“You must tell Judge Knight that Kendall Chandler sends her regards,” she purrs.
Nick…Dominic…shrugs. “I’m sure he won’t remember you.”
Okay, that’s not diplomatic at all. Not even a little bit.
“And who are you?” he impudently asks Barclay, who squares his shoulders and puffs up.
“Barclay Morrison. State Department liaison.”
Nick’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ah. One of the junior ones.”
I choke on a gasp. Barclay’s face turns an interesting shade of red.
Nick looks at me then, and what passes between us is electric, recognizable, and…terrifying.
“Excuse us,” he says gruffly, and walks me away.
I let him because I don’t know what’s up or down right now.
When we are tucked away in a secluded corner, he grits out, “You dated that son of a bitch?”
That snaps me out of whatever parallel universe I was frozen in. “Yeah, I seem to have dated more than one son of a bitch.”
“Enya—”
“What do you think you’re doing here?” I demand, my pulse hammering.
I thought I’d never see him again, and here he is. Flesh and blood. I can smell his cologne. It’s the same one he wore when we were together. Was that part of a persona or the real him?
He studies me with unnerving stillness—like he’s trying to memorize me.
“I came to talk to you,” he divulges. “And because your father invited me.”
That makes no sense. “Why would he?—?”
Dom’s gaze shifts, arrogance flickering in his eyes. “Because of my new job.”
Right. He’s a big dog at Sentinel now.
And then it hits me. That’s why Daddy wanted me here. He invited Nick. Guess he isn’t pissed off with me anymore for bringing an NSA special agent into his home, not when that special agent is Dominic Delacour.
“I quit the NSA,” he tells me.
The palms of my hand roll into fists. “And why should I give a flying fuck?”
I see him flinch. I don’t swear a lot. Grandma Lucille drummed that into me.
“Speak the way you want to be spoken to, sweet girl, and none of those disgusting words.”
He takes a step toward me. I move back.
“Baby, we need to talk. I need to tell you everything. No lies. Not ever again.”
I swallow, throat tight. “You can’t just show up and?—”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know you’re hurt. I know. I want to make it right.”
The ballroom lights shimmer above us. The air is too warm. My pulse is screaming.
