Chapter 5
Genevieve
I slip from the powder room, tucking my phone back into my clutch after confirming that things are going well tonight. Even so, my intuition is alive, churning with disquietude. Something feels off; I just can’t put my finger on it.
I’m about to round the corner and reenter the lavish ballroom, when I’m stopped dead in my tracks.
“Genevieve,” a deep, throaty voice calls out from behind me.
My eyes close, momentarily savoring the way the sonorous sound sends a delightful shiver through my entire body, settling between my legs like a lover’s kiss.
If that name had come from anyone else, I would’ve had the opposite reaction.
There are only a handful of people who’d use that name, and I recognized the vague familiarity immediately.
My real name is a piece of myself I keep locked down. I never give it freely; it’s a sliver of truth that’s earned. The reason behind my revelation has eluded me. There was simply something about him that implored me to hand over a crumb of authenticity. I hope I don’t come to regret that decision.
Allison is my new name, the identity I use whenever I’m not with Marcus or Corinne.
“Ford,” I remark, my tone dripping with sugary syrup as I turn to face him.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he admits as he descends the last few steps of the grand staircase.
His jet-black tuxedo hugs his large, muscular body in all the right places, and he’s even more handsome now than he was in the dim light of the bar.
His deep brown hair has a tousled look to it, like he’s been running his hands through the thick strands all day, though I suspect that the style was more effortlessly achieved.
However, his undeniable handsomeness is not what has me fighting the impulse to drop to my knees, rest my hands on my thighs, and dip my chin in a submissive pose as I await his instructions. No, I can blame that entirely on the dominance that radiates from him.
But I’ll never do that again, not until I’m safe enough to put my head in the jaws of a trustworthy predator who makes me feel safe, valued, and secure. Unfortunately, that requires a level of trust I simply cannot give—to anyone.
When he reaches me, he adds, “And curiously on Julien Winston’s arm.”
“Curious,” I muse, failing to hide my smile.
The corner of his mouth quirks briefly, and if I were wearing panties, his smirk would have surely disintegrated them.
“You look exquisite tonight.” His words set my blood ablaze, like pouring gas on a small fire. Although the compliment almost mirrors Julien’s, it feels wholly different. His heated gaze rakes over my form, dragging up my body, further stoking the raging inferno.
Is he imagining what’s beneath this dress? Is he wondering how I might taste? Fuck, I hope so. God knows that’s exactly what I’m doing to him.
“Are you working tonight?” he asks, invading my space a little more. He’s close now, enough that I can smell him. The scents of black pepper and tobacco whirl through the air between us, as if picked up by a gentle zephyr, tickling my nostrils.
“Are you?” I counter, skirting his question.
“No more than you, I presume.” This time, his smirk is deep enough that a goddamn dimple surfaces on his left cheek. As if this man needed to get any hotter.
Instead of answering, I smile. While Julien is paying me to be on his arm tonight, I like attending these functions for my own benefit as well.
After all, it’s always good to remind this city who owns them…and their secrets.
The silence that stretches between us is staticky, like we’re caught up in a typhoon of electrically charged atoms and there’s no escape without consequences.
He lifts a hand then, dragging his knuckles up my bare arm, leaving a path of chills in his wake.
At my shoulder, he skims his hand gingerly down my back, tentative and exploring.
I know I should step back, stop this. I should, but I don’t.
He’s wordlessly put me at his mercy, and I don’t want to be anywhere but at this man’s feet.
When his hand reaches the small of my back, he pulls me to him, erasing the last of the distance. When he speaks, I can smell the whiskey on his breath, the smoky barrel-aged flavor skimming across my senses. “I was wondering if—”
“There you are,” Julien interrupts from behind me, cutting off whatever Ford was about to say. Shifting back, I take in Julien’s dark, louring expression.
My attention darts between the two men as they size each other up, soaking up all the air from the foyer like sponges. Reading the room, I decide my conversation with Ford has come to an end.
“It was nice to see you again.” I smile politely at Ford, slipping from his hold and turning toward Julien. As I take a step away, I’m cold, too cold, the skirt of my silk gown swirling around my legs like icy, serene lake water.
Just before reaching Julien, I glance back at the handsome man as he stuffs both hands into his pants pockets. Leaning into my baser instincts for a fraction of a moment, a smile curls my lips, and I dip my chin. “Sir.”
I memorize what happens next: Ford’s lips part, his chest expands and nostrils flare, as his eyes widen so far that I’m able to catch the way his pupils dilate.
Nailed that.
Taking Julien’s offered arm, he guides us back to the ballroom. He snatches another flute of champagne for me off a passing tray. “How do you know Ford Crawford?”
I titter softly. “I don’t.”
The way he hums makes me wonder if he doesn’t believe me, not that it matters. I don’t know Ford Crawford, even if part of me wants to. It’s that craving that has me asking, “Who is he?”
He takes a drink of his scotch, glancing past me for a moment before meeting my eye. “One of the two most powerful people here. Ford Crawford has more money than God and clout that spans continents.”
“Interesting. I’ve never heard of him.” Which is highly unusual.
He smirks, his expression softening. “Ah, but you’ve heard of Oliver Crawford?”
“The businessman?” I inquire, my eyebrows rising. “Of course. He was one of the richest men alive.”
My throat squeezes, knowing where this is going even before Julien explains, “His death granted his grandson, Ford, that title.”
I shouldn’t be surprised, and I suppose I’m not, though something about Ford is different from the other filthy rich men I encounter regularly.
Sure, power and authority leak from Ford like oil from an old engine, but he seems grounded, down-to-earth.
Like he’s seen the real world. Which is exactly how I find myself asking, “What’s he been doing all this time? ”
“He did a couple tours with the Marines before gallivanting across Europe. That’s what I heard, anyway.”
I’m about to comment on his intel—which I can’t imagine being true—when he continues. “Promise you’ll watch out with that one.” His attention is locked somewhere past me, and I can only surmise who has it.
I nod anyway. I’m always careful, regardless of the warning.
As Julien leads us toward the silent auction, I think to ask, “You said that Ford was one of the two most powerful people in this room. Who’s the other one?”
He turns his head, dipping his chin to look down at me, holding my gaze intensely. “You.”