Chapter 15: Gala Explosion

––––––––

Marcus

Everyone with any level of money or power is at the BGCB gala. It’s one of the longest-running traditions of the spring charity season.

“I remember being a little girl and looking at the pictures from this in the Sunday paper.” Paige sits across from me in the town car. We’re waiting in the car-line slowly moving up the pier to be dropped off at the red-carpeted entrance. “All the women looked like movie stars.”

“I’m sure that’s the idea, having a red-carpet entry.” I’ve always avoided being photographed at these events. It’s silly and self-indulgent, considering none of us are celebrities. Tonight, I’ll break with tradition and hopefully be done with this farce.

Glancing across the car, my date’s full-length, ocean-blue dress ripples around her in waves. The top twists in the center and drapes over her slim shoulders like a toga, and her hair is gathered up loosely at the back of her head. A gold-studded headband is woven through it and the length spirals down over one shoulder.

“You look like a goddess,” I say with a genuine smile. “You’ll fit right in, regardless of your backstory.”

“It’s hard to believe I’m here.” Her voice has changed. It’s serious, with a touch of wistful. She blinks rapidly and looks down at her lap. “Thank you for what you’ve done for me. I’m sorry I had to drag you down to my level.”

I reach across the space and clasp her hand. “Don’t say that.” My voice is a low command, and she blinks up to my eyes. “Nothing makes these people better than you. They just started closer to the goal line.”

I’ve thought a lot over the last week about why I agreed to help Paige. I’ve realized a big part is tied to the way I failed Elaine. I basically raised my little sister, and when the time came for her to spread her wings and fly, I stood by as Edward took out the scissors and clipped them.

Returning to Paige, I try to explain. “Business, society, all of it is pretty shitty to women, especially poor ones. You did what you had to do to make a living.”

“A pretty good one, actually.” She laughs and looks down at her nails. “Don’t underestimate the adult entertainment business. I paid cash for my very first car.”

“I’m sure.”

Hesitant blue eyes hold mine. “So many of the girls couldn’t handle it. They’d get hooked on drugs or stay with abusive men. They believed the worst about themselves. That we were all worthless sluts.”

“You didn’t.” It’s as much of a question as a statement of fact.

“I didn’t sleep around.” Her brow lines as she tries to explain. “I danced. I did lap dances and gave the occasional blowjob, but I never slept around. I danced because it was all I had.” She pauses for a brief laugh. “And I made a lot of money doing it.”

“You were fucking amazing.”

Her cheeks pink and she looks away, out the window. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to remember you.”

I laugh and lean back in my seat. “I’m a popular guy. I get invited to things.”

Her eyes meet mine. “Still, you were different. You didn’t look at me like I was a piece of meat. It’s why I came to you in the first place.”

Traveling too far down this road isn’t a good idea, so I try to steer us back to the point. “You’ll get through this transition, and you’ll do very well. You’ll be the finest blueblood of all the old bitches one day.”

Her nose wrinkles in a cute way, and our car is finally at the entrance. It stops and the doors open, but before she steps out, she holds my arm. “Why?”

I don’t hesitate. “Because of how you survived.”

* * *

Amy

The grand ballroom of the Navy Pier glitters like an undersea concert hall. Gold lights line the beams leading to the top of the dome, and the white-tiled ceiling is lit up in ocean blue and green. On the floor below, round tables holding elaborate, flowing centerpieces are arranged in sections leaving the wooden dance floor open in the middle. Long tables covered in white cloth are decked out with hors d’oeuvres, desserts, and beverage stations.

Corinthian columns and natural vines are arranged near the exterior walls, and tulle hangs in curves and flows around the tables and chairs. Clearly the theme is Ancient Greece. I didn’t even check the invitation. I never cared about events like this growing up. They’re nothing more than an opportunity for people like Karen and her entourage to go on record as being so deeply humanitarian. We walk in on a red carpet as if we’re celebrities and have our photographs splashed all over the Sunday society page.

Armand is impressed by the spectacle, as he should be. Looking up and around, I try to remember the first time I attended a gala here, but it’s been too long ago.

“You’re beautiful, mon petit.” His voice is low, and he hasn’t stopped complimenting me since our car picked him up at the Drake.

“Thank you.” I run my fingers over the mint chiffon of my skirt. It’s thigh length with a wide, Aztec-inspired neckline that is high in the front but scoops deeply in the back, showing off my tanned skin. My hair hangs in loose waves over my shoulders and down.

