A clover rests on a bed of fleecy cotton.
I glance around the garden, my chest tight. “Grayson…”
I close the box and head out of the aviary, the feeling that I’m not alone lingering on the edge of my awareness.
It started here. It has to end here.
The chest-thumping beat beckons me closer. It’s like gravity, drawing me in and through the doors of the Blue Clover. The sultry music engulfs my senses, a hypnotic trance that reels me through the throng of close-pressed bodies.
I’ve been here before. A familiar, tantalizing promise lingers in the air—the promise of escape. Freedom. I can still taste a hint of it as the mesmerizing colors swirl within a smoky haze over the dance floor.
We had a design. We had each other.
But then, I was in disguise, hidden—able to camouflage my desires for a night. There was no question of London or Lydia. There was only my longing to be his.
This time, there’s no mask to shield me. My designer black dress suit hugs my curves like perfectly fitted armor. My black-and-nude pumps clash with the wild atmosphere, and probably cost more than every outfit here.
I’m aware of how blatantly I stand out as I move through the dance club. Women size me up, men look too eager to approach me, as if I’m lost, as if I’m on the prowl, a huntress craving flesh.
Which was the whole point when I chose the club as our secret reunion spot. No one would suspect me to come here. Dr. London Noble wouldn’t blend.
Maybe I should’ve donned a disguise tonight. Made sure I saw him first before he noticed me—but that’s part of the strategy.
Let him take me.
I stalk the scene on a mission.
The music changes speed, the rhythm faster, matching my rapid heartbeat. Annoyed, I fend off advances, waving away two men in cheap suits, and take up the back wall where I discovered Grayson once before. Smoke rolls across the floor in vibrating neon flashes, the beat climbs higher, and bodies crowd together in a dense mass, obscuring my vision.
For the first time in months, a twinge of pain nudges my lower back. Out of habit, I adjust my posture to compensate for the heels, and a spike of alarm stabs my chest.
This isn’t right.
The smoke machine spits vapors at me, stealing my breath. My head spins. The dark club is suddenly too bright. I’m pushing through the condensed bodies toward the exit, hands snagging my clothes, my hair.
Something’s wrong.
The thought hits me as someone presses up against my backside. A strong arm circles my waist. Irritation claws at my defenses, and I clamp my hand around the thick wrist at my pelvis. “Get off.”
“I could probably manage that, but I’d love to know what getting you off—reallyoff—feels like.”
Nelson’s gruff voice reaches my ears past the hyped music. My body tenses, my hold on his arm turning to stone.
“Where’s Grayson?”
It’s the most important question. Every contingency to follow rides on his answer.
He feathers my hair over my shoulder, rough fingers stroking my neck. “Shh. You’re going to ruin the surprise.” Then he presses hard against me, making me aware of the gun tucked in his waistband.
I wrench out of his hold and spin to face him straight-on. “What are you going to do, shoot me?” I look around at all the people in the club. “This isn’t some cliché movie, Nelson. You’re not going to stick a gun in my side and lead me to some remote location. If you’re going to kill me, do it. Right now. In front of everyone here.”
He chuckles. “God, you really are a snotty bitch.”
“And you’re merely a pathetic imitator,” I sling back. “At least we can be honest with each other now.”
He stalks forward and lowers his voice. “Do you really want to make a scene? What are your chances to discover what I’ve done with your lover then?”
The rules of psychological warfare are different for everyone. How far someone will go to demoralize and dominate their opponent is dependent on their level of commitment. Their desire and need to win—to make their enemy suffer.
