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His chest a roiling hot mess, he searched for the patience that had run thin for three long years, then soon discovered that her old cell phone number was no longer in service—so she’d changed that, too?—and he ended up calling Daniel Lexington, who had to call Chloe, who let him know that Whitney was, indeed, at the benefit at the Four Seasons Hotel.
Andrew tamped down his irritation. So. She’d gone on without him. Stalking to the bedroom, he showered and changed into a dark suit and white shirt open at the top, and rather than wear the tie, he shoved it into his jacket pocket with the intent of using it only if it was required.
He was no longer accustomed to suits.
They made him feel enclosed and his body trapped. He didn’t like it.
He didn’t like Whitney ignoring him, either.
No. He was not a damned affair. After everything they’d gone through, after everything he’d done for her, was he to be downgraded to being ignored now?
His mood was especially volatile when he arrived at the benefit. Approximately five hundred guests mingled throughout the ballroom, far more than there had been yesterday. There were also flowers. Music. A dance floor. Andrew had never been one for crowds, and he especially didn’t feel like chitchat today. He wanted a bath, a bed, and Whitney.
But his lady was nowhere to be found.
As he blended into the room, his eyes snagged on a flash of red hair, and fixed on it. There was Whitney. Entertaining a crowd of men by the wine fountain. Her gaze slid across the entrance, as though she’d been expecting him to arrive any minute now, and he noticed—oh, yes, he definitely noticed—when she saw him. Her back stiffened, and her eyes flared with a little excitement, a little fear, and more than a little lust.
His heart kicked in response, and his systems leapt into overdrive. He wanted her like he’d never, in his life, desired anything. Every single day, since the first time he’d seen her, he wanted her more and more. He knew she felt the same for him, wanted him with every inch of that luscious body of hers. The air rippled between them as their gazes held, but now he noticed that her reaction to him, her need of him, frustrated her, for her beautiful forehead puckered into a little frown when she saw him.
Because you’re wild about me and you know it, Whitney Donahue . . .
He gave her a slow, disarming smile, knowing that she
would expect him to approach her. But he didn’t.
He kept his distance, indulging her, but his eyes were trained on her every move. He was not crowding her, not threatening her. He was, in fact, letting her strut her stuff and do her thing, but his eyes caressed her. His eyes said, I’m here, and no matter what stunt you try to pull, I’m still not going anywhere.
Taking a glass of Chardonnay from the tray of a passing waiter, Andrew wound through the crowd and enjoyed his drink while Whitney continued to ignore him. An air of rebelliousness enveloped her as she mingled, seemingly hell-bent on talking to all of the men in attendance, flaunting herself in a sexy little number that made his cock as hard as titanium.
She was exquisite, in a short sequined silver dress that graduated to gold at the hem of her dress. Stunning couldn’t begin to cover the way she looked. Her legs, lean and curved and in silver heels, stretched endlessly. She wore her hair loose—something that had always driven Andrew wild with lust—and every time she tossed it over her shoulders, she seemed to glance at him, as though delighting in the way she was torturing his raring, overheated libido. She was baiting him. Punishing him for leaving her, for hurting her. Maybe even pushing him to a breaking point.
It was working.
Andrew watched her laugh over something a man told her with quickly fading amusement and quietly building rage.
“Fairchild,” a voice said beyond his shoulder.
He turned to find Graves Buchanan standing behind him, his old friend’s face breaking into a half-smile, which was rare for such a stoic man.
“Buchanan,” Andrew said, slapping his hard back, genuinely smiling at him. He was here with Daniel’s sister, Chloe, and they looked pretty cozy.
Tall and slender, Chloe was rendered particularly petite when standing next to the large, dark Graves, and they were so close to each other, Chloe was almost standing on top of Graves’s feet.
With a sharp pang, Andrew remembered a time when Whitney had been closer to him than a limb . . .
“Glad to see you’re back, Andy,” Chloe said merrily, hugging him. She was Whitney’s best friend, and without their friendship, Andrew loathed to think he might never have met the green-eyed redhead whose name he was wearing.
“Glad to be home,” Andrew agreed. He would’ve liked to enjoy talking to them, but he couldn’t help but return his attention to Whitney, his insides growing more tumultuous with every man she talked to.
“Andrew,” Chloe said softly, lightly touching his jacket sleeve, her eyes wide with concern. “Whitney had a rough time when you left. You should be patient with her if you still want to be together.”
The worry in Chloe’s gaze made his gut twist in knots. “Are you implying we’re not together anymore?” He glanced back in Whitney’s direction, and the knots in his gut doubled in size. “Is she here with another man?” he asked Chloe.
“No, of course not! The only man she sees is your father, lunch on Wednesdays. She actually stayed at your place the first two years, but when the letters stopped coming . . .” She trailed off, and her green eyes—like her brother’s—welled with sadness. “She won’t make it easy for you, you hurt her too much, Andy.”
Though his chest constricted, Andrew nodded his head in understanding, trying to be patient with Whitney, trying to understand what she must be feeling. He did. He really did. It was unfair of him to expect her to love him like before, trust him like before.
But it hurt.
