by Lavinia Kent
She’d been working for days to forget him, to forget everything that had happened, had avoided his calls, and now…
He hadn’t been on the guest list. She knew he hadn’t.
Not that she’d checked.
He turned his head and their eyes locked, as they had in the elevator.
It was all she could do not to lick her lips. And just like in the elevator, it felt as if all the air had been sucked from her body in a single exhale. But this time it was worse, this time she understood fully what could happen, what had happened.
Still, she could not look away. He was so beautiful. Those blue eyes. The sharp features, softened by the lingering gentleness of youth—although no trace of baby fat clung to those cheeks. He was all man now.
It was almost painful to pull air into her lungs, but she managed, forcing herself to inhale. She was in control. This was not a repeat of the hotel.
“Who are you looking…?” Charles’s voice trailed off. “Ah, young Windsor. He’s taking the world by storm, that one. I thought his father was driven, but Clayton gives no mercy. I’d hate to come up against him.”
Jordan heard Charles’s words but had difficulty absorbing them. Clay might again be in a tux, but he was far different from the boy who’d stood next to Amelia at prom. Everything about him screamed that he was somebody, somebody not to be missed.
“Do you know him? Would you like me to introduce you?” Charles asked. “I know that you don’t play in the business world, you leave that to Amelia, but I’m sure he would make a hefty contribution if you smiled while you asked.”
Charles’s comment held none of the vicious nastiness the same words would have if spoken by Bettina, but still, Jordan’s mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. “He used to come by the house years ago, he was part of the crowd of kids that would hang out with Amelia. For a time, that group was always underfoot. He and Amelia went to the same school, dated for a bit.” Jordan knew she was beginning to ramble. “They went to prom together; of course, he was just a kid then. I remember they looked beautiful together. I recall thinking about Amelia’s wedding.” How had she forgotten that? Forgotten him? “Of course, that was before—”
“Before Amelia brought home that charming woman she’s actually marrying next month. I was quite delighted to get the invite, to know I’d made the cut. What is her name again? I should remember.”
Jordan forced herself to turn back to Charles, forced herself away from the hold of Clay’s eyes. “Alex Michaels. I know Amelia was delighted that you could come. You bring her such happy memories.”
“She’s not the one I was hoping was delighted.”
“Oh?”
“Are you happy that I’m coming, Jordan? I do hope you are.” His voice deepened.
“Of course.” She should say more, should express her delight, say how valuable his friendship was to her, but it was hard when her whole body was aware of the man across the room, when her entire body was throbbing with want for that man. The man whose face—and body—filled her mind no matter how hard she tried to shut them away.
* * *
—
She was here. He’d hoped she would be, but from all he’d heard, Jordan didn’t always show up at charity events, even those her foundation co-sponsored. His quiet inquiries had revealed a woman who was more than generous with her money, but who guarded her time as if it was of immense value. She was much more likely to have the foundation send a large check than to show up herself.
Not that he blamed her. Who would want to put on the equivalent of a monkey suit if it could be avoided?
Although—he let his eyes move down her long, lean body, enjoying how the dark silk slithered over it—he would never call that a monkey suit. It looked more like she was standing encased in the night, and barely encased at that. He hadn’t missed how low the back dipped, almost revealing her high, round ass before she’d twisted to face him. His hand itched to slip beneath it. Was she wearing panties? Even a thong might peek from that draped back. His mind filled with the image of those perfect cheeks bare, so firm and ready. He wanted to bite them like he would a peach, to leave his mark upon her. He wanted her on her hands and knees before him, ready and wet, waiting for his cock to fill her, he wanted…
“Are you going to get me a drink, Clay, or should I take one of these passed glasses? You know I don’t like wine. Do you think there’s something better at the bar?” Lydia asked, her voice bored and petulant.
He knew he shouldn’t have come with her, even if she was the one with the tickets. She did work for Jordan’s foundation. But he had believed her when she said she just needed an escort and that she understood they were strictly friends. He turned to her with a small smirk. “I’m sure you know how to fetch yourself a cocktail. And I don’t think they worry about quality at an event like this. I’m sure that everything they offer will meet your needs.”
“But Clay, honey…”
“You know how to fend for yourself, Lydia.” There was no mistaking the cold edge to his voice. He knew how quickly that little whine could grow. Now was not the time for her to throw a fit. He’d been very clear the last time they talked that they were nothing but friends and that he was coming tonight only because he’d already promised. And even then, he should have said no, but he realized that this would be his chance to finally see Jordan again after she’d avoided the messages he’d left on her home number, the number he’d had to call in so many favors to get.
Lydia stepped back, warning received, understanding the tone of his voice all too well. Thrusting her chest forward, so that her nipples fought to escape the restraining fabric, she waited for his eyes to drop. They did not.
She waited a moment more, waited for him to say something he had no intention of uttering, and then whisked off. He was sure she was already looking for his replacement. Lydia had always understood the rules—just as he’d known that she’d never thought she should have to live strictly on her foundation salary, completely positive that she deserved more.
