Chapter 23 Playing with Fire
The next week passed quickly after the night out. By the time Friday came around again, it was time for the mandatory company dinner.
I stood in my bedroom, slipping into the black silk dress I had chosen. It hugged my body, the silk fabric soft and cool against my skin. From the front, it was almost conservative, high neckline, smooth and clean with no hint of cleavage.
The thigh-high slit ruined that impression.
And the back definitely did.
The deep V left my entire back exposed, the silk dipping low so that the air felt cold against my spine. It was sexy without being obvious, elegant in a way that made me love it even more.
I stepped into my black stilettos and fastened the delicate straps around my ankles. Then I grabbed my phone, slipped it into my small evening clutch, and glanced at the mirror.
My hair fell loose in soft curls down my back, and my eye makeup was darker than usual, bold enough to match the dress. The woman staring back at me looked calm. Confident. Exactly the way I intended.
Walking into the living room, I pulled the curtain aside and looked out the window. The driveway was still empty.
Knox had insisted on sending a car so I wouldn’t have to deal with getting from Park Ridge to downtown Chicago and back late at night. He hadn’t phrased it as a suggestion.
I let out a slow breath and smoothed the silk of the dress over my hips as I waited. A moment later, a pair of headlights turned onto my street and rolled into the driveway.
I reached for a long coat hanging by the door and slipped it on. Winter was closing in; the first snow could fall any day now. The cold already crept through the windows, and my feet were starting to freeze.
After activating the security system and locking the house, I stepped outside.
The night air bit at my skin immediately.
Nathan stepped out of the driver’s seat, and I immediately recognized him as Knox’s personal driver and bodyguard, not the random company driver I had expected.
He cleared his throat politely. “Good evening, Miss Richards.”
Walking around the vehicle, he opened the back door for me, and that was when I understood why.
Knox was already sitting inside.
I blinked in surprise but slid into the seat anyway. The door closed behind me, sealing us into the warm, dim interior.
Knox looked at me for a moment, his gaze moving slowly over the coat, the dress beneath it, my hair, my face. Something flickered in his expression before it disappeared.
“I thought you were sending a car,” I said quietly.
“I was,” he replied. “Then I changed my mind.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to speak to you before dinner.”
I raised a brow. “About what?”
“They will ask about the ten year revenue curve,” he said. “Specifically the second phase.”
“I already submitted the breakdown.”
“They will test you,” he said quietly. “On margins. On timelines. On risk.”
“I know the numbers.”
“I know you do,” he replied. “I needed you to remember that before walking into that room.”
I didn’t argue. He could have said all of this at the restaurant, but I let it go and turned my attention to the window, watching the passing lights blur against the glass.
The car merged onto the highway, the city skyline faint in the distance.
Nathan’s voice carried from the front. “We’ll be downtown in twenty minutes, sir.”
Knox gave a short nod.
I folded my hands in my lap and stared ahead, the hum of the engine filling the silence between us. Knox didn’t look at me again, but I could feel the awareness radiating off him, sharp and controlled.
He hadn’t come just to talk about revenue curves.
We both knew that.
The dinner was held in a private dining room at one of Sinclair’s newest high-end casino properties, a place closed to the public for the night.
Crystal chandeliers reflected off polished black marble floors.
A single large round table dominated the room, dressed in white linen and heavy silverware.
Place cards marked every seat with deliberate care.
The guest list was selective.
There were senior executives from Sinclair Enterprises, department heads from Development, Marketing, and Security, and three potential investment partners from overseas.
These were not casual clients. They were people considering buying into Sinclair’s next project, a luxury entertainment complex that combined a casino, private club, and exclusive underground gaming lounge for ultra-wealthy members.
The purpose of the evening was simple.
Convince them.
I was there because I had built the development projections for the project. The models that showed how much money the complex would generate over ten years.
Knox walked beside me as we entered the dining room. He removed his coat, and Nathan took mine. Cool air brushed across my back as the silk shifted.
I didn’t miss Knox’s swift intake of breath behind me.
The deep V of the dress left my entire back exposed. I pretended not to notice his reaction and moved toward the table.
He himself did not look bad. I saw him in tailored suits every day, always impeccably groomed, always smelling faintly of something expensive. But it never got old.
The attraction was there, undeniable.
My place card was next to his. His VP, Marcus, sat on his other side.
Knox pulled out my chair before taking his own seat.
Dinner began the way these events always did, with polite conversation and careful small talk as wine was poured into crystal glasses and the quiet murmur of voices settled around the table.
The first course arrived soon after: seared scallops with citrus beurre blanc.
Marcus launched into a story about a previous project, something about a nightmare client and a last-minute turnaround that had saved the deal. The investors listened with polite interest, nodding at the appropriate moments.
Knox didn’t.
His attention kept drifting toward me.
Or rather, he tried not to look at me.
Every time I shifted in my chair, the slit of my dress revealed a brief flash of leg. When I leaned forward to reach my glass, the silk across my back shifted, the open cut of the dress moving slightly against my skin.
His gaze flicked toward me, then away again.
A moment later, it returned.
