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“Of course it is. Show me.”
I pause, taking a minute to drink in the look in her eyes. She looks drunk but not from the alcohol. From our kiss. I can only imagine how she’ll feel underneath me, our bodies tangled in sheets in my plush bed.
“Let’s go.”
CHAPTER8
Riley
I wake up with a start. My heart starts beating rapidly from the realization that I’m not in my hotel room. There’s expensive art on the walls, a clothing chest that I bet costs thousands, and the bed I’m laying in feels like a cloud sent from heaven.
My hotel room isn’t a dump by any stretch of the imagination, but it isn’t anything compared to this.
I attempt to sit up, and both my head and stomach tell me to keep my ass right where I am.
“What the hell?” I croak out while palming my forehead.
As if in response to my question a deep groan sounds beside me. Now is the moment I realize that I’m not alone. Reminders from the night before.
Kyle.
I’m in his hotel room. No, not room. Suite. His hotel suite.
“What the fuck?” he grumpily asks, sitting up. The irritable expression on his face tells me his body is also reminding him of the many, many shots we took last night.
I glance down, relieved to see I’m still wearing the dress I wore to the beach party. Kyle is also dressed in the pants and shirt he wore. A look past him to the armchair in the corner of the room reveals the suit jacket haphazardly swung over it.
“What are you doing in my room?” he demands, anger shooting from his eyes.
I jut my head back in offense but instantly regret the movement when a wave of nausea ensues. I’m not much of a drinker. Alcohol could sometimes be a trigger for my migraines. In addition, alcohol tends to make people loose lipped. For years, I worked on getting other people drunk to get them talking. Not the other way around.
Last night was different. I wanted to forget about the true reason I was in Miami. Let go of the fact that I’m being blackmailed to get whatever dirt I could on Kyle and his family’s company.
“Why are you in my room?” Kyle grits out again, moving as far from me as he can.
“You invited me,” I tersely reply. “Don’t act like a bitch now,” I snap because I don’t like his attitude and I feel like crap.
“The only bitch …” He trails off with a grumble.
I had my right hand ready to slap the hell out of him if he even dared. He gets up from the bed, and I don’t miss his stumble. Kyle quickly recovers and glares down at me.
Most people would wilt beneath the weight of that look. However, I push down the nausea and growing headache, square my shoulders, and stare at him right back.
“Don’t bother twisting yourself in knots. It’s not like we slept together or anything.” I scoff and shudder as if the thought fills me with disgust. I rise from the bed.
After that kiss, we both were drunk with lust. I’d dared him to show me the inside of his hotel room, and he practically dragged me back here. Once we arrived, though, instead of ripping one another’s clothes off, Kyle cracked open the very expensive bottle of whiskey from the bar. We continued our game of truth or dare, going shot for shot. Kyle always went with dare.
A memory from the night before surfaces. I dared him to tell me the craziest thing about his childhood. His answer caught me off-guard. He’d said that as a kid, he’d had visions—more like seeing a ghostly woman. Only he could see her. When he got older, his father told him that it was a great-great-grandmother of his that showed up when she was needed.
He'd said he hadn’t seen her in years.
Emma. That was her name, according to Kyle.
I had to imagine that confession. A piece of me wants to ask about it, but the way he’s looking at me keeps my mouth shut.
A muscle in Kyle’s jaw jumps as he searches for something. I realize he’s looking for his cell phone when he finds it on the floor. He places a call.
A beat later, he barks into the phone, “Get up here. Now,” before hanging up and tossing it onto the bed.
