Chapter Ten

Gavin

“Fucking Cooper,” I muttered under my breath.

Dragging the towel off my hips, I swiped away the steam covering my bathroom mirror. The reflection staring back at me was laced with frustration.

I blew out a pissed-off breath and fought to erase my scowl. Sonja was always saying it was going to age me early. She joked that I’d need Botox if I kept that up. I assured her I didn’t give a shit about that, yet her nagging had apparently gotten through. I relaxed my features and took another deep breath.

I wanted to pretend the reason I was pissed was because I’d let Cooper talk me into this. But I knew it was a little more complicated than that. Fuck. Okay, a lot more complicated.

After stepping into a pair of black Armani boxer briefs, I shrugged into a crisp white dress shirt and left it unbuttoned as I strode into the formal dining room and straight toward the liquor cabinet. This room was rarely ever used, I think I’d only eaten at the table once, but the large oak cabinet opposite the dining table held all my favorite bottles of liquor.

Selecting a cut-crystal glass, I let out another sigh and rolled my shoulders.

I’d tried to shake the feeling, to convince myself that it was all in my head, but something about tonight felt too much like the way things had started three years ago. With Ashley. I hadn’t been truly involved with an escort since we’d been together. Not that I allowed myself to think of her often.

Something about Emma stirred up those same feelings inside me, and this situation was eerily similar. Of course, I would never have let Cooper touch Ashley. She was mine. Which was exactly why Emma couldn’t be. I couldn’t go down that road again.

So then, why did you blow up his phone the other night trying to find out about their date?

Fucking idiot. It wasn’t like I could ask him if they’d fucked. It was none of my business, but part of me hoped that when I heard his voice or he responded that I’d be able to tell. There would be some mocking note there, or a swagger.

The point was moot, though, because the prick never called me back that night, and didn’t say a word about her all week. Which was fine.

Again, none of my concern.

And remembering Ashley now only drove that point home.

As I poured myself a measure of bourbon, my brain cataloged the similarities between her and Emma. Sky-blue eyes that were so bright, they were striking. Long, shiny dark hair. A feisty but decidedly submissive nature—it was that last part that got my blood roaring south.

The way things ended with Ashley were messy, and I couldn’t go through that again. Yes, there were many things I loved about her, her fondness for rough sex not the least among them. Her fondness for prescription drugs, though? That had been a deal breaker.

She’d been a ballerina who’d aged out of the system, as gorgeous and graceful as anyone might expect with cheekbones that could cut glass. She and her fellow dancers had never been shy about partying and smoking, but when all her friends went back on tour and she was left alone? That was when the trouble began.

It was my fault from the start. I knew better. The girls were for fun and fun alone. But deep down, in my own way, I knew I had loved her, even if I’d never told her. In the end, I couldn’t save her, and even now, years later, that wound still burned white hot whenever my thoughts turned to her.

Taking a long swallow of bourbon, I appreciated the bitter sting on my tongue, needed it to ground myself.

Emma wasn’t Ashley.

And even if I did want to cross that line with Emma? To possess her and make her mine?

I’d promised my brother I wouldn’t.

Picking up my phone, I dialed my driver. “I’ll be ready in ten. See you out front.”

“Yes, Mr. Kingsley,” he said before disconnecting the call.

Drink in hand, I headed to the master closet to continue getting ready. Selecting a black tuxedo and a ruby-colored tie, I finished dressing for the event, then tossed back the remainder of my drink in a single gulp. After adding platinum cuff links and my watch, I flipped off the lights and headed out to meet Ben, my driver.

The ride to her brownstone was a short and silent one. I scrolled through my emails, checking for anything new, but there was nothing.

I typed out a text to Cooper.

Can’t believe you talked me into this.

His reply came almost instantly.

Have fun, Cooper wrote. You remember what that is, right?

Vaguely, I replied.

She’s easy. You’ll have a good time.

What the fuck does that mean? I typed before deleting it with a snarl. It was none of my business and exactly what he wanted. To yank my chain.

How easy? I finally typed.

I waited, feeling like a caged bear as three little dots danced across my screen. Finally, his response popped up.

