Chapter One #2
I don’t take it as an insult. Anyone who knows me, even on a cursory level, would not describe me as personable.
I recall personal details easily thanks to Seraphina.
The woman has a steel-trap for a mind, one that captures the kind of details I don’t always pay attention to.
I prefer facts, numbers, figures. Things I can predict, control.
Seraphina isn’t just good with finances, but with people, too.
She maintains dossiers on all of my clients and updates them with stunning efficiency.
If someone gets married, has a child, earns a promotion, loses a loved one, or experiences some other milestone, it goes in their file.
Details like how Randolph’s logging days working alongside prisoners formed his views on prison reform, including a strong distaste for for-profit prison.
I take a long sip of my gin and tonic. The crisp floral notes of the gin, tempered by the bubbling tonic water, keeps my anger banked every time I think of New Field Penitentiary.
Achieving a hostile takeover of the private jail would give Randolph a strong foundation for his stance on prison reform if he’s elected as senator this fall. And the polls are favorable.
The deal, however, isn’t just for my client.
It will give me great satisfaction orchestrating the downfall of the current sadistic owner of New Field.
Victor Hale, man who prioritizes profit over the people under his care.
A man who looked the other way as my biological brother, David, was kept in solitary confinement for days without food or medical treatment for the broken leg he’d sustained during a prison riot.
Who threatened to trot David’s record out for public viewing and ruin his life if I went to the press.
I wait until the anger and guilt bleed out before releasing a pent-up breath.
David’s safe now. He’s doing better. If I’m going to do this for him, for us, I need to stay sharp, focused.
It’s not just enough to punish Hale. New Field needs to be taken over by someone who will turn it around and make sure it’s run ethically. Someone who believes in prison reform.
Someone like George Randolph.
“I proposed to Martine here. It’s been years since we’ve been back.” Randolph glances around, that same faint smile on his face. “When are you going to settle down?”
One long sip of my drink gives me time to prepare my answer.
My last relationship ended in a messier fashion than I’m accustomed to.
But it’s not just that, I grudgingly admit.
My interest in dating has waned. I’m not wanting marriage or anything binding.
But the quick, intense flings are no longer satisfying.
“I’m not looking to settle at this time.”
Randolph huffs. “After that debacle with your actress, I’d think you’d be looking for something more…solid.”
I keep my face smooth even though I want to scowl. Ever since Randolph decided to run for Senate, he’s been mentioning my dating life more and more.
“We’ll see.”
Randolph runs a hand over his mouth. “Look, Hawke, part of the reason I asked you here tonight was to tell you I’m seriously considering the New Field deal.”
Triumph surges in my chest, but I tamp it down. This is the closest I’ve gotten so far, but we’re nowhere close to signing.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“However,” he continues in a tone that has me mentally prepping for whatever bomb he’s about to drop, “my public relations team has concerns about my continuing to work with Hawke Financial.”
I still. “Oh?”
“I’m running against a popular candidate. If you were to have another incident like in October—”
I frown. “Kacey Delamare and I broke up. That’s it.”
“And she referenced you in interviews for months,” Randolph replies. “Spilled private details. Every time you’re seen with a woman, it turns into a media frenzy.”
I stare at him. I’ve made this man millions of dollars, supported his candidacy. Now he’s going to cut me loose because I like to date?
If I didn’t need him, I’d tell him to go to hell.
“What do you want from me, Randolph? I haven’t dated anyone in nearly a year,” I add.
“No, but the reputation lingers. If you were to date a woman longer than two months, that would be a step in the right direction. Something more permanent would be preferable.” Randolph stands.
“I’m going to grab one of those tiny things they call a plate and fill it with as much food as I can, and then track down my wife. Would you like to join me?”
No. I have zero interest in being anywhere near George Randolph right now. Not with the word permanent ringing in my ears. I gesture toward the stage by the lake. “I’m going to watch a few more of the performances.”
“Suit yourself.” He starts down the stairs, then pauses and looks back at me. “I want this to work, Hawke.”
I nod. “I’ll consider what you said.”
I wait until Randolph disappears into the crowd before I pull out my phone and text Seraphina. I try not to contact her outside of working hours. But she knows Randolph, knows the New Field deal inside and out. I want her perspective on this.
Entering into a long-term relationship makes me want to order another two or three gin and tonics. But it might be the only thing that will keep Randolph with Hawke Financial. The only thing that will get him to agree to the New Field deal.