Sylvia might have forced my hand on inviting Armand here tonight, but the desire simmering in my stomach for someone else sealed the deal. Try as I might to push him out, our weekend on the boat made a lasting impression on me.

I spent the week working from home, finishing up the bios for Merritt, Hampton, and Donnelly. Donnelly is the classic small-town boy turned big-city attorney. He’s salt-of-the-Earth, good people. Hampton is prep-school turned frat-boy, but he isn’t a wanker. He’s legacy, don’t rock the boat, conservative. Went to law school, got married, toed the company line. They’re both exactly the type of partners I’d expect Marcus to have.

I’d spent more time on Marcus’s bio than was wise, lingering over every detail as if they were precious heirlooms or clues to a cherished treasure. On paper, he’s a private-school national merit scholar. Scholarship to Yale Law, but instead of joining his father’s firm, he started his own. He’s a pioneer, but he avoids the limelight. He’s private, but he’s bold. He’s also fucking hard as nails in the courtroom, and I read more profiles lauding his ability to turn a persuasive argument on a dime than I could count.

Sylvia added her two cents—heard second-hand from Stuart, of course—about Marcus’s closing A Few Good Men-style speech to the prosecutor, resulting in Derek Alexander’s near-immediate release.

Add to all of it the off-the-record details he’d shared with me. A small-town southern boy, mother runs out when he’s eleven, father and older brother bury themselves in work. He’s left to care for his baby sister and himself, raising them both on his own.

All of these thoughts tangle together in my mind as I wait for Armand to return with my drink. I’m here because of Sylvia. I’m here because Armand needs to feel like he got a fair shake. I’m here because I need to see Marcus.

“French 75.” The deep, accented voice is at my shoulder, and I turn to take the pale-yellow drink from his hand.

“I’m surprised they’d heard of it.” Taking a sip of the citrus-gin-laced champagne cocktail, I smile up at him. “Usually Chicago bartenders only know the basics.”

Armand gently taps his tumbler of amber liquid against my glass. “Such as scotch rocks?”

I smile, looking down. “What did you do these last few days?”

He’d called me a few times inviting me to dinner, but I’d begged off, claiming to be too busy. I didn’t ask him to come to Chicago, and I wasn’t giving him false hope. I didn’t mention my early dinner with C.J. We’d sneaked off before it was fashionable to have one’s evening meal, and I’d managed to have a night out as a result.

“The usual, I suppose. John Hancock, Field Museum, Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Bean.” A sexy grin. “Now I’m at the Navy Pier.”

Nodding, I blink away, taking another sip. “Sounds like you’ve done the full Chicago lineup.”

“Still, I didn’t do the one thing I wanted most of all.”

“What’s that?”

His dark eyes narrow. “You.”

A flinch in my chest. Yes, his words still provoke a reaction in me, positive and negative. I can’t believe I walked right into that one.

“Armand,” I exhale. “Please don’t.”

“Dance with me.”

“I’d rather not.” Taking another sip of my drink, I let my eyes wander the large ballroom.

My drink is removed from my hand, and he replaces it with his large, warm one. “You’re not afraid?”

Interesting how much people learn about each other in relatively short amounts of time. A flash of annoyance floods my cheeks. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

He chuckles and leads me to the floor. Armand is an amazing dancer. It’s one of the first things I admired about him. A small ensemble on the stage provides the music, and we simply slow-dance.

His hand is on my lower back, holding me firmly against his tight body. A finger traces the exposed skin there, and our chests are together, faces close. Our hands are clasped at my shoulder.

It’s impressive how sexual dancing is, yet everyone does it without a second thought. Or perhaps I’m only thinking about it because I’m with someone I regularly slept with not so long ago.

His cheek touches my temple, and he speaks softly near my ear. “This reminds me of our picnic on Montmartre. Do you remember that day, ma chou?”

My insides clench. Of course I remember it. It was the most perfect fall day in France—cool breezes, sunny skies. We’d only been together a month, and we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.

“Of course,” I say softly, looking over his shoulder to see who’s watching us. The bitch Karen has arrived, and it appears she’s still with Roland, the fucktard. Perfect match. God, how I hate them.

Armand’s rich voice placates the anger trying to rise. “Your dress tonight reminds me of the one you wore that day. It was about this length, and you were so beautiful straddling my lap, riding my cock.”

“Armand,” I whisper, heat flooding my core. “Stop.”

