Chapter 13
Jiya
Tonight, Calloway Frost takes me home.
The clink of crystal is the soundtrack of the Boston Museum of Modern Art’s annual gala. The air is thick with the scent of money. A blend of expensive perfume and raw entitlement. My entire world is the man across the room. Calloway Frost.
He’s the reason for the recent embarrassing string of failures. My usual method—a quiet invitation, a private room—bounced right off his polite, infuriating armor. He’s the only one I couldn’t charm into my bed.
Which is why I had to resort to…improvisation. The poisoned coffee, the chandelier, the rooftop fiasco. All clumsy, loud, and not my style.
So, tonight, we return to the original plan, but with a little chemical persuasion. Strapped to my thigh, a small glass vial presses against my skin.
Not poison. Not tonight, anyway. And definitely not some fairy tale love potion.
More like... liquid courage. Something to strip away his careful control and let his baser instincts take over.
Thirty minutes after he drinks it, he'll be desperate enough to take me somewhere private. Somewhere I can finish this.
“Another glass of the Veuve, darling.” A woman draped in diamonds gestures impatiently with her empty flute.
“Coming right up.” I smile, pour her champagne, and watch my target over the rim of the bottle.
The low timbre of his voice cuts through the noise, right behind me. “Well, well. My favorite bartender.”
My heart gives a single, hard kick.
Showtime. I give a slight, practiced startle, turning to face him with a smile.
“Mr. Frost,” I say, tucking a strand of pink hair behind my ear. “I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“I think we’re past ‘Mr. Frost,’ don’t you?
” He leans on the bar, his forearms flat against the cool marble, closing the space between us.
The light catches the silver of his cufflinks and the pale, startling blue of his eyes.
The color of a winter sky after a blizzard.
“What’s a talented mixologist like you doing at this snoozefest? ”
“A girl’s gotta eat.” I shrug, my hand already on a heavy crystal glass. “What can I get you?”
“The usual.” His fingers drum a restless rhythm on the bar. Long, elegant fingers. The kind that look like they could play a piano or wrap around a throat with equal skill.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across my face. “Sure thing.”
I turn my back to him as I mix his drink.
“You know,” he says, “a pattern is emerging, Jiya. And I love patterns.”
Don’t freeze. Don’t look. Finish the drink. I force a light laugh. “Is that so?”
“First, my exhibition. Now here.” The skin on my back prickles. “One might think you’re following me.”
He can’t possibly know. He’s just playing with you. Stick to the plan.
“Boston’s a small town for people with expensive taste,” I say, reaching for a bottle to busy my hands.
I build his Old Fashioned, hyper-aware of his presence behind me.
Time to end this game.
My back to him, my hand slips below the bar, fingertips finding the cool glass of the vial. A flick of my thumb breaks the seal. I tip the contents into the heavy crystal glass, where the clear liquid ribbons into the bourbon and vanishes without a trace.
I turn back, placing the drink before him with a steady hand. “One Old Fashioned.”
“Aren’t you having one?”
“I’m paid to pour them, not drink them,” I say, my voice light.
“A shame.” He holds the glass up, the light catching in the crystal. “Then let’s call this a toast. To the surprising patterns of the universe.”
“I can’t. I’m on the clock.”
“And I’m the customer.” His smile is challenging, unwavering. “Humor me.”
Refusing is more suspicious than accepting.
“Fine,” I say. I lift an identical glass and pour a second drink.
A woman in a cascade of blue sequins wedges herself into the space beside Calloway, planting an oversized clutch on the bar. She leans in, her voice loud. “Can I get a Cosmo? Hello?”
The fastest way to get rid of her is to make the drink. With a tight, professional smile, I turn to reach for the vodka and shaker. The clatter of ice is a welcome distraction.
I strain the pink liquid into a chilled glass and slide it toward the woman without a word. She snatches it and disappears back into the crowd.
Calloway hands me a glass. “To chance encounters.”
We clink glasses, and I take a healthy swallow of clean bourbon. It burns down my throat, familiar and warming.
Soon, the compound will start working on him. He’ll become flustered, aroused, desperate to get me alone. Thirty minutes, and it’s game over.
Over the next little while, I fill several drink orders while Calloway sits close, nursing his Old Fashioned. The warmth in my throat doesn’t fade. It deepens, spreading through my chest like a slow, creeping fire. The air in the gallery feels thick and suffocating.
Fuck, it’s getting warm in here. The gallery’s air conditioning must be struggling with the crowd.
I unbutton the top button of my blouse. The silk, usually smooth, scrapes against my skin, every tiny fiber a point of friction. My limbs are heavy, each motion a slow drag through the thick air.
“You look flushed.” Calloway leans closer, appearing concerned.
When did his voice get so...deep? It seems to vibrate through my chest and settle somewhere low in my belly.
“Just the heat,” I manage, gripping the bar’s edge. The polished wood feels smooth beneath my fingertips.
My nipples tighten against my bra without warning, the friction too much and not enough at the same time. What the hell?
Calloway rolls his sleeves up to the elbow, and my breath catches in my throat.
My gaze locks onto his forearms, the pale skin mapped with fine veins, dusted with blond hairs.
The small, stark camera aperture tattooed on his wrist draws my eye like a magnet.
My brain supplies an unbidden, unwelcome thought.
I want to lick the ink.
My mouth goes dry watching him. The way his hands move. Those long, artistic fingers that probably know how to touch a woman. I imagine them sliding along my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
Wait. Why am I thinking about licking him?
