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“Find out what?” I asked, conscious that I’ve been doing a lot of that. Asking. Begging for answers.
Why? He doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t…
Holden moved to stand in front of me. Up close, the devastation of his looks was almost blinding. I had to take him in pieces; my eyes tracing the line of his perfect face, his full lips, the cleft in his chin, and the small mole high up on his left cheekbone. His silver hair was gelled in a thick, full wave on top, cut short on the sides, exposing the long cords of his neck. Everything about him assaulted my senses, making me stupid.
Holden drew closer and I watched, frozen, aware of every nerve-ending in my body standing at attention, my cock twitching in my pants. His hands—elegant, but masculine and stained with ink—adjusted the knot in my tie.
“It’s a tad crooked.” His breath wafting over my lips—smoke and vodka, fire and ice. “Just like me.”
I swallowed, and Holden’s gaze dropped to my Adam’s apple, watching the movement. Then up to my lips, lingering there, while his own mouth parted, the tip of his tongue venturing out to touch his bottom lip.
Oh fuck…
Lust—pure, unfiltered want—ripped through me like a wildfire. But just as potent were the thousands of emotions swirling in my chest. Instead of feeling constricted, I could breathe. Maybe for the first time in months. Years, even.
Holden read all of it; a lazy, infuriating smile spreading over his lips. He lingered in that thick moment—torturing me with possibilities—then backed off, breaking the spell.
“You’re ready for the ball, Prince Charming. King, I should say.” His gaze raked me up and down in the sleek black tux and pale blue tie. “You look every bit the part.”
I’m tired of playing it.
I sucked in another breath, deep and even, while Holden leaned on my dresser again. He pulled a packet of clove cigarettes, black embossed with gold, from his coat pocket.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“Of course not. Not here.” He arched a thick but perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Somewhere else?”
Inhale. Exhale.
I can breathe…
“Let’s go.”
Chapter Eight
Holden and I snuck out the front door and hurried down my driveway as twilight turned to night. I felt like a thief who’d robbed his own house.
“Let’s take your truck,” Holden said and waved at a driver leaning against the side of a black Cadillac parked just down the street.
“Why? Where are we going?”
“I don’t want you to accuse me later of kidnapping you.” He shot me a heated glance. “Mostly, I just want to watch you drive.”
Fuck.
Everything this bastard said or did, every look that flashed across his eyes, was sexy as hell.
“As to where we’re going,” he said as we climbed into the cab of my Chevy, “don’t worry about it. I’ll navigate.”
I started up my truck’s engine as the black sedan drove away. “That was your personal driver?”
“He was.” Holden turned to me with a grin. “Tonight, it’s you.”
Fuck, again.
In the falling dark, we left my upper-middle class neighborhood and headed south. The houses grew larger, separated by gates and dense trees that provided privacy. It was a short drive—after only a few minutes, we crested a hill and the ocean spread out before us; deep blue streaked the orange of the setting sun.
“That one.”
