“My vault.” I reach the shelf behind her to retrieve a slim jewelry box resting on top of documents. All jokes aside, I could probably shove her inside and shut the door, keeping her forever. I wouldn’t, but it’s possible. She’s staring at me like it scares her.
“Afraid?” I ask.
“What? No. It’s just so big,” she mutters, and I crack a smile.
“You’ll find out how big later. Come on.” I guide her back to the desk and open the box, pulling out a necklace that hasn’t seen daylight since my mother’s death. I’m not fully sure why I took it out for Sydney, but it’s too late to examine those thoughts now.
“Declan?”
“Turn around.” I make her spin and I put the necklace on her. I kiss the side of her neck, licking a path to the space behind her earlobe. Her scent is back, along with the taste of her skin. My shoulders release the tension they’ve been holding all day as I relax around her. My fingers trail down her back, touching each bump of her vertebrae until my thumbs meet the hollow just above her ass, where my fingers cup her. A decent handful for sure.
“It’s beautiful.” Her fingers touch the heavy chain, cool against her warm skin. In the mirror I watch them follow a path down to the teardrop ruby between her breasts.
“I know.” Kissing the back of her neck, I meet her eyes in the mirror. I would forget dinner and head back upstairs for dessert, but Sydney Meadows still owes me.
Chapter Ten
Sydney
This time it’s Rhodes holding the door as we get out of the car. Cameras outside click and flash, blinding me, and Declan holds me close under his arm as my eyes struggle to adjust going into the dark restaurant. This is a side I hadn’t expected. Will my dad see this? Selma? LeHavre?
Dinner is a stilted affair. I’m dressed to the nines in a black sheath that matches Declan’s suit. Jewelry provided winks refracted light from the cut stones hanging from my ears and the necklace that dips low between my breasts, a single ruby teardrop is the cherry on top of this outfit.
Several business associates approach our table in the back. Here I learn that Declan is fluent in Gaelic, Mandarin, and French. I didn’t know, and now I feel like I seriously underestimated him. Smart and sexy aren’t the usual adjectives one aligns with a criminal. By the third time we’re approached, Declan grouches at the wait staff, indicating we shouldn’t be bothered anymore. He pulls me flush alongside him in the horseshoe-shaped private dinner booth, flipping my dress up under the table.
“Declan?” I push his hands away but he grabs my wrist, insisting I let go.
“My hands are cold,” he swears.
“And the sky is green,” I mutter, making him bark out loud.
“It is during a tornado,” he says, winking before shoving them between my thighs.
This man is definitely the devil in sheep’s clothing, walking on earth, tormenting me.
“What’s wrong?” He gives me a sidelong glance while squeezing my inner thigh. His fingers do nothing more than stroke between my legs, leaving me restless, teased, and aching.
“Nothing.” I’ve already forgotten myself and the role I have to play. I couldn’t help but scan the file stickers inside the vault that was actually a secret room within his office. The damn papers were right there within my reach, clearly labeled for the waterfront property LeHavre is looking to seize. My hands sweat and itch since seeing the file. Guilt chokes me, along with this ruby necklac
e hanging heavy around my neck like a noose.
“Tell me,” he demands. There’s no other way to phrase it. Declan has this way about him that speaks volumes. He doesn’t have to threaten or get loud; it’s his mere presence. He’s a truth serum wrapped in a black suit and consequences that make my belly quiver and my core wet with anticipation.
“I swear, I’m fine.”
My hands smooth down the dress as far as I can tug it down without dislodging Declan’s hands. I fluff out imaginary wrinkles as I shift my weight.
“You don’t like the dress?” he accuses.
“It’s not the dress. The dress is…lovely.” I supply an answer I hope appeases him. The sheer lace I’m wearing underneath it—as if those strips of cloth would actually cover anything—doesn’t count. I’m probably lucky I even have a dress to wear right now.
“Well?” he probes verbally, with his sneaky finger inching between my thighs.
“This is so uncomfortable,” I mumble to myself, glancing at the tables of people who look at us between sips of wine and gluttonous forkfuls of Kobe steak that easily costs two hundred dollars a plate.
Declan pauses to look at me. I almost repeat myself, afraid he didn’t hear me the first time.
He leans in letting out a derisive huff, and I know he heard me.