Chapter 17
Harper took my breath away as she walked down the stairs.
She does it regularly but in ways I’d gotten used to, like feeling the pinpricks of pain rather than an outright punch to the gut. Tonight had been another gut punch. Just as the first time I saw her at that college bar, sitting alone but not lonely, looking at her surroundings like she was analyzing them.
She descended those stairs in a floor-length, curve-hugging dress, with her wild curls draping over her shoulders. A soft smile on her lips and a dreamy expression in her eyes as she looked out over the living room.
For the briefest of seconds, it felt as if she was coming from upstairs—our upstairs—to our party. The hostess to my host.
I take another deep sip of the Negroni I’m drinking. It’s my third, and I should slow down. This isn’t a party like the ones I once used to throw. With friends, and poker, and the ultimate goal of getting hammered and laughing our asses off. There’s a purpose to this party.
Harper finding me a date was not it.
And it sure as hell wasn’t finding one for her, either.
But here I am, drawn in by the smile in her eyes and the teasing in her voice, doing it anyway. It feels like a repeating pattern.
Across the room, I spot her talking to a brunette standing by the fireplace. They’re both smiling. Cautious, tentative, hello-we-just-met smiles.
I turn away. Roll my neck and try to find the person I was supposed to impress with this whole shindig. Plenty of people here are acquaintances, yes, and a few are friends. But there’s one person here I need to connect with. Mads Knudsen.
I spot him in the garden, having a smoke. The cigarette casually dangles from his fingers, his gaze fully locked on the young man he’s talking to. Mads’s mistress-turned-second-wife should be somewhere around here, too. It had taken a lot of work to get an invite sent to them; even more to ensure they’d accept.
I drain my Negroni and step out into my backyard. Knudsen is the major stakeholder in one of Northern Europe’s largest energy companies, and it’s a stake my brother wants to acquire. It would give us an excellent infrastructure and a corporate foothold for future Contron expansions in the region.
Problem is, the man doesn’t want to sell.
People with a lot of money fall into two camps. Those who want nothing but more money, in a never-ending cycle of greed. They’re easy to work with.
But then there are the rich people who can’t be bought with money alone. You have to finesse them with experiences, with promises, with status. With things they can’t just use their no-limit credit cards to get themselves.
It’s a slower game, that one.
Knudsen greets me when I arrive. Introduces me to the man he’s been talking to, someone who is a good ten years younger than me. This guy is good-looking in that swoopy-haired, clean-shaven, preppy-boy sort of way. I know the type well. Once upon a time, that was me.
Before I joined Contron and aged a decade.
I hate this guy on sight.
I hate that he is the sort of guy I should be introducing Harper to—if I was playing her game, if we were the kind of friends she thinks we are, the kind of friends we should be.
“This is my nephew,” Knudsen says and slaps the pop-star-wannabe on the shoulder. “Willard.”
“It’s a pleasure,” I say. “Hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I certainly am.”
“Tell me,” Knudsen continues, “didn’t you mention a few weeks back that you had a sizable art collection?”
“I might have, yes.” I give him a wide smile. “Did you come by to purchase it from me?”
“No, no, I don’t have a great eye, but this guy does.” He points at his nephew. “One of London’s greatest up-and-coming art dealers, he is.”
“Is that so?” I raise an eyebrow at the nephew. “Freelancer?”
“I’m attached to the Robert Asher chain of galleries, but I do a fair bit of freelance work, as well.” He has a narrow chin, thick eyebrows, and a mouth that looks just a bit too smug. “What kind of art do you collect?”
“Modern, mostly, and a few of the abstract expressionists.”
Willard runs a hand along his jaw. “Fascinating. I would love to take a look at your collection when time permits.”
Knudsen gives me a pointed stare. You’ll take care of my nephew, won’t you, Connovan?
A slow game.
A long one, too.
I smile at the pip-squeak. “It would be my pleasure. My art adviser is here tonight, as it happens.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “They are? What’s their name?”
“Harper Elliot.”
“I’m not familiar with that name,” he says, “but I’d be happy to speak with her.”
