Chapter 5
FIVE
I glance down at my feet, currently rocking a pair of five-year-old Louboutins that I found at a thrift store. They may be out of season, but they make my calves look damn good.
Unfortunately, they’re also hell to walk in, so I’m not moving very swiftly as I do a quick one-eighty, zigging so as to parry Holt’s zag. Then I leave Holt in my wake as I take off down the hall, hoping it seems that I’m doing nothing more than working up a sensual little buzz as I scope out the action on the various couches and loungers.
I tell myself not to look back.
I remind myself that I don’t want to be his destination. Not yet, anyway. While I certainly wouldn’t balk at the idea of basking in his glow and upping my chance of being hired as his PA, my primary purpose in coming up here is to mingle and eavesdrop and see if I can garner even the tiniest hint of whether this mansion ever hosts the Hardline meet-and-greets. Or, better yet, follow someone down to the secret playroom where even now all the meeters and greeters are—possibly—partying.
Once I’ve accomplished that mission, I’ll happily play footsie with Holt. But Bree enticed me here by pointing out that since Matthew owns both Hardline and Masque, it might be one of the party locations for regular guests who’ve demonstrated an open frame of mind.
All of which means that right now, I’m in detective mode.
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.”
One brow rises as he says, “Are you?”
I’m suddenly grateful for the dim light, as I’m sure I’ve turned bright red. “Maybe that’s why I came,” I say, then want to slap my own face. “You know what, never mind. I’m just going to throw myself over the balcony and save us both the trouble.”
He chuckles and reaches for my elbow. The shock of his touch ricochets through me, and I fear he’s about to turn my embarrassing misspeak into an actual reality. “Don’t jump,” he says. “It’s a bitch getting blood out of the grout between the marble tiles.”
And just like that, I’m laughing. Still slightly embarrassed, but that’s fading fast. “I wouldn’t know. I’m a terrible housekeeper.”
“Probably because you’re out partying instead of keeping your home clean and shiny.”
“Oh, I’m not partying. I’m working.”
“Are you.” He keeps his expression blank, but I hear the humor in his voice. “How so?”
“Research.”
He releases my elbow, and I mourn the loss of contact. “I’ll bite,” he says, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. “What kind of research?”
I run the tip of my finger down his tie, a remarkably bold move for only one glass of champagne. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m researching you.”
“I’m intrigued. And why the need to pop me under the microscope?”
“You have my resume. I figure it’s only fair that I have a feel for who I might be working for, too.” It’s all over my voice—I’ve crossed the line and am now a full-fledged flirty little minx. Honestly, I have no idea what’s come over me. But whatever it is, I’m enjoying it. So is Holt, if the crinkles at the corners of his eyes are any indication.
Then again, maybe he’s studying me and not fighting a grin.
“What?” I demand as silence lingers, but he only shakes his head, a smug grin now tugging at that wide, glorious mouth.
Apparently he wasn’t studying me. Either that or he approves of what he sees. Score one for Team Parker.
I stumble a bit as I step backward, then lean against the railing, positioning myself so I can easily see him. He’s done the same, and for a moment we just stand there, both of us taking the other in.
I know he’s twenty years older than me, but I don’t see it when I look at him. Except for those sexy as hell lines at the corners of his eyes, his face is all chiseled features and sharp angles, highlighted by a wide mouth and a pair of sensual lips that I’m quite certain he knows how to put to good use.
The only clue that he’s in his late forties is the hint of gray at his temples. And that, frankly, is a look I find very, very sexy.
Despite my better judgment, I let myself wonder if the parts of him hidden under that corporate armor are as lean and chiseled. That’s certainly the image my imagination is drawing—an image that is not only delicious but has my cheeks heating up all over again. Not to mention other parts of my anatomy.
“A feel,” he whispers, his voice little more than a low rumble as he repeats my earlier words. “A feel for who you’ll be working for.” He takes one step toward me, putting him so close that his breath ruffles my hair, now a wavy brown, shoulder-length with copper highlights. “As it happens, if hired, you’ll be working directly under me.” I hear the slight emphasis on the word under and feel the reverberation of that word between my thighs. “So why don’t you tell me exactly what kind of feel you were hoping for?”
My entire face goes hot, and despite the dim lighting, I know I’m in trouble here. I’m not a woman who can hold her own with high-level sexual banter. But I am a woman with a very vivid imagination. And the moment his eyes meet mine, I’m certain he knows exactly where my mind has gone. But if that twinkle is any indication, he has no problem whatsoever with me picturing him naked. Or getting more than a little wet for him.
I am in serious trouble here.
I glance around, wondering where Clive is. I don’t find him. But I do breathe in another whiff of weed and feel my head go a little woozy. As far as drugs, I’m a total lightweight. But tonight, I think that’s probably just fine.
Either that or I need to get the hell out of here before I make a complete fool of myself.
Holt takes a step closer, fully crossing the line into my personal space. “You haven’t explored the mansion yet, have you?”
I shake my head as I inch away, just to ensure that I can keep my wits. “I’ll do that now. Just wander a bit. See what I see.”
His fingertips lightly brush my collarbone. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Aria. Let me give you a personal tour.”
“Oh.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, then he says, “Why don’t we start here?”
He reaches for the door I’d already tried, but this time when he turns the handle, it unlocks. He glances up at me, then reveals the keycard nestled in his palm. “One of our higher-level rooms.”
