Page 71 of Boardroom Sins

Kir’s face clouds over. “It was what it was.”

I frown. “Then why do it?”

His eyes find his father across the room again. Lukas is laughing at something a beautiful woman in black is saying.

“Because he expects it,” Kir murmurs. He hands me a fresh glass of champagne. “Now, enough of that. Drink up. The night’s young.”

We talk more to an endless procession of people. As long as Kir is with me, they treat me as deserving. His royal aura extends to me, apparently. I don’t miss how he insists on touching me. His hand stays close at all times. My waist. My elbow. The curve of my hip.

I don’t know what game he’s playing. But I’m too tired and confused to stop him.

At some point, a jazz trio takes over for the string quartet and the energy perks up. As couples drift toward the dance floor, Kir tilts his head.

“Dance with me?”

“I don’t really?—”

He takes my hand. “One song.”

He pulls me into the swirling center of the dance floor and his arm wraps around my waist. My free hand lands on his shoulder.

“See?” He starts swaying. “Not so bad.”

“I’m going to step on your feet.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

We move in slow circles. The music is soft, moody, but nice. “You keep looking toward the door,” he observes.

“No, I don’t,” I say honestly.

“Then you’re looking for him.”

I don’t answer. That accusation is true.

It’s also timely, because just as soon as I try to lie with a vague, implausible “I’m not—”, I feel it. That prickling awareness. The heat—no, thechill—of a particularsomeone’sattention boring into the back of my skull.

Kir feels it, too. We both look up at the same time.

Lukas is standing near the edge of the dance floor. He’s not talking to anyone anymore. He’s not schmoozing or laughing or playing the gracious host.

He’s watching us.

His face is stone. His jaw is, too. Those dark gray eyes are locked on Kir’s hand where it rests against my exposed hip.

The champagne I’ve been drinking all night turns to acid in the pit of my stomach.

The music keeps playing and couples keep dancing around us. But the three of us are locked in some kind of terrible triangular standoff.

Then Lukas turns on his heel and stalks toward the DJ booth.

“Shit,” Kir breathes.

I watch Lukas cut through the crowd. People part for him without being asked. He moves like a man with a purpose. Anangrypurpose.

“What’s he doing?” I whisper.

Kir’s grip on me loosens. “Nothing good.”