“Twelve,” she said, her tone sweet enough to induce a cavity. “I’m happy to lend it to you. It might help loosen you up so you don’t die of a stress-induced heart attack before age forty.”
I’d much rather have you loosen me up instead.
The thought was so sudden, so absurd and unexpected, it robbed me of a timely response.
First and foremost, I did not require loosening up. Yes, my life was quilted with neat squares and perfectly delineated lines, but that was preferable to chaos and whimsy. One wrong tug at the latter, and everything would unravel. I’d worked too hard to let something as unreliable as a passing fancy ruin things.
Second, even if I did need to loosen up （which, again, I did not）， I would do so with anyone but Isabella. She was off-limits, no matter how beautiful or intriguing she was. Not only because of Valhalla’s no fraternization rule but because she was going to be the death of me in one way or another.
Still, lust rushed through my veins in all its raw, hot glory at the thought of dipping my head over hers. Of tasting, testing, and exploring whether she was as uninhibited in the bedroom as she was outside it.
Isabella’s brows formed questioning arches at my prolonged silence.
Fuck. I tamped down my traitorous desire with an iron will cultivated from years at Oxbridge and wrestled back control over my faculties.
“Thank you, but on my list of items I’d never borrow, adult toys rank at the top,” I said, my placid tone a deceptive shield for the storm brewing inside me.
She shifted to face me fully. Her skirt slid up, baring another inch of perfect, bronzed skin.
My blood burned hotter, and a muscle flexed in my jaw before I caught myself. Who wore skirts without tights in the middle of an unseasonably cold October? Only Isabella.
“What else is on the list?” She sounded genuinely curious.
“Socks, underwear, razors, and cologne.” I rattled off the answers, keeping my eyes planted firmly on her face.
Those expressive dark brows hiked higher. “Cologne?”
“Every gentleman has a signature cologne. Pilfering someone else’s signature would be considered the height of rudeness.”
Isabella stared at me for a full five seconds before a burst of laughter filled the car. “My God. I can’t believe you’re real.”
The throaty, unabashed sound of her mirth hit me somewhere in the chest and spread like melting butter through my veins.
“If that were the case, fragrance brands would go out of business left and right,” she said. “Imagine if every product only had one customer.”
“Ah, but you’re overlooking an important part of what I said.” The arch of my brow matched hers.
“I said every gentleman, not every person.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are such a snob.”
“Hardly. It’s a matter of comportment, not status. I meet plenty of CEOs and aristocrats who are anything but gentlemen.”
“And you think you’re an exception?”
I couldn’t help it. A wicked smile touched my lips. “Only in certain situations.”
I spotted the instant my meaning registered. Isabella’s high color returned, washing her face in a lovely bloom of pink. Her lips parted in an audible breath, and despite my better instincts, dark satisfaction curled through my chest at her reaction.
I wasn’t the only one tortured by our attraction.
She opened her mouth right as the engine cut off, swallowing her words and abruptly severing our link.
We’d arrived at Monarch.
I hid a twinge of disappointment when a valet hurried over to us and took the keys from Dante. By the time I turned back to Isabella, she’d already exited the car.
I released a controlled breath and tucked the wayward emotion into a padlocked box before following her into the building.
It was better that I didn’t know what she’d been about to say. I shouldn’t have slipped up and teased her in the first place, but there was a growing civil war between my logic and my emotions where Isabella was concerned. Luckily, Dante and Vivian were too deep in newlywed land to notice anything amiss.
The elevator whisked us up to the top floor of the skyscraper, where Monarch overlooked the sprawling expanse of Central Park.
Since we were early for our reservation, the ma?tre d’ offered us complimentary glasses of champagne while we waited in the well-appointed entryway. I was the only one who declined. I wanted a clear head tonight, and God knew Isabella’s presence was intoxicating enough.
My phone lit up with two new emails—a follow-up about DigiStream and logistics for the upcoming executive leadership retreat. Things had been suspiciously quiet since my mother announced the CEO vote, but I’d bet my first edition set of Charles Dickens novels that at least one of the other candidates would make their move at the retreat.
“Kai?”
I glanced up. A somewhat familiar-looking woman stood in front of me with an expectant smile.
Late twenties, long black hair, brown eyes, a distinctive beauty mark at the corner of her mouth.
Recognition clicked into place with a breath of surprise.
Clarissa, my childhood neighbor and, judging by the number of articles she’d forwarded me regarding Clarissa’s philanthropic efforts and accomplishments, my mother’s first choice for daughter-in-law.
“Sorry, I realize it’s been a long time since we last saw each other.” She laughed. “It’s Clarissa Teo. From London? You look almost exactly the same—” Her eyes flicked over me in appreciation.
“But I realize I’ve changed quite a bit since the last time we saw each other.”
That was an understatement. Gone was the awkward, braces-wearing teen I remembered. In her place was an elegant, polished woman with a beauty pageant smile and an outfit straight out of a society magazine.
I declined to mention I’d googled her last week, though she looked almost as different in person as she did from her teenage years. Softer, smaller, less stiff.
“Clarissa. Of course, it’s so good to see you,” I said smoothly, masking my surprise. According to my mother’s unsolicited updates, she wasn’t supposed to arrive in New York until next week. “How are you?”
We made small talk for a few minutes. Apparently, she’d moved to the city earlier than planned to help with a big, upcoming exhibition at the Saxon Gallery, where she was in charge of artist relations.
She was staying at the Carlyle until they finished renovations at her new brownstone, and she was nervous about moving to a new city but lucky to have found a mentor in Buffy Darlington, the well-respected grande dame of New York society, whom she was meeting for dinner tonight. Buffy was running late because of an emergency with her dog.
I’d had dozens of similar conversations over the years, but I feigned as much interest as possible until Clarissa started comparing the pros and cons of Malteses versus Pomeranians.
“Forgive me. I forgot to introduce you to my friends.” I cut her off neatly when she paused for a breath. “Everyone, this is Clarissa Teo, a family friend. She just moved to the city. Clarissa, this is Dante and Vivian Russo and Isabella Valencia.”
They exchanged polite greetings. Full name introductions were common in our circles, where a person’s family said more about them than their occupation, clothes, or car.