“We were near Sacré Coeur—very sacrilegious, I’m sure.” He sighs, warm breath tickling the side of my neck. “I ascended to heaven that day, cherie.”

I’ve had enough. I’m not sure why I agreed to do this anymore. It’s not like I plan to confront Marcus. Why would I? All I’ve accomplished tonight is putting myself on the front lines of attack on all sides.

“This was a mistake.” I pull out of his embrace and turn, but my breath disappears.

Marcus stands beside a table facing me, sexy as hell in a black tuxedo, his chestnut complexion accentuated by his white shirt. Brows lower over his smoky hazel eyes, and I know he’s curious about who I’m dancing with.

The tall, dark stranger behind me oozes sophistication and wealth—and familiarity with me. I’m sure everyone is whispering about Armand. I want to say something, but she appears.

Paige “Goldie” Goldfarb glides up in a wave of ocean blue and cascading blonde. I don’t want to care that she takes his arm, and lifts her perfect chin to whisper in his ear. I don’t want to care that his eyes never leave mine as if he isn’t listening to her. My insides twist and churn, and I’m so angry I care about him this much.

Blinking fast, I take a step back and warm arms circle my waist. “Easy, my love.” Armand touches his lips to the side of my neck. “You’ll fall.”

I’ve already fallen.

Marcus’s eyes widen with what seems to be a flash of anger. My chest squeezes, and I pivot away from my escort, making a beeline to the glass doors surrounding the domed structure. I want to leave. I want to be far away—farther than New York, farther than even Paris this time—but how far do I have to go to get away from what I carry inside me? Australia?

Camera flashes go off in a blinding strobe, and the car line extends all the way to the pier entrance. I’m trapped on this mile-long slab of concrete, and it’s nothing but crowds and noise and people all around. Circling back, I go behind the dome to the relatively small courtyard on the opposite side of the entrance.

Rows of American flags line the guardrail, and a few tourists are strolling along, looking out across the lake. Below the waters of Lake Michigan, I drowned in the one thing I refuse to accept.

“Amy, wait.” I cringe at the sound of Marcus’s voice. I didn’t want him to follow me. Or did I?

I don’t stop until I’ve made it around a brick column, out of sight. Leaning back, the rust-colored brick scratches my bare skin. Blinking up at the fading twilight, the constant breeze pushes my hair away from my face. He knows I’m here, and he won’t stop until he finds me.

The click of his shoes on the pavement meets my ears ahead of him. Holding out an arm, he catches the side of the column, stopping short when he sees me.

“Amy,” he exhales, breathing a little fast. “Why didn’t you stop?”

My eyes try to mist, but I don’t let them. I have to steel myself against these feelings flooding through me, rushing out toward him.

“Why are you following me?” I say through the thickness in my throat.

Dropping his hand, his eyes travel the length of my body. An invisible pull from the center of my chest makes me want to lean into him. I want his hands to follow his eyes, touching me in all the places that crave him.

“I haven’t seen you in a week.” He’s fumbling for an excuse, I can tell. “I wanted to talk, to ask you... if you needed anything.”

I’m panting, although I’ve been standing here long enough to catch my breath. His appearance took it away again. Do I need anything? Do I need him?

“No.” I answer us both. “I’m finished.”

His brow lines, and he glances quickly over his shoulder before stepping around in front of me. Now we’re both hidden from the gala crowd.

“You’re not coming back to the office?”

Shaking my head, I look away from his intense gaze. “I’ve done everything you asked of me. I’m looking for another job.”

“No—there’s more. I need more.”

Cutting my eyes back to him, I try to understand. He steps closer, taking my hand and lifting it. His skin is electric against mine, and he’s so close our bodies are touching. The heat radiating between us clouds my judgment. I don’t pull away or try to run like I should. When he speaks the words are right against my lashes, causing my eyelids to flutter closed, intensifying the sensation of him all around me.

“Marcus.” He’s making me wet. He’s making me want him inside me.

“I need you to come back.” His low voice caresses my skin. “I missed you so much this week.”

Lust warms my lips, making them heavy with want. Eyes closed, all I can think is just a few inches, and our mouths will touch. His consumes mine in my dreams. It marks my skin and makes me come, screaming and twisting in the sheets.

“What are you doing to me?” I whisper, and he groans softly before answering my secret desire.

