Chapter 4
“Evening.” That low voice sounds the same now as it did in the hall. Resonant and sexy. The tone sizzles through my core, and my head swims. I imagine what it would be like to hear him say my name while I’m beneath him. Naked and wanting. These are thoughts I haven’t had in ages … thoughts I haven’t even desired. A streak of common sense slaps at my cheek, telling me to get it together.
He extends his hand, taking mine in his as he moves closer. His broad frame towers over me, swallowing me up, and combined with that sinful scent from before, I struggle not to groan.
“You know these people?” His pulled-up posture radiates with calm serenity. He glances at the Brauns, then back to me.
“I do.” I swallow hard, but I'm barely able to speak. He’s a sentence stealer. The kind of man that makes your mouth go dry while drenching your panties. Difficult things to contend with at close range.
Plus, there’s little left to my imagination, thanks to the hit-and-run I had earlier. I know his build to be rock-solid marble underneath. Heat spreads throughout me at the memory, starting with the hand he’s refusing to let go of. I make no attempt to pull away.
“And you speak German?”
“Yes.” My response is reedy, and I hate it. Thank God he doesn’t seem to be noticing, because I’d rather be in a hole, under a rock.
“Then you’ll sit with us tonight.” It’s not a request. It’s a definite command; no room for objection. “My interpreter isn’t going to show.”
My mouth is sightly agape, and my breath sucks in as his large fingers clasp gently around my wrist. I expected it to be firmer, but he still gets the point across with a tug. I don’t say no out of not knowing how—not with my nerves so shot and my brain short-fusing. Besides, what would I do if I did say no? Sit at a table by myself and stare at a wall? Roxie isn’t here anymore to keep me company, and I did come here to remember that other people actually walk the planet for the night.
I can barely resist the pull of my new host long enough to tell the Brauns I’m joining them. Something they’re elated about.
But me? I’m not so sure. Tux is a hazard, and not just to myself, but the entire female populace. A fact I’m sure he’s too aware of as I straggle along behind his long strides.
Upon observing what’s happening around me, the air inside sticks to my lungs. This man—the one forcing me to walk behind him, isn’t any ordinary person. A tight gulp washes down my throat at the scene around me.
A crowded room parts like the red sea while he moves. Every gentleman here, young and old are nodding to him, even if he isn’t looking their way. There’s a reverent hush when he passes, and the eyes of the crowd linger.
Who is he?
Well, I have my suspicions, but will not acknowledge them. Not just yet. I want proof before jumping to conclusions.
We reach a table set for four, fit for royalty. Each place setting is proper, with china and crystal drinkware. Tux displays good manners by pulling out my chair first before seating himself. But he sits too close. Dragging his seat on the white floor, his knee brushes mine, and I know he’s not moving.
Heat blooms everywhere from my hair roots to toe tips. Lovely. This wasn’t what I’d come prepared for. Interpreting for the Brauns isn’t a problem, but doing it while the sin of fornication itself is rubbing up against you? That’s too much, and for being in a bare-sleeved gown, I’m sweating enough to be in a ski suit.
I strain a smile to my acquaintances, who are sitting comfortably, unlike me. I know my cheeks burn red at the question Mr. Braun asks.
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I steady my voice, flaming face and all. “No, why do you ask?”
“Because he’s looking at you like you’re his dessert.”
I choke on air, and Mrs. Braun scolds her husband for embarrassing me. Wonderful.The situation gets worse. Ungodly heat nestles up against me as Tux moves closer.
“What are they saying?” He’s practically on top of me. His peppermint breath tickles my neck, causing goosebumps to raise along my bare shoulder, which the front of his suit presses against. His rumbling voice works its way through every fiber of my being, landing in my stomach. I’m thankful he can’t understand a single word.
My composure shatters, hands shaking, but I attempt to glue it back together. I hide my hands under the linen tablecloth and face my assailant head-on. “They were asking about the interpreter for the night. Mr. Braun is teasing me, saying he wants someone else.”
“But I don’t. I think this arrangement suits.” He looks down to my mouth, slowly trailing his gaze back to my eyes. “Yes, it suits just fine.” One side of his mouth hitches up, and my stomach lurches into my chest.