I wouldn’t know. Maybe you’ll find out and can tell me . . .

His reply contained a winking face that made me want to punch the motherfucker square in the jaw. I hadn’t done that in years, not in at least a decade. Back then, our most bitter arguments were settled with our fists. Now we settled our differences like men, punishing each other with stony silence or degrading jabs exchanged over cocktails.

I rolled my eyes. If he was trying to goad me into breaking our deal, it wasn’t going to work. I knew the rules, and so did he.

But the realization that he hadn’t touched her . . . Shit. Why did that excite me so much? The idea of being the first of us to touch her, to hear her cry out in pleasure—in pain? I pulled a deep breath into my lungs. The limo rolled to a stop, and I shoved my phone inside my jacket pocket.

It was go time.

Ben opened the car door, and I climbed out just in time to watch a graceful Miss Emma Bell navigate the row of steps down from her ancient little brownstone. She was a woman who could appreciate fine details. I liked that about her already, although we’d barely exchanged six sentences despite our nearly year-long non-affair.

I leaned against the black limo, sizing Emma up. She was in a wine-colored dress that fell to the ground and was tied in a bow behind her neck. It was simple. Elegant. Perfect.

The curves of her hourglass figure made my palms itch. The desire to reach out and touch her, to see if her creamy skin was as soft as it looked, was a sharp pulse of need. One that I quickly tamped down. That would have to wait. We were headed out to support one of my favorite charities, not to slap our private parts together until we both came in a hot, sticky mess.

Damn. Being an adult was a motherfucker sometimes.

I forced out my most respectable tone. “Good evening, Miss Bell. You’re looking well.”

She paused before me, dipping her chin so her eyes were trained on my shoes, her perfect submission frustratingly intriguing.

“You are as well, Mr. Kingsley.”

Finally, that blazing blue gaze came to rest on mine. I couldn’t help but wonder what she saw when she looked at me. Couldn’t help but wonder what she thought about during all those coffee-shop run-ins.

“Gavin is fine,” I said, correcting her, and she nodded. “Shall we go?”

I took her hand, helping her into the waiting limo before sliding in behind her. Once inside, Emma scooted to the far side, leaving a healthy space between us as Ben pulled out into traffic.

“We match,” she murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Your tie.” She gestured toward me.

I nodded. She was observant. “Tell me something interesting about you, Emma. Other than the fact you like tea.”

She smirked like she knew something I didn’t. “Books are my passion.”

“Reading them? Smelling them?” I offered her a small grin. “I’ve heard that’s a thing.”

She returned my smile easily, her eyes crinkling in the corners. In that moment, she looked so young, so vulnerable, that for a second I almost called this whole thing off. Almost.

“All of the above. Someday I’d like to write one too. I have about a dozen half-finished manuscripts sitting on my hard drive that’ll never see the light of day.”

“What do you write about?”

“Love,” she said, then apparently realizing that she’d exposed more of herself than she meant to, her posture straightened.

“See, that’s where we differ,” I said.

“You don’t believe in love?” she asked, her tone skeptical.

“I do, actually. I just believe it to be rare.”

“I agree with you. It’s a rare gem to be savored once you’ve finally found it. I believe that you could spend your entire life looking for it, and never come across it. I find that to be heartbreaking. But if you finally find it, maybe the rarity . . . doesn’t that make it all the better?” She raised her eyebrows.

“And that inspires your writing?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said resolutely. Then she looked down at her delicate hands, the silence growing between us. “I probably sound so stupid, given what you do for a living. It’s not about love at all for you, is it?”

I cleared my throat before responding. I appreciated the level of candor between us, how comfortable she was prodding me. I’d been on many dates with many escorts over the years, and ninety-nine percent of them sat silently on the ride to the event, quietly looking at their phones. In that tiny scrap of a clutch, I wasn’t even confident Emma had brought her phone along.

“Have you ever heard the saying ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’?”

“Touché.”

I was still kicking myself for revealing that much of myself. Why even tell her I was familiar with love? That wasn’t what we were embarking on, and confusing the issue could only complicate things. This book and this cover were a perfect match nowadays, and that was all she needed to know.

