Page 22 of The Billionaire's Beauty

7

Bellamy

He watchesme as I descend the main staircase in my floaty yellow gown ahead of the event that evening, making me glad I decided against the standard little black dress I brought as a backup. As a staff member, I’m not required to wear a showstopper tonight. As a woman, I wouldn’t dream of letting him see me in anything less. He stands in the foyer below me, strikingly handsome in his fitted black tuxedo. Arrested, he lets his drink hover near his lips. I have no idea whether he’s just taking a sip or means to take a sip. None of that matters. All I know is that the touch of his attention is every bit as arousing as if he’d slowly trailed his fingers up the inside of my arm.

And that tonight promises to be magical.

By some miracle, I don’t teeter over in my sky-high heels and make it safely to the base of the stairs as he meets me there, having abandoned his brothers and leaving them staring after him with keen interest. Maybe it’s my imagination or some trick of the chandelier and candlelight, but his glittering eyes seem brighter than usual tonight.

“Shame you didn’t clean up for the reception, Forest,” he says for my ears alone. “I was kind of hoping you would.”

“What can I say?” I respond, feeling breathless. Dazzled. “My boss has extremely high standards. I wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

There’s no mistaking the desire in his smoldering gaze.

“I doubt he’s ever been disappointed in you. He may be a beast, but he’s not an idiot.”

The B-word catches me off guard, especially at this moment, when I’m the recipient of all his laser focus. I wonder who ratted me out and if I’m about to get my ass handed to me. But he doesn’t seem upset. He seems amused.

“Wow,” I say as nonchalantly as I can. “What a harsh nickname. Wonder who gave him that?”

He represses a smile. But not those amazing dimples or the telltale crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes.

“I think you know. How do you like your room?”

I’d fully expected to be placed in some austere and windowless room in the servants’ quarters, wherever they are, or maybe in some distant carriage house reserved for annoying relatives when they visit during the holidays. Instead, I’ve been placed in some insane suite with a balcony overlooking the ocean and flooded with bouquets of fat yellow roses.

“I love it. It’s amazing.”

“That’s appropriate,” he says, dead serious. “An amazing suite for an amazing woman.”

I hesitate, my head spinning.

“Are you flirting with me?”

He shrugs. Eases closer. “I don’t know. Is it working?”

Isit?

Of course it’s working. But I’m terrified to admit it. Terrified to let myself hope for anything more from him.

“Listen,” he says, giving me a temporary reprieve from my ambivalence. “I didn’t mean to freak you out on the chopper.”

“Now you tell me,” I say with a shaky laugh.

He starts to smile but it never quite takes hold. Something in his expression is suddenly far too serious for frivolities.

“Bellamy. We need to—”

“Bellamy,” comes a voice behind me, saving me from myself, this delicious spellbound feeling and whatever ill-conceived confession I would probably have made.

I hastily turn, arrange my features into something slightly less obsessed and try to act like the professional I purport to be.

It’s one of the valets.

“I just want to make sure we have the stand set up where you wanted it,” he tells me.

“One second,” Griffin firmly tells him before I can respond.

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