“Fuck. It’s my CFO, calling about a new project. I have to take this.” His eyes lift to mine. “Will you wait here?”
I nod.
The phone chimes shrilly again. Standing, he starts to lift it to his ear, but pauses before answering, arm suspended midair. In a flash, his eyes return to mine and in a single, sharp move, he bends at the waist, plants his free hand against the couch next to my face, and, before I can blink, brushes his lips across mine in a soft kiss that leaves me breathless.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he whispers against my mouth, and I see his eyes have gone melty again. “We still have shit to discuss, sunshine.”
I gulp, knowing he meansusandmore.
“And, after that, I’d be happy to tell you all about myfavorites.” His voice drops lower. “Maybe I’ll even show you a few of them, if you’re lucky.”
My heart flips in my chest, thumping wildly at the implication in his words. I just wanted to know his favorite city — the man has been to thirty-seven countries, after all — but I’m pretty sure Chase has something else in mind.
Something that involves me shedding more than just my self-control.
I start to lean forward, not wanting the kiss to end… and freeze when his phone rings again, loud and insistent.
With a final lip brush and a muttered curse, he’s gone, striding toward the archway across the apartment, rounding a corner, and disappearing from sight without a backward glance. He must have a private office in the space off his bedroom, because a minute later, I hear the sound of a door closing.
And then, I’m alone in Chase Croft’s penthouse — somewhere I never in my wildest dreams imagined I’d wind up — and thoughts,dangerousthoughts, about how this bossy, annoying, elusive billionaire might just disprove my theory that all men (Mark excluded, of course) are rat bastards, begin to flutter through my mind.
I press a hand to my stomach in an attempt to steady myself.
Damn. The freaking butterflies have multiplied again.
Chapter Eighteen
Baby
He’s gone for a long time.
So long, in fact, I forget to be polite, and start to wander.
I play with the fireplace remote, delighted to find you can not only adjust the temperature and size of the flames, but also the speed at which they dance on the grate and even their color. I flip from blue to red to orange to green, feeling like a four year old who’s learned to make the automatic car window go up and down.
Cool.
Well, actually it’shot, but… you know what I mean.
Leaving behind my merrily-dancing magenta flames, I trace the felt-topped billiard table and lift a few of the heavy, striped pool balls from their pockets, each of which is engraved with the word CROFT in gold filigree letters. A bit excessive, in my opinion, but considering I’ve never played pool in my life, I’m not one to judge.
I skim my fingertips along the glossy oak table, wondering with vague curiosity if Chase has ever had a dinner party with enough guests to fill all sixteen seats. Probably not a Croft family gathering, that’s for damn sure.
Finally, I reach the bookshelves — which, if I’m being honest, were really my destination from the beginning — and start to work my way through his collection. It’s vast — everything from classics to modern literature, poetry to nonfiction. Books on business practices sit next to tomes on medieval archery; slim travel guides are shoved in next to glossy-paged photography books. There’s no rhyme or reason to their placement, which sends a happy thrill shooting through me; they look like my own messy, disorganized, well-loved shelves back in my apartment — though I’m nearly positive he paid more than the twenty bucks I spent at a flea market for mine last year.
My fingers move gently, stroking the spines with a reverence I reserve only for the true loves of my life — words and works of art. For a good long while, I’m totally entranced — plucking out volumes, skimming their covers, inhaling their scent. Is there anything on earth that smells as good as the pages of a book — new or old?
I swear, they should bottle this stuff and sell it as perfume.
After a few minutes, I finally find what I’m looking for — a thin, off-white volume with a cracked spine and bright red lettering.
Sun Tzu.
Grinning, I pull it out, flip to the first page, and make my way toward a comfy-looking armchair by the windows. I’m so engrossed I barely register the sound of a phone ringing on the small table to my left. I jump about a foot in the air when the landline answering machine picks up and a sultry, unmistakably feminine — and unmistakablyfamiliar— voice starts blaring from the speaker.
“Chase, baby, it’s Vanessa.”
I still completely at the sound. That voice — it’s the same one I heard just this morning at the gallery, hissing at me from the blonde’s perfect mouth. In all the drama with Brett, I’d completely forgotten about her — and what her presence in Chase’s life might mean.