“Donations are nonrefundable, Miss Elfhorn.”
“Seriously?” I repeated, outraged.
He grinned wider. “Really, Miss Elfhorn. Donations are nonrefundable.” He scooped up my shoes and, before I could protest, hoisted me up in one fluid motion.
“Damian!” I shrieked, half laughing, half appalled, as I landed over his shoulder. Hair tumbled into my face; I smacked his back playfully. “What the hell are you doing? Put me down!”
“Isn’t this what you wanted? A dark prince to carry you away?”
“That’s not how I pictured it,” I shot back. “For the record, he should carry me in his arms—not throw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.”
“Well, Daisy,” he rumbled, amused, “take what you can get. You can complain once you’re back on your feet.” His hand cracked against my ass.
God, this man was impossible. Arrogant. Overbearing. Infuriatingly sexy. And there was nowhere I would rather be than right there—thrown over his shoulder, pressed close, utterly powerless against the fire of him.
Chapter 9 Daisy
The limousine door swung open, and a familiar hand reached for me.
“You look beautiful, Miss Daisy,” Ference murmured.
“Hey, I heard that,” Damian said, offering me his arm. “But you’re right, Ference. She looks stunning.”
In a black evening gown—delicate straps, an open back tasting the night air—I felt like someone else entirely. The silk skimmed my curves as if it had been waiting for me. Earlier, Damian had met someone important without me; since then, a heaviness clung to him, something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—share.
By afternoon, the edge had dulled a little. We strolled the streets together, slipping past boutiques glittering with excess. I had chosen this whisper of silk and lace, wrapping around me like a promise I wasn’t sure I should make.
Damian’s eyes burned as they roamed over me.
“You look breathtaking, Daisy,” he whispered.
“That’s the third time you’ve said that.”
“Because it’s true. You leave me speechless. And hot,” he added, mouth curving.
My cheeks flamed.
The restaurant swallowed us in opulence—chandeliers dripping light over marble floors, velvet shadows cloaking the corners. A hostess guided us to a table where an elegantly dressed man waited. Dark brown hair streaked with silver. A sleek woman beside him, her golden curls gleaming like metal. Next to her, a younger reflection of herself.
“Damian Miller, welcome,” the man said, rising. His eyes cut to me.
“My colleague, Daisy Elfhorn,” Damian introduced. “I mentioned her on the phone.”
“Thomas Mason.” His hand closed around mine—firm, one beat too long. Not a greeting, a claim. Something flared in his eyes—desire, unmistakable, sharp as a spark. My instincts bristled, but I smiled politely.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mason.”
He released me at last, gesturing to the women. “My wife, Felissa. And this is my daughter, Silvia. My son stayed in New York.”
Felissa gave a distracted smile, already half-turned toward her phone. Silvia, maybe mid-twenties, didn’t bother with pretense. Her gaze locked on Damian, hungry.
“You remember my daughter, don’t you?” Mason asked.
“Of course. Hello, Silvia.”
“I’m happy to see you again, Damian.”
“The pleasure’s mine.”
