“It's enough.”
Sebastian studied me for a long moment. “You're looking at him like he's more than just a professional asset.”
“He's complicated.”
“They always are.” Sebastian finished his champagne. “First dance is starting. Viktor and I will open the floor. After that, guests are expected to participate. Do try not to glower at everyone who talks to your investigator.”
He collected Viktor and they moved toward the dance floor. I stayed where I was, watching Cal extricate himself from conversation, watching his gaze sweep the room and land on me with enough focus to suggest he'd been tracking me the same way I'd been tracking him.
He crossed the ballroom deliberately, stopped close enough that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that made me want to lean closer. “They dance well together.”
“They've had practice.”
“You dance?”
“When required.”
“Is it required now?” His eyes held challenge.
I looked at the floor where other guests were beginning to pair off after Sebastian and Viktor's opening. “After the prince finishes, refusing would draw attention.”
“Then don't refuse.” He didn't extend his hand. Just waited, watching me with that particular expression that said he knew exactly what he was doing. “Dance with me. Show everyone here that Ken Hartley belongs.”
Every instinct said this was a mistake. That dancing with Cal would expose things better kept professional.
But the alternative was standing here while everyone noticed.
“One dance,” I said.
“We'll see.”
I led him onto the floor, positioned us among the other couples. My hand settled at the small of his back—warm through expensive fabric, the heat of him bleeding through to my palm. His hand rested on my shoulder, grip firm enough that I feltthe controlled strength in his fingers. The orchestra shifted to something slower, violins weaving through the air like silk.
The first step told me everything I needed to know.
Cal knew how to dance. Really dance. Not the awkward shuffling most people did at events like this, but actual proper dancing. He followed my lead with precision while simultaneously challenging it, his body anticipating my movements half a second before I made them, turning each step into subtle negotiation.
“You're good at this,” I said quietly.
“I know.” His eyes stayed locked on mine—one blue, one green, both utterly focused. “You're better than I expected. All that control translates.”
“Dancing is just movement. Tactical spacing.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” His fingers tightened on my shoulder as I guided him through a turn. The movement brought us closer, and for a moment his chest pressed against mine before we separated again. “That everything's just tactics?”
The ballroom lights caught in his hair, turned the dark strands almost auburn. He smelled like expensive cologne and something underneath it—clean soap, maybe, or just him. The combination made my head swim.
“You're here to work,” I said, voice rougher than I intended. “So work.”
“I am working.” His thigh slid between mine as we moved, the contact looking natural but feeling deliberate. His breath ghosted across my jaw when he leaned in to murmur: “Edmund Price. Three o'clock. Keep dancing.”
I followed his direction without being obvious. Found the prosecutor he meant—older, distinguished, watching us with interest that felt calculated. “You've identified targets already.”
“I identify everyone.” Cal shifted his weight, bringing us even closer. The hand on my shoulder slid higher, fingers brushingthe nape of my neck. “It's what I do. Now focus on me. Look interested. Make this convincing.”
My body responded before I could stop it. Heat pooling low in my stomach, spreading through my veins like fire. My cock beginning to thicken against my will. “Cal.”
“What? I'm just suggesting you commit to the performance.” But his pupils had dilated, breath going slightly uneven. A flush had crept up his throat, just visible above his collar. He felt it. The bastard felt exactly what he was doing to me. “Besides, we look good together. Haven't you noticed?”
