“I know it seems packed now, but you should come on a Friday night. We have lines around the block.”
I swirl my drink around my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the colors from a thousand strobe lights before turning my gaze back down to the club below. I’m at Insomnia, a club I own in Midtown Manhattan.
Duane Wilson, the manager, watches me as I study the dance floor below us. From his glass-walled circular office right at the top of the club, everything is visible. It’s like being on the deck of a large spaceship.
“I can imagine,” I say, in response to his earlier comment.
He walks back to his desk, leaving me alone at the glass. “Do you need anything else,” he asks. “A drink? Someone to keep you company?”
I turn around, eyebrow raised, and he shrugs.
“I’m just saying. I know a lot of beautiful women here tonight would love to meet the Landon Court.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. The Landon Court. “Not tonight.”
“Whatever you want,
boss,” he declares. “I’m going down to the VIP for a little meet and greet. Stay as long as you want.”
When he leaves, I go back to looking down at the club. Insomnia is one of my many good investments. In the few weeks since the club opened, it has become one of the hottest spots in the city.
Which is profitable, and very convenient now that I need to see Rachel Foster up close and decide…
Decide what exactly? I’m not sure. I’m curious, and slightly confused. I’m not accustomed to being confused. I want to know without a doubt what she was doing in my apartment that night.
I also want to see if the passage of time has dampened my desire for her. I need to see if the madness that drove me to arrange this interview and request her specifically will be dulled when she shows up.
I see her almost as soon as she walks into the club. A hostess leads her and two others to the VIP area. Her companions are obviously together, a slender girl with wavy black hair and a tall guy with a mass of unruly black curls. I know the girl is her cousin and roommate, Laurie, and the guy is Brett, Laurie’s long-term boyfriend. Jed’s notes were extremely thorough.
They order drinks, and soon, Laurie and Brett go to the dance floor.
Rachel stays seated, sipping her drink. Her beautiful hair falls around her shoulders in soft waves. She is wearing a short black dress, and I can’t look at her without remembering what she looks like without her clothes.
Her face lights up when the publicity manager, Marjorie, approaches her. They talk for a while then Marjorie leaves, and she’s alone again.
Idly, she looks around, and I have to fight the urge to go straight to her and demand the answers I want then drag her out of the club and back into my bed.
A guy approaches her, and I feel something like jealousy clench in my insides, only releasing when she sends him on his way. It makes no sense—the way I feel about this girl who lied to me, deceived me, and left me feeling like a fool.
Her cousin returns and pulls her to the dance floor.
Watching the soft sway of her hips as she walks, I suppress a groan. I must be crazy. I have better things to do than obsess over a girl after one night of sex.
One night of the best sex of my life.
I take a deep breath and leave Duane’s office, shutting the door behind me before I descend to the VIP area. Duane is chatting up a table of football stars and their groupies, and he raises a glass to me as I walk past. I nod in acknowledgment and settle at a table, from which I have a good view of the part of the dance floor where Rachel is moving to the thrumming music like she was born to dance.
A waiter arrives to replace my drink, but my eyes stay on Rachel. An image of her body, flushed and soft beneath mine, flashes through my mind, and my cock hardens.
Go home, Landon. The voice of common sense in my head is not used to being ignored, but I can’t bring myself to leave. I watch her dance, pretending she’s dancing for me alone. I stare shamelessly, enjoying every movement of her body.
Some hopeful guy tries to dance with her, and she shoos him away. She shimmies and twists until it’s all I can do to remain in my seat. Then, as if she can feel me watching, she turns in my direction and her eyes lock on mine.
Everything stops. The music, the dancers, the conversation…everything except that wide green gaze and the shocked expression in their depths.
I’m not above feeling a perverse satisfaction at the puzzlement on her face. She stands frozen, gaping at me, and I stare back, daring her to make the next move…or to run. Not that it would matter. I’d always find her.
I release her from my gaze for long enough to drain my glass then I’m watching her again, watching her walk slowly toward me. I don’t make a move until she’s standing right in front of me, looking almost as if she’s in a daze.