“Suit yourself.” He starts down the stairs, then pauses and looks back at me. “I want this to work, Hawke.”
I nod. “I’ll consider what you said.”
I wait until Randolph disappears into the crowd before I pull out my phone and text Seraphina. I try not to contact her outside of working hours. But she knows Randolph, knows the New Field deal inside and out. I want her perspective on this.
Entering into a long-term relationship makes me want to order another two or three gin and tonics. But it might be the only thing that will keep Randolph with Hawke Financial. The only thing that will get him to agree to the New Field deal.
Several minutes pass as an acrobat and then a magician perform on the catwalk. I glance at my phone, then frown when the screen remains dark. I don’t require Seraphina to be available on the weekends. Not unless we have something critical happening. But she usually replies within a couple minutes.
She could have gone to bed early, I remind myself. Maybe she’s attending an event in the city. Maybe she’s on a date.
The last thought is not a pleasant one.
My frowns deepens. This is why I prefer to keep people at arm’s length. It doesn’t do anyone any favors to get attached, even if the attachment is rooted in respect and professional appreciation. Emotions eventually cloud one’s judgment, loosen one’s grip on control. Let in the kind of pain you’re not sure you can survive.
Two faces slip into my consciousness. Mom lying in the hospital, pale and lifeless, the incessant beeping of the heart monitor slipping into one long, mournful tone. David clutching on to my arm as the social worker tried to wrestle him into the car that would take him to a different foster home. Me promising him I would find him, would make us a family again as his hot tears scalded my skin.
Fuck.
I’m revisiting my past more with the New Field deal looming over me. But God, I hate it. It yanks me outside the walls I crafted years ago to keep people and all the pain they bring with them out. I make very few exceptions to venturing past my own boundaries or letting people in.
My eyes drop down to my phone again. Where the hell is she?
The music stops. The lights dim, save for the lanterns drifting across the lake and the ring of fire burning by the water.
A figure walks onto the catwalk that runs from the shore through the fiery ring. The woman from the lake. Her head is bowed, her hair now wrapped into a low bun. In one hand is a long stick. That sense of recognition pulls at me again, but I ignore it.
Faint notes dance through the speakers, like the keys of a piano with an electric undercurrent. She raises her head and walks forward to the ring with elegant strides. She raises one end of the stick to the flames. It flares, catches fire. Then she reaches up, touches her hand to the heat. Fire flickers in her palm as she touches the other end of the staff. I don’t know why, but the sight of flames in her hand is sexy as hell.
Her body freezes. Time stands still as a hush steals over the crowd. My chest tightens.
The violin cuts through the night, a sharp melody perfectly timed with the fire dancer’s sudden leap into the air. My blood thickens as she lands, raises the fiery staff and then rolls it down with expert precision. The burning ends hit the ground. Fire shoots up, races down the catwalk in twin lines. The dancer spins, twirls, leaps between them in time to the music. She pauses every few steps to spin the staff around her neck, roll it down her arms, toss it in the air and catch it. Every move is perfectly choreographed, hypnotic and primal.
I sit, rooted to the spot, as she dances to the end of the catwalk. She tosses the flaming staff to a man standing off to the side, who tosses her what looks like a sword. She dips the tip into the fire and the entire blade turns to flame. The music crescendos as she spins, the sword creating a circle of sparks around her.
She stops. Whips the sword above her head and holds it as the music fades, replaced by thunderous applause. I stare, mesmerized, as she artfully spins the sword in her hand before taking a bow. She straightens.
And looks right at me.
Lust strikes like a lightning bolt as we stare at each other across the crowd. Electricity arcs between us, pulses like a heartbeat. I want her. I want to know her name, want to see the face beneath the mask. Need her in my bed, beneath me, surrounding me.
The eyes behind the mask widen, bottle green and suddenly filled with fear. Her lips part, and even though she’s a stone’s throw away, I can read the name she utters.
My name.
Recognition punches through the desire, lets in a tidal wave of shock.
Seraphina.
Seraphina turns to the still-applauding crowd, bows and straightens. She doesn’t look in my direction again. No, she turns, walks back through fiery ring, hands her sword to someone, and quickly walks away along the shores of the lake into the darkness.
Runs away.
I surge to my feet, passing my glass to a surprised waitress as I hurry down the stairs. Why is my mild-mannered, incredibly reliable executive assistant dancing around with a sword she lit on fire? How long has she been doing this?
Worse, how the hell am I going to be able to be around her now? After seeing her dance so sensually, seeing her long bare legs and the way that top cupped her breasts—
I stop my train of thought and focus on easing my way through the crowd. I don’t know what I’m going to do or say when I find Seraphina. But I need to see her, need to talk to her.