Several minutes pass as an acrobat and then a magician perform on the catwalk. I glance at my phone, then frown when the screen remains dark. I don’t require Seraphina to be available on the weekends. Not unless we have something critical happening. But she usually replies within a couple minutes.
She could have gone to bed early, I remind myself. Maybe she’s attending an event in the city. Maybe she’s on a date.
The last thought is not a pleasant one.
My frowns deepens. This is why I prefer to keep people at arm’s length.
It doesn’t do anyone any favors to get attached, even if the attachment is rooted in respect and professional appreciation.
Emotions eventually cloud one’s judgment, loosen one’s grip on control.
Let in the kind of pain you’re not sure you can survive.
Two faces slip into my consciousness. Mom lying in the hospital, pale and lifeless, the incessant beeping of the heart monitor slipping into one long, mournful tone.
David clutching on to my arm as the social worker tried to wrestle him into the car that would take him to a different foster home.
Me promising him I would find him, would make us a family again as his hot tears scalded my skin.
Fuck.
I’m revisiting my past more with the New Field deal looming over me. But God, I hate it. It yanks me outside the walls I crafted years ago to keep people and all the pain they bring with them out. I make very few exceptions to venturing past my own boundaries or letting people in.
My eyes drop down to my phone again. Where the hell is she?
The music stops. The lights dim, save for the lanterns drifting across the lake and the ring of fire burning by the water.
A figure walks onto the catwalk that runs from the shore through the fiery ring. The woman from the lake. Her head is bowed, her hair now wrapped into a low bun. In one hand is a long stick. That sense of recognition pulls at me again, but I ignore it.
Faint notes dance through the speakers, like the keys of a piano with an electric undercurrent.
She raises her head and walks forward to the ring with elegant strides.
She raises one end of the stick to the flames.
It flares, catches fire. Then she reaches up, touches her hand to the heat.
Fire flickers in her palm as she touches the other end of the staff.
I don’t know why, but the sight of flames in her hand is sexy as hell.
Her body freezes. Time stands still as a hush steals over the crowd. My chest tightens.
The violin cuts through the night, a sharp melody perfectly timed with the fire dancer’s sudden leap into the air.
My blood thickens as she lands, raises the fiery staff and then rolls it down with expert precision.
The burning ends hit the ground. Fire shoots up, races down the catwalk in twin lines.
The dancer spins, twirls, leaps between them in time to the music.
She pauses every few steps to spin the staff around her neck, roll it down her arms, toss it in the air and catch it.
Every move is perfectly choreographed, hypnotic and primal.
I sit, rooted to the spot, as she dances to the end of the catwalk.
She tosses the flaming staff to a man standing off to the side, who tosses her what looks like a sword.
She dips the tip into the fire and the entire blade turns to flame.
The music crescendos as she spins, the sword creating a circle of sparks around her.
She stops. Whips the sword above her head and holds it as the music fades, replaced by thunderous applause. I stare, mesmerized, as she artfully spins the sword in her hand before taking a bow. She straightens.
And looks right at me.
Lust strikes like a lightning bolt as we stare at each other across the crowd. Electricity arcs between us, pulses like a heartbeat. I want her. I want to know her name, want to see the face beneath the mask. Need her in my bed, beneath me, surrounding me.
The eyes behind the mask widen, bottle green and suddenly filled with fear. Her lips part, and even though she’s a stone’s throw away, I can read the name she utters.
My name.
Recognition punches through the desire, lets in a tidal wave of shock.
Seraphina.
Seraphina turns to the still-applauding crowd, bows and straightens. She doesn’t look in my direction again. No, she turns, walks back through fiery ring, hands her sword to someone, and quickly walks away along the shores of the lake into the darkness.
Runs away.
I surge to my feet, passing my glass to a surprised waitress as I hurry down the stairs. Why is my mild-mannered, incredibly reliable executive assistant dancing around with a sword she lit on fire? How long has she been doing this?
Worse, how the hell am I going to be able to be around her now? After seeing her dance so sensually, seeing her long bare legs and the way that top cupped her breasts—
I stop my train of thought and focus on easing my way through the crowd. I don’t know what I’m going to do or say when I find Seraphina. But I need to see her, need to talk to her.
I finally spy the footpath, a narrow span of dirt near the water’s edge. I plunge down the path, driven by a compulsion I should be fighting but can no longer resist.