He just wished she’d stop looking at him like he’d change his mind about their relationship. He hadn’t shown a hint of interest since a week ago when…On cue his cock swelled fully, pushing against the tight fabric of his pants. God, all he had to do was think about that night and his body responded like he was seventeen again.
Seventeen. He’d been hot for the woman since he was seventeen. And that was the base of the whole problem.
He drew a breath in between his teeth, kept his eyes on Jordan and watched as she turned to face him. He felt the fire surge through his body as their eyes met.
He couldn’t wait to catch her again, to feel her lips about him, her breath hot and heavy, that scent of flowers and vanilla enveloping him. Couldn’t wait to bend her over, to…
His eyes reflected every bit of his desire back at her, and he watched her pale, watched her lips quiver.
She wanted him, too. There was no mistaking that.
Holding her look, he let a smile spread across his mouth, watched her eyes drop and then sweep back up to meet his own again.
Soon. So very soon.
Still holding her gaze, he shook his head slightly. This was not the time or the place. He moved his mind to the business he needed to conduct, the people he needed to greet, but his eyes stayed on her. There would be no escape, not this time.
Chapter 6
Jordan glanced over her shoulder. Clay wasn’t there. Where had he gone? She tried to search the room without appearing to do so. The last thing she wanted was for anybody to ask who she was looking for. She doubted she could think of a coherent answer. Her whole mind was filled with him, and she hadn’t even been within twenty feet of him all night. Was it possible to smell him in a room full of people? That faint scent of citrus and an odor that was all man—in the best way possible. She wasn’t sure it had left her
nose since that night a week ago. Could it have soaked into her skin?
“I’ve fetched you a gin and tonic. That is what you drink, isn’t it?” Charles asked, walking up to her with a smile.
She hadn’t had one since Mark’s death. It had always been his drink more than hers. “Oh, you remembered. How sweet.”
“I don’t think any male likes to be called sweet after the age of six—and, to be honest, I’m not sure they like it before that. I seem to remember my son punching someone in preschool for that very reason.”
A smile rose to her lips. Charles was such delightful company—and handsome. If only her blood sang for him the way it did for…No. Her blood hadn’t rushed every time Mark had entered a room. It was something strange with Clay, not anything to be desired, certainly not something she needed.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had much practice talking with young boys, but I’ll try to remember not to call you sweet. What would you like me to call you?”
Charles laughed, sensing she was trying to put him on the spot. “I can think of a dozen things, but none that are fit to say in public.”
“I’ve never known you to be shy of speaking your mind.”
“Perhaps I’d rather leave you to wonder.”
And then she felt it. Her body surged with awareness. If she turned her head, even the slightest, she would see him behind her. He was that close. The heat from his body slowly enveloped her. Why the hell hadn’t she worn a dress with a back?
“Ah, young Windsor, I was hoping to get the chance to talk to you.” Charles held out a hand in greeting.
Still, Jordan did not turn her head. She was not going to appear eager.
“Young Windsor?” Clay questioned, as he took Charles’s hand. “I don’t think I’ve been called that since my last year of prep school. You make me wonder if I have all my homework finished.”
And didn’t that comment make Jordan cringe as she compared their ages. What had she been thinking in choosing him—although the answer to that was easy. She hadn’t been thinking, not at all.
Charles let out a full-bodied laugh. “I apologize. I’ve known your father for so many years that it’s hard for me to think of anybody else by the name. How is he?”
“My father is well. It was hard for him to step back, but I do believe he’s finally starting to enjoy retirement, although he still grumbles about taking up bricklaying like Winston Churchill. And please, call me Clay.”
“Clay it is.” Charles stepped back, giving Clay more room.
Jordan dropped her gaze to the floor as Clay moved directly into her line of sight.
Even though she was only looking at his polished shoes, the breath escaped her body. How could shoes do that to her? Everybody wore shoes. There was nothing different about his.
“Jordan, it’s so good to see you again.” Clay’s voice reached out, wrapping about her. Could Charles hear that added note of intimacy, the suggestion of how good the last time had been, or was that merely her imagination?
His shoes weren’t patent but shone like they were. Did he do that himself or did he have somebody else polish them for him? With anybody else, she would have taken it for granted that he had somebody else do it, but something about Clay seemed so self-sufficient. “It’s good to see you, too.” There was no other reply.
“Did you drop something?” Charles asked.
She looked up, met his kind eyes. “No, I was just thinking about polishing.” Now, why had she said that?
“Polishing?”
“The marble floor. There’s some in the hallway at home, and I’m always surprised by how much work it is. Not that I take care of it myself. I always thought stone would be easy, that all you’d have to do is sweep it every now and then.”
“Do you often think about sweeping the floors? You do look like you could be Cinderella in that gown.” Clay’s tone was not unkind, but it was not quite playful either.
