I feel confused, and my mind spins as he steps back. The air between us still hums with that unspoken tension. Carolyn had told me in no uncertain terms that Blake and she didn’t have sex anymore, that their marriage was cold and distant, with indifference and separate bedrooms.
But there is a lot of ardor here.
It is radiating off him like heat waves from a fire, wrapping around me until I almost can’t speak. It makes my throat tight, and my words are caught in the whirlwind of my thoughts.
His expression is unreadable but charged, and then he heads out, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving me alone in the sudden quiet. My legs are suddenly unsteady, and I sink onto the vanity chair. Oh, dear God. What on earth is going on with me? Why am I affected like this? The rapid thud of my blood echoes in my ears, and my breath comes out shallow. I seriously need to calm down before I faint. I press a hand to my chest and take slow deep breaths.
Come on, Juliet. Grow up. You’re not a kid. He’s just a man. A very sexy man, but just a man. His image pops into my head.
He had looked absolutely breathtaking in his tux, the black wool tailored to perfection, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering down to his waist, his dark hair slicked back, making his jawline sharper, and his icy-gray eyes look even more piercing, like they could see straight through me.
Suddenly, it hits me.
I'm falling for him.
The realization is like those monster storm waves that crash relentlessly into the sides of cliffs. It’s terrifying. He belongs to Carolyn, not to me. It’s crazy, but the line is getting blurred, the edges of this impersonation are fraying… and I don't know how to stop it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
BLAKE
Why the fuck did I go up to her room?
The thought nags at me like a restless itch. I don't know what possessed me to take the damn necklace up to her personally. To be honest, it was a stupid thing to do. To start with Carolyn is particular about her jewelry. She doesn’t like anything from the family safe. There have been enough snide comments about vintage and old-fashioned styles. She likes the new stuff from Cartier or Harry Winston.
Yet, she seemed quite taken by the necklace. Her eyes widening with a soft surprise that I know she didn’t fake, and her body trembling as it settled against her skin. That reaction—genuine, vulnerable, nothing like the calculated indifference I'm used to, threw me for a loop.
There is something wrong, something off that I can't figure out, and it gnaws at me day and night. I actually stay up at night wondering what is going on. Worse, I hate how I can't control the desire for her anymore. The pull is so insistent it is starting to interfere with my work, and everybody knows, nothing interferes with my work. How I can't stop looking at her,stealing secret glances, or stop my body from responding despite my best efforts to rein it in.
Instead of waiting for her in the foyer. I’m too wired to stand in here like an idiot. I go out into the warm balmy air. Franklin is waiting outside the Bentley. He nods at me and goes around to open the back passenger door closest to me.
I walk towards the car. As I slip in, the front door opens, and there she is, stepping out into the twilight. Even from where I stand, she's a vision that hits like a gut punch. The midnight-blue gown clings to her like a second skin, the silk rippling and catching the fading light, the deep V-neck plunging into the curve of her breasts, the thigh-high slit flashing a glimpse of a golden leg as she moves. The necklace sparkles at her throat like it belongs there.
God, she's so fucking beautiful.
Breathtaking in a way that she has never been. Not even in the early days. Of course, she was always beautiful, but now she literally stops my breath. The attraction is overwhelming. It’s bizarre. Just inexplicable. I tell myself that her narcissistic, duplicitous personality leaves me cold, and I actually dislike her, but my cock twitches and hardens for another taste of her.
Franklin opens the car door for her, and she slides in beside me, the gown whispering against the leather. Her perfume wafts over, always that small difference.
"Thank you," she murmurs to Franklin.
The door clicks shut, sealing us in that intimate space. The engine purrs to life, and we pull away down the drive. I try to keep to myself, staring at Franklin’s head through the partition, but her presence is electric, and the air between us is charged. Our hands are mere inches apart. One little shift, one moment away, and we’ll touch, her skin brushing mine. And then what happens?
I'm tempted. God, am I tempted. My fingers flex with the urge to close that gap, to feel her warmth, but I pull away instead, shifting my hand to my lap and turning to stare out the window. The passing scenery blurs in the dusk, my reflection in the glass showing the tension in my jaw.Control—I need to regain it, but it's slipping, and I hate it.
The drive to the Metropolitan Museum of Art stretches on, the city lights emerging as we cross into Manhattan. When we arrive at the gala entrance, the roped-off red carpet is lined with paparazzi and their cameras. I step out first, offering Carolyn my hand. She takes it, and there is a flash of gratitude. Her touch sends a jolt up my arm. I ignore it and lead her up the grand steps of the Met.
I glance at her curiously. She seems nervous, her steps hesitant, her free hand smoothing her gown's slit as if to hide her exposed skin. I wonder why. She always thrived in these settings, like a shark among minnows. Without thinking, I place my hand on the small of her back, the silk warm under my palm. The curve of her spine arches slightly at my touch. I intend to steady her, but it only heightens the heat between us. It makes my fingers want to linger forever.
People flock to us almost immediately. Dignitaries nodding and murmuring their hellos, a senator from New York clapping me on the shoulder with a booming laugh, businessmen murmuring about deals and pressing cards into my hand like offerings. I navigate it all with practiced ease, but my real attention is on my wife, watching how she hangs back, shy almost, her smiles polite but reserved, which is weird. She is usually the one commanding the room, her wit, sharp and engaging. It's another piece that doesn't fit.
Unease stirs once more in my gut.
A woman approaches, weaving through the crowd with that predatory grace I recognize instantly. Leila, Carolyn's friend.She’s in a slinky red gown, her dark hair piled high, diamonds dripping from her ears and throat like icicles. She has that sly look in her eyes that I detest, so her approach isn’t exactly welcome, but watching the ‘new’ Carolyn interact with her will be interesting, so I give her a respectable amount of attention. Her smile, as usual is laced with venom, as she air-kisses Carolyn on both cheeks, her perfume cloying and overpowering.
"Darling," she purrs, pulling back to eye Carolyn up and down, then turning to me with a sultry look. "Hello, Gorgeous. I’m not ignoring you, I just desperately need to catch up with your wife.”
“Be my guest,” I say coolly.