Large hands slide behind my head, gripping my skull and sealing my mouth firmly against his. My lips part, and his tongue plunges inside, demanding mine, hungrily consuming my small cries of surrender. Our bodies are still pressed together, only now heat flames between us. I feel like I’ll catch fire if I don’t have him.

Breaking away, we both gasp. His hands move from my neck down, pausing at my breasts so he can circle tightening nipples with his thumbs. I can’t wear a bra in this dress, and it feels as if he’s touching my bare skin. Dropping my head back, I moan, and he dips down to pull a hard bud into his mouth through the fabric. He’s going to leave a damp mark, and I don’t care. I want him marking me everywhere. Every day the marks he left faded, I felt my insides breaking.

“I have to taste you.” He drops to his knees.

“Oh, god,” I gasp as he shoves up the hem of my short skirt, and in one swift move, he catches the side of my lace thong, ripping it off my body. I only barely note him push it into his pocket before his mouth presses against the skin of my inner thigh, sucking and pulling, marking me afresh.

“Marcus,” I whisper-cry as his mouth moves closer to my center. Another mark.

It’s a teasing sensation, erotic and slightly painful, and I want more. Both hands grasp my legs, pushing them open and lifting me higher before covering my center with his mouth.

“Yes, yes.” My eyes squeeze shut, and I cough out a wail as intense pleasure explodes through my core.

He’s on my clit, sucking and pulling over and over. I come fast and hard, shuddering in his hands, but he doesn’t stop. His tongue continues circling furiously over me and then down, deep inside.

“Oh... oh,” I moan as he fucks me with his tongue. My fingers weave into his thick brown waves as shocks of pleasure clench in my lower stomach. He slowly moves to the side, making his way to my thigh, to my hipbone, then standing, pressing his body against mine again.

I’m reeling, eyes still closed, trying to find my bearings when he speaks. “You’re not going anywhere. You’re not running. You’re staying right here with me.”

My hands tighten into fists on his jacket. I can’t speak because I can’t argue with him. Everything in me wants to obey him, and simultaneously, everything in me roars in opposition to his words.

“Open your eyes,” he orders. “Look at me.”

Don’t do it, my mind warns. For a moment, I’m at war with myself in what feels like the best embrace of my life. I’ve craved his arms for a week. I wanted his arms that night in the bar when Karen appeared.

Karen. Her words come flooding back, and my eyes open. Like a shock they crash into his gaze, penetrating and demanding. His are forceful, claiming me. Only... he’s here with another woman.

It’s my worst nightmare trying to pull me under. “Let me go.” My voice is shockingly low and forceful, considering how hard I just came and how badly I want to go home with him and spend the night fucking.

He doesn’t even hesitate. “No.”

I start to struggle. “Let me go, Marcus.”

His grip only tightens along with the muscle in his jaw. “NO. You want this. Say it.”

Panic twists in my chest, and I have to get out of his embrace. I have to get away from my traitorous insides begging for him. I have to force logic and do the right thing.

“My body wants you, but I can’t give you what you’re asking. It’s not something I’m able to do.”

“Why?” His voice is still angry, demanding.

“I’m just not.”

He hesitates, and when he speaks again, his tone changes—the anger is now an argument. “We can work on it. Take it one day at a time. One hour at a time.”

It’s Marcus Merritt, the best lawyer in Chicago speaking to me, and in this moment I believe every word of praise I’ve ever heard about him because I’m so close to giving him what he wants.

“It won’t work,” I insist.

“Just try.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

I won’t meet his eyes, and my body shakes. I can’t stop it—the truth spills out of me in a flood of emotion. “You’ll change,” a desperate breath, “Time will pass, and you’ll forget all of these words. You’ll break me. And that’s something I’ll never come back from.” Oh, god. I said it.

He doesn’t answer immediately, and I notice for the first time he’s breathing as hard as I am. Seconds tick by, and our eyes meet. I see him thinking. I see desperation.

“I will never break you.” His voice is back to angry. “Never.”

“You already have.” I hate that I’m on the verge of sobbing. I will not cry.

“H-how?” I’ve never heard Marcus stutter. He’s always in control.

I’m trying to find mine. “You’re here with another woman.”

“I told you to trust me.”

Twisting harder, I push against his shoulders. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any man. I never will.”

He holds me tighter. “You can trust me.”

My head is pinned against the column as he kisses me hard. A little noise squeaks in my throat and for a moment, I stop struggling. I need this. I need him. Our mouths move together, and his tongue curves with mine. He’s tearing away my resistance stroke by delicious stroke.