As always, I pretended not to notice.
When the conversation shifted toward development projections, one of the investors turned to me. “Ms. Richards, your model assumes a thirty-two percent margin in Phase Two. What supports that?”
I answered without hesitation. “The shift in revenue mix. Private gaming accounts for a higher percentage in Phase Two, and the operational costs are lower. The margin reflects that.”
Another investor leaned forward slightly. “And the risk curve?”
“Flattened after year four,” I said. “Once the membership base stabilizes.”
The main course arrived then, filet mignon with truffle jus, and the tone of the table loosened as plates were set down and glasses refilled.
The investors relaxed into their chairs, laughter surfacing more easily.
Marcus launched into another story, something about a failed negotiation that had nearly cost them a major deal.
At one point, one of the investors looked toward me and said, “You’re quite impressive, Ms. Richards. Sinclair is lucky to have you.”
Beside me, Knox went very still.
I offered a polite smile. “Thank you.”
The investor continued, almost casually, “If you ever consider consulting independently…”
“She’s not available,” Knox said.
The words were calm, almost conversational, but the interruption landed with quiet finality.
Before anyone could respond, a waiter brushed too close behind my chair. My fork and knife slid from the edge of the table and clattered onto the floor.
“I am so sorry,” he said quickly.
“It’s fine,” I replied, already bending down.
Knox didn’t say anything. He simply placed a hand against the edge of the table, so I wouldn’t hit my head by accident when I stood back up.
When I straightened, he withdrew his hand.
I noticed.
Marcus cleared his throat and gently steered the conversation back to business.
Dessert arrived soon after, a dark chocolate mousse with raspberry coulis. The investors looked relaxed now, satisfied with the evening and clearly pleased with how the discussion had gone.
Knox leaned slightly toward me, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“You handled their questions well.”
I lifted my spoon, took a slow bite of the mousse, and said quietly, “I told you I knew the numbers.”
“You did,” he said.
The conversation around the table drifted between business and lighter topics. I answered when spoken to and smiled when appropriate, letting the rhythm of the evening carry me along.
Under the table, my heel brushed his leg.
At first it was an accident, the narrow space beneath the table and the long slit of my dress working against me. I felt the firm line of his suit trousers against the top of my foot and pulled back immediately.
Knox didn’t react.
Didn’t move.
The wine left me warmer than usual, the sharp edges of the evening softening just enough to make the moment feel reckless instead of dangerous.
So I did it again.
Slower this time.
The smooth fabric of his trousers met my toes as I traced a faint line along his calf.
His knee tensed. I felt it.
He shifted slightly in his chair but didn’t look at me. His hand tightened around the stem of his glass as he kept his attention on the man speaking across the table, nodding once at something about regional expansion.
I took a sip of wine and tried not to smile.
My foot moved a little higher, barely there, the kind of contact that could still be denied if necessary. His leg went rigid beneath the table, but he didn’t pull away.
“Ashley,” one of the investors said, “what would be your biggest risk factor in the first year?”
I answered without missing a beat. “Staff loyalty. The model assumes high retention among VIP hosts. If that slips, the numbers shift.”
Knox exhaled slowly through his nose.
My foot moved again.
This time he caught me.
His hand closed around my ankle beneath the table. He lifted my leg slightly, guiding it until my heel rested against the inside of his knee.
His thumb brushed once along my bare skin, just above the strap of my heel. Slow. Deliberate.
Then he released me.
My foot settled back on the floor as if nothing had happened.
Knox leaned slightly closer, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
“You’re playing a dangerous game.”
I lifted my glass to my lips and met his gaze calmly, as though nothing at all had happened.
The car ride back was quiet in the most dangerous way.
The city lights slid past the windows, blurred by rain and speed. Nathan drove without speaking. Knox sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him through the space between our coats. His knee brushed mine once, then stayed there.
I kept my gaze on the window, but I could feel him watching me.
The air between us felt warm, electric, almost suffocating.
Finally, Nathan pulled into the driveway and stepped out to open my door.
“Good night, Miss Richards,” he said politely.
“Good night, Nathan.”
I stepped out, my heels clicking softly against the concrete.
“Good night,” I started to say, but Knox was already out of the car behind me.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
We crossed the short path in silence. At the front door, I turned to face him.
He didn’t step back.
“Thank you for the ride.”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, his gaze dropped to my mouth. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough.
“Invite me in.”
My breath caught.
I hesitated for half a second.
Then I unlocked the door and stepped inside. He followed, closing it behind us.
I reached for the alarm panel. My fingers moved slower than usual as I keyed in the code and waited for the soft confirmation beep.
The second the system chimed, Knox moved.
His mouth came down on mine, hard and hungry, stealing the breath from my lungs. I gasped into the kiss as his hand braced against the wall beside my head, trapping me between him and the door.
Between kisses, his voice rasped against my lips.
“You drive me crazy, woman.”
He kissed me again, deeper this time, more demanding.
My fingers twisted into the fabric of his coat.
When he finally paused, his forehead rested against mine. His breath was uneven, and his hands trembled just slightly where they held me.
“You drive me absolutely insane.”