He holds the door open with the toe of his shoe, then pockets the card before reaching up and tracing his fingertip around the edge of my mask, his eyes never leaving mine.
He’s not even touching my skin, yet I still have to work to control my breathing. Too bad I don’t have similar control over my quickening heartbeat—especially when he pushes the door open far enough for me to see into the dimly lit room.
In truth, I can’t see much, but what I do see is enough to make my nipples go hard. Although that might be because Holt has eased us into the room, and now his back is pressed against the wall, his hands on my breasts as he holds me close. And that’s definitely not his belt buckle I feel behind me.
“Pleasure,” he whispers, his breath warm against the back of my ear. “These people, they’re all here—in this room, at this club—because they understand not only the value of pleasure but how to capture it. How to fight for it. How to be bold and claim it.”
I can’t see much in the shadows, but I can see enough. The pale white ass and back of a woman straddling a man on a sofa. A muscular man spanking the generous breasts of a woman chained to a column. A nude woman on her knees, going down on a man dressed in a suit that probably cost more than Holt’s.
I swallow, not sure if I’m uncomfortable or aroused. I think both.
As if to make sure it’s the latter, his fingers make slow circles on my right nipple, and though I bite my lip, I can’t stifle a groan.
“Pleasure,” he repeats, then squeezes my left nipple hard enough that I squeak. “Pleasure and pain. Desire and longing.” His tongue teases the edge of my ear, and it’s as if a thread of electricity has raced through my body, all the way to my clit, leaving me dangling on a precipice, desperate to fall.
“Tell me you want it, Aria. Beg me to make you come.”
I gasp from the bold words, my thighs clenched together as if that can satisfy my need. I want so badly to do exactly what he’s ordered, but I know I can’t. I don’t know what game we’re playing, but somehow, I’m certain that if I surrender, I lose.
I draw a breath to gain some control over my body. Then I turn my head, trying to ignore how much I like the feel of his hands on me. “Why did you bring me in here?” I try to add a hard edge to my voice, but it comes out soft. Vulnerable.
“I’m doing you a favor. You’re knocking at the door, Aria, asking to come play in my world. I thought you ought to know what you’ll be getting into.”
For a moment, I’m confused, then I realize he doesn’t mean coming to Masque tonight. And he definitely doesn’t mean my intent to poke around in the meet-and-greets. Instead, he’s talking about my interview with him on Monday.
One hand moves from my breast to my thigh, then starts to slide up, his fingers easing beneath the stretchy material that makes up this very minimalistic tube-style dress. I suck in air and remain perfectly still, determined not to react at all. Not to protest. Not to beg. Not to give him any hint that his touch has lit a fire inside me.
But there’s no hiding the truth that he’ll so easily find when those wonderful, horrible fingers slip into my very wet, very eager core.
He’s close, and it’s all I can do to stifle a moan. Hell, it’s all I can do not to beg. The hand on my breast tightens, pulling me closer, and he bends to tease my earlobe with his teeth. I feel the whisper-soft brush of his fingertip at the edge of my thong panties, and it’s everything I can do not to beg. I’m wet. I’m needy. And though I hate myself for my weakness, I want what he seems so ready to give.
And then he’s gone. Still standing behind me, true, but his hands, his tongue, his breath are gone. I make a soft noise of protest, then want to slap my own face for giving him the satisfaction. I whirl around. “Why the hell did you bring me here?”
He puts a finger to his lips, then takes my elbow to ease me back out of the room. I yank free and push past him into the hallway. “What the hell was that?” I demand once the door has clicked shut.
“That was the room where anything is possible. A soft touch. A quick fuck. Maybe you just want to watch. Maybe you’re not looking to get involved at all. Less excitement, maybe, but definitely less dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” I suppose so. At the moment, I think I’m drowning in a sea of double entendres.
If he notices my confusion, he ignores it. “Or maybe it was simply a preview. Or perhaps a test.” His mouth twitches in a way that has already become familiar. “Think of it as a bit of on-the-job orientation.”
“This is about my interview?”
“ Personal Assistant, Ari,” he says. “That is the job.”
He takes a step closer. There’s something about those hard, piercing eyes. Cat’s eyes. Familiar. And dangerous. “Be careful, Ari. You’re a clever woman with a soul like a bright flame. But you’re made of glass.”
I think of Jenny. Was she glass? Had she shattered? “Screw that,” I snap, practically spitting the words. “I’m titanium.”
Instead of responding, he brushes my cheek. “No. You’re like the finest blown glass. Beautiful. Fragile. But stronger than it looks. Be careful, Ari,” he adds. “You’re strong, yes. But not as strong as you think.”
I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he gestures to someone behind me. I turn and see a woman with pale, perfect skin and midnight black hair approaching. She’s carrying a gift bag, which she hands to Holt, then turns and walks away without saying a word.
“Your date is still … occupied,” he says after glancing at his phone. So please feel free to explore the mansion. Enjoy the perks. The bar at the far end of this level is well-stocked and comfortable if I do say so myself. He hands the gift bag to me. “Stay as long as you wish. Look around. Drink the wine and enjoy the food. Whatever your pleasure, feel free to indulge. Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
He indicates the gift bag. “Don’t open that until you’re home.”
“Why?”
Again, he grins. “Because I’m the boss, Ari. And a good assistant knows her place.”