It wasn’t exactly much of a bargain. After all, he was about to have her escorted off the premises and thrown in jail. The chances of her ever being able to get within fifty feet of him again were unlikely. But it was the only bargaining chip she had.
She waited for a few pregnant moments. Her heart shrank in her chest when he glanced down at her fingers and she removed her hand from his sleeve. But when he lifted the phone to his ear again her breath clogged her lungs, the desperate bubble of hope expanding in her throat.
Please, God, let Lukas Blackstone give Nico this one chance. And I’ll never ask for another miracle again. I promise.
‘Tanner,’ he said into the phone—his voice seeming to echo from a million miles away as the painful hope began to cut off her air supply. ‘Get one of the team to go to the kitchens. There’s a bag hidden behind one of the dishwashers. Bring it here.’
The breath that shuddered out made her giddy, the light in the room becoming blinding. ‘Thank you.’
He tucked his phone into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.
‘I’ll give it to you,’ he said, his scepticism still plain on his face. ‘You’re as good an actress as your sister.’
She nodded, suddenly feeling the urge to laugh at the odd note of admiration. But as the hollow chuckle worked its way up her chest, his face—dark and forbidding and unconvinced—seemed to float in front of her. Until all she could see was the scar, pulsing and glowing in the light.
She lifted a finger, which felt like a dead weight attached to the end of her palm—no longer able to control the urge to explore the rough skin.
Her fingertip touched his cheek. His eyes flared, the dark fire burning her from the inside out. But he didn’t move as she drew her finger along the jagged line, feeling the warmth of his skin, the flex of the muscle in his jaw. And the pain in her stomach clenched and released, his face melding with Nico’s.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, her heart breaking for him as she imagined him as a boy—like Nico—vulnerable and hurting.
He stiffened and drew away, the flare of irritation turning to something much more dangerous. She dropped her finger, blinking furiously to keep the exhaustion—and that strange foggy feeling of connection—at bay.
What on earth were you thinking?
‘Don’t touch me again, Miss O’Hara,’ he said. ‘I can’t be swayed by a beautiful woman the way my brother was.’
She collapsed onto the couch as he ordered the two bodyguards who had been outside the door to watch her. But as he left the room one foolish, shameful thought ran through her mind...
Did he just call me beautiful?
* * *
The next twenty minutes seemed to last a millennium or two, as Bronte tried to keep alive the vague hope that everything would work out okay when Lukas saw Nikky’s photo.
The huge picture window opposite the couch looked out onto the Manhattan night, the room’s muted lighting casting a warm glow over the white stucco walls. The exquisite cream and blue silk furnishings were a keynote of the Blackstone brand, expensive and stylish—and yet more evidence of Blackstone’s wealth and power, as if she needed it.
Their conversation—and her ignominious exit from the Ball—kept running through her brain, along with the visceral punch of heat. Her head started to ache as a flush of reaction worked its way up to her hairline. The two bodyguards remained by the door, apparently oblivious to her distress. Or maybe they were just being polite.
‘Do you think I’ll get arrested?’ she finally managed, hoping to distract herself with conversation.
‘That will be up to Mr Blackstone,’ said the older one, not unkindly.
Just as the guard said the words, the door opened and in marched the man himself, sucking all the oxygen out of the room. Bronte pulled herself upright, feeling desperately exposed in her faded ball gown as his gaze raked over her.
The two bodyguards straightened, like soldiers snapping to attention.
‘Leave us,’ Blackstone said, and they both left with a discreet nod.
Did Blackstone have that effect on all his employees? she wondered as her own heart galloped into her throat.
Blackstone had taken off his tuxedo and the black tie. The rolled-up sleeves of his white dress shirt emphasised the muscular power of his forearms—deeply tanned and furred with dark hair. The waves of hair on his head shone black in the room’s lighting and lay in deep grooves as if he’d run his fingers through it, but if he was at all unsettled by their encounter he certainly wasn’t showing it. His expression was as intent and controlled as before.
Bronte swallowed. She felt shaky but she had the distinct impression that showing any weakness to this man would be a major mistake.
Her head began to pound, the heat on her cheeks scalding her insides as his gaze trav
elled over the creased satin dress. Somehow her hair had collapsed—she couldn’t even imagine what a wreck she must look like, but she pushed the futile moment of vanity to one side. She didn’t have time to care about her appearance, or what he thought of her.