“How wonderful,” Eleanor says without enthusiasm. “You must meet our daughter, Elise. She’s just returned from Europe.”
The evening progresses in a blur of introductions. Ronan keeps me close, his hand rarely leaving my waist. I sip champagne, careful not to drink too much, and try to memorize names and faces. Most people are polite if distant, clearly curious about the woman who broke Ronan’s pattern of attending events alone or not attending at all.
“I need to speak with Bernard about a contract,” Ronan says after nearly an hour. “Will you be all right for a few minutes?”
“Of course.” I smile, though anxiety flutters in my stomach. “I’ll just admire the decorations.”
He kisses my temple, a casual claiming that makes my pulse jump, before striding toward a group of men in the corner.
I drift toward one of the massive Christmas trees, admiring the artful arrangement of ornaments, when a male voice breaks into my thoughts.
“You must be something special to have caught Ronan Ward’s attention.”
I turn to find a man, probably slightly older than me, blond hair swept back, holding two champagne flutes. He offers one to me.
“I’m perfectly happy with mine, thank you,” I tell him.
“Smart.” He smiles. “I’m Kirk Harrington. And you are?”
“Rayne Silva.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” His eyes roam appreciatively down my body. “How long have you known our resident billionaire recluse?”
“Long enough.” I shift, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. Actually, scratch that. His very presence makes me uncomfortable. “Are you a friend of Ronan’s?”
He laughs. “More like a friendly competitor. We’ve crossed paths in business. Though I’d be happy to cross paths with you in a more ... personal capacity.”
Ew, disgusting. His implication is clear, and I take a step back. “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“Why not? Everyone knows Ronan doesn’t do relationships. Whatever arrangement you have?—”
“Is none of your business.” Ronan's voice cuts like ice as he materializes beside me, his arm sliding around my waist. The tension radiating from him is palpable.
James raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just making conversation, Ward.”
Ronan’s grip tightens possessively. “Find someone else to converse with.”
When James walks away, I exhale slowly. “That was ... a little intense. You didn’t have to come off so strongly.”
Ronan’s jaw works. “He was out of line.”
“He was just flirting.”
“With what’s mine.” The words slip out before his expression shutters. “Dance with me.”
He leads me to the dance floor where couples sway to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” His hand splays across my back, drawing me close, our bodies moving in perfect sync.
“I don’t like sharing,” he says quietly.
“I noticed.” I can’t help but smile. “Is that why you never bring dates to these things? Too much sharing required?”
Something flickers in his eyes. “I never bring dates because no one has been worth bringing.”
The simple statement steals my breath. “Until now?”
His only answer is to pull me closer, his cheek resting against my hair. We dance in silence, and I let myself pretend this is real—that I’m really his, that tomorrow won’t come, that this feeling of belonging can last.
The illusion shatters when we step off the dance floor, and I overhear a conversation not meant for my ears.
