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He strode through the room, and she moved away from him, weaving through the crowd in what he now saw as a determined attempt to evade him. A desperation to understand what they’d once been to each other took hold of him on a cellular level, so that he quickened his step.
She was no match for him. Much shorter and on spindly high heels that were the last word in eroticism, she took three steps for every one of his, so that he caught her when she was at the entrance to the grand ballroom.
“Excuse me,” he spoke with easy command. It was a voice that didn’t invite argument.
She stopped, but didn’t turn to face him, so he brought his body around in front of her.
And there it was again. He felt as though he’d been punched in the solar plexus; his whole body responded, every fibre of him pulled taut, every cell in him reverberated.
“Who are you?”
She tilted her beautiful little chin in a gesture of unmistakable defiance, and her eyes practically burned his when they lifted. “Nobody.” She spat the word with obvious contempt. “And I was just leaving.”
“Wait.” The word was imperious and demanding.
“Why?” She crossed her arms over her slender chest, and his eyes dropped to the swell of cleavage displayed by the pale yellow dress she wore.
“Because I’m sure you were mistaken just now. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
A sharp intake of breath rocked her but she covered it quickly, concealing her emotions from him with frustrating ease. Her face bore a mask of inscrutable calm. “No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, that’s your problem.”
He laughed, a sound as foreign to him as it was to her. It thundered from his lips as though a whip were being cracked somewhere in the region of his good humour, and it was startled back to life. “I think it’s both our problems.”
She frowned and a little divot formed between her brows. A slice of memory cut through him, elusive and yet tangible, all at once. His lips pressing to that divot, kissing it away. Her laughing and lifting a hand to his chest. It was so strong but simultaneously impossible to hold onto. Even as he saw the details they were sinking through the layers of his mind, impossible to reach, like searching for a key at the bottom of the ocean.
It might have been this woman, or it may have been another woman with a similar little forehead crease. He could never trust the recollections – he’d learned that time and time again.
“Excuse me, Mr Salbatore, but I was just on my way out.”
He pounced on the slip up. “So, you do know me?”
She gaped at the moment of recognition – the foolish slip of her tongue – but recovered with impressive swiftness. “I know of you,” she muttered. “But then, who doesn’t?”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Fine. So come for a drink. Get to know me.”
She took a step back then, as though he’d pushed her.
And he knew that they had a history; but had not a single idea as to what it involved. “A drink,” he repeated. “For old time’s sake.”
Colour flamed her cheeks, pale pink that set off the colour in her eyes and the rose-bud quality of her lips. When she swallowed, the delicate column of her throat shifted and something stirred within him.
“I… can’t,” she murmured, her eyes flicking towards the door.
It was hardly convincing. His smile was an attempt at niceness; it fell flat. “One drink.” And he put a hand in the small of her back, guiding her out the doors and into the foyer. It was an exclusive hotel in the heart of Mayfair – and the décor was everything such a hotel would boast. Shimmering marble tiles, gold features, crystal chandeliers and burgundy runners. There was a bar too, with a grand piano, and a great collection of scotch.
He ignored it, heading for the bay of elevators instead. And she went with him, her body close enough to his side that he could feel her curves. He pressed the ‘up’ button, his eyes seeking hers in the mirrored reflection of the doors without his consent.
Hers were there, haunted, nervous, and his own nervous system went into overdrive. He was awash with feelings he couldn’t understand. Protective instincts mingled with lust, desire, anger. It was all there, grating through him, stirring him to life for the first time in years.
The doors pinged open and he guided her inside. But it was only once the doors closed and they were alone that she seemed to rouse herself.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere we can talk privately,” was all he said, swiping his key and pressing the button for the top floor. There was no way he was going to risk having this conversation interrupted or overheard. He couldn’t, for the life of him, have said why he cared so much. But every bone in Xavier Salbatore’s body was telling him this mattered. This was important.
