I needed to know which idiot was messing with my woman.
As the elevator descended, I opened the photos again. Zoomed in. That green-eyed bastard, how dare he look at Natalie like that?
And Natalie, how could she smile at another man like that?
Damn it. Three days ago, I thought she'd crawl back begging. Clearly, I was dead wrong.
When I stepped out, David called. "Mr. Winston, the William Group meeting is confirmed for ten tomorrow morning, and there are three files you need to review tonight—"
"Cancel everything." I cut him off, walking through the hotel's revolving doors into Paris's cold, damp night air. "I'm flying back to L.A. tonight."
"Tonight? But filing a flight plan for the private jet takes time, and your morning schedule—"
"I said tonight." I was already in the waiting car, voice leaving no room for argument. "Contact the airport. Whatever it takes. I want wheels up in two hours."
The noiseand smell of Mustang hit me like a punch the second I pushed through the door.
Cheap beer, sweat, fried food, and smoke all mixed together. What separated this place from a dumpster?
Christ. Natalie stayed here? In this dump?
I stood in the doorway, adjusting to the dim light and deafening music.
In my suit, I looked like an idiot who'd wandered onto the wrong set. Several eyes from the crowd were already sizing me up. I ignored them, scanning the room.
Then I saw Natalie.
She was on the corner stage, small and pathetic, just like in the photos.
Tonight she wore a tight black top and denim shorts. Those legs that wrapped around my neck in bed were on display for everyone... My gaze dropped... Damn it, she wasn't even wearing shoes! Her feet, which I'd kissed, were planted on God-knows-how-filthy carpet! If this was her revenge, it worked.
She was singing some old fast-tempo rock song, her husky voice carrying a raw seduction. With the intense beat, her hips swayed, her thighs flexing and releasing with each stomp, the stage lights outlining her curves. Sweat soaked the fabric at her chest, revealing dark outlines. Her gaze swept the crowd below with a teasing smile, tongue darting across her lips.
Heat exploded in my groin, hard enough to hurt.
I stared at this woman commanding the stage and realized—I'd thought I'd caged a quiet canary, never knowing a wild leopard lived inside her. And I'd been completely blind to it.
A surge of fury and possessiveness seized me.
I wanted to charge up there, wrap her in my jacket, grab her waist, and drag her out of these hungry eyes, drag her back to Blackwood Manor, and fuck her senseless.
But I didn't move. I stood there like a pillar.
I was the Winston heir. My every move reflected the family. Drag Natalie out in front of these people? Impossible.
I watched Natalie leave the stage to cheers, disappearing through a small door backstage. That green-eyed bastard, Landon, the asshole from the photos, said something brief at the door and patted her shoulder. She smiled at him.
Damn it.
My jaw clenched so hard it ached.
After a deep breath, I headed for that door as calmly as possible. The bar's layout twisted and turned—I wove past stacked beer crates, through the crowd. After dodging a drunk trying to sell me God-knows-what and turning several corners, I found myself at a utility closet full of cleaning supplies.
Shit. I was lost in this dive.
Just as frustration burned through my control, I heard Natalie's voice from a nearby hallway reeking of stale beer.
"I said no. Please move."
