Walking through the Waldorf Astoria’s grand Park Avenue entrance had always been a treat. A slice of old New York. A reminder of more decadent and unhurried times. When architecture was art and art was life. Tonight, the majesty of empty corridors and stunning art deco opulence lodged itself in her throat.

“Amazing, huh?” Bronson smiled.

He should have been looking at the perfection of design from the gold leafed carved molding, to the steel inlayed windows, to the details in the circular “Wheel of Life” floor mosaic crafted from hand-cut marble tiles. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from the building nor keep it still for more than a few seconds. There were so many things to see that she’d never taken the time to catalog.

Why she had to do it tonight was beyond her, but it felt as though it’d be her last chance. Things were changing, but change didn’t scare her. If handled properly, it bred opportunity. Would the project renovators take care to preserve the history in these walls? Would she take care to ensure her business succeeded in the choppy seas of the public market?

“Come on. We’ll be late.” He tugged her through the lobby to the elevators.

“I’ve never known you to worry about punctuality.” She almost snorted.

Bronson shifted the bow tie strangling him and studied his distorted reflection in the metal doors. His fingers ran the boundary of his coiffed blond hair, ensuring every strand held the line. After everything was just so, the doors opened. He ushered her on, holding too tightly to her silver-gray woolen cape.

“For a long time, I wasn’t concerned with it. A watch. Clocks.” He pressed the button for the third floor but held fast to her back. “They were superfluous accessories. I came and went as I pleased.”

The man sharing the car with her was a different one than who she’d known years ago. A different one than she’d seen in his safari pictures. His hair had never seen a comb, much less hairspray, in his months spent on the South African coast. The sun had licked his skin and the wind whipped his hair to Mother Nature’s will.

“Those times are behind me. Now, I’m honed in on my future.” His gaze dropped to hers. All the playfulness he’d possessed days ago looked as though they’d never had a home in his piercing stare.

“Do you feel burdened by your father’s expectations for you and the company?” The kind of pressure Brice Beauregard could place on a person was enough to make anyone act outside their character.

“No. Beauregard’s is my legacy. I’m ready to make my mark on it. To bring it into the 21st century. To secure its place in the world for my children.”

The elevator dinged and opened on the third floor. Transition kept Larkin from tripping over her tongue.

His children?

Women were supposed to be the ones with biological clocks, not men. Hers wasn’t making a peep, and she thanked the heavens above. Bronson’s, on the other hand, sounded a gong.

He hustled them to coat check and stripped off his overcoat. Larkin did the same with her cape, and then handed it over to the woman behind the counter. While Bronson requested the coats be put in a special spot for quick retrieval, she stepped away. His pampered persona made her queasy. This Bronson wouldn’t slay a subway rat, much less a dragon. Which was all well and good because she wasn’t screwing him. Not tonight. Not ever. She hadn’t expected that sticking to her guns would be so easy, but …

“Holy fuck.”

Larkin turned to see Bronson’s gaze honed in on her body. It stroked her up one side and down the other. She stood straight and waited until he met her eyes.

“I expected you to look lovely, as always, but this.” He used both hands to mold the air into the swell of her breasts and the curves of her hips. “Good night. That is the dress to end all dresses. You wear it with such intent the world will come to heel, willingly.”

She looked at the silver sequined double plunged top that seamlessly morphed into silk lace flowers, and then again into flowing rose gold tulle. The neckline and high-waisted slit were boisterous. All the important parts were covered, though. It held the art deco elegance she’d wanted to honor the Waldorf with. Judging by Bronson’s sure steps to her side, the arm he offered, and the sideways eyeball fuck, he fully assumed she’d worn it for him and him alone.

Perhaps she had. Every girl wanted to be desired, even if her intentions were purely platonic. She needed to find a buffer soon.

He paused at the closed ballroom doors.

When have they ever been closed for a party?

“Ready?” he asked with a wicked grin.

“Always,” she hoped aloud.

Bronson nodded to a man she hadn’t noticed earlier who then spoke into a headset. Music on the other side of the doors simmered, and a voice took its place. “Now for the guest we’ve all been waiting for. The only child of Brice and Bitsy Beauregard. Heir to the Beauregard fortune, returning to stake his claim on the world after studying it for ten years. Bronson Brice Beauregard.”

His last name hung on the man’s lips through the uproarious applause, through the WTF rant in Larkin’s head, through the doors bursting and a spotlight blinding her. She wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not at all.

Her date pulled her forward into the grand ballroom. Tables bursting with people and high-topped vases overflowing with white flowers surrounded them, sucking up every bit of the oxygen in the place. People patted her on the back, as though she’d done some great thing by placing one foot in front of the other. That probably was a feat. Every instinct in her body told her to stop, turn, and run. Well, maybe stop and punch Bronson for not warning her about the wedding reception style entrance, then turn and run.