Mads Knudsen takes another puff of his cigarette. “It’s fantastic, isn’t it,” he says in my direction, “how well-connected people can be.”
“You mean how well-connected people like us are.”
He chuckles. I’d learned early on that Knudsen has a good sense of humor, occasionally quite dark, and I leaned into it fully. It suits me better to use cynicism, anyway.
“Right you are,” he says easily. “So, which of these pretty women here tonight is your date?”
“I’d say Kathleen, but I know she’s taken.”
He chuckles again. “Stay far away from my wife, Connovan.”
“I will, but it will pain me to do so.”
“Say that when she can hear you if you want bonus points,” he says easily. “A man like you can’t be single. I know this. Willard knows this. It’s one of the laws of the universe. Come now, tell me.”
He’s trying to connect. And I need to tell him what he wants to hear. That’s the part I’m expected to play, the way I always have.
I give him a sly smile. “I didn’t come with a date today.”
He grins. “Ah, but you might leave with one. Good, good. That is— oh?”
Both Mads and Willard turn to the two women standing beside us. One of them is Harper, and a jolt passes through me at the sight.
She’s looking at me with a smile in her eyes. “Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen. I was just wondering if I could steal Nate for a moment?”
“Of course,” Mads says with his own sly look in my direction.
That’s when I notice the brunette standing next to Harper. I clear my throat. “As a matter-of-fact, why don’t you two join us?”
It doesn’t take long to introduce Harper to the two men as my art adviser. Willard’s eyes light up, and he corners her immediately. Leaving me nodding goodbye to a smiling Mads Knudsen and standing next to a very chatty brunette.
Fantastic.
Mads is happy. I’ve been a wingman to Harper in the loosest sense of the word. Everyone must be thrilled.
Everyone but me.
The brunette’s name is Lucy Simmons. She had mentioned to Harper wanting to meet the host of this beautiful party. Apparently, the friend who invited Ms. Simmons here didn’t know who was throwing it, and she’s thrilled to discover it’s me.
Her eyes are fringed with long, artfully curled lashes. She’s pretty. A few years ago, I would have been interested in talking to her, in finding common ground and sharing a few laughs. I wouldn’t have thought twice about asking for her number or inviting her to stay for a nightcap and whatever else might, and often did, follow.
I would have enjoyed Lucy Simmons, and she would have enjoyed me.
But something happened a few years ago that changed the game for me.
Still… this is how Harper decided to play.
There’s a dark and angry part of me, spurred by the fresh drink I’m holding, that wonders if she really cares so little. If she truly wants to see this… Me and this woman she’s picked out for me.
I glance across the backyard. Harper is sitting next to Willard, both of them talking animatedly. She’s holding a glass of champagne nodding.
She must catch me watching because she looks over.
Our gazes collide.
She’s the first to smile. But then Lucy asks me to sit down, and I look away. Refocusing on the woman talking to me.
So I sit down with her. Offer her a drink and ask about her job, her background, her hobbies. She is quick to laugh and is a good storyteller, and I nod along, shifting closer on the lounge seat.
Nursing another Negroni and stealing glances at Harper and Willard.
They seem engrossed in their discussion. She’s pushed her hair back and is nodding vigorously at whatever he’s saying, and when she laughs, I hear it across the backyard. Over the sounds of other people talking and the music playing.
My chest feels tight with something ugly.
Lucy puts a hand on my arm. “How are you liking London?”
And so the night drags on. But I can only make it an hour before the ugly thing inside me needs an escape.
“I have to be honest,” I tell Lucy. Her eyebrows shoot up but she nods. She’s been surprisingly easy to talk to. “My friend, Harper, introduced us in the hopes of playing a matchmaker.”
Lucy smiles. “I figured, yeah.”
“It was nice of her. Problem is, I’m hopelessly in love with her.”
There’s a brief silence, and then Lucy lets out a small oooh. Her eyes light up. “Really?”
I chuckle at her reaction. “Yes. Is that a good thing? Because it’s felt fucking awful for four years.”