“I’m happy to volunteer to be your prince, if you’re in need of one,” Charles spoke again, his gaze focused on Clay, not her.
Clay narrowed his eyes, stared back at Charles for a moment and then turned to her.
When she was a girl she’d always had a fantasy about being a princess. Fantasy. She could not think about fantasies when standing so close to Clay. Almost against her will, she turned her eyes toward him, trying to look him in the face without becoming caught by those eyes. “I think I already had my prince. I’m not looking for another.”
For a moment the three of them stood in silence, then Charles gave a little laugh. “I can’t imagine that Mark ever thought of himself as a prince, although you were certainly his princess, if not his queen.”
God, what could she say to that? She’d never been either a queen or princess, merely a loving wife, one who never felt about her husband the way the man across from her was making her feel.
“Maybe his ice queen.” She kept her tone even, wishing she could make herself stop talking. Her insecurities spoke before she could hush them.
Both Clay and Charles opened their mouths to contradict her, but for some reason her mouth continued on, not paying attention to her brain. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard whispered, although ‘gold digger’ was far more common, and I’m not sure how that combines with icy. And I’ve certainly heard comments about my intelligence and my lack of education. I believe it was solely my sexual charms that supposedly put me where I am.” She looked around the ballroom, ran a hand down the slick fabric of her dress.
“You are speaking nonsense,” Charles said firmly.
She dragged her eyes away from Clay, fighting a physical pull, and focused on Charles, where she found safety. Comfort. “You know it’s true. I always knew exactly what they said about me.”
Charles reached out and laid a reassuring hand on her arm.
She could sense Clay tense in reaction.
Charles patted her softly. “I cannot deny what was said—but then, we both know it was not true, and we also both know Mark never for a second felt that way about you. He saw your heart and didn’t need you to have a degree or a fortune to go with it.”
A deep breath filled her lungs. That was true. Mark had always had faith in her, even when she lacked it in herself.
“I’m sorry.” Clay’s voice was low as it surrounded her, clearly sensing her discomfort with the subject. “I was teasing with my Cinderella comment. And you are anything but icy.”
Almost against her will, her face turned back to him. Their eyes met and for a moment she was back in the elevator, imagining what his lips would feel like against her own, feeling she would die if it did not happen instantly.
“Should I get you a different drink?” Charles asked. “I don’t think you’ve even touched that one.”
She had to catch herself before she shook her head, trying to get away from the thoughts that merely looking at Clay filled her head with. Lifting her glass, she stared at it. Charles was correct. She hadn’t even brought it to her lips since he’d given it to her. She did so now.
The taste filled her.
Sharp. Clear. Clean. And with it came a whole new set of memories. Sitting on the porch, staring down at the water. Mark laughing as he squeezed the lime, stuck in the mint. He’d always moved with such precision and care.
“This is fine,” she said. “It’s been years since I had one.”
“I thought they were your favorite.”
“Left to my own devices, I tend to be lazy. I’ve become quite the wine drinker.”
“And champagne, I imagine, or do you prefer cava?” Clay broke in.
Cava. They’d drunk cava in her room that night. And not just from a glass.
Clay stared at her face for a moment, observing every micro movement, clearly seeing the flush of her desire. “I think that’s a yes on the cava.”
&
nbsp; “I must admit that I’ve never seen you get that expression over a gin and tonic. I guess I truly was mistaken about it being your drink,” Charles added.
She felt herself flush more deeply, felt heat rise from her toes. Clay knew what he had done to her; there was no mistaking that knowing look—or that promise. He was more than willing to do it again, right now.
And her? What did she want?
Fuck. She needed to get out of here before she did something disgraceful. Moisture pooled between her thighs. She could get out of here with him. They could go back to the magic of the hotel. They could ignore the world.
No. That was not what she wanted.
She raised her chin, trying to cool the pounding in her blood. “No, I think I’d really like a nice Sauvignon Blanc. I know they have my favorite. Perhaps you’d fetch it for me, Clay? I did want to finish my conversation with Charles.” She tried to sound the tiniest bit dismissive and not wanting. Her lips were crying for the cava, for the taste of it mixed with his skin, for the taste of it on his kiss.
Deep breath. Deep breath.
The smile on Clay’s lips crept higher. He knew how flustered she was. “Of course,” he said. “I won’t be a minute.”
“Do you not like young Windsor?” Charles asked, question in his eyes.
She wanted to cringe at his use of that name again, but it didn’t quite reach her lips. “Why would I dislike him? I hardly know him.”
“I thought you said he used to be close to Amelia and was always about.”
Shit. This was a conversation she did not want to have. “But they broke up years ago and haven’t spoken since. I simply meant I don’t know him now. You must have been very different at seventeen and twenty-seven. I know I was.”
“Do you think I can remember that far back?”
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re that old. I know you were younger than Mark.” Perhaps that hadn’t been the wisest thing to say—you’re younger than a dead man.
