Page 4 of Claiming Genevieve

“I’m sorry, have I done something to offend you?” I step to one side, motioning for the bartender. “Or do you have something against the Gallagher family that I’m unaware of? I’m afraid I’ve been gone so long, there’s no telling what enemies my father might have made.”

“I can’t say I’ve met your father.” Genevieve takes another small, delicate sip. “So your name doesn’t mean much to me.” She smiles, and I see a small, fizzing bubble pop at the edge of her lip. I have the sudden, visceral urge to lean forward and wipe the damp spot away with my thumb—or, better yet, kiss it away. That thought alone is enough to bring my cock, which softened during the conversation with Vincent, surging back to life.

“Well, I’ll have to do a better job of public relations now that I’m home, I see.” I lean forward as the bartender walks up. “Jameson and ginger, please. Slice of orange.” I glance at Genevieve. “A second glass for you?”

“I’m afraid the bartender is under strict orders to serve each of the dancers only one.” Her smile is as tight and delicate as the tiny sips of champagne she’s taking from the glass in her hand. “But that’s alright. I like to keep my wits about me.”

There’s something devastatingly elegant about her, something that feels as if it’s from another time. I’d almost call her frigid, in the way that aristocratic women of another age seemed to be, but I could swear that I see something just beneath the surface, something that hints at a passion that she doesn’t want to let me see. It comes from the same place, I think, as that fire I saw earlier, when she made me think of how lovely she’d look down on her knees.

“I like your wit.” I lean against the bar, unable to take my eyes off of her. “So, like I said, I’ve been gone a long time. And now that I’m back, I hear patronizing the ballet is the sort of thing I should be interested in doing. What can you tell me about that?”

Genevieve raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Now thatisa conversation you should be having with Vincent.”

“He seems to think I should have it with you.” I take my drink from the bartender and take a sip of it. “Why is that?”

Genevieve rolls her eyes, and I’m startled by it—entranced, even. It’s a break in her carefully icy, elegant facade, a completely human reaction, and it makes me want to keep talking to her even more. “Often,” she says slowly, taking another small sip of her champagne, “men who patronize the ballet do so by developing a…relationship with a dancer. They enjoy her company, supplement her living expenses, and donate hefty sums to the ballet company. Everyone is happy. Certainly the men, and certainly Vincent.”

“And the ballerinas?”

“I presume most of them are happy.” Another sip, the champagne dampening her full lower lip.

“And you?” I meet her gaze, my stomach tightening at the thought that this woman is already spoken for. But she must be. Her position as theprima—and undoubtedly the most sought-after of the dancers—aside, no woman this beautiful could be alone. No, if I want her, there’s someone I’ll need to push aside in order to have her.

But I’m more than willing to do exactly that.

“Why does it matter?” She arches her eyebrow again, lowering her glass. “You’re not a patron of the ballet, Mr. Gallagher.”

“No, but I could be.” I keep my eyes on her face, even though they desperately want to drift lower. “Especially if being a patron meant I would get to have you.”

A flash of irritation crosses her face, so quickly that I almost miss it, but it’s there. “You can’t have me.” She says it with such decisiveness that for a split second, despite my own desires—despite the fact that there’s never been a woman that I’ve wanted who has turned me down—I believe her.

It only makes me want her more.

“What about a dance?” I smile at her, that charming, rakish smile that has drawn a thousand women, probably, into my bed. More, even. I lost count long ago. “Can I have that?”

Genevieve looks as if she wants to refuse. For a moment, I think she might. But then she tips her champagne glass back, draining the rest of the fizzing liquid in a sudden departure from those small, delicate sips that she’s been taking, and offers me her hand. “I suppose.”

It’s not a glowing acceptance, but I’ll take it. I’ll take anything that keeps me close to her for a minute longer. In this brief amount of time, she’s utterly charmed me, and I barely know her.

The fact that I clearly haven’t had the same effect on her is somehow even more intoxicating.

It’s the challenge, I think, as I lead her out onto the dance floor and we start to move to the swaying rhythm of the string quartet’s rendition of yet another pop song that I can’t quite place.It’s never a challenge to get a woman I want into bed.They all come easily… too easily. Fucking Genevieve would feel like a victory. Like an accomplishment, at a time when all the accomplishments in front of me are ones that I don’t really want.

I can’t recall the last time I was this turned on by anyone. She’s stunningly beautiful, but it’s more than that. Everything about her entrances me. Her perfume is something that smells fresh, herbal with a hint of salt, something that reminds me, oddly enough, of the beaches back home in Ireland. It makes me think of other things, too—of warm, sweaty skin; makes me wonder how it would smell on my sheets, after I’ve made her drip with sweat, lacing every inch of her with that same salt.

It wouldn’t be forever, of course. My father made it clear to me from the moment I arrived back home that I’ll have to marrysomeone—sooner rather than later, according to him. He wants to be sure that the family line will continue after he’s gone, and there’s no better way to do that than making sure I’m wed before he dies. But I doubt a ballerina, even aprima, is on his list of potential brides for his only son.

Still, I think as I spin Genevieve in a circle, drawing her back into my arms and breathing in her scent as she sways against me, this could be the distraction I need. A hot, wild fling with the city’s principal ballerina—something to look forward to in the apocalypse that my father’s news has made of my life.

I could find out what’s under her icy exterior, satisfy my curiosity and my lust all at once.

She dances beautifully, of course. I can feel her trying to take the lead, her instincts as the principal dancer coming to the forefront, but I press my hand to the small of her back, taking control. Her eyes narrow, and I smirk down at her, feeling that aching ripple of desire course through me again.

I’ve danced plenty of times before—at formal events, at clubs—but it’s never felt this sensual before. Like I understand why some religions forbid it. It feels intimate, every breath between us charged with the promise of something that she hasn’t offered me yet, and that I desperately want to take.

I look down at her dark eyes, her full, rose-painted lips, and a shudder ripples through me. I’m aching to slide my hand up her spine, into her hair, wrap those curls around my fist and kiss her until I know the taste of her mouth as intimately as I want to know the contours of her body. I can feel my pulse beating hard in my throat, and the music fades away. I don’t hear what they’re playing any longer, or when it slows and stops briefly. I only feel the slender, willowy shape of Genevieve’s body against mine, hear the soft rhythm of her breath, and smell her skin and perfume.

Until she breaks away, that tight smile on her face again as she nods politely to me. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Gallagher. I’m afraid I can’t let you keep me all to yourself, though.” The smile remains as she says it, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

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