Even Kennedy Carlisle can’t turn down the siren song of an upscale dinner date with a man like me, though it’s a near thing. I spend the rest of the week practicing a kind of restraint I don’t think I’ve ever had to use before. With every other woman—save one—it’s been easy to have Dahlia send them some kind of token gift and forget about them.

With Kennedy, it’s exactly the opposite.

I can’t stop thinking of things I’d like to send her. Understated jewelry that costs as much as some people’s rent costs for a year. More extravagant flower arrangements. I’d have one of my favorite restaurants cater her a surprise lunch, but we didn’t have time to discuss food preferences while I was trying not to strip her dress off in the club.

She’d answered my dare—and that’s what it was, a dare—at the end of the conversation with a breathless question, her voice catching. “How much farther?”

I’d been a little surprised that she was still on the phone. She seemed so cautious, so tentative, about the flowers, something in her voice betraying a sense of unease signaling that a quick hang-up would have fit better with what I knew of her. But she didn’t back down.

“I want to see you in the light of day.” I’d laughed. “That’s not quite accurate. The light of evening, let’s say.”

“You’re asking me out on a date?”

“I sent you flowers at your office. Did you think I wouldn’t ask you out on a date?”

She’d let out another shaky laugh. “I don’t know. I don’t normally dance with men like you at nightclubs. This is a little…out of my comfort zone.”

“Oh, but don’t you like it?”

Kennedy had pulled back then, like the innocent phrase had pricked at something inside her, and I felt the shift between us even over the phone. “I don’t know.” Her answer was stated in complete honesty.

There was nowhere to go but forward. “I want to know more about you, Kennedy. I know a place we can go to enjoy some excellent food. And privacy. Nothing like that nightclub.”

She’d paused for the barest breath. “When?”

“Friday night. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“That doesn’t give me much time to shop,” she said, her voice suddenly bright, collected, cool. “I’ll be ready. Goodbye, Gideon.”

“Wait!”

“What?” Her voice came from far away, like she’d already started to hang up.

“I need your address.” Everything seemed to hang on this moment. She’d agreed to the date, but this was her out—this was her chance to say no. “And your phone number, in case…”

I didn’t fill in the blanks. I didn’t have to. Kennedy laughed. “Right. I got a little ahead of myself.” Then she’d rattled off an address in Sunnyside and a set of digits as I scrambled for a pen and scribbled it down on the corner of one of the memos on my desk. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she ended the call with a soft click. 

The rest of this week has been one intense daydream after the next, Kennedy filling my thoughts from the moment I wake up in the morning to the moment I fall asleep at night. Something about her energy—the way she holds herself back from the world, then musters up the courage to dip one toe in—I want to know what makes her that way. I want to know what it will take to break her out of the armor she hides rigidly behind.

And now’s my chance.

I lean against the Mercedes E-Class my driver picked out of my New York lineup, the vibrations from the engine purring against my back, and try not to look like an upper-class stalker outside Kennedy’s building. It’s completely unremarkable—a brick front, an arch over the doorway, four stories high—but I can’t take my eyes off of it. This is where she lives. And sleeps. And...

There’s a movement near the door that catches my eye. Kennedy steps out onto the sidewalk. My heart skips a beat.

She’s stunning.

The dress she’s wearing is black, but that’s all it has in common with the short, strapless number she was wearing at the club last weekend. This one is shining with a constellation of sequins, but the hem is nearly at her knees, her cleavage displayed tastefully by a halter neckline that’s in full view, her red hair coifed in an elegant twist at the back of her head. There’s a lot more dress, but the extra length suits her.

I want to see what that dress looks like crumpled up on the floor of my penthouse.

“Hi, Gideon.” She comes toward me with her posture straight, her chin held high, like she’s bracing for something—I don’t know what—to happen, a clutch purse tucked into one of her hands.

“You look…absolutely beautiful.” The sun is setting behind the buildings, casting a golden glow that makes her hair look like living fire. And she’s not made up to be the dark, mysterious creature that she was in the club—her friends must have done that for her. Instead, her makeup is understated and elegant, and for the first time I see the deep vulnerability rooted in her blue eyes. Even when she smiles up at me, blushing a little at the compliment, there’s a question behind her expression that I can’t decipher, and I can’t answer.

Yet.

I’m going to find out how.

I extend my hand to her, and when she puts her palm in mine, I feel that same exhilarating jolt I did when we were at the club, and Kennedy’s nipples rise to attention beneath her dress. She’s not wearing a bra. My cock twitches in my trousers.

“Shall we?”

A little shiver runs down her spine, and she shifts her gaze from my face to the car, tilting her head to the side. “Is your driver…qualified?”

It’s an odd question, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to tease her now, not when I’m about to get her in the car with me. “Of course. John has been with me since I was in high school. He was hand-selected by my father for his expert driving record.”

She squares her shoulders and takes a big breath in. “Then I’m ready to go.”