I hadn’t planned on tagging along with Dante after our meeting, but when he mentioned the Monarch reservation, I’d been curious. My job included checking out the most buzz-worthy places in the city, and I’d been putting Monarch off for too long.
Certainly, my decision to abandon a relaxing night in for the somewhat tedious fine dining scene had nothing to do with Dante’s casual comment about picking Vivian up from girls’ night with her friends.
Sloane had departed for the airport, leaving me and Isabella in the back seat of Dante’s car while the newlyweds cozied up in front. Of all the nights, Dante had to choose tonight to drive instead of relying on his chauffeur.
Silence suffocated the air as we inched through Manhattan traffic, interrupted only by the soft patter of rain against glass.
Isabella and I sat as far apart as humanly possible, but it wouldn’t matter if the Atlantic Ocean itself separated us. My senses were imprinted with the smell and feel of her—the lush sensuality of roses mixed with the rich warmth of vanilla; the brief, tantalizing glide of her hand against mine; the static charge that clung to my skin every time she was near.
It was maddening.
I answered an email about the DigiStream deal and slid my phone into my pocket. I’d been working on acquiring the video streaming app for over
a year. It was so close I could taste it, but for once, my thoughts were consumed with something other than business.
I glanced at Isabella. She stared out the window, her fingers drumming an absentminded rhythm against her thigh, her face soft with introspection. Her backpack sat between us like a concrete wall, dividing my runaway thoughts from her unusual quiet.
“How many speeds does it have?”
The drumming stopped. Isabella turned, confusion stamped across her features. “What?”
“Your test at Sloane’s house.” The memory of her answering the door with that ridiculous pink toy in hand pulled at the corners of my mouth. “How many speeds does it have?”
Although I disapproved of Isabella’s distressingly common lack of propriety, part of me was charmed by it. She was so completely, irrepressibly herself, like a painting that refused to be dulled by time. It was enthralling.
Color glazed her cheekbones and the tip of her nose. Unlike Vivian’s refined elegance or Sloane’s icy blond beauty, Isabella’s features were a bold, expressive canvas for her emotions. Dark brows pulled together over eyes that sparked with defiance, and her full, red lips pressed into a firm line.
“Twelve,” she said, her tone sweet enough to induce a cavity. “I’m happy to lend it to you. It might help loosen you up so you don’t die of a stress- induced heart attack before age forty.”
I’d much rather have you loosen me up instead.
The thought was so sudden, so absurd and unexpected, it robbed me of a timely response.
First and foremost, I did not require loosening up. Yes, my life was quilted with neat squares and perfectly delineated lines, but that was preferable to chaos and whimsy. One wrong tug at the latter, and everything would unravel. I’d worked too hard to let something as unreliable as a passing fancy ruin things.
Second, even if I did need to loosen up (which, again, I did not), I would do so with anyone but Isabella. She was off-limits, no matter how beautiful or intriguing she was. Not only because of Valhalla’s no fraternization rule but because she was going to be the death of me in one way or another.
Still, lust rushed through my veins in all its raw, hot glory at the thought of dipping my head over hers. Of tasting, testing, and exploring whether she was as uninhibited in the bedroom as she was outside it.
Isabella’s brows formed questioning arches at my prolonged silence.
Fuck. I tamped down my traitorous desire with an iron will cultivated from years at Oxbridge and wrestled back control over my faculties.
“Thank you, but on my list of items I’d never borrow, adult toys rank at the top,” I said, my placid tone a deceptive shield for the storm brewing inside me.
She shifted to face me fully. Her skirt slid up, baring another inch of perfect, bronzed skin.
My blood burned hotter, and a muscle flexed in my jaw before I caught myself. Who wore skirts without tights in the middle of an unseasonably cold October? Only Isabella.
“What else is on the list?” She sounded genuinely curious.
“Socks, underwear, razors, and cologne.” I rattled off the answers, keeping my eyes planted firmly on her face.
Those expressive dark brows hiked higher. “Cologne?”
“Every gentleman has a signature cologne. Pilfering someone else’s signature would be considered the height of rudeness.”
Isabella stared at me for a full five seconds before a burst of laughter filled the car. “My God. I can’t believe you’re real.”