With a groan, I give him a hard push. I must’ve caught him off balance because he takes a step back. “Stop! You’re asking too much.”

I’m panting, and my voice is shaky. His head drops. I’m still trapped by his body, but for several long moments, he doesn’t speak. Neither of us speaks as the thickness in the air dissipates, and the roar of the crowd at the gala drifts to us over the water.

“I’m sorry.” It’s so quiet, I question if I even heard him. Dropping his arms, he lifts his head and looks straight into my eyes. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

Somehow he holds me with only his gaze, and even though I want to run, I can’t force my legs to move. He consumes me with his touch, he sends my body to places I’ve never dreamed possible, he breaks all of my rules, and I only want more of him. Now he apologizes, and I can’t decide if I’m relieved or miserable.

He drops his gaze again, and passes his hand over his chin. “I won’t hide how I feel. I want you. I’ve never wanted any woman this way, and I think you feel the same.” A pause, a beat. I’m hanging on the edge. “But I won’t force you.”

He straightens in front of me, adjusts his coat and gives me one last glance before stepping around the column and heading back to the gala.

I can’t do anything but lean forward. Tears flood my eyes, and I’m broken and powerless. My strength is gone. He’s all I want, and I can’t do a thing to stop it.

* * *

Marcus

I lost it in that moment. I saw her with that guy—a strange man holding her, touching her—and Paige, Karen, even Amy’s ground rules, everything was forgotten. Primitive, overwhelming rage took control of my reason, and I followed her out of the ballroom down to the pier, a singular thought blasting through my brain: MINE.

What a fucking caveman.

I appreciate how unfair I’m being. I’m here with another woman and no explanation, and I fly off the fucking deep end at the sight of her doing the same. I’m not proud. I told her I was sorry, but I’m not sorry. I’m fucking losing my mind, and I am NOT sorry.

Back in the ballroom, Paige catches up to me, holding my arm and leaning into my ear. “Where have you been?” Her eyes meet mine, and we’re back to acting, playing the part of the happy couple in love. God, this has got to end soon.

“Needed some air.” And a hit of Amy Knight, my drug of choice.

“You took off so fast, I didn’t know what to think.”

“Sorry.” Holding her hand, I lead her to the dance floor. “Let’s seal this deal.”

Paige is tight against my body as we sway to the music. I gaze straight into her clear blue eyes, doing my best to demonstrate to all the assholes watching she’s better than her past. She’s as entitled as any trust fund dickwad in the crowd.

If I truly have clout, as too many people seem to believe, I’m focusing it all on accomplishing our mission tonight. We’ll establish her firmly as a member of the privileged class, I’ll lay low for a week or so, then I’ll get back to my primary objective: Claiming the woman I love.

Visions of Amy in my arms swirl through my mind. Her taste lingers on my tongue. The way her cries go quicker, higher, when she comes. The way her body shakes when she comes apart in my hands. She’s the only thing in my mind as I move around the floor. I have to have her.

The song ends, and we move apart, hands sliding down so that our fingers unite. We make our way back toward our table, and I see her standing in the shadows watching. Ice filters through my veins at the confusion and hurt reflected in her eyes, and I want to go to her. Fuck who sees us.

But I don’t have time to act. Karen stands beside the first table we approach. “Paige, what a beautiful dress! I could hardly take my eyes off you just now.”

I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Karen smile.

“Thank you.” Paige returns her greeting, and I’m glad to see her old confidence coming back. It’s a good sign that we’re nearing the end.

Roland is behind Karen, and he extends a hand to me. “I’m surprised the sprinkler system didn’t go off just now.” He chortles, and I think of congestive heart failure. “Looks like you scored the fantasy, Merritt.”

“Paige is a classy businesswoman,” I say, giving her an approving smile. “I’m sure I won’t be able to hold her for long.”

Dickerson slaps my back. “Still the confirmed bachelor, I see.”

Dammit, stop letting me off the hook. “Oh, I’d consider changing my ways for Paige.”

“Come, now,” he presses. “I heard you were spending time with Amy Knight just last week.”

God dammit. “That was nothing—a business dinner. Paige is the real deal. She’s one to meet the family.”

The words are passing across my lips as a flash of mint catches my eye. The dark stranger glides up beside us, Amy on his arm. Roland laughs. I tense, bracing to see if she heard me, but she gives no indication. If she did, the game is up, and I’m telling her everything. No way in hell I’ll let her believe what I just said.

