Page 54 of Resist

He winks at Lucy as her face lights up, the prospect of her beloved rainbow sherbet enough to take the sting out of this goodbye.

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it and you more than you know.”

Our eyes hold for the briefest of seconds before I give her one last hug and watch them head down the walkway talking animatedly.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Vaughn

The extravagance of the restaurant is astounding. The exclusive member club is well hidden among the subway stops and endless sidewalks of Manhattan. Even my walk past the mahogany-lined walls toward the tuxedo-clad maître d’ gives no hint of what lies beyond the wall at his back.

“Are you here for the event?” he asks, his voice soft, his smile guarded.

Event? He didn’t say anything about an event.

“I’m here to meet with Ryker Lockhart.”

He eyes me for a second. “So that’s a yes. Name, please?”

“Vaughn,” I say, realizing that I am not comfortable giving my last name and opening myself up to Ryker knowing it.

“Vaughn?” he asks with a lift of his brows as if he’s expecting more, and I just smile sweetly, feeling way out of place.

“Yes.”

He makes a humming noise as he looks at the list in front of him and then gives a resolute nod before looking back up and smiling. “Right this way.”

He guides me around a wall and into the belly of the restaurant. A cigar lounge is on the right side, its enclosed walls made of glass. Smoke swirls around the small space, and men are leaned back in leather recliners, sleeves rolled up, smiles wide, postures relaxed. On the left is a wine room, racks lining its walls with dark-colored bottles filling their grooved notches.

The room is laid out before us. People mingle here and there, a desirable ratio of men and women wearing expensive clothes and casual smiles. The club is distinguished by its dark decor with chairs in rich blues and its money . . . definitely money. The room reeks of it: in the gold Rolexes dripping from the wrists of the men seated here and there, in the bottles of private label Macallan sitting atop the tables, in the unaffected glances the men in the room give my way. The ones that say if they wanted me, they could have me . . . because that’s just how the privilege in their lives has allowed them to live.

My spine stiffens as I walk. My shoulders square and my chin lifts some.

They don’t know who I am. All they know now is that I’m here with them.

Not that I’m here because of blackmail.

Then again, it’s probably something many of them have done to get where they are . . . just like the man I’m here to meet.

And that single thought causes the subtle anticipation I was feeling about seeing him to spark into defiant anger again.

That spark only burns brighter when I see him. He’s leaning back in a chair, a highball glass in one hand, his attention turned toward a few male counterparts standing in front of him. His shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, a dark-gray vest is hugging his torso, and his slacks are hiked up some so that he can sit with his ankle over his knee.

Elegant. Refined. Sexy. Striking.

And the spark of anger ignites into something deeper and darker within me that I’m afraid to acknowledge. I’m physically attracted to him. To his looks and his laugh and his air of superiority that I can’t stand but that is somehow seemingly sexy on him.

My thoughts and libido war. Feeling trapped for being here and wanting to be here merely because he does things to my body, to my sensations, in a way that makes me feel a little chaotic, a little out of control, when control is how I’ve governed every part of my life.

This is not me. Not the woman I know.

But the minute his words stutter to a stop on his lips when he sees me, the conflict in my head burns out, and the fire heats up every other part of my body.

The men he’s speaking with take notice of his sudden preoccupation and turn to face me, but it’s Ryker who suddenly has my heart leaping in my throat. It’s the oh-so-slight lift of one eyebrow as his eyes slide down over me. It’s the subtle tic of his jaw that is barely there but that lets me know the outfit I spent forever picking out—the sophisticated pantsuit with the cutouts on the neckline—was the perfect choice. It’s the way one side of his mouth curls up into the slightest of smiles.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” he says to them without breaking eye contact with me, before rising from his seat and closing the short distance.

I hold my breath as he does, and I’m not sure why I do.