The throaty, unabashed sound of her mirth hit me somewhere in the chest and spread like melting butter through my veins.
“If that were the case, fragrance brands would go out of business left and right,” she said. “Imagine if every product only had one customer.”
“Ah, but you’re overlooking an important part of what I said.” The arch of my brow matched hers. “I said every gentleman, not every person.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are such a snob.”
“Hardly. It’s a matter of comportment, not status. I meet plenty of CEOs and aristocrats who are anything but gentlemen.”
“And you think you’re an exception?”
I couldn’t help it. A wicked smile touched my lips. “Only in certain situations.”
I spotted the instant my meaning registered. Isabella’s high color returned, washing her face in a lovely bloom of pink. Her lips parted in an
audible breath, and despite my better instincts, dark satisfaction curled through my chest at her reaction.
I wasn’t the only one tortured by our attraction.
She opened her mouth right as the engine cut off, swallowing her words and abruptly severing our link.
We’d arrived at Monarch.
I hid a twinge of disappointment when a valet hurried over to us and took the keys from Dante. By the time I turned back to Isabella, she’d already exited the car.
I released a controlled breath and tucked the wayward emotion into a padlocked box before following her into the building.
It was better that I didn’t know what she’d been about to say. I shouldn’t have slipped up and teased her in the first place, but there was a growing civil war between my logic and my emotions where Isabella was concerned. Luckily, Dante and Vivian were too deep in newlywed land to notice anything amiss.
The elevator whisked us up to the top floor of the skyscraper, where Monarch overlooked the sprawling expanse of Central Park.
Since we were early for our reservation, the maître d’ offered us complimentary glasses of champagne while we waited in the well- appointed entryway. I was the only one who declined. I wanted a clear head tonight, and God knew Isabella’s presence was intoxicating enough.
My phone lit up with two new emails—a follow-up about DigiStream and logistics for the upcoming executive leadership retreat. Things had been suspiciously quiet since my mother announced the CEO vote, but I’d bet my first edition set of Charles Dickens novels that at least one of the other candidates would make their move at the retreat.
“Kai?”
I glanced up. A somewhat familiar-looking woman stood in front of me with an expectant smile. Late twenties, long black hair, brown eyes, a distinctive beauty mark at the corner of her mouth.
Recognition clicked into place with a breath of surprise.
Clarissa, my childhood neighbor and, judging by the number of articles she’d forwarded me regarding Clarissa’s philanthropic efforts and accomplishments, my mother’s first choice for daughter-in-law.
“Sorry, I realize it’s been a long time since we last saw each other.” She laughed. “It’s Clarissa Teo. From London? You look almost exactly the
same—” Her eyes flicked over me in appreciation. “But I realize I’ve changed quite a bit since the last time we saw each other.”
That was an understatement. Gone was the awkward, braces-wearing teen I remembered. In her place was an elegant, polished woman with a beauty pageant smile and an outfit straight out of a society magazine.
I declined to mention I’d googled her last week, though she looked almost as different in person as she did from her teenage years. Softer, smaller, less stiff.
“Clarissa. Of course, it’s so good to see you,” I said smoothly, masking my surprise. According to my mother’s unsolicited updates, she wasn’t supposed to arrive in New York until next week. “How are you?”
We made small talk for a few minutes. Apparently, she’d moved to the city earlier than planned to help with a big, upcoming exhibition at the Saxon Gallery, where she was in charge of artist relations. She was staying at the Carlyle until they finished renovations at her new brownstone, and she was nervous about moving to a new city but lucky to have found a mentor in Buffy Darlington, the well-respected grande dame of New York society, whom she was meeting for dinner tonight. Buffy was running late because of an emergency with her dog.
I’d had dozens of similar conversations over the years, but I feigned as much interest as possible until Clarissa started comparing the pros and cons of Malteses versus Pomeranians.
“Forgive me. I forgot to introduce you to my friends.” I cut her off neatly when she paused for a breath. “Everyone, this is Clarissa Teo, a family friend. She just moved to the city. Clarissa, this is Dante and Vivian Russo and Isabella Valencia.”
