New York Billionaires Series

I make my voice teasing. “And you saw someone who looked like she needed guidance? How kind of you to reach out.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

“I’m a saint.”

“I told you I liked this anonymity thing,” I say, “and I do. The idea that we have no idea what the other person does during the days. Perhaps you spent the whole day working as a surgeon at a children’s hospital.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t honest when I said I was a saint.”

“Then perhaps you spent the whole day evading the New York Police Department, because you’re the head of an organized crime ring.”

I turn toward him on the couch, and he responds in kind, his free hand landing on my thigh. The touch is casual, but the racing of my heart it sets off isn’t. “You think I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse?”

“You’re welcome to try. But it’s exciting not knowing, don’t you think?”

“It is. Do I have a European princess beside me? A young Hollywood actress? A surgeon who works at a children’s hospital?”

“We’ll never know.”

“A complete mystery,” he agrees.

“I like it. Although it does feel odd not to have a name to call you, or even refer to you in my head.”

His eyes flash with heated amusement. “There are a ton of things you can call me.”

I shift closer, leaning against the back of the sofa. “You know, you came over to talk to me. Even though you weren’t allowed to.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I did. But I waited for you to speak first.” His voice grows deeper, something I should hear from a Jumbotron, narrating a movie, reading me my favorite audiobook. It slides over my skin like a dark caress.

“Despite all the women who approached you. Despite the… fascinating performance currently on display.”

His hand slides an inch higher on my thigh, the only place we’re touching. A thumb brushes across the hem of my black dress. “Is there a question here somewhere?”

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to ask it.”

“I’m perfectly comfortable where I am,” he murmurs. “So no need to ask me anything.”

“I could rephrase it, actually. So it’s more like a hypothetical.”

His lips quirk again. “A hypothetical? Sure.”

“Considering you approached me, and considering what you usually do at these parties, I-”

“What you think I usually do at these parties,” he interjects. “I have the feeling a lot of it is conjecture.”

“You’re telling me you don’t participate?”

His smile turns wolfish, an eyebrow raised. “I participate.”

Nerves mixed with heady, dizzying want sweep through my stomach. What would his hand feel like higher up my leg? His lips on mine?

Am I brave enough to do this?

“Of course you do,” I say. “You’re probably in high demand.”

He reaches up with a free hand to run it through short, dark hair, thick through his fingers. “I’m rarely complimented by women.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he takes my champagne glass out of my hand and lifts it to his lips. There’s amusement in his eyes as he takes a large sip.

“Stealing my drink?”

“I think I need it more than you do.”

“I’m that challenging?”

“No,” he says, his thumb moving in a circle on my knee. “And yes. This conversation isn’t anything like the ones I’ve had at the Gilded Room before.”

“Oh.” I narrow my eyes at him. Are they all discussions about sex, then? Although I suppose that’s what we’re talking about as well, but not very directly.

“I can see you thinking again,” he says. “Strait-laced.”

I frown. “That can’t be the nickname you’re giving me.”

“Oh? What would you like me to call you?” Seeing my expression, he chuckles again. It’s just as dark as the other times. “I’ll surprise you, then.”

I clear my throat. “I still haven’t asked you my hypothetical question.”

“You were wondering if I wanted to sleep with you,” he says. “And the answer is yes.”

My throat goes dry, but I don’t look away from his steady gaze on mine. “Oh. Right. Okay.”

“I saw you across the room, the way you smiled at me, and I knew I wanted you beneath me.”

I wet my lips. “Is this more similar to how your conversations with women usually go here?”

He shakes his head. “No, they’re far more clinical.”

“Well, I suppose you rarely have to seduce anyone here,” I murmur, still reeling from his earlier words. His hand slides higher, settling around the curve of my outer thigh.

“I’m finding it enjoyable.”

“So that’s what we’re doing, then.” I trace my finger along the edge of the champagne glass, and his eyes track the movement. “Seducing one another.”

“Isn’t all conversation a form of seduction?”

“Definitely a mafia boss,” I breathe.

His surprised chuckle feels hot against my skin. “You’re welcome to think whatever you like about me.”