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The flesh on the back of my neck burns, heat coursing through my veins. I shift my weight in my chair, trying to control my jealousy. I manage a gruff response. “I think you’ll survive a few nights.”
“Hmm…” She eyes my biceps, showing from under my sleeves. Reaching out, she strokes her fingers along my forearm. Her touch sends electric sparks over my skin. She drags her doe eyes up to meet mine, looking up at me from under her lashes. “Well, if we find it too boring there, you and I could always try a few things… no strings attached, of course.”
God, is that all she thinks of? Sex?
The thought makes me want to slap my own face. Who am I becoming? A few weeks ago I was a sex club owner with a different woman in my bed every night, literally reading the women first to be sure our evening of pleasure would be one with no strings attached.
Now?
When she says the words, they make me cringe.
What. The. Hell. Has come over me?
Her.
It’s her.
Kylie Barone and no one else on this Earth could have changed me in this way. Pain strikes my chest and I have to look away.
She senses my silence, and her fingers stop moving over my skin. She takes my hand in hers, giving it a squeeze. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, no,” I say, surprised by the gruffness in my voice. “You’re fine.”
What do I tell her? That I want her and her alone. That I want her for my own, and never, ever want to let another man touch her.
That I want every goddamn string in this world attaching her to me?
“How about a drink?” I ask, changing the subject.
She shakes her head. “No way. Not after the way that champagne made me pass out.”
“Food?” I ask.
A manicured hand flutters to her flat belly. There’s a small chip in the black nail polish on her index finger. “Food, now that sounds amazing. I’m starving.”
I raise my hand in the air, signaling a waitperson over. I order us a charcuterie board of meat and cheese and fruit and two coffees — hers with plenty of cream and sugar like I know she likes it.
Trying to make up for whatever bristles have passed between us, she grabs my arm, snuggling up to my side. “Tell me more about the Hamlet. It sounds beautiful.”
“It is. The buildings are all red brick with tall, white-cased windows. There’re gardens everywhere, tucked in between most of the buildings. And it’s very secure. There’s a tall wrought iron fence around the entire perimeter of the land, a long and winding, unassuming, private dirt road that leads to a stone wall and massive gate that stretch out across the front of the entrance.” Hidden cameras and twenty-four-seven guards keep the Hamlet the amazing secret that it is. That and some very generous political donations to keep our relationship with the local law enforcement peaceful. “Deliveries are made on a separate road, left at a guarded gazebo, the packages then brought to the Hamlet by brothers.”
“Deliveries from the online shopping addictions you mentioned?” she laughs.
“I guess when you have kids, you need a lot of stuff. And there are lots of kids in the Hamlet—it’s all families, the place created from a time when children weren’t allowed in the Village of New York.”
“But I’ve heard there’s a school in the Village now.”
“There is now, we’ve got the security and connections we need to keep everyone safe in the city. But we didn’t always have those things. The Village was thought to be too dangerous for kids. That’s why the Hamlet was created. A safe place for families to run the more legitimate aspects of our business while raising their kids. The married and expecting parents of the family flocked here. Bronson Bachman, a legacy Bachman and our only member to be third-generation Bachman, left the Village to lead the Hamlet. He and his wife, Paige, have a couple kids, Thomas and Kate, that keep him very busy, along with running this branch of our world.”
“Hmm...” She taps her chin again, thinking.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just a big change from our current living situation. I mean, next week I’m having dinner at midnight followed by the most amazing hot wax session with Tate—”
Between clenched teeth I interrupt her. “I thought we could use a change.”
I can’t hear about her plans for the future. It makes my stomach clench into a fist of ice. I run a hand through my hair, trying not to tug it out of my scalp. She tenses beside me. I soften my tone, reminding myself this mess I’ve gotten myself into is not her fault. I’m the one who’s lost my head.
