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Savage chuckles and I get the feeling that despite Eric’s stern tone, this is some shared joke between the two of them. “You’ll have to kill me another day,” Savage replies. “Grayson used his key.”
That announcement is a nugget of welcome information. Grayson is not only here, he’s close enough to Eric to have a key, and as a bonus, it’s already clear to me that he’s a voice of reason and morality. Eric opens the door and pulls me in front of him, his hands scorching my waist, as he leans in close to whisper. “Welcome to my home. I hate that we’re not alone.”
My breath hitches with emotion and I reach up and touch his face. “Me, too,” I whisper, and in this moment, there is only me and him, and him and me. There is us and I can almost hear his wicked thoughts, and feel his hands on my body in places he’s not touching. Savage clears his throat, and Eric shoves the door wider, his hands falling away, when I wish I could pull them back.
I enter a narrow hallway with gorgeous gray and blue Chevron parquet hardwood beneath my feet. A glance up and the wall above the walkway steals my breath, because in the center is a magnificent painting of a jaguar.
Eric steps to my side and catches my fingers with his, his eyes alight with mischief. “I saw that painting and just had to have it.”
Because it reminds him of his enemy, his family, I think. “I have a love-hate reaction to everything about it.”
“I suspected you would. Now, you meet my real family.”
Grayson, I think.
He means Grayson.
He kisses my knuckles, something warm and yet turbulent in his stare as Savage steps around us and heads down the hallway. “Has he been here before?” I ask.
“Never,” Eric replies. “But he’s Savage. He’s—”
“Comfortable everywhere,” I say and it’s a relief when we both laugh. It’s a light, welcome moment that carries us down the hallway with lighter steps.
“Come on,” he says, guiding me forward.
In a few short steps, we pass an archway to my right, where I discover a long, mosaic-topped dining room table, and while itcompels me to stop and admire it, I do not. That’s for later, when all of this stuff with his father has passed.
Voices lift ahead and we clear the walkway. A moment later, we step into Eric’s open-concept living room that connects to a kitchen by way of a granite island; it’s a room of warm colors and masculine décor, with gray leather furnishings, high-beamed ceilings and one wall that is nothing but windows. It fits him. I really think maybe I do, too.
Savage and another man, one of the Walker team, I assume, are huddled up near a bar to the right of the kitchen. Two other men, both also casual in jeans and T-shirts, sit on the couch in deep conversation. Grayson is one of those men and he and the stranger to me immediately stand and start walking toward us, joining us in a few short steps.
“What the hell are you doing here, Davis?” Eric demands, focusing on the “other” man.
“I’m your damn friend,” Davis replies, his cursed rebuttal a contrast to his refined good looks and chiseled features. “I know you forget that, asshole,” he snaps. “But I am.”
“I don’t have friends,” Eric quips back and the energy between them tells me that this is just who they are together. They push and pull. They fight. “Right, Davis? Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?”
“Well then,” Davis comments dryly, “I’m an enemy watching your fucking back.” He glances at me. “Sorry. He just pissed me off and the word ‘fuck’ summed up how I felt too well to miss the opportunity to use it. I’m Davis. A close friend, attorney, and confidant to Grayson.” He glances at Eric. “And you, asshole.”
Grayson smirks, amusement in his eyes. “They really are friends,” he assures me. “I promise you. And welcome back to New York, Harper.” He takes my hand and covers it with his other hand, warmth in his touch that is all about the welcome he just expressed. “I’m glad you’re here with Eric.”
“Me, too,” I say, and when he releases me, I look at Eric and repeat the words, “Me, too,” and with good reason. These men are his friends. I want them to know that I’m one hundred percent on Eric’s side. I’m not a Kingston. I’m not a damn princess.
Eric touches my cheek, approval in his eyes before he glances at Grayson. “My father is on his way here.”
“I heard,” he confirms, “and I think we should talk about where thatleads you.”
“Me, too,” I chime in again, squeezing Eric’s hand, but he doesn’t look at me.
“We’ll talk, all right,” he replies, his tone steel, almost brutal. “What do we know about my father’s trip?”
The group of us spread out and form a circle to the side of the couches, and Savage and the man he’s been talking with—a tall, dark-haired man with long hair tied at his nape—join us. “This is Blake,” Savage says, indicating the other man. “One of the founders of Walker Security. That means one of my bosses. He’s also a world-class hacker. I’m not. I’m still just brute force me.”
“The one who hacked me to freedom,” I assume.
“If you mean I got rid of the bank account that was created in your name,” Blake says, “yes. That was me.”
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I say.”
