Page 3 of Claiming Genevieve

A crease appears between his eyebrows. “You know, it’s been a while since he’s made any donation to the company. It’s really the time of year to be thinking about those things—future tax write-offs, and all of that. If he’s waiting to discuss what the company really needs, I’d be happy to schedule a meeting with him?—”

I grab my glass of champagne as it’s handed to me, taking a sip to stall. “I’m sure that’s not necessary,” I say after a moment, forcing a smile to my lips. “He’s just been busy with work. Things slip from time to time.”

Vincent doesn’t seem mollified. “I’m just saying how it looks, Genevieve. No donations, and he doesn’t even make an appearance tonight? You might want to consider whether his patronage is really helping your career. Shackling yourself to a man who doesn’t have your best interests in mind isn’t?—”

“I’ll talk to him.” I cut Vincent off, my stomach swooping at the insinuation that Chris’s failure to keep up with his unspoken obligations might affect me more directly. “It’s just not the best time right now. But I’ll talk to him.”

“Please do. After all?—”

I look ahead at the crowd, wanting a distraction, a reason to break away from this conversation. Another ballerina I need to speak to, a friend that’s attending—anything. Vincent keeps speaking, but his voice becomes a blur as that distraction manifests—not another dancer or a friend, but the most stunningly gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. He’s tall, dressed in a well-fitted suit that’s expertly tailored to his lean body, with copper hair and green eyes that instantly lock with mine.

I see a smile curve his sinful lips as he keeps walking towards me, and for the first time in years, I’m reminded of what it feels like to have a man’s gaze take my breath away.

2

ROWAN

The last thing I wanted to do tonight was go to this fucking party.

There are plenty of other things I’d prefer to be spending my time on. I could be at the pub, for one, catching up with friends I haven’t seen since I turned eighteen and left the States for the shores of Ireland. I could be in bed with a gorgeous woman, losing myself in pleasure until I forget the utter shitshow that my life has become. I could be spending time with my dying father, reconnecting with him before the chance to do so has passed.

I could be back in bloody Ireland where I want to be, instead of here in New York, preparing to take up a mantle of responsibility that I have no desire to shoulder.

In the strictest sense of the word, I suppose I had a choice, in that I could have refused to come home and said to hell with the consequences. But I’m wise enough to know that I’ve lived a rarefied life, one rife with privilege and wealth, and that if I tossed it all aside to shirk my duty, I’d find quickly enough that I’m probably not built for the life of the average man. Not to mention, I’m not arrogant enough to think that the bevy of gorgeous women who’ve come through my bed over the years aren’t at least partially there on account of my thick wallet, as well as my thick cock.

Six months. That was the prognosis that my father, Padraigh Gallagher, head of the Irish mafia in New York, got from his doctor. A lifetime of smoking cigars caught up to him, to hear him tell it. That prognosis was what pushed him to call me and tell me that it was time to catch a flight back to the States. He’d send the private jet, even, he said. But it was time for me to come home and take up the responsibility of heir. He said he had six months to teach me what I needed to know. Six months to convince the heads of the other families that I’m capable of running the family after he’s gone.

I could have said no. Likely enough, he’d have cut me off, and the money I’ve been living off of for the better part of fourteen years—not to mention my inheritance—would have vanished. But more than that, I’m well aware that I’m not just my father’s only son. I’m his onlychild. I’ve got no sister who could marry and hand the family empire over to some other heir—or, hell, inherit it all herself if my father were to be so open-minded. It’s just me, and if I’d refused to come home, the Gallagher empire would have ended with me.

I have no desire to run a mafia, but the weight of that legacy pulled me back all the same. And now I’m here—at a gala for the New York Ballet—dressed in my best suit and preparing to make my entrance into a world I left behind as soon as I possibly could.

The official reason for my being here tonight is that my father wants me to look into ‘new ways for the family to take part in the greater community of New York’. Patronizing the ballet is a potential way to do that, per Dimitri Yashkov, head of the New York Bratva. An invitation was secured, and here I am. Unofficially, I think my father just wants me to be seen. For the wealthy, connected, powerful men of New York to see me taking part in social life, as my initiation back into this world begins.

My plan was to show up, have a drink, take a spin or two around the room, and then leave. That all vanishes the moment I see her.

I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life—and fucked most of them. But the woman leaning against the bar, looking at a short, round man that’s speaking to her, with a mildly annoyed expression on her face, is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever set eyes on.

She’s undoubtedly one of the ballerinas. Tall and willowy, with legs that could wrap around a man twice and the kind of slender, delicate figure that looks fragile but comes with a graceful strength. Her dark, mahogany hair is spilling over her pale shoulders in thick waves that make my fingers itch to run through it, and when I catch a glimpse of her eyes, I see that they’re nearly as dark. Her mouth is soft and full, painted a dark rose that makes my cock ache just thinking about that lipstick rubbed off on it, and the hand wrapped around her champagne glass looks as delicate as the rest of her, with long fingers that I know would also feel heavenly wrapped around my cock.

One look, and I can feel myself stiffening, my shaft lengthening along my thigh as I pivot and walk towards her. She looks up, and when her gaze locks with mine, I feel a rush of heat down my spine.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything like this when I first looked at a woman. After a while, no matter how beautiful, they all start to blend together. No one has stood out to me in a long time. Butthiswoman, whoever she is—I’m struck with a deep, almost compulsive need to meet her. To know who she is. To have her attention on me… andonlyon me.

She doesn’t look away as I approach. I can’t help the small smirk that curves the corner of my mouth as I hold her gaze. She’s fiery, I can already see that. Not easily brought to her knees, butfuckif I don’t want to see what she looks like there. My cock throbs again, and I grit my teeth, trying to divert my thoughts just enough to not end up with a full-blown erection in the middle of this party.

The man talking to the woman sees that she’s distracted and looks up, annoyed. “Excuse me, but we’re in the middle of a conversation.” He looks as if he wants to wave me off, and I chuckle. I hadn’t planned to whip out my family name so quickly, but if it means getting to talk to this exquisite creature, I’ll do whatever I need to.

“Rowan Gallagher.” I smile at him, extending a hand. “Padraigh Gallagher’s son. I’ll forgive you for not recognizing me—I’ve been out of the country for some time.”

The man’s expression instantly—and gratifyingly—changes. “Vincent D’Orzo,” he says quickly, shaking my hand firmly. “My apologies, sir. As you said, I didn’t recognize you. This is Genevieve Fournier,” he adds, motioning to the gorgeous woman. “The New York Ballet’sprimaballerina, and our Giselle for this spring’s performance.”

Any heat that I imagined I saw in her eyes when our gazes first locked seems to have vanished. She holds out her hand elegantly, her expression cool as I take it. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gallagher,” she says, her voice smooth and inflectionless. “But as Vincent said, we’re in the middle of a conversation.”

“Oh, it’s nothing we can’t discuss later,” Vincent says quickly, taking a step back. He laughs jovially, holding his hands up. “Far be it from me to deprive you of ourprima’s company! Especially since, as you said, you’ve been gone from New York for so long. Who better to have a conversation with, now that you’re back?”

“Who better, indeed?” My smile doesn’t falter. “I appreciate that. And you, Ms. Fournier? Are you enjoying your evening?”

Genevieve glances at Vincent as he melts away into the crowd, and then back at me. I can’t help but notice that while she held my gaze a moment ago as I walked towards her, she doesn’t quite meet my eyes now. Her gaze lands somewhere over my shoulder, looking off into the middle distance, and her smile seems forced as she takes a sip of her champagne.

---