He hoisted their interlaced hands into the air as though they’d just made it official. The crowd reached a fevered pitch. He wasn’t a New Kid on the Block, and she wasn’t Posh Spice. This wasn’t a concert. This wasn’t a union of any kind. This was all wrong. She was Pissed Spice.

Larkin moved deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole because of her inability to form a single word or apply the brakes. Bronson pulled her up onto the stage. The leader of Emerald City Band egged him on with a massive smile and hopping feet.

Her inner monologue ran on both sides of the fence and barked pros and cons between the slats like frantic dogs.

Fuck this. Don’t make a scene. I’m going to kill him. It’s a public venue, so people will see. You won’t fare well in prison. What an asshole. He didn’t know it would be such a production. Screw this, I’m leaving. If you go public, you’ll want these people’s backing. To hell with going public … I’ll do it on my own like I have been for years.

Everything internal and external locked up when the band member handed Bronson the microphone. Business mode took hold. She knew how to command a room. Despite Bronson, she’d show these people exactly why she ran a successful business and would continue to, regardless of whether she went public.

She set up jokes for him to slam home. She played the attentive date. She worked the room. For two solid hours.

“Larkin, darling.”

“No,” she hissed under her breath.

“Felix.” One of the men in the group of bankers she and Bronson had been conversing with lifted his hand and offered her father a sideways salute.

“Gentlemen.” Her father nodded to each man. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to steal my daughter away for a few minutes.”

None of them minded.

Jerks.

“Darling.” Like a caring father would, he looped her hand through his arm and strolled her away at a leisurely pace. “How are you?”

Tired of bullshit and hungry enough to eat it. “I’m well. And you?”

“Oh, I’m just trying to figure out why you’re here as Bronson Beauregard’s plus one, and I knew nothing about it.”

“Seriously?” She steered them to a server carrying hors d’oeuvres. Larkin swiped two canapés, tossed the tiny things into her mouth the moment the waiter was out of sight, and maneuvered toward another server with flutes of champagne.

“Yes, seriously.” He pulled on her arm to slow their strides. “I received an invitation only yesterday because I spoke with Brice at The Club.”

The Club stood for The Metropolitan Club New York. It was started by newly monied men at the turn of the 19th century, boasting such names as Vanderbilt, Morgan, and Roosevelt. Her father had no business maintaining a membership, especially since he couldn’t afford another divorce.

“If you have an actual question, I’ll answer it if I can.” She plucked two glasses of bubbly from the server and thanked him.

Her father immediately reached for one of the flutes. The plan had been to demolish both and chase down another server for two more, but she handed it over.

“When’s the big day?”

“Excuse me?” Larkin choked. Carbonation fizzed its way up her nose.

“He introduced you to all of New York as his. I assumed you two were planning a formal engagement announcement, and that, again, I’d be the last to know.”

“No. We’re not even dating. And really, you can’t talk to me about being the last to know things.” She set her flute on the nearest table. “You were in Monaco celebrating the honeymoon of your second sham wedding before I knew about it.”

“Larkin, really.” Her father’s gaze scanned their immediate surroundings. Every eyeball was transfixed on the larger-than-life band and not their familial drama.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, willing the pounding behind her eyes to stop. It didn’t, but one thing could. This back and forth with her father could stop tonight. She drew a deep breath and grabbed both his hands.

“I don’t want to fight with you anymore. You’re the only family I have. So from now on, I’m going to put forth effort. The past is in the past, but it haunts me. Your inability to admit some basic truths haunts you. Let’s … I don’t know. Let’s meet with a therapist together.”

“What? No!” He pulled away as though she’d announced to the room that her father likes cock. Only a handful would be surprised, and those were the same people who still thought white bread was a wholesome food.

“Why not?”

“I’m not discussing personal matters with a stranger.” Her father dropped into the nearest chair. His elbow dug into the table, and he rested his head in his hand. Larkin pulled out the chair next to him and sat. She leaned in.

“It wouldn’t be someone you met on the street. These are professionals with expertise in human emotion and psyche. They’re also a neutral party.”

“We’re not having this conversation. Especially not here.” His hand made a small shield between them.

“Fine.” She grabbed the champagne flute back from her father, gulped down the liquid, and discarded the glass. “I’ll come to the house. We can talk over tea if that will make you feel better.”

“It won’t. You’re not invited to the house.” He straightened. His blue eyes and indignant scowl pierced her heart. The words hurt too.

“Why?” The question left her lips as a squeak. It was lost among the first few titled words of Montell Jordan’s “This is How we Do It.”

