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I raise an eyebrow like I can’t believe he won’t offer to escort me, my voice laden with reproach. “You barely allowed me in, but you’ll let me see myself to Zayne’s office?”
He takes a deep breath, nodding for me to follow him.
I hardly feel the elevator move as it takes us to the upper levels of the building. This is way beyond state-of-the-art technology. It’s full-on sci-fi. I enter an all-granite hallway with double doors that look like the gates to Lucifer’s private den.
“I trust you can take it from here,” the security guy repeats, keen to get off this floor. He hasn’t even stepped out of the elevator with me, and the look on his face when I glance over my shoulder is quite telling. Before I even get to respond, the doors of the elevator have already closed, leaving me alone in this place.
I look up at the doors, taking a deep breath. Then, slowly, I raise a hand to touch the intricate patterns carved into them, searching for a knob or a latch. Damn, I could swear the material is liquid. It seems to respond to the heat of my palm because the doors open with a smooth hum.
They reveal a space that looks more like the receiving hall of a king than the office of a nerd-slash businessman. A pattern in the shape of DNA spirals is worked into the marble floor, a large floor-to-ceiling window to one side showing a vast green park that sprawls between this building and the city, skyscrapers visible in the distance. Buttery couches and a low table mark the visitors’ area. Surely only the creme-de-la-creme spend time here, people of Declan’s and Jax’s caliber.
My mouth is still open as my eyes drag to the large, sleek desk that presides from the far side of the room. A pretty-faced man in what appears to be the outfit of a clergyman leans against the desk, not looking very surprised to see me. If anything, it seems like he expected me, but somehow I know he isn’t Zayne Thorngren.
But when another man emerges from an adjacent room, drinks in both hands, I know instantly that this is him.
His face hits me like a hammer to my gut, leaving me breathless.
Zayne Thorngren has such beautiful blue eyes that, for a moment, my heart stutters. The tone of his skin makes me instantly think about licking it, and his jaw should be on an advertising billboard for “unattainable standards of male beauty”. His hair is so black it reveals blue highlights when he passes in front of the window, but it’s his lips I can’t look away from by the time he’s eaten up the distance between us.
God sure as fuck went to town when he made this man. His lips are perfectly sculpted, and I can see how tasting them could feel like a privilege. I can think of no better way to describe him other than “Fuck this”, “You’ve got to be shitting me”, and “I’m fucking done here”.
“Mrs. Sirenna Carter,” he greets in a voice like liquid sin. “How wonderful that you made it in time. I’d made a bet with Priest here about how long it would take for you to crawl out of the hotel you’ve been hiding in, and reach out for my help.”
Oh, wow. That was sobering. I’m not sure whether to feel offended or grateful for the bucket of ice he just dropped on me, but I’m instantly back to my senses.
He reaches me a drink, his smile not leaving his face for a single moment. “Five minutes later, and I would have had to pay up.”
My eyes flit between him and the clergyman. “Had you instructed your security to let me through, I would have been here sooner. Saved you the palpitations.”
“Oh, and deny myself the show? Oh no, Mrs. Carter. Watching that famously brilliant mind of yours in action was too much of a delight. Premium entertainment.” He winks, and those insanely blue eyes arrest my attention completely.
I absentmindedly take the drink from his hand. He looks down at it, one eyebrow arching up, giving him the look of a young devil. “I know you prefer champagne, but I figured you might need something stronger for the talk we’re about to have.”
“Sounds like you already know why I’m here.”
That smile again. It could disarm a fucking army.
“Of course, Mrs. Carter. If I didn’t know when people were planning to manipulate me, I wouldn’t be where I am. Please, have a seat.”
He motions toward one of the buttery, cream-colored sofas by the large window, light flooding in around it. His movement is fluid, his black sweater stretching over his strong arms and chest. The man is built like a freaking Michelangelo sculpture, an effect that the full black, casual outfit enhances. I lick my lips, trying to divert my thoughts from how he might look naked. It’s just that finding a man so intensely attractive is a big deal for me. I didn’t think anyone could ever catch my attention like this again, and it feels surprisingly uplifting to know I’m not dead inside after all.
Besides, there’s something beyond his looks that keeps me staring. A strange familiarity, which is crazy because if I’d met this man before I sure as hell would have remembered.
I head over to the sofa, sharply aware of my posture and the way that I walk. I’m wearing a long, thin leather trench coat instead of the jacket I initially planned to wear because I didn’t want all of his employees to see the sexy outfit underneath. But the moment I sit down, crossing my legs, the sides of the coat fall to reveal my thighs, the lace pumps on my feet enhancing the effect. Zayne’s shoulders seem to tense, but it might be just in my head, because I want to affect him. But I can’t show him that, so my eyes fly over to the clergyman.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Carter,” Zayne says, following my gaze. “Priest doesn’t really work for Jesus. He works with me. No need to feel guilty about tempting him.”
He casually takes a seat perpendicular to me on the L-shaped sofa, facing the widow. There is enough distance between us to keep me comfortable, but also to make conversation less confrontational than if we were sitting face to face. It’s also a way for him to judge my composure. Face to face, I’d have no choice but to stare him full in the face, and have my fill of those handsome features without making a fool of myself. The same cannot be said about this angle. If I stare it’s because I can’t help it.
The same goes for Zayne, only that he doesn’t seem intimidated by the idea at all. He rests an arm over the back of the sofa, crossing one ankle elegantly over his knee and staring at me without a care in the world. Definitely not something you’d do with someone who affects you. Surely, if he felt the slightest hint of familiarity, of recognition, he would say something–wouldn’t he? I swallow hard, trying to get rid of the strange sensation, and trying to keep myself together. It’s not easy, especially with the scent that now envelops me like a crisp morning breeze tinged with citrus. It’s the scent of a man that will shatter everything in the way of his goals. World domination comes to mind as I meet that blue stare.
“So, I suppose this is about your husband having gone MIA,” he opens the discussion as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Nothing like the socially awkward nerd I imagined him to be. This isn’t the formerly pimpled teenager I thought I could intimidate, but a fucking Adonis who saw ten moves ahead of me.
“Sad story, but I can’t say I’m very much touched by it,” he continues. “As you surely know, your husband and I are far from buddies. I am curious about one thing, though. How affected are you by his disappearance? Because if your hooking up with guys in the hotel bar is any indication, not much.”
I choke on my sip of scotch. “How do you–”
“I make a habit of keeping tabs on people who might become trouble.”
