Achilles snapped his fingers before smacking his forehead. “Damn. Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot that.”
They looked at each other and snickered. After bonding over Seahawks and Patriots football, classic rap music and old mafia movies, the older man had become a friend in the last three months. Dave gave him a small salute, then returned to the car, leaving Achilles to stare up at the imposing Back Bay mansion. Unlike the other brownstones on the street, the Hills’ home was composed of a white, marble-like material that stood out like Cinderella among the other belles at the ball. Large, intricate bay windows adorned three stories and even he, who knew nothing about architecture, could tell a fine and skilled hand had paid loving attention to the detail on the building’s facade.
He approached the iron gate that separated the sidewalk from the property, and a black-suited staff member stood there. To let the guests in and bar the undesirables from entering, Achilles mused. And as he neared the man, he still didn’t know which one the Hills considered him.
Minutes later, when he handed another young man his long wool coat, resignation filled him. His pride had dug this hole, and now he had to stand knee-deep in it. Three hours. He could get through three hours of small talk, drinks, dinner and mind-numbing boredom—
“Achilles.”
He turned at the sound of his name and froze.
The air in his lungs stuttered, stalled. Hell, the air in the ornate lobby came to a halt, as if stunned into utter stillness.
Mycah.
He should probably turn away, stop staring. Stop devouring the elegant column of her neck and the bared length of her delicate shoulders revealed by the upsweep of her curls in a crown on top of her head.
Stop worshipping the beautiful mounds of her breasts that he could map blindfolded with his hands and lips. A black corset-style top lifted them, cinching in a waist that was already small and drawing attention to the feminine flare of hips that had his fingers flexing to grab, dig into...mark. The formfitting skirt molded to her gorgeous curves, thick thighs and strong calves. Impossibly high stilettos completed the stunning visage of a confident, sexy woman who could willingly and joyfully bring a man—or woman—to their knees.
Lust burned through him. He pulsed with it. And if chatter and laughter didn’t echo down the corridor, he would have wrenched that tight skirt over her gorgeous hips, pressed her against the dark paneled wall and released it into her.
Goddamn, he hurt.
“Achilles.” She neared him, the heels of those shoes clattering on the marble floor. “Thanks for coming. Are you...okay?”
Okay? No. Unlessokayhad suddenly become synonymous withhard as fuck. “Yes, I’m fine.” Because he wasn’t able to help himself, he flicked another glance over her, devouring her in one quick look that he hoped she didn’t catch. “You look beautiful.”
Her fingers fluttered across her bare neck, and he couldn’t help remembering when his hand had been the only necklace she’d needed. Shit. He really needed to get himself under control.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “You do, too.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Beautiful?”
She met his gaze even though a tinge of red painted her cheekbones. “Yes.”
They stared at one another, the air between them charged, vibrating with tension, riddled with unspoken words.
Never one who gave a damn about his appearance, for once, he’d listened to Kenan’s browbeating and worn the slim-fitting black three-piece suit and ice-blue shirt and tie. He’d bound his hair back in a bun and, though he’d refused to cut his beard, he had allowed Kenan’s barber to trim it. Spying the glow of appreciation and—a fist clenched in his gut—desire in Mycah’s gaze, he was glad he’d put forth the effort.
“This must be our guest of honor.”
The intrusion of the deep, cultured baritone dropped between them like the blast of an arctic wind after a balmy summer. Dragging his attention from Mycah, Achilles met the piercing hazel stare of a distinguished, tall, older Black man. Again, no introduction was necessary, although it would undoubtedly be forthcoming. Laurence Hill, president of Hill-Harper Inc. Mycah’s father.
And just like his wife, he sent a frisson of disquiet skipping down Achilles’s spine. Something in the eyes. In the too-wide smile. In the too-welcoming tone.
Lies.
He glanced at Mycah, saw her shuttered gaze. This family was built on lies.
“Laurence Hill.” Mycah’s father extended his hand toward Achilles. “Welcome to our home. We’re delighted you could attend our little party.”
“Achilles Farrell. Thank you for inviting me,” he said, accepting the hand, and as he’d done with Laurence’s wife, he shook and released it as quickly as possible.
“Of course, of course. When my daughter told us she landed a job at Farrell International, we couldn’t have been prouder. It’s a company with a long history based on tradition and family. And family is everything, isn’t it?” Laurence said.
The words were innocuous enough, but the voracious gleam in his gaze...
So this was what Achilles had to expect tonight. God, the rich. Rage and bile churned in his gut. But damn if he would reveal how this asshole angered him. That’s what the man wanted. A reaction. Strip away the money, the lineage, the connections and nothing separated people like him from criminals in jail.