The realization crashes over me like ice water. A silent, screaming horror.
Oh God.
I took the wrong glass.
The compound is flooding my bloodstream, a chemical weapon designed to heighten every sensation, to obliterate reason with raw, desperate need. Except I’m the target, and he’s standing there looking like a fallen angel I want to corrupt.
“You sure you’re okay?”
A feral, unprofessional thought claws its way up my throat. I want to mark him. Taste his skin.
“Jiya?” My name on his lips sounds like a caress, and heat floods my cheeks. “What’s going on?”
Everything. Nothing.
I’m losing my mind because my own scheme has been turned against me, and you’re a candy I want to try.
“Nothing,” I whisper, but we both know it’s a lie.
The auctioneer’s voice booms from the main gallery, drawing the crowd away like a tide going out. The sudden quiet amplifies everything. The sound of his breathing, the rustle of his jacket, the thundering of my pulse in my ears. Like we are alone.
This is a disaster. My carefully planned execution has just become my own personal hell.
His brows knit together. “You’re not acting like yourself.”
He has no idea. My skin is a live wire. Every breath I take causes my silk blouse to brush against my hardened nipples, sending jolts of pure, agonizing pleasure straight to my core. I need…something. Relief. To. Touch. Him.
“I’m fine,” I manage.
My fingers drift to my collar, popping open another button. And another. The cool air of the gallery hits my exposed chest, but it’s like throwing a glass of water on a forest fire.
“Jiya,” Calloway warns, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes darken, pupils dilating as they drop to my cleavage, but he keeps his hands firmly on the bar. The distance between us is unbearable.
My hand moves, a traitor, trailing down my neck, across my collarbone. My pulse hammers beneath my fingertips, a frantic drumbeat.
The fact that he won’t touch me, won’t close the gap and give me the friction my body is screaming for, makes everything a thousand times worse.
I cross my legs tightly under the bar, the subtle pressure making me gasp. The movement draws his gaze, and his throat works as he swallows.
“Excuse me, Bartender?” A man’s voice breaks through my haze. “Could I get a scotch neat?”
I turn, unsteady on my feet. The newcomer is handsome enough—dark hair, firm jaw—but he’s not Calloway. Not what I want.
Still, his hungry gaze as it travels down my partially unbuttoned blouse sends another wave of heat through me.
“Coming right up,” I say, aware of how breathless I sound.
I pour the scotch. When I slide it across the bar, the man’s fingers brush against mine.
“You look like you could use some air,” he says, leaning closer. “I’d be happy to step outside with you.”
“She’s busy,” Calloway interjects, his voice sharp with an edge I’ve never heard before.
The man ignores him, reaching across the bar to touch my arm. “What do you say, beautiful? Take a break?”
The rational part of my brain, the tiny, screaming professional buried deep inside, is sounding every alarm. But the drug drowns it out, and the raw annoyance radiating from Calloway is a powerful intoxicant.
“Maybe I could use some air,” I hear myself say, watching Calloway’s jaw clench.
The man’s hand slides up my arm, his thumb brushing the side of my breast. The touch sends electricity through me, but it’s wrong. It’s like listening to a song played on an out-of-tune piano. It’s not the hand I want.
I lean into the touch anyway, just to see what Calloway will do. His knuckles go white where they grip the bar.
No. What the hell am I doing? I need a moment.
“Excuse me,” I say with a slow smile, catching the attention of my coworker. “I need to use the bathroom. Can you take over for a few minutes?”
I grab my clutch from beneath the counter, brushing against Calloway as I move past him. His sharp intake of breath is music to my ears.
I push through the bathroom door, grateful to find it empty. In the mirror, I look exactly like what I am. A woman drugged with desire. Pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, lips parted.
“Get it together,” I whisper at my reflection, fumbling with my buttons. “You need to brush this off.”
My fingers won’t cooperate. They seem more interested in how good it feels to brush against my own overheated skin.
I turn on the cold tap, splashing water on my face. It does nothing. I press my thighs together, a low whimper escaping my lips at the throbbing ache between them.
The bathroom door swings open.
I turn, a desperate, drug-fueled hope surging through me. He came.
But it’s not Calloway. It’s the stranger from the bar. His eyes rake over my disheveled state, and a predatory smile spreads across his face.
“Thought you might need some help,” he says, already moving toward me.
The smile cuts through the drug’s haze with a spike of pure, cold fear. My reflexes are slow, my limbs heavy. I’m not sure I can take him like this.
“I’m fine,” I manage, but my voice lacks conviction.
“Sure you are.” He crosses the bathroom in quick strides. “You were practically begging for it out there.”
His hands lock on my waist before I can react, spinning me around and bending me over the marble sink. The cold stone is a shock against my skin as he yanks my skirt up.
“Blondie left you like this? Must not know what to do with you,” he grunts, his breath hot on my neck. “But I do.”
The crude words should enrage me. I kill men like him for fun.
But my body, my treacherous body, responds to the promise of relief even as my mind recoils in horror.
The mirror shows my reflection—flushed, eyes glazed, lips parted. Behind me, the man’s face is a mask of ugly lust as he fumbles with his belt.
It’s not what I want. Not him. Not like this. The drug makes my body compliant, willing, but somewhere beneath the fog, I’m screaming.
My body is not my own anymore.
The stranger’s hands are at my hips, my skirt hiked up around my waist. This isn’t teasing anymore.
And I’m helpless to stop it.