Chapter 10 The Waltz #2
He left, moving quickly toward whatever diplomatic incident was unfolding. I stayed, telling myself I was covering the ballroom, knowing I was really just continuing to watch Cal work.
He'd moved to a different group now. Shook hands with someone I recognised as a senior prosecutor. Made some comment that had the man nodding thoughtfully. Cal's expression stayed pleasant, interested, giving nothing away about what he was really doing.
Which was gathering intelligence. Observing connections. Building a map of who talked to whom, who looked comfortable together, who avoided each other. All of it filed away in that photographic memory he claimed to have.
I should have been angry he'd infiltrated a palace function without warning me. Should have been concerned about the breach of protocol.
Instead I was watching the way his suit jacket pulled across his shoulders when he gestured, the way his mouth curved when he smiled at something the prosecutor said, the way he commanded space without seeming to try.
My comm crackled. “Dom. Need you at east entrance. Guest trying to leave with palace silverware in her handbag.”
I forced myself to move, to do my actual job instead of standing here like an idiot watching Cal work. But even as I dealt with the kleptomaniac socialite, part of my attention stayed locked on his position across the room.
Twenty minutes later, Viktor and Sebastian cornered me near the portrait gallery.
“Ken Hartley doesn't exist,” Sebastian said quietly. “At least not in any official capacity. Which means your consultant is using a false identity at a palace function.”
My jaw tightened. “It's handled.”
“Is it?” Sebastian's gaze cut across the room to where Cal was currently laughing at something a diplomat's wife had said. “Because Viktor seems to think this might be someone else entirely.”
Viktor's mouth curved slightly. “Dmitri mentioned name. Cal Mercer. Private investigator. Very good at finding things people want buried. This the same person?”
Of course Dmitri would mention it.
“Yes,” I said.
“And you let him come here because?” Sebastian's voice stayed level but steel ran underneath.
“I didn't let him do anything. He showed up with forged credentials.”
“With forged credentials. At a diplomatic function.” Sebastian's fingers tapped once against his champagne glass. “Dominic, I need to know this won't become a problem.”
“It won't. He's investigating corruption, not causing it.”
“Investigating by infiltrating palace events sounds remarkably like causing problems.” But Sebastian's expression had shifted slightly. Less angry. More curious. “What's he after?”
“Connections. Between prosecutors and judges. People who might be protecting someone he's hunting.”
Viktor's eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“Elliot Harrow.”
Understanding passed between them. Sebastian nodded slowly. “The prosecutor who covers his tracks with legal paperwork and charming smiles.”
“Yeah.”
“And you trust this investigator?”
I looked across the room at Cal, watched him navigate the crowd with cold confidence and dangerous competence. “I trust him to be good at what he does.”
“That is not same as trusting him,” Viktor observed.
“It's enough.”
Sebastian studied me for a long moment. “You're looking at him like he's more than just a professional asset.”
“He's complicated.”
“They always are.” Sebastian finished his champagne. “First dance is starting. Viktor and I will open the floor. After that, guests are expected to participate. Do try not to glower at everyone who talks to your investigator.”
He collected Viktor and they moved toward the dance floor. I stayed where I was, watching Cal extricate himself from conversation, watching his gaze sweep the room and land on me with enough focus to suggest he'd been tracking me the same way I'd been tracking him.
He crossed the ballroom deliberately, stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that made me want to lean closer. “They dance well together.”
“They've had practice.”
“You dance?”
“When required.”
“Is it required now?” His eyes held challenge.
I looked at the floor where other guests were beginning to pair off after Sebastian and Viktor's opening. “After the prince finishes, refusing would draw attention.”
“Then don't refuse.” He didn't extend his hand. Just waited, watching me with that particular expression that said he knew exactly what he was doing. “Dance with me. Show everyone here that Ken Hartley belongs.”
Every instinct said this was a mistake. That dancing with Cal would expose things better kept professional.
But the alternative was standing here while everyone noticed.
“One dance,” I said.
“We'll see.”
I led him onto the floor, positioned us among the other couples.
My hand settled at the small of his back—warm through expensive fabric, the heat of him bleeding through to my palm.
His hand rested on my shoulder, grip firm enough that I felt the controlled strength in his fingers.
The orchestra shifted to something slower, violins weaving through the air like silk.
The first step told me everything I needed to know.
Cal knew how to dance. Really dance. Not the awkward shuffling most people did at events like this, but actual proper dancing.
He followed my lead with precision while simultaneously challenging it, his body anticipating my movements half a second before I made them, turning each step into subtle negotiation.
“You're good at this,” I said quietly.
“I know.” His eyes stayed locked on mine—one blue, one green, both utterly focused. “You're better than I expected. All that control translates.”
“Dancing is just movement. Tactical spacing.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” His fingers tightened on my shoulder as I guided him through a turn. The movement brought us closer, and for a moment his chest pressed against mine before we separated again. “That everything's just tactics?”
The ballroom lights caught in his hair, turned the dark strands almost auburn. He smelled like expensive cologne and something underneath it—clean soap, maybe, or just him. The combination made my head swim.
“You're here to work,” I said, voice rougher than I intended. “So work.”
“I am working.” His thigh slid between mine as we moved, the contact looking natural but feeling deliberate. His breath ghosted across my jaw when he leaned in to murmur: “Edmund Price. Three o'clock. Keep dancing.”
I followed his direction without being obvious. Found the prosecutor he meant—older, distinguished, watching us with interest that felt calculated. “You've identified targets already.”
“I identify everyone.” Cal shifted his weight, bringing us even closer. The hand on my shoulder slid higher, fingers brushing the nape of my neck. “It's what I do. Now focus on me. Look interested. Make this convincing.”
