Page 43 of His Pretty Little Duet

I immediately bump into Henchman Jeeves. He grins at me. A dapper tuxedo has replaced his usual henchman attire, transforming him into Bond Jeeves.

He holds his arm out for me to take, and I stare at it for a moment, its presence confounding. "Ahh?"

"You put your hand over it," he states seriously.

I arch an eyebrow at him. "I know what to do with it. I just don't know why it's in front of me."

"It is there to hold on to."

I roll my eyes. "Seriously, Henchman Jeeves? I know it's there to hold on?—"

"Wait," he splutters the word out on a single short chuckle, and I blush like a drag queen with an unskilled makeup artist. "What did you just call me?"

My cheeks prickle. "Ah... I've been calling you Henchman Jeeves in my head." I cringe a little, an apology all over my face. "Sorry. I should sto?—"

"It's perfect. I might make it official. Now, take my arm, Miss Harlow," he orders softly, straightening, a quirked grin etched on his mouth.

Ignoring the shadow of mistrust behind me, I circle his forearm with my hand, holding tightly as we stroll down thehallway, my dress confining my legs, making my steps shorter than usual.

Music sails up the grand staircase, a flute and drums, flirty and oriental. The sound matches my dress and I wonder whether tonight is themed. My heart starts to skip along with the flirty notes as waiters in all white, balancing canapés set with shiny crystal glasses filled with sparkling gold fluid, careen around below us.

We descend the staircase carefully.

Entering a ruby-hued room that overlooks the glowing pool from the east side, I slow my steps a little, not eager to join the fifty or so powerful looking strangers.

Swooping in to capture my breath, my butterflies make an appearance in my stomach where I am sure they plan on staying for the entirety of the party—event? Gathering? Whatever, they're here to stay and make me uncomfortable.

Immediately, I understand the garment, the music, as the guests are nearly all men from Indonesia. The rest are beautiful girls filtering through the congregation.

Aurora stands out, looking tall and elegant in a silver dress similar to mine, and that makes me feel strange. Did she choose one for me? Or did he pick one for each of us? She is shaking a man's hand, offering him a practised smile that they all seemed to have nailed. They must have gone to the same School of Sophistication and Etiquette, majoring in confusing the hell out of people. I wish I had gone to that school so I could understand him better. Wish I was skilled at shaking hands without my palms sweating, smiling politely, not having my filter-less mouth open and dropping some ridiculous comment.

That would be nice.

Clouds fill the room. Hanging above lit cigars, the sailing smoke illuminates the glow of the side table lamps. As Henchman Jeeves nudges me forward, the smoke createsribbons of white as we part the mass. A game table is set up in the left and right corners. Men crowd around to watch the silent play while across the table, chips pile up.

What am I meant to do?

I dig my nails into Henchman Jeeves's arm.

"Fawn," he murmurs, stopping to unclamp my tight clutch. I stare ahead at the guests, my eyes wide, my muscles frozen. "Mr Butcher said for you to eat. And then for me to take you back to your room in an hour."

Suddenly, I feel him; my breathing slows as sensation crawls up my spine and circles my throat. I swallow within the phantom grip.

Searching the space, I'm stilled by the sight of him in all black, standing beside a tall red-headed lady, the same lady from the day on the lawn with the news crew. Confidence and charisma exude from her as she flaunts a long red dress, the sleek material hugging her frame, the tail falling from her curvaceous thighs to the marble floor beneath. The skirting looks weighted. She exchanges words with him and another man while he displays that easy grin.

For a moment, I only watch the way others interact with him. Lowered gazes. Bowing heads. They fear him. He nods at the waiter; he is offered a drink. He glances at his watch, so another man tells him the time. He peers at the redhead, and her breasts swell as a quick breath fills her lungs.

The fact he is physically breathtaking bears no significance in this control he possesses over everyone. The power is like electricity sparking in every inch of space around him. My mum once said,"We are all just atoms, no more superior than the dirt."Well, she never met Clay Butcher. Some things can't be explained in words. They need to be felt. And what I feel is that his atoms are far more superior than anyone else's.

The Devil's prototype.

His eyes shift through the air, locking on me. I part my lips beneath his gaze, and his eyes drag along my body as he bites down on a cigar, hollowing his cheeks around the column, the ember radiating as it crackles under pressure.

Fuck me.

This man is a whole world of intense.

Blunting out his cigar in an ashtray on the high table beside him, he utters something to the man next to him before leaving his companions, taking easy, unhurried strides towards me. I worry my bottom lip to stop my mouth's predisposition to smile at him as if we are lovers.

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