“I guess I don’t blame you. I’d get the fuck out of dodge too if the guy I worked for was ‘suicided.’”
Brian’s fingers crooked in air quotes, and his green eyes glittered with the bit of gossip.
Amelia tempered her interest with a slow exhale. “What did you just say?”
“Burt. I overheard someone here saying he was mixed up with the wrong people. They wanted him dead, so they made it happen.”
Amelia gripped the strap of her purse and parroted the logic she’d used to console herself on sleepless nights. Looking back, it just seemed naïve and absurd.
“The police would know if he was murdered.”
“Depends what side they’re on.” Brian gestured to the room where the driving beat of music replaced the piano dirge. “These people are morally fucked, Amelia. We both know the ends they go to for money and power.”
Amelia studied the guests gulping down cocktails and crowding the dance floor. The party pulsed with a grim undercurrent. There was always tension between the eclectic rich and glossy public figures, but a certain darkness united the clashing castes of the disgustingly wealthy.
As if to prove it, a drunk woman doubled over with laughter and sent wine sloshing from her glass. She reached for her companion to steady herself but lost her footing and tumbled into Amelia before hitting the floor.
Amelia might have gone down too but stumbled into a solid mass behind her. Strong hands gripped her bare shoulders and guided her away from the shattered wine glass and people rushing over to help.
Amelia needed no more cues to leave. She turned to thank the man behind her and be on her way, but her heart nearly slammed to a stop when she saw his face. Nothing could have prepared her for the savage collision of reality and daydreams.
Emory Holt towered over her, taller than Amelia could have imagined, or perhaps she had no anchor to what a man of his size looked like up close.
His mugshot was a poor approximation of how utterly handsome he was, but it’d done him justice in one way. He peered at her with sharp intensity, his eyes the color of warm honey.
“Hi,” was all Amelia could manage on a dumbfounded breath as the room faded at the edges in soft filters.
A gorgeous smile unfurled on Emory’s lips and betrayed a warmth that surprised her. She couldn’t reconcile it with his history of dark deeds.
“Hi.” He laughed, and his gaze swept to her mouth, along her cheekbones, and back to her eyes.
Numbness spread in Amelia, starting at her knees. Turncoat legs went wobbly and weak and her constitution even weaker. They were close enough that she discerned his cologne—spicy and faintly sweet—mingling with the scent of clean laundry. Raven black hair hung in loose waves past broad shoulders, and he was swathed in well-defined muscle with thick arms and long legs.
“I’m so sorry,” Amelia said with more weight than a mere pleasantry. Her contrition plumbed perilous depths, those nights she laid awake wondering what had come of him.
For the moment, she apologized for her hands resting lightly on his forearms inked in black tattoos. In a white dress shirt, Emory flouted pageantry with a few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. An unfastened black tie was draped around his neck, and he hadn’t bothered with a suit jacket.
“You’re fine, sweetheart. I don’t mind.” His subtle flirtation disarmed her. So too did the resonant rumble of his voice, deep enough to sink into. “Are you alright?”
Emory loosened his grip on her shoulders but let his palmsskim the length of her arms. Their eyes met with the quiet intimacy of his stolen touch.
“Yes, thank you.”
Flustered, Amelia righted the dress strap that’d slipped from her shoulder. Emory watched her, seemingly transfixed by how she put herself back together. Or maybe he liked how she came undone, the way her hand trembled and breath hitched.
“I’m good for it anytime,” he said with a wink and moved along.
Only then did Amelia notice his companions, two men on his left and one to his right. Across the sunroom, they lounged on the sofas in a close group with Emory central among the other three.
“Who was that?” Brian asked.
Amelia shook her head. “No idea.”
The lie came easier than she would’ve liked, but the secret she hid was the ecstatic rush that left her reeling. His picture had planted the seeds of intrigue, and Amelia nourished them neatly until they bore strange fruit. Indulging in it would be a mistake, her better angels warned.
But the feeling of being watched was universal, primal even. It stuck to her skin and refused to be ignored. With odd affliction, Amelia gathered some gumption and glanced in Emory’s direction. Sure enough, he studied her as if memorizing the shape of her body, her face, the way her lips parted with a shaky exhale.
Emory bowed his head and listened intently to the man on his right. With enormous blue eyes and dirty blond hair slicked back, he dressed much the same as Emory with tattooed forearms exposed and a dress shirt half-untucked. Whatever was said, Emory nodded slowly and stared at Amelia from beneath his brows.
