Page 8 of Twisted Knight

Holden

It’s suffocating.

The room. The pretention. The pandering for my attention that began immediately after my winning bid and the realization that I’m the Holden Knight that I’ve made sure they’ve been hearing about in their circles but have never really seen.

My sigh is heavy as I close my eyes and let the aged scotch sit on my tongue. I welcome its burn as it works its way down my throat. As the memories that are always on the periphery move to the forefront of my mind. As the men who cemented them there mill about this room without even knowing it.

A few keystrokes got me into the charity’s server. It was child’s play after that to make sure my name was on tonight’s exclusive guest list. To set the wheels in motion.

Winner takes all.

From here on out, though, it won’t be as easy. Far fucking from it. But isn’t this the game I’ve prepared for most of my adult life? The one where failure isn’t an option?

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the most talked-about man of the hour.”

So caught up in my own thoughts, I didn’t realize I had company. Company that’s way too close on this expansive balcony.

That means she only wants one thing.

“The circles you want to mingle in? They’re inside,” I say, prepared to blow the woman off and let her know I’m not interested in whatever it is she’s selling—most likely her—but when I turn to face her, the remainder of my smartass remark dies a quick, shameless death.

It’s her.

And the pieces fall into place.

Rowan Rothschild.

I’m met with a pair of expressive green eyes. They hold mine with a sincerity I don’t deserve, and a challenge I don’t particularly want.

“Who said I wanted to mingle at all?” she counters with a dismissive laugh before taking a long sip of the martini she holds.

I take her in.

The olive skin. The defined cheekbones. The dark, caramel-colored hair that falls in waves over her shoulders and is tucked behind one ear. The toned arms and more-than-impressive body filling out the elegant and curve-hugging dress.

To be intrigued by her is one thing.

To be attracted to her? That’s a whole other Pandora’s box I’m not ready to open.

She lifts a lone eyebrow as my eyes come back to hers again. “Like what you see?”

My smile is cold despite my natural reaction to a gorgeous woman. “I don’t think it particularly matters what I like.”

Her laugh is throaty and rich and begs for my attention. “That’s where you’re wrong and you know it.”

“Is that so?” I murmur, not fully committed to wanting this conversation yet.

“It is.” She turns to face me, her hip now leaning against the railing, the emerald of her eyes glinting. “You’re a man who knows what he wants, what he likes, and makes no apologies in taking it. Case in point: most men would have tried to hide the fact that they were just checking me out. You on the other hand? It seems that you like doing things and being seen while you do them.”

Her smile comes out in full force and would drop a lesser man to his knees. She’s stunning, simply stunning, with an elegant beauty that would be hard for anyone to refute.

“Perhaps.” I take another sip of my scotch and turn back toward the darkened skyline, all but dismissing her.

Distractions. They’re the last thing I need right now. And she—standing here, talking to me, becoming more attractive by the second as she does so—with her sass and lack of intimidation is promising to do just that.

“And the painting?” she asks, not getting the hint.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”