“It’s exciting. She clearly fancies you. She gushed about you earlier.”
“Well, that was because she wants to win a little game we’re playing. It’s called ‘who’s the best wingman.’”
“I see. And you don’t want to win?”
“I definitely don’t,” I mutter, shooting a look across the yard to where Willard has draped his arm along the back of the couch. It disappears behind Harper’s shoulder.
They’re still talking.
“I see,” Lucy says, and then she nods. “Okay. I’m enjoying our conversation. Why don’t we keep playing the game? No strings.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’d do that?”
“It’s more exciting than listening to some moneyman drone on, which is what I’d be doing while talking to other blokes here,” she says and lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “So. Yes.”
I actually laugh at that. “Okay, you may be right.”
Lucy smiles, and puts a hand on my knee. “So. Tell me all about Harper and how you’re finally going to win her over.”
It’s nearly one in the morning when we wrap up our chat. By then, we’ve spoken about almost everything under the sun, minus a few hard-to-solve political problems and the national debt, and I’ve kept an eye on Harper and Willard doing the same.
What could they possibly talk about for that long?
Most of the party guests have cleared out. I don’t want to leave the backyard but I do it anyway, turning away from where Harper is giving all of her smiles to Knudsen’s nephew. One step forward in that relationship, I think miserably. One step back in my own.
I don’t have a fucking relationship with Harper,I remind myself. The bartender has left, but there’s an array of drinks still artfully displayed on the counter, so I pour myself another gin and tonic. She doesn’t owe me one. I’ve never ever once thought that.
But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.
I drain half of the drink before ambling off to the hallway, heading to the study. Somewhere I can shut the door behind me and not watch any more of Harper’s smiles wasted on another man.
I’ve seen enough of those already with Dean.
But someone stops me, a hand on my sleeve. I look down to see Harper. There’s a distinct flush across her cheeks. She’s been drinking, too. “How’s it going?” she asks.
“With what?”
“With Lucy, of course.” Her gaze flits to the kitchen where a few stragglers are pouring themselves drinks.
“Oh. Her.”
“Yes, her,” Harper says. Her eyes are piercing on mine. “I don’t think you should ask her to stay over.”
“And why is that?”
She shakes her head, and her hand is still tight on my wrist. “She… she… it would be too fast.”
“I thought you wanted me to find someone. You’ve talked about it often.” I lean in closer, that hideous thing in my chest unfurling its wings. “How’s it going with Willard, the boy band imitator wunderkind art dealer?”
Her eyes narrow. “Fine. He’s… fine.”
“Well, Lucy is fine, too.”
“I still think it’s a bad idea.”
“So I ask again…” I say in a low voice. “Why is that?”
“We haven’t tested the acoustics,” she says. Her eyes are piercing on mine, her voice just shy of shaky. “I don’t want to hear the two of you all night. It would keep me up.”
“Do you think I want to hear you and Willard?”
“Right. We haven’t thought this through,” she says, as if that’s perfectly sensible. Her hand tightens around my wrist. “We need to run sound experiments first.”
“Sound experiments,” I mutter.
She’s looking down at my wrist trapped between our bodies. Still locked in her grip. Sound experiments. I use my free hand to lift her chin, forcing her eyes to meet mine.
There’s irritation in her gaze, twin to the emotion roiling in me. “You came here to tell me not to sleep with Lucy,” I say. “Are you jealous, Harp?”
Her eyes flare. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Am I being ridiculous? You’re the one who introduced her to me, who pushed this whole idea in the first place. And now, you’re concerned over potentially hearing us fuck?”
She stiffens, swallowing hard. I’d used the term deliberately, and it hit its mark. “Excuse me for valuing my sleep,” she nearly growls.
“Are you sure it’s not that you’re upset about me spending the entire evening talking to Lucy?”
There’s anger in her eyes. “If I have to admit it, then you have to admit to not liking Willard. You stared at us all night.”
“Fine.” I lean in closer. My fingers are still holding her chin, her hand still gripping my wrist. “I hate him.”
“You’re jealous,” she breathes.
