did.
My hand still tingled from where Macalister had taken hold of me, like part of him hadn’t left. God, I was in trouble. My head swam with thoughts of him, even when there wasn’t a vibrator between my legs.
As I left the bathroom, I forced myself to take small, even steps so as not to run back to him, but my slow stroll had a distinct disadvantage. It allowed Richard Shaunessy to step into my path.
“Sophia.” He looked at me like a prize he’d discovered at the bottom of a cereal box.
“Richard,” I answered politely.
He walked toward me as he spoke, radiating frantic energy. His eyes were overly bright and his smile too wide, so I was pretty sure he’d just finished doing a few lines in the bathroom.
“Some show, huh?” He invaded my space, forcing me to take a step back. “I thought this was going to be fucking awful when Blythe dragged me along, but it was actually kind of good.” His gaze dipped down, lingering over my dress like he wanted to get inside it.
He moved closer, and again I put distance between us. “Speaking of Blythe, where is she?”
“I dunno.” He made half an effort to glance around. “Probably talking to Erika or some shit. They’re, like, inseparable.”
“Oh, yeah.” That made sense. They were both into theatre. “Wasn’t she great?”
Richard took another step, bringing him so close it pushed all the air around us away. “Not as great as that dress you’re wearing.”
At first, I’d thought he was just high and dumb, too excitable to pick up on my signs that I didn’t like his proximity, but I was wrong. He understood exactly what he was doing, how he was pushing me deeper down the hallway and separating me from the pack of people.
Shit, there was nothing worse than an overly confident, entitled man. He thought I owed him my body and my attention. How many times were we going to have this conversation?
At least once more, apparently. I sighed. “Thanks, but can you—like—not?”
“Not what?” He faked innocence, but his smile was playful. “Not tell you that you’re even hotter than when we were in high school?” He gave up being subtle on his approach, driving me backward in the empty hall. “Not tell you I’ve got a penthouse with huge windows and bay views, and I want to fuck you against them?”
I stepped to the side, but my attempt to outmaneuver him didn’t work. He hooked an arm around my waist and pulled me stumbling into his arms.
Macalister’s voice was loud in my head, and I echoed his angry words. “I didn’t give you permission to touch me.”
Richard let out a short laugh, either not believing I was serious, or not thinking this was a big deal. “Come on,” he whined, “don’t be like that. Why can’t we have some fun together?”
“Because I’m not interested, Richard, and if you don’t—”
His expression soured. “What’s the problem? My dick might not be black, but I promise it’s still big enough to get you off.”
Holy fuck, he went there.
“Wow,” I said. “What a racist thing to say.” A cruel, joyless smile spread across my face like wildfire and burned a million degrees hotter than one. “And about your dick size—that’s not what I’ve heard.” He went stiff, but his eyes flooded with doubt, and I wanted to destroy it. “You know women talk to each other, right? Like Julie Sheehan, and Francine Clarke . . . and Marist Hale.”
Marist had never said as much to me, but it was an educated guess. She’d gone to prom with Richard as “friends,” and he’d bragged how she’d come on to him in the limo, but him—being the gentleman he clearly was—turned her down. There was a lingering awkwardness between them ever since, too strong to be a simple rejection from either side.
Plus, Royce hated him.
The fear that spilled across Richard’s face told me I’d hit my mark, and my evil smile widened. But hyperawareness pricked like needles on my skin. I sensed Macalister’s arctic gaze on me before I recognized it. He stood at entrance to the wide hallway, one hand on his hip and the other hung at his side, clenched tightly in a fist.
I tried to imagine what this looked like to him. Richard’s arm was still around my waist and I was smiling at him, and Macalister was probably too far away to read the viciousness in my eyes or the tension in my body. We’d look extremely friendly, or worse, like two people having an intimate, romantic moment.
The blood red wallpaper lining the hallway exaggerated his furious expression, and it was so scary, it
literally sent Richard running. I didn’t know he could move that fast, but he was a tuxedoed blur as he let go of me and disappeared down the hallway.
Heat gripped me like a vise, constricting tighter with each deliberate step Macalister took toward me, his eyes teeming with fire. He glared at me like a teenager who’d wrecked her daddy’s favorite car and then laughed about it.
“What was that?” he demanded.
“It was nothing.”
His glare was a vat of liquid nitrogen poured all over me. “It did not look like nothing.”
My mouth went dry, and my heart banged violently inside my chest. Was he jealous? Of mediocre Richard Shaunessy?
“You don’t speak with that boy ever again,” he decreed.
Maybe I was reading too much into it. Alice had cheated on Macalister with Richard’s dad, so perhaps Macalister was upset about ‘who’ he thought I’d been flirting with, and not that I’d been supposedly flirting at all.
I was still worked up from my encounter, and although the two men had barely anything in common, I was once again facing an arrogant, entitled guy at the pinnacle of privilege, one who believed everything in the world belonged to him.
He’d given me an order I’d be happy to follow, but I pushed back. “You don’t own me.”
Whoa. I’d never seen Macalister’s eyebrow arch so high.
His cold fingers latched on to my arm, just above the elbow, letting me feel his dominance, and I went weak at his touch. He saw it all, how I softened and swallowed a deep breath, melting beneath his hand.
You don’t own me, I’d told him.
“Oh, yes, I fucking do,” he growled.
TWENTY
SOPHIA
Power cascaded off Macalister in waves so rough, they crashed over me and nearly knocked me down.
“Let me prove it to you,” he said. “Come with me.”
He let go of my elbow, but the faint burn of cold still kissed the spot, like snow trapped against skin by a sleeve. I followed him submissively as he turned around and stalked back into the party, quickly locating the theatre director and interrupting the man mid-conversation.
