Black Tie Billionaire. Naima Simone

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      A fierce approval and satisfaction flashed like diamonds in his eyes. “Good,” he said, those same emotions reflected in the one word. “Because now we don’t have to share this with anyone else.” Reaching down, he picked up a plate and set it on the cushion between them. A grin curved her lips at the sight of the braised lamb, roasted vegetable medley and risotto piled on the fine china.

      “Now, that’s lovely,” he murmured, his gaze not on the dinner but on her face.

      She ducked her head, wishing the strands of the wig weren’t tied back in a bun so they could hide the red stain creeping up her neck and flooding her face.

      “You’re certainly resourceful,” she said, reaching for an asparagus tip. “Or sneaky.”

      His soft snort echoed between them. “I’ve been accused of both before. And both are just words. Whatever works to achieve my goal.”

      “Yes, I clearly remember your goal for this evening. You didn’t mince words out there earlier. I guess you’ve achieved your aim. Spending the night with me.”

      Why had she brought up that conversation? What had possessed her to remind him of his claim to be with her—inside her? To see that glint of hunger again? To tempt him? God, she was flirting with danger. And doing so with a rashness that bordered on recklessness.

      “Do you really want to dive into that discussion right now, Camille?” The question—a tease, a taunt—set her pulse off on a rapid tattoo.

      Yes.

      No.

      “Not on an empty stomach,” she whispered, retreating. From the faint quirk of his lips—the first hint of a smile she’d glimpsed on his austere face—he caught her withdrawal. “And you wouldn’t happen to be hiding a bottle of wine over there, would you?”

      The quirk deepened, and her heart stuttered. Actually skipped a couple beats at the beauty of that half smile. Jesus, he would be absolutely devastating if he ever truly let go. Her fingertips itched with the urge to trace those sensual lips. To curb the need, she brought her hands to her pants, intent on rubbing them down her thighs. But stopped herself, recalling they were damp from the food she’d just eaten.

      “Take this.” He reached inside his jacket and offered her a small white handkerchief.

      Startled, she accepted it, again struck with how perceptive he seemed to be.

      “Thank you,” she murmured.

      For the next half hour, they dined on the pilfered food, and as stellar and flavorful as the cuisine was, it didn’t steal her attention like the man across from her. He...fascinated her. And after they finished, when he asked her if she would be fine with him turning off the phone’s light to conserve the battery, she okayed it without hesitation.

      Though he was basically a stranger to her, he emanated safety. Comfort. As if he would release all that barely leashed mercilessness on her behalf instead of against her. Maybe that made her fanciful, too. But in the dark, she could afford it.

      Perhaps the blackness affected him in a similar fashion, because he opened up to her—well, as much as someone as controlled as Gideon Knight probably did. They spoke of mundane things. Hobbies. Worst dates. The best way to spend a perfect, lazy afternoon. All so simple, but she hung on every word. Enjoyed it. Enjoyed him.

      Enjoyed the lack of sight that peeled away barriers.

      Reveled in the desire that thrummed just below the surface like a drum keeping time, marching them forward to...what? She didn’t know. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t weigh the effect of every word, the consequence of every action on the Neal family name.

      Here, with him, she was just...Camille.

      “We’ll never see each other again once the lights come back on,” she said. And it was true. They’d never see each other as Camille and Gideon, even if they happened to cross paths in the future. Because then, she would once more be Shay Neal of the Chicago Neals. “That almost makes me...sad,” she confessed, then scoffed, shaking her head, though he couldn’t see the gesture. “Ridiculous, right?”

      “Why?” he asked. “Honesty is never silly. It’s too rare to be ridiculous.”

      A twinge of guilt pinged inside her chest. She was being dishonest about the most basic thing—her identity. “Because fantasies are for teenage girls, not for grown women who know better.”

      “And what do you believe you know, Camille?”

      She turned toward him, toward the temptation of his voice. “That if not for a citywide blackout, a man like you wouldn’t be with me...” She paused. “Talking.”

      “I don’t know if I should be more offended that you’re belittling me or yourself with that statement.” A whisper of sound and then fingers—questing, gentle, but so damn sure—stroked across her jaw, her temple, the strangely callused tips abrading her skin. What did a man like him do to earn that hardened skin that spoke of hard labor, not crunching numbers? “Yes, I do. It annoys me more that you would demean yourself. A woman like you,” he murmured. “Beautiful. Intelligent. Bold. Confident. What man wouldn’t want to spend time with you? Only one too blind or stupid to see who stands right before his eyes. Read any financial blog or journal, Camille. I’m not a stupid man.”

      She snorted, trying to mask the flame licking at her from the inside out. Cover the yearning his words caused deep within her. “How did you manage to compliment yourself and reprimand me at the same time?”

      But he ignored her attempt to inject levity into the thick, pulsing atmosphere. No, instead, he swept another caress over her skin. This time, brushing a barely there touch to the curve of her bottom lip. She trembled. And God, he had to sense it, to feel it. Because he repeated it.

      “I don’t date,” he informed her, and the frankness of the statement caught her off guard. Almost made her forget the long fingers still cradling her jaw.

      Almost.

      “Excuse me?” she breathed.

      “I don’t date,” he repeated. “I know something, too, Camille. Relationships, commitments—they’re lies we tell ourselves so we can justify using each other. Sex. Need. Passion—they’re honest. The body can’t lie. Lust is the great equalizer regardless of social status, race or tax bracket. So no, I rescind my earlier statement. If not for this blackout, it’s very possible we wouldn’t have passed these last couple of hours talking. But I don’t care if we were in a ballroom or a boardroom, I would’ve noticed you. I would’ve wanted you. I would’ve done everything in my power to convince you to trust me with your body, your pleasure.”

      Oh damn.

      She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Suspended by the hunger swamping her.

      “Your turn, moonbeam,” he said, his hand falling away from her face. And she immediately missed his touch, that firm grasp. Because he couldn’t see her, she lifted her fingers to the skin that continued to tingle. “Tell me again what you know.”

      Moonbeam. The endearment reminded her of their conversation in the ballroom. Her brain argued that the word had nothing СКАЧАТЬ