“Of course, I’m fucking jealous. If you decide to take him up those stairs and into your bedroom…”
“What?” she asks. Her breath is warm against my lips. “What would you do?”
My hand moves from her chin to the back of her neck, fingers sliding into the silky curls. The air between us is hot, and it grows electric when I draw closer.
Too close.
All of my pent-up frustrations tonight unleash at that moment. In that fragile, tense moment when my lips hover just a hairsbreadth from hers. A tiny static spark ignites a supernova. I don’t know if it’s my anger, jealousy, or the incessant need for her, but something pushes me over the edge.
I kiss her.
Her lips are soft and pliant against mine, and a small sound escapes her. A faint sigh of surprise. Then, she’s kissing me back. Her mouth slants against mine, lips parts, and it’s everything.
Everything.
She tastes like warm champagne. I brush my tongue against her lower lip. Sweep it into the warmth of her mouth. Glide against her sensuous tongue.
For a split second, her grip on my wrist disappears, only to reappear on the lapels of my shirt. She sways into me, tugging me closer, and my freed arm wraps around her waist.
I feel high.
Having Harper in my arms, melting under my lips, hearing the soft sounds that she makes, tasting her kisses… It’s better than any drug I’d tried in my twenties. Better than the elation of winning a multimillion-dollar contract at work. Better than all of my previous sexual experiences combined.
Her hand slides up from my lapel to my nape. Fingers thread through the strands of my hair. And then, she runs her nails over my scalp, and red-hot fire races down my spine.
Blood rushes with it. I harden in an instant. Fuck. This is everything I ever imagined and more. She is everything.
Harper presses herself to my chest, and I pull her tight, crushing her curves against me. Somewhere in the fractured, kaleidoscopic mess of my mind, where only she exists, I realize I’m kissing her too hard.
I try to ease up. To slow down. To use more finesse.
But with another tug of her hand on my hair, those intentions fracture, too. She pulls me down the hall until I have her pinned against the wall, our lips never breaking contact.
I want to know what she likes. I want to know what her skin tastes like, so I tip her head back and slide my lips along her jaw. Down to the soft skin of her neck.
A soft exhale escapes her, and it sends another wave of desire racing through me. I’m so painfully hard against the metal buckle of my belt, I feel like my dick is going to explode at any moment. It doesn’t matter, though. Not with Harper in my arms.
“Nate,” she whispers as she once again rakes her nails over my scalp.
Fuck.
I bite lightly on her shoulder and shudder at the sensation that evoked. Harper giggles, and I kiss the spot where my teeth grazed her. Kiss up the soft column of her throat, making her giggles turn into another soft sigh.
“Nate,” she whispers again. “Is… is… Lucy still here?”
“No,” I mutter. “She left.”
Harper swallows. I feel it against my lips, pressed to her throat. “Good. Willard isn’t here anymore, either. I sent him home.”
My hand tightens around her waist. “Good girl.”
A shiver passes through her, and then, she pulls my face down for another kiss. One turns into several, until she’s once again pinned to the wall by my starving body. Her right hand slides into the collar of my shirt, fingers brushing my heated skin. Her touch feels cool compared to the fever raging inside me.
The crash of breaking glass makes us both flinch. It’s loud and nearby, and is immediately followed by raised voices. The kitchen. The stragglers.
We pull apart, both of us breathing heavily.
“That didn’t sound good,” she whispers.
I let go of the curls I’d been holding on to. “No. It didn’t.”
She swallows hard and lets her hands drop, too. Once again, we’re just two people standing far too close in a dark hallway.
“I should check on that,” I say.
The corners of her mouth lift into a smile, and I can’t help but notice her kiss-swollen lips and the thundering of my heart.
“Good idea,” she murmurs. “Don’t let them wreck the kitchen I’ve come to love, please.”
I take a step back. It physically hurts to distance myself from her, to try to calm the pounding need inside me. “Of course not. It’s yours.”
She smiles a little and backs up toward the staircase. Heading to her room. That smile on her lips, I’ll remember forever.
“Good night, Connovan,” she says.
“Good night, Harp.”