They exchanged polite greetings. Full name introductions were common in our circles, where a person’s family said more about them than their occupation, clothes, or car.
More small talk, plus a hint of awkwardness when Clarissa slid a quizzical glance at Isabella. She’d recognized Dante and Vivian, but she clearly didn’t know what to make of Isabella, whose violet highlights and leather skirt were the antithesis of her own classic neutrals and pearls.
“We should catch up over lunch soon,” Clarissa said when the maître d’ announced our table was ready, saving us from further stilted chatter. “It’s been too long.”
“Yes, I’ll give you a call.” I offered a polite smile. “Enjoy the rest of your night.”
My mother had already given us each other’s number “just in case.” I wasn’t looking forward to another round of small talk, but encounters with old acquaintances after a long time were always strange. Perhaps I wasn’t giving Clarissa enough credit. She could very well be a brilliant conversationalist.
“Ex-girlfriend?” Isabella asked as we walked to our table. “Childhood neighbor.”
“Future girlfriend then.”
A small arch of my brow. “That’s quite a leap to make.”
“But I’m not wrong. She seems like the type of woman you’d date.” Isabella took her seat next to Vivian, directly across from me. Her words contained no judgment, only a stark matter-of-factness that rankled more than it should’ve.
“You seem quite interested in my love life.” I snapped my napkin open and laid it across my lap. “Why is that?”
She snorted. “I’m not interested. I was just making an observation.” “About my love life.”
“I’m not sure you have a love life,” Isabella said. “I’ve never heard you talk about women or seen you at the club with a date.”
“I like to keep my private life private, but it’s nice to know you’ve been keeping such close tabs on my alleged lack of female company.” My mouth curved, an automatic response to her adorable sputter before I wrangled it into a straight line.
No smiling. No thinking anything she does is adorable.
“You have an overinflated sense of your own importance.” Isabella canted her chin higher. “And FYI, the private life excuse only works for celebrities and politicians. I promise there are fewer people interested in your paramours than you think.”
“Good to know.” This time, my smile broke free of its restraints at her tangible indignation. “Congratulations on being one of those lucky few.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“But imagine how much more insufferable I’d be if I were a celebrity or politician.”
A glint of amusement coasted through Isabella’s eyes. Her cheeks dimpled for a millisecond before she pursed her lips and shook her head,
and I was struck with the overwhelming urge to coax those dimples out of her again.
Beside us, Dante and Vivian’s heads swiveled back and forth like spectators at a Wimbledon match. I’d almost forgotten they were there. Dante’s brows knotted in confusion, but Vivian’s eyes sparkled suspiciously with delight.
Before I could investigate further, our server approached, bread basket in hand. The cloud of tension hovering over the table dissipated, and as dinner progressed, our conversation eased into more neutral topics—the food, the latest society scandal, our upcoming holiday plans.
Dante and Vivian were heading to St. Barth’s; I was undecided. I usually returned to London for Christmas, but depending on how things went with DigiStream, I might have to stay in New York.
Part of me relished the idea of a quiet season with only work, books, and perhaps the occasional Broadway show to keep me company. Big holiday gatherings were highly overrated, in my opinion.
“What about you, Isa?” Vivian asked. “Are you heading back to California this year?”
“No, I’m not going home until February for my mother’s birthday,” Isabella said. A brief shadow crossed her face before she smiled again. “It’s so close to Christmas and Lunar New Year that we usually wrap all three celebrations together into one giant weekend. My mom makes these amazing turon rolls, and we go to the beach the morning after her party to unwind…”
I brought my glass to my lips as she talked about her family traditions. Part of me hungered for insights into her background the way a beggar hungered for food. What had her childhood been like? How close was she to her brothers? Were they similar to Isabella, or did their personalities diverge as siblings’ so often did? I wanted to know everything—every memory, every piece and detail that would help solve the puzzle of my fascination with her.
But another, larger part of me couldn’t forget the shadow. The brief glimpse of darkness beneath the bright, bubbly exterior. It called to me like the light at the end of a tunnel, heralding salvation or damnation.
A booming laugh from another table pulled me out of my spiral.
