Page 50 of Mister St. James

She nods toward the bar’s orchid centerpiece, half-darkening her face in exotic shadow. A man in his forties slides up: Garrett Holt, CTO of Holt Stanley Systems, three times our revenue, a legacy built on stubborn arrogance. His tie is loosened, posture all confident sprawl. He spots us, pauses, then strides over.

“Ms. Vaquer, Mr. St. James,” he drawls, nodding at us with thin-lipped politeness. “Quite the power move, arriving together.”

We exchange a glance: small, triumphant. I place my glass on the bar, coaster aligned with surgical precision. Cat flicks an eyelash at Holt.

“Mr. Holt,” she says, voice crisp. “Enjoying the party?”

He sniffs. “I’ve seen better open bars. But I see you’re still at Precision. Remarkable.”

Remarkable, as if it’s a bitter pill. I catch Cat’s jaw twitch, her only tell. I slip a reassuring hand to her lower back.

“And you,” she counters, “are still Mr. Smug.” Her smile is casual, but lethal. Holt blinks.

He shifts his gaze to me. “St. James. You must be pleased.”

I let the silence stretch. Then I lean in. “Catalina rebuilt the Hargrove account after it hemorrhaged two million on your so-called legacy team. She led the comms audit that shut down one of our competitors and without her, we wouldn’t have closed the Zurich deal that your lawyers tried to sabotage. If you need a résumé, I’ll forward it, with bullet points for your convenience.”

Holt’s face drains from pink to white. He lifts his glass in a shaky salute. “Touché. Enjoy the evening.” He melts back into the crowd.

Cat straightens, glances at me, and our hands find each other’s.

“I had it handled,” she says softly.

“I know you did,” I answer, just as softly.

But I wanted to, anyway.

She sips her drink, and I see the scarlet line of her mouth, perfectly drawn, slightly smudged at one corner from the glass. My mind wanders, as it always does, to what that mouth looks like around the head of my cock. I imagine her down on her knees in this exact dress, unzipped at the side and pulled off her shoulder, her hair fisted in my hand, tears leaking from her mascara as I made her take all of me, slow and mean and precise. I have to fight to keep my breathing even. Fuck, I want her.

She sees me seeing her, and the edges of her mouth tick up, sly and knowing.

“Are you going to say something clever?” she asks.

“Not in this company,” I say, nodding at the crowd.

“Then later?”

“Definitely later.”

She turns back to the crowd, head high. I stand next to her, a handspan away, but it may as well be a continent. I want to touch her so badly it almost hurts, but I wait. The wanting is the point.

She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “You could at least look less bored.”

“Watching you work is never boring,” I say, and I mean it.

She laughs, not for me, but for the benefit of the couple behind us who are clearly eavesdropping. I watch her body, every movement telegraphs intent, every word placed with surgical purpose. I want to take her apart and see what lies underneath all that calculation, the soft places she doesn’t show anyone.

In the span of fifteen minutes, Cat collects four business cards, schedules two power lunches, and sets a verbal landmine for Holt that I know will detonate before midnight. She navigates the rest of the ballroom with the same precision. I trail behind, silent and watchful, content to play shadow until the last handshake is done.

By the time the evening winds down, I can feel the heat rising off her. I don’t mean anger or adrenaline. I mean the physical, electrical charge she carries when she’s riding the high of a successful hunt. It’s the same energy that used to draw me to her at the club, when I didn’t know her name and she didn’t know mine. She’d walk into a room and I’d lose the thread of my own conversation, drawn to her orbit like a fucking moon.

As the guests filter out, Cat lingers at the bar. I join her, and for a moment it’s just us, reflected back in the polished black of the marble.

“Did you get what you needed?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Depends. Did you?”

“I always do,” I say, and I lean in, close enough for her perfume to override the rest of the world.