My body responded before I could stop it. Heat pooling low in my stomach, spreading through my veins like fire. My cock beginning to thicken against my will. “Cal.”
“What? I'm just suggesting you commit to the performance.” But his pupils had dilated, breath going slightly uneven. A flush had crept up his throat, just visible above his collar. He felt it. The bastard felt exactly what he was doing to me. “Besides, we look good together. Haven't you noticed?”
I had noticed. Noticed how we moved like we'd been dancing together for years instead of minutes. Noticed how his body fit against mine with disturbing perfection. Noticed how the music seemed to fade until all I could hear was his breathing, the rustle of fabric, the thundering of my own pulse.
I tightened my grip on his waist, pulled him through another turn more aggressively than necessary. The movement brought our hips flush together, my growing erection pressing against him through layers of expensive fabric. His eyes widened fractionally—surprise or pleasure, I couldn't tell which.
Cal's breath caught. Just slightly. “Problem?”
“You tell me.”
“No problem.” His hand slid from my shoulder to the back of my neck properly now, fingers threading into my hair where no one could see. The touch sent electricity down my spine. “Just noticing you're very committed to this. Very... thorough.”
The ballroom spun around us, other couples blurring into background noise. For a moment—just one breathless moment—it was only us. His mismatched eyes holding mine, the heat of his body against me, the way his fingers tightened in my hair like he couldn't help himself.
“Shut up,” I managed.
“Make me.” He pressed closer, eliminating space between us. My cock was fully hard now, trapped between us, impossible to hide. The pressure made me bite back a groan. “Oh wait. You can't. Not here. Not with everyone watching.”
I guided him through another sequence. My hand splayed across the small of his back, feeling the flex of muscle underneath expensive fabric as he moved. “You're enjoying this.”
“Immensely.” His thumb stroked the nape of my neck in a way that went straight to my cock. “Though I have to admit, your dedication is impressive. Very firm.”
We moved through the next sequence in silence, but the damage was done. My cock throbbed against him with every step, and Cal knew it, and the satisfaction in his expression made me want to drag him off this floor and either kill him or fuck him senseless.
But I couldn't. Because we were surrounded by diplomats and prosecutors and people with cameras who would absolutely notice if I did anything that betrayed how hard I was, how much I wanted to bend him over the nearest surface and make him stop looking so bloody pleased with himself.
So instead I danced. Kept moving. Let the friction build between us until my cock was leaking and my hands were shaking slightly with the effort of maintaining control.
Let myself feel the weight of his hand in mine, the warmth of his breath, the way he trusted me to lead him through movements that required absolute faith in your partner.
And that was the dangerous part. Not the arousal or the witnesses or even the investigation he was conducting. It was how easily he'd given me that trust. How naturally we moved together, like our bodies had been designed to fit.
“You're shaking,” Cal observed quietly. Something had softened in his expression—less challenge, more genuine curiosity.
“Your fault.”
“Is it?” His mouth curved, but the satisfaction had shifted into something gentler. “I'm just dancing. You're the one who can't seem to control yourself.”
“Because you're deliberately—” I stopped, realising we were drawing attention. Viktor watching from across the floor with obvious amusement. Sebastian's knowing smile. Other guests tracking our movement with pointed interest that would definitely end up in tomorrow's society columns.
“We're making a scene,” I said.
“Good. Price hasn't looked away once.” But Cal's voice had gone quieter, almost tender. His hand tightened on my shoulder. “Keep going. Show him how convincing we are.”
The music swelled toward its crescendo. I brought us through a final turn that ended with his back arched slightly, my hand supporting him, our faces close enough that I could see the darker ring around his blue iris, count the flecks of brown in the green one.
Could see the way his pulse jumped in his throat, the slight part of his lips as he caught his breath.
My cock pressed hard against his hip. His eyes had gone dark with something that wasn't just professional calculation—something raw and real and terrifying in its intensity.
Neither of us moved. The music had stopped but we stood frozen, the rest of the ballroom fading to background noise. For three heartbeats, maybe four, we just existed there together. No tactics. No performance. Just two people who'd somehow found each other in the middle of all this chaos.
“See?” he said quietly, so softly only I could hear. “Not everything has to be tactics.”
I released him. Stepped back even though my cock protested violently. Put proper distance between us while my body screamed at the loss of contact.
Applause rippled through the ballroom. Other couples had stopped as well, but enough were looking at us specifically that I knew we'd been obvious. That whatever had just happened between us had been witnessed by everyone who mattered.
Cal straightened his jacket, smoothed his expression into something neutral. But his hands were unsteady, and that made something in my chest ache. “Thanks for the dance.”
“You're welcome.”
“You're better than I expected.”
“So you've said.”
“I mean it.” Something genuine flickered in his expression before the mask came back. “Now if you'll excuse me, I should finish what I came here to do.”
He walked away. Deliberately. Confidently. Like he hadn't just dismantled my control in the middle of a diplomatic function while my cock strained painfully against my trousers.
Viktor appeared at my shoulder. “You are in trouble.”
“I know.”
“He is different.”
“I know that too.”
“Good.” Viktor's hand settled on my shoulder briefly. “Try not to ruin it by being stubborn. Or by thinking too much. Some things are worth risk.”
He left before I could respond. I stood there, half-hard and thoroughly wrecked, watching Cal move through the crowd like he owned it.
I'd told myself I could keep this professional. Could maintain boundaries.
But watching him dance, feeling him against me, seeing that look in his eyes that said he knew exactly what he was doing—
Viktor was right.
I was in trouble.
And the worst part was, I didn't want to find my way out.