Delaney
I don’t call ahead to make a reservation at the club. I only got in last time because I finagled my way in when I got the tip from one of my fellow investigative journalists that Samson Vexley was going to threaten Preston Darnell. A hundred-dollar bill and a wink and a smile can do wonders.
I can do the same tonight, especially if I dress the part. Last time I wore a black number that didn’t show much. Tonight? Crimson and low-cut, even with the marks on my neck. Gets the job done every time.
I have it on good authority that Samson will be there tonight.
Another reason not to call ahead. If I give him warning, he may decide not to show.
I’m done doing that.
The man at the entrance stops me before I take three steps.
“Members only.”
Smile pasted on. Tits out. “Is Bobby here? He let me in a few nights ago.”
“Bobby’s off tonight.”
I pull a Ben Franklin out of my clutch. “I’m a friend of Mr. Vexley’s. Mr. Samson Vexley.”
He takes the bill and says nothing more.
“Let her in.”
The voice comes from behind him. The guard steps aside immediately.
Nathaniel Vexley stands just inside the threshold, hands in his pockets. He resembles Samson in height and build but is more refined. Hair shorter, with not a strand out of place. And his eyes aren’t amber. They’re green. Strikingly green.
“Ms. Cross,” he says.
“Mr. Vexley.”
He smiles. Sort of. “You’re persistent.”
“I’m curious.”
He furrows his brow. “That’s not always a good thing.”
“For whom?”
“Come in,” he says.
“Thank you.”
The club is busier tonight, probably because it’s Friday.
Women are clad scantily, making me feel overdressed in my little red number.
I finger the justice pendant at my neck and then jerk my fingers away.
Nervous habit. One Samson knows about. I don’t need his lawyer brother to pick up on any sign of anxiety.
Nathaniel walks beside me. “Samson isn’t expecting you,” he says.
“I didn’t expect him to show up at my apartment either.”
“Did he.”
It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. He knows, anyway. Nathaniel Vexley always knows. I’ve done my research.
He stops near a closed door. “Try not to make a scene,” he says.
“I don’t make scenes.”
“For your sake, I hope you don’t.”
He opens the door and gestures me inside. He says nothing as he nods to his brother and then leaves.
Samson sits behind a large desk, jacket off, no tie, and shirt sleeves rolled up showing off his impressively corded forearms. I stop my breath from catching.
He raises his eyebrows for a split second.
He didn’t expect me here tonight.
Good.
“Delaney.”
“Samson.” I walk straight toward him.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stand. Doesn’t come around the desk.
I stop just short of it. I’m close but not close enough.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
I lean forward slightly and rest my hands on the edge of his desk. “No hello? No ‘nice to see you?’ No ‘gee, that was a great fuck we had’?”
He squirms—only slightly—in his chair. Good. That got to him.
“So I was looking through my notes,” I say casually.
“Don’t do this,” he says. “I’ve warned you.”
I ignore him. “And it seems like you didn’t expect him that night. Am I right?”
“Delaney—”
“You weren’t supposed to be dealing with Victor Halstead,” I continue.
“That’s not a question you should be asking,” he says.
“It’s not a question,” I reply. “It’s an observation.”
He stands.
The shift in height changes everything.
The room.
The air.
The distance between us.
I don’t move.
I don’t step back.
He comes around the desk and stops in front of me. He’s close but he doesn’t touch me.
I feel it anyway.
“You’re pushing,” he says. He drops his gaze to my mouth.
And my body reacts before my brain can shut it down.
He sees it.
“That,” he says quietly, “is exactly what I’m talking about.”
I straighten slightly. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend this is about anything other than what happened yesterday.”
His jaw goes tense. “Yesterday changed nothing.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
He steps closer. Just one step, but it’s enough.
My pulse buzzes but I hold my ground.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“Yet I’m here.”
“Yet you’re here.” He lifts a hand. Stops just short of touching me.
My body leans into it before I can stop it.
His lips are dangerously close to mine. My eyes close of their own accord, and…
His breath is hot against my ear. “You’re not going to stop.”
I swallow, shivering at his closeness. “No.”
“Even now.”
“Especially now.”
“If you keep doing this,” he says, voice low and rough, “it doesn’t stay contained.”
“Then don’t contain it.”
“Delaney—”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to warn me and then act like you’re the only one with a choice here.”
“You don’t understand what you’re stepping into.”
“You keep saying that, and obviously it hasn’t stopped me.” I lean in. “So tell me, then. Tell me exactly what I’m stepping into.”
“No.”
“Why?”
He sears his gaze into mine. “Because you don’t walk away from it.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“No,” he says again. “But it becomes my problem.”
I step closer. Close enough now that there’s no space left between us that isn’t charged. He’s not saying anything he hasn’t said before.
“There’s that word again,” I say softly. “Everything seems to be your problem. My questions. My apartment. Me.”
His eyes darken. “You walked in here.”
“Yes.”
“You came to me.”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t pretend you don’t know what that means.”
I hold his gaze. “I know exactly what it means.”
“Do you?” He bites down hard on my earlobe.
I gasp, but I don’t pull away.
One more step and this goes somewhere it shouldn’t.
We both know it.
That’s what makes it worse.
He releases me and steps back abruptly.
“I ought to put you over my knee and spank that gorgeous ass of yours,” he says.
I swallow, tamping down the desire that overwhelms me. I’m not into that. No spanking. No bondage. No submission.
But I’m ready to lay myself out for Samson Vexley and let him do whatever he fucking wants.
“Leave,” he says.
I don’t move. “Or what?”
“Or I don’t stop this time.”
My pulse spikes. Not fear. Something hotter. More dangerous.
“For someone who wants me gone,” I say, “you’re doing a terrible job of making that happen.”
He glares at me.
I turn, walk to the door, but then look over my shoulder. “If he wasn’t supposed to be there,” I say quietly, “then someone else was.”
I open the door and step out.
He knows now. He knows I’m getting closer.
So I don’t wait to see if he follows.
Because I already know he will. Maybe not this moment, but eventually.