“This is our song, princess.” While Larkin’s jaw still scraped the silk tablecloth, Bronson rounded the chair, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

“You kids have fun.” Her father waved them off as though he hadn’t just crushed the hope and determination blooming in her chest.

Bronson weaved them through a sea of sequins and skin, undulating hips and pumping fists that hadn’t yet caught on to the change in tempo from Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” He stopped near the center of the dance floor, and she stared at him blankly. Her brain wasn’t inside her skull. It was back … under the heels of her father’s Italian leather shoes.

“I won’t let him ruin your night.” His fingers tightened around hers. A genuine smile played across his full lips.

“Can you stop him from it? I can’t.”

“Please.” Bronson tugged her closer and pointed at his chest. “Dragon slayer. Remember? If I can take out dragons, that clown is nothing.” A svelte arm curved against her back. “Less than nothing.” He winked. His hips found the upbeat rhythm.

Suddenly, her brain was back between her ears, snapping the room into focus. Smiles surrounded them. Joy and excitement radiated in the crush of gyrating bodies. Her date became the center point of that elation. Tension fell away, pushed out by the music. They’d danced to this song in elementary school and had no clue what the words meant. The only thing they knew was they’d liked the beat and the, “La ra ra ra ra ra.”

“There’s the smile I know.” His arm loosened, and he backed up with a side-to-side slide in time with the music. When he popped a move or two from the music video, she lost it in a fit of giggles.

They danced—song after song—and the world disappeared. For a little while, she was a kid again. She hadn’t been one for long. When she had been, though, Bronson had been there with his early release Xbox and collection of Adam Sandler movies. Movies her mother didn’t approve of. They hadn’t understood them, but they watched anyway. Just to be able to tell the kids at school they had. Here he was tonight, making her crazy and causing her to swing from outrage to delight. Much as they had as kids.

Brittany’s “Toxic” faded away. She blotted at the fine sheen of sweat coating her brow and grinned.

“Thank you, Bronson.”

“It’s my pleasure.” He slid from his jacket, tossing it to a guy she didn’t know.

A voice whispered over the speaker, “Get up. Get up. Get up. Get up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.” Marvin Gaye took his turn singing sweetly about getting down tonight.

Bronson moved close, swaying his shoulders from one side to another. He hooked an arm around her waist and pulled them pelvis to pelvis.

“Oh, no.” She laughed.

“Oh, yes.” His hips ground side to side.

Before she knew it, Bronson’s sexual healing invaded the minimal space between them. Hard. Long. Invasive. He leaned close. The tips of his fingers bit into her shoulders, forcing her forward. Their chests brushed together. His breath cascaded across her neck.

“Bronson?”

“Yeah?” His lips brushed the crest of her cheek.

“We’re friends, right?”

Just friends.

“Hell, yes.” His dick ground against her as though it were trying to find its way in.

“Do you know the fastest way to ruin a friendship?”

“Everyone does. Fuck your friend.” He kissed her neck just below her ear.

“Exactly.” She stared at the gold cord looping from one balcony to the next. “Since you know, I shouldn’t have to explain to you this isn’t a thing we’re going to do.”

His hand slipped to the dimples in her lower back. He leaned away only enough to clash their gazes. A mischievous glint flickered deep inside those emerald greens.

“Maybe I don’t want to be your friend.”

Her brow hiked so hard it almost tossed a cramp in her forehead.

“Maybe I want to be your lover.”

“I don’t take lovers. Lovers turn into husbands or enemies. Both, in time.”

“You’re too young to be so cynical, Larkin.”

“I’ve lived a lot, and you know it.”

The overwhelming lust in his expression dampened. “I’m sorry I moved away when you needed me most.”

“Me too.”

Bronson lifted her hand to his shirt. He probably intended for her to feel his beating heart, but she felt only cotton, buttons, and silk.

“Larkin.” His voice patted her name as though it were a pet. “We travel in the same circles.”

“When you’re in the country, we do,” she agreed. “That hasn’t been the case for a long time.”

“We’re both ambitious. We both enjoy life.”

Not as much as she enjoyed work for the oblivion it brought.

“It’s possible we’d never make it to enemies.” He stared, a challenge brewing in his gaze.

“I need a drink.”

“You need my cock inside you and my tongue down your throat.”

Her cheeks flamed despite herself and her no-fuck-Bronson stance. He knew how to work the ladies. He’d been practicing for a while.

“Go get a drink.” His hold loosened. “It’ll tide you over.”

Larkin opened her mouth to argue about not needing to be held over because they were never going to happen, but the self-assured expression on his face kept her quiet. She’d show him. No need to debate a non-issue. She liberated herself from his arms and meandered her way through the crowd toward the nearest tray of champagne.