“Mr. Dickerson, I’m sorry to interrupt.” The man escorting Amy extends a hand between us. “Armand Rocher, Arny’s Paris.”

“Rocher!” Roland steps forward to hold his elbow as they shake, forcing Amy and I to give way. He’s such a pompous ass.

It leaves us standing facing each other, but she won’t meet my eyes. She looks out to the dance floor, and I want to touch her so badly, it’s almost unbearable. I want to ask her, be sure she didn’t hear what I said. I want to reassure her she’s the one I want. She’s the real deal.

“Whatever are you doing with a man like Armand Rocher?” Karen’s evil voice slices through the awkwardness, and Amy glances up at her.

“We knew each other in Paris,” she says, turning away from Karen’s withering glare.

Sadness replaces the fierce defiance she normally projects, and it twists my chest. Only moments ago I had her in my arms. I want to turn back the clock and fly her far away from here. I’m only just having this urge, when something lightens her expression.

“Hellooo, gorgeous!” A male voice ripples through the space, cutting the hot tension like cool water. It’s her friend, dressed in a slim-cut deep-burgundy suit and loose black and white scarf. It’s classic gay couture, and I’m grateful if I’m restrained. He’s here to rescue her.

“Ceej.” She reaches for him, and I love the glow that lights her face.

“Holy shit, you’re amazing.” He smiles and lifts her arms straight up from her sides. “Turn.” She complies, the smallest laugh escaping her throat. “Who are you wearing?”

A sparkle of a tear blinks from her beautiful eyes. “You’re not going to believe. I bought the most unbelievable red Zac Posen, and at the last moment, I opted for cool-mint Valentino.”

He shakes his head. “Fickle, thy name is Woman.”

They both laugh. He kisses her cheek, and I’m ready to leave her to the safety of her friend when Dickerson reappears. Amy visibly stiffens, and her friend pulls back, his shoulders straight, as if he’s preparing to fight. I don’t understand any of it, but I’m not fucking about to leave now.

Paige is somewhere, I don’t know where, but I’m not leaving this table. For all outward appearances, I’m casually having a whiskey, until I know what’s happening or at the very least, I know Amy’s safe.

“Amy Knight, alone at last.” Roland’s voice has a tone I’ve never heard before. It falls somewhere between sickeningly familiar and disgustingly suggestive. “I’ve been waiting.”

Amy clutches her friend’s arm just above the elbow, and all the possessiveness I feel surges to the forefront. C.J. steps up and blocks her from Karen’s escort as he lifts a hand.

“Well, if it isn’t Roland Dick.” An evil spark is in his eye. “Or is it Dick Roland now?”

The toad coughs a response. “It’s Dickerson, Carlton, as you well know.”

“Sorry!” Amy’s friend laughs, tilting his head. “You know me. Dick on the brain.”

Amy clears her throat, and while I’m smart enough to see they have the situation under control, I have to fight my natural urge to insert myself.

The only things holding me back are I have no reason to intervene, and I know I would only complicate things for her, especially in view of the obvious fact she pointed out only moments ago. I’m supposed to be here with another woman, and if there’s anything I refuse to do, it’s paint Amy, the woman I love, in a negative light.

“What do you want, Roland?”

“I’ve messaged you a few times, since I heard you were working with Merritt’s team.” Again, his husky voice makes me think of congestive heart failure, or at the very least, entirely too much red meat and cigar smoke. “We want your sweet little expertise at Dickerson, Cox, and Broadhead.”

She blinks a few times, and I can’t help wondering if she’s thinking what I always think—Dickweed, Cocksucker, and Loveshead.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ve decided marketing isn’t really my preferred field.”

The toad blusters out a “What does that mean?”

Cool as a beautiful, mint-colored goddess, she smiles. “My degree is in finance. I miss the solid logic of numbers. The control.”

God, I love this woman. Dickerson is momentarily at a loss, because heaven forbid a woman have a brain as powerful as Amy Knight’s. Fucking asshole.

I have to go and find Paige in order to finish out my commitment to her, but I can’t resist taking a final moment to survey my lady-love standing like a gorgeous statue, all five-foot-four of her, in the Aztec-inspired slip of a dress she’s wearing.

Vaguely, I recall having her panties in my pocket, and all I can do is count the moments until I have all of her. Permanently.