CHAPTER FIVE #3
He scoffs and quickly switches directions, regarding both the discussion and the dance. “You won’t even finish a goddamn conversation. I’ve chased you all over the country, but you expect me to believe you’re worried I won’t stick around.”
“I’m not worried about anything.” That is an outright lie since the host just wandered into the ballroom, greeting his guests. “This is just not happening.”
“Because you’ll get attached,” he accuses, his baritone carrying intrigue despite it not being posed as a question.
If I conceded to the possibility of becoming attached, whether it was true or not, it would probably send him running, but my pride refuses to allow me to take the hit for this. I am not the problem here.
In a move that is a tad more advanced for my rusty ballroom training, I somehow pull off a smooth leg hook—or gancho—while volleying his allegation.
“Because you’re addicted to the chase, and I get it.
The thrill of that is intoxicating. But I have no interest in being someone’s conquest one day and their conquered the next. I’ve had enough of that.”
He doesn’t refute any of that as we sync to the music, keeping up with even the most impressive couples.
But he grants me a glimpse of what he’d be like between the sheets.
His grip is possessive and commanding. His eyes strip me of far more than my dress.
And his timbre is deep and gravelly, making his observation feel intimate.
“You’re an acrobatic master, a motorcycle stunt rider, and you dance better than the Stars. Is there anything you don’t do, Sly?”
“You,” I quip, mimicking his response from when he dipped me.
I could’ve offered him similar accolades because it’s apparent the man is adept at anything and everything. He’s far surpassing me on the dancing skills. But the bemusement in his baby blues is more entertaining.
His chest rattles with his levity, but eventually, his hand presses firmly between my shoulder blades in contrast to the softening lines around his eyes. “So, what do you need?”
“Right now? I need you to fix how you screwed up my plans. The host was interested in me, and I have to get into his office—”
“Interested? So, you were …” His teeth clench, but his steps don’t falter; in fact, they glide into an angry shuffle, his hips swaying with severity. “You were planning to what?”
“Check yourself before you say something that will get you a knee to those balls you bragged about. He always invites several people to join him in a lounge that is down the hall from his office. I need to be one of them. It’s the only way to get on that floor.
I can take a trip to the ladies’ room and be in and out of the safe in less than ten minutes, but you being here … ”
He spins us several times in a vortex twirl, leering at the formidable Mr. Fairfax with a trace of hostility. “I’ll get us the invite without him believing he’s getting anything else. That’s not an issue. You’ll need to trust me to cover you though.”
“You haven’t left me much choice.”
He forgoes the sharp fast-paced footwork and thrusts us into a slower dance that matches the accented beat, his gaze flicking between my lips and my eyes. “And beyond tonight, what do you need, Sylvie Palmer?”
“Nothing you can—”
“Try me.”
The grand ballroom and top-one-percent guests fade into the background. Because no one ever asks me that. It’s so foreign that I’m not even sure how to respond. Until the conversation with my mom from yesterday delivers what I need most.
“A friend.”
His brows knit together as he studies me and repeats, “A friend?”
Regret and embarrassment have my cheeks burning. “You know what? Forget it. I knew your persistence was only—”
“And you were wrong. I was just surprised.” He keeps gliding me around the dance floor in more of a waltz, but he seems oblivious to how we aren’t blending in anymore. “I’ve had people ask me for a lot of things, but being a friend has never been one of them.”
“Oh.” I swallow a mix of confusing emotions, my heart thumping in my chest. “So, friends?”
That sexy dimple heckles me. “It sounds a lot like Sylvie and Cash.”
A laugh flees from my lungs. “It sounds nothing like that because Cash can only think about one objective.”
“I’ll prove you wrong. I’m an excellent juggler—cards, dice, knives. Objectives are no different.”
I freeze, unable to mindlessly move through the steps—and not because of the juggling-knives tidbit. I’m completely baffled by what the hell this Noire king wants from me. “You won’t consider it a waste to be my friend?”
He huffs with a subtle shake of his head, and his voice is a gritty secret just for me. “The last thing I would call spending time with you is a waste, Sly.”
His declaration lodges itself in my throat. If I let him get too close, he’s going to obliterate me. Even as a friend.
“That was one hell of a tango,” Peter Fairfax interrupts, ripping me from my daze. “May I cut in?”
Showtime.
Cash stares down our host with a smile that’s far more menacing than the suave one I’m used to. “Great party, Peter. But, respectfully, fuck no.”
Fan-freaking-tastic.