I gave my head a tiny shake and set my glass down, annoyed by how many of my recent waking moments were occupied with thoughts of
Isabella.
I reached for the salt in the middle of the table, determined to enjoy my meal like it was a normal dinner. Isabella, who’d ceded the conversation to Vivian’s recounting of her and Dante’s sailing adventures in Greece, reached for the pepper. Our hands brushed again, a facsimile of our elevator graze.
I stilled. Like the first time, an electric shiver ran up my arm, burning away logic, rationality, reason.
The restaurant faded as our eyes locked with a near audible click, two magnets drawn together by force rather than free will.
If it were up to free will, I would continue with dinner like nothing happened because nothing had happened. It was simply a touch, as innocent as an accidental bump on the sidewalk. It shouldn’t have the power to turn my blood into liquid fire or reach inside my chest and twist my lungs into knots.
Fuck.
“Excuse me.” I abruptly stood, ignoring Dante’s and Vivian’s startled looks. Isabella dropped her hand and refocused on her food, her cheeks pink. “I’ll be right back.”
A bead of sweat formed on my brow as I strode through the dining room.
I pushed my shirtsleeves to my elbows; I was burning up.
When I reached the bathroom, I removed my glasses and splashed ice- cold water on my face until my pulse slowed to normal.
What the hell was happening to me?
For a year, I’d successfully kept Isabella at an arm’s length. She was the opposite of everything I considered proper, a complication I didn’t need. Her flamboyance, her chattiness, her incessant talk about sex in public venues…
Her laugh, her scent, her smile. Her talent for piano and the way her eyes light up when she’s excited. They were the most dangerous kind of drug, and I feared I was already sliding down the slippery slope of addiction.
I let out a soft groan and wiped my face dry with a paper towel.
I blamed that cursed Monday two weeks ago. If I hadn’t been so caught off guard by the CEO vote’s announcement and timing, I wouldn’t have sought out Isabella at Valhalla. If I hadn’t sought her out, I wouldn’t have overheard her in the piano room. If I hadn’t overheard her in the piano
room, I wouldn’t be taking refuge in a public restroom, trying to hold myself together after a two-second touch.
I allowed myself another minute to cool down before I put on my glasses, opened the door—and ran straight into the devil herself.
We collided with the force of a football tackle—my arm around her waist, her hands braced against my forearms, the air vibrating with a disturbing sense of déjà vu.
My heartrate surged even as I silently cursed the universe for constantly throwing us at each other. Literally.
Isabella blinked up at me, her eyes like rich pools of chocolate in the dim light. “I was right,” she said. Her playful voice contained a hint of breathiness that wound its way through my chest in smoky tendrils. “You are stalking me.”
Christ, this woman was something else.
“We happened to exit the restroom at the same time. It could hardly be classified as stalking,” I said with infinite patience. “Might I remind you I left the table first? If anything, I should ask if you’re stalking me.”
“Fine,” she acceded. “But what about when you followed me to the piano room? Twice?”
A dull throb sprang up behind my temple. I suddenly wished I’d never agreed to dinner. “How many times are you going to bring that up?”
“As many times as it takes for you to give me a straight answer.” Isabella stood on tiptoes, bringing her face closer to mine. Every muscle in my body tensed. “Kai Young, do you have a crush on me?”
Absolutely not. The mere idea was absurd, and I should’ve told her so immediately. But the words wouldn’t come out, and I hesitated long enough for Isabella’s eyes to widen. Their teasing glint dimmed, giving way to what looked like alarm.
Irritation ignited in my chest. I wasn’t romantically interested in her—my interest was intellectual, nothing else—but was the prospect that terrible?
“We’re not in high school,” I said, voice tight. “I don’t get crushes.” “That’s still not a straight answer.”
My back teeth clenched. Before I could inform her that my response had, in fact, been a straight answer if she read between the lines, a low buzz filled the air, followed by an ominous flicker of lights. A low, collective murmur swelled in the dining room.
Isabella stiffened, her fingers curling around my biceps. My pulse thudded against my veins. “What is—”
She didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence before another buzz traveled the hall, high-pitched and angry, like a saw tearing through wood.
Then, with a final, sputtering flicker, the lights died completely.