I made a mental note to avoid such discussion in the future.

As the limo slowed to a stop, I couldn’t help but notice the small smile playing on her lips. “We’re here. Are you ready to mingle?”

She nodded. “Let’s do this.”

On the sidewalk in front of the banquet hall, I offered my arm to her, and after she placed her hand on my forearm, we made our way inside.

The room was a wall of bodies, which was good. It meant a lot of donations were going to come in tonight. But it was also bad because it meant we’d be jockeying for position all night as I tried to make my way through the crowd.

Emma’s eyes widened at the scene before us. The line for the bar was at least thirty people deep, and there was barely enough room for us to stand without bumping into someone. They needed a bigger venue next year. It was a good problem to have, though a little bit annoying for this year’s guests.

“Would you like something to drink?”

Her gaze went to the long wait at the bar. “I’m not much of a drinker.”

“Something mild, then? Unless you want tea?” I was rambling, and I never fucking rambled. When she shot me a look, I placed my hand on the small of her back. “I have an idea.”

I signaled an approaching waiter who was delivering cheap champagne on a metal tray, and slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. “Go behind the bar. Make the lady a Shirley Temple with grenadine and a splash of champagne. The good stuff, not this shit you’re serving out here. And I’ll take a glass of the best bourbon you have. No ice.”

Emma glanced at me from the corner of her eye, but didn’t say a thing.

“That okay with you?” I asked as the waiter darted away like my money was burning a hole in his pocket.

“It’s perfect. Very sweet of you.”

“That’s a new one for me.” I laughed.

“No one’s ever called you sweet?”

I thought long and hard about it. “Honestly, no.”

“Maybe I bring out a new side of you.”

She was being cheeky, and I added it to the growing list of things I liked about her.

“Maybe you do,” I agreed.

As we made our way slowly through the crowd toward the front of the ballroom and the stage, Emma’s hand came to rest automatically on my arm again. Another item on the list of things I liked.

My extra donation had insured we’d have seats for tonight’s live auction. The event was standing-room only, aside from a few rows of white folding chairs in front of the stage. It was where the serious bidders sat.

Before we could make it up front, our waiter returned in record time with our cocktails.

I tipped him again. “Bring us another round in fifteen minutes.”

He nodded, darting away again.

I watched while Emma took a sip from her champagne flute, tasting her drink.

“Well?”

She broke into a grin. “So yummy. I think this is my new favorite drink.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was basically a kiddo cocktail with a splash of champagne. I wasn’t sure if she’d heard me order it. Then again, there was something I liked about the fact that she wasn’t a drinker. After some of the shit I’d dealt with, it was a weight off my shoulders.

I glanced at her smiling face as she surveyed the room, then noticed the pool of men who’d already noticed her. They looked at her like she was the biggest, juiciest steak they’d ever seen, and I placed an arm around her protectively, as if to show them she wasn’t for sale.

Not this one.

Except . . . wasn’t she? She’d essentially been blackmailed into coming here, and it was all my fault. Frowning down at her, I paused.

“Do you really want to be here right now? I know I can be overbearing sometimes, and if this arrangement doesn’t work for you . . .”

Her gaze searched mine. “I really want to be here.” Her tone was sincere.

“Okay. We don’t have to stay long. Let’s find our seats for the auction.”

As we weaved our way through the crowd, hand in hand, I realized there was already something that felt very different about this. I already knew I was intrigued with Emma, but now I knew that she was someone of substance, it seemed to matter even more what she thought of me. That was a first. I normally never gave a shit what someone thought of me, but with her? Somehow that mattered.

“Kingsley!” a man’s voice behind us boomed.

We turned, and I met the gaze of a man in his late fifties with a short graying beard.

“Mr. Thornton. Good evening.” I turned and squeezed Emma’s hand. “Do you want to find our seats? We’re 6A and B. I’ll see you in just a moment.”

She nodded and turned to saunter off.

Thornton was a top-notch client. A huge moneymaker for our business.

So then, why couldn’t I tear my gaze away from the sway of little Emma Bell’s luscious hips?