Page 13 of Wicked Fortune

I try to saunter, as if I don’t have a care in the world. And I don’t look over my shoulder even once to see if he’s still behind me.

I also don’t mingle and eavesdrop because—let’s be frank—no one is talking. And except for a few couples who extend an invitation to join, everyone is very much in their own dimly lit world on their own upholstered sex perch.

And, yes, that does represent a possible flaw in my plan to learn about the parties, but I figure I’ll roll with it, and I keep on walking, exploring these new and enticing surroundings. With the soft music and sensual shadows—not to mention the whispers and groans and orgasmic gasps—I feel like I’m walking through a classy porno. Or what I imagine one would be like.

With each step, I’m becoming more aware of my own skin. Of the needy heat pooling between my thighs. Of the way my rock-hard nipples are brushing against the soft silk of my dress. And it’s getting harder and harder to remember why I’m here, and not just turn around and beg Holt—or anyone—to fuck me right then and there.

I’m almost relieved when I realize that while this level may be a circle, the hall isn’t. I’ve come to a dead end at a set of double doors. I remember the scattered glimpses I’ve had into some of the rooms I’ve passed and decide that it’s time to join the party. A little break before continuing to reconnoiter.

With more than a little anticipation, I reach for the handle, but it doesn’t budge. I can hear soft moans and gasps coming from within, and I feel a deep need tugging at every cell in my body.

Why, why, why is the damn door locked? And who around here has the key?

I turn, intending to hunt down the key master, and find Holt leaning casually against the railing, his suit jacket open to reveal a pale blue shirt.

“Oh.” Not the most articulate, but it’s the only word I can manage.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes meet mine, and in that moment, it feels as if he’s standing right beside me. My skin tingles from this faux proximity, and my mouth goes suddenly dry.

When he stands upright, I catch the familiar scent of his cologne, and my knees go weak. Acqua di Parma Colonia.

It’s the same cologne The Cat wore, and like Pavlov’s puppy, my body responds with a full-on wash of need, my mind twisting and turning until the sexy, traitorous thief of my fantasies and the darkly dangerous billionaire blend together to form the compilation of a man to whom I desperately want to surrender.

I turn back to the door, my heart pounding as I realize that it’s not just his cologne I’m smelling. There’s incense on this floor, too. A smoky scent under which I catch the unmistakable bouquet of weed.

I fight a smile, relaxing a bit as I let myself lean into the lust, somehow less naughty now that I know it’s partly fueled by cannabis.

“You shouldn’t be here.” That deep, almost musical voice is right behind me, and I hope he doesn’t notice the way I tremble from the shiver that’s racing up my spine.

I turn again to face him and find him so close that I’m now staring at a spot about four inches below the knot of his tie. A half step forward, and my nose would brush silk.

I tilt my head up and hold his gaze. “On the contrary,” I say with the sauciest smile I can conjure. “I feel perfectly at home.”

He takes a step back, so that we’re standing about a foot apart. His eyes narrow as his gaze rakes over every inch of me, and I begin to melt from the heat of that penetrating gaze.

For what feels like an eternity, he simply watches me as I try to tamp down the craving that is slowly building inside me. When he inches closer, I’m so ready for his touch that I have to work to hold my ground.

When I again catch the scent of his cologne, my body clenches with a sensual need, every cell wanting to pull me back into those delicious fantasies of The Cat. A man to whom I can surrender in my dreams, knowing that despite his dangerous edge, he would never hurt me.

But The Cat is a fantasy I’ve molded over the years. Matthew Holt is flesh and blood with a reputation for taking what he wants and destroying those who get in his way.

Like me.

“Ms. Parker,” he finally says. “Why are you here?”

“I wasn’t sure you remembered me,” I say, not sure if the knife-edge I hear in his voice is real or my imagination. “We only met the once.”

“I remember you,” he says with deliberate firmness. “And now I’d like to know what the hell you think you’re doing. I’ve been asking myself that since you walked through the front door with a man who clearly isn’t your type. Please, do enlighten me.”

“I guess you’re not as smart as everyone says,” I quip, but the words come out flatter than I intended, mostly because I’m a bit shook that he’s noticed me at all.

“Is that how you talk to a man who holds your next potential job in his hands?”

I stand up a bit straighter, surprised. “I heard you were doing a dozen interviews tomorrow. Have you already reviewed all the resumes and memorized the names? I thought it was the applicants who did the heavy-duty prep.”

“Perhaps they do. And no. I haven’t reviewed the full list.”

“But you know I’m coming.”