“Even after my collision from earlier?” I’m speaking in a near stutter.
“Especially after the collision.” He brazenly inches forward, enveloping my right side. “Such an introduction leaves me wanting more.” His voice reaches a lower cadence, and the former hitching of his mouth transforms to a full-blown, closed-mouth, smoldering smile.
Well, okay then. Is this room on fire, or is that just me?Undeniable lust is begging me to look right at his full mouth. To lick my lips and bring them closer to his to see what he’d do, but I don’t. I also offer no retort. Instead, I turn my shoulders away, diverting my attention back to the Brauns, who are staring, unmoving, and looking stunned. Apparently, English doesn’t have to be your mother tongue to understand when there’s obvious flirting happening in the background.
By some stroke of luck, the conversation diverts right to business. It stays that way for most of the night as I’m used as a go-between to relay numbers, building ideas, projection figures, profit turnovers, and even to translate some writing.
Occasionally, our legs brush, but given how straight-faced he is, I see more business than sex. A few heated smirks are thrown my way when the Brauns take a break to talk amongst themselves, but for the most part, Tux keeps his focus on working and business.
You know, all the fun things you should be doing over Wagyu mignons and imported wine.
I only get a break when dinner ends and the dance floor opens, the Brauns insisting on waltzing. A nice reprieve, really. I plan to sit here and do nothing. I politely nod to them on their departure.
“Right.” With our international guests gone, Mr. Tux, looking worthy of heaven but acting destined for hell, rises to his feet.
Thinking he’s done here, I reach for a glass of water. My throat is bone-dry, mostly from inhaling that delicious cologne for the last hour.
“Care to dance?” The carnal rumble of the voice next to my ear catches me off guard.
The cool liquid trickling down my throat almost leaves me in a spew. I hurry and swallow, then turn in my seat and look up.
Pure smolder and sex radiate in his eyes, almost making that area between my thighs slick.
Almost. Still, I push a tendril of hair behind my ear, shaking my head. Hot bodied, womanizing tux or not, I don’t dance.
“Unfortunately, I don’t dance.”
He reaches out, catching my hand in his own before I can take it away from my ear. I freeze.
“You will tonight,” he purrs.
Breath hitches in my lungs when his fingers sweep down to my elbow—the touch electric, racing down my spine. I stand in a daze, moving right along with him to the dance floor.
Our feet hit the wood, his hand smoothing down my naked back in expert fashion, singeing every inch he grazes. Musky citrus swarms around me. My throat dries up again. Something about him screams forbidden, and it’s intoxicating.
Tingles prick up and down my skin as he lowers his arm, slinging it around my waist. My free hand latches onto his well-built bicep before I can stop myself. When he gathers my other hand in his own, my chest pulses hard, racking my rib cage with desperate need for more of him.
He leads, our feet shuffling, and we’re officially dancing. Something I haven’t done in years, and while I should focus on the rhythm of the music, all I can hear is him. Every swallow, every muffled ‘good evening’ to the few couples we dance by—he’s my melody tonight, and I zone in on him for what seems like an eternity.
“I never asked you. What’s your name?” His voice rings as dry as mine feels.
“Olivia.”
“No last name?” he prods.
My lips purse together, and I shake my head. “Not right now.” For God’s sake, I need some type of leverage or power here.
“Mmm…” He’s not thrown off. I can’t see anything doing that to him, but he drops the subject.
“What’s your name?” My composure continues to downslide, even with the question. He can’t see it, but my knees dare me to collapse into his arms.
A ghost of a smile presses up his beautiful sinful mouth. “Grant.”
My suspicions are right. This has to be Grant Brexton of Hall and Brexton. He’s earned the title of ‘Seattle’s best playboy,’ but I don’t consider it a compliment that he’s chosen to settle his attention on me.
He’s known for being bad, richer than Croesus, hot as hell, a shameless womanizer, and ruthless when crossed. Something a lot of women are desperate to experience, even for just for one night. But I’ll live if I never get the chance.
I smirk, suddenly blooming with confidence from the knowledge I possess. “Your last name wouldn’t be Brexton, would it?”