Page 8 of Crystal Wrath
“You seem to know a lot about old money for someone who made his fortune so recently,” I say, grateful my voice remains steady despite the riot of sensations coursing through my body.
His smile is slow and predatory. “Research is important in my line of work.”
“And what line of work is that exactly?” I press, unable to help myself. The journalist in me can’t resist digging, even as another part of me that I’m trying desperately to ignore wants to lean into his touch.
“Development. Growth. Progress.” His hand slides slightly lower on my back, not inappropriate but unmistakably possessive. “Creating opportunities where others see only obstacles.”
We pass ornate paintings in gilded frames, their subjects watching our passage with frozen, aristocratic stares. The hallway opens into a smaller, more intimate lounge tucked away from the main party. The music is a distant murmur, and the lighting is softer, more golden. The leather furniture is Italian, and the rugs are Persian.
“The family’s private lounge,” Renat explains, steering me inside. “Victor Marcelli keeps it reserved for his closest associates.”
“And you qualify as that?”
“I qualify as many things, Elena.”
The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. Not the fake name I tried to hide behind, but my real one. In his mouth, it sounds like a secret, something intimate shared between conspirators.
“Should I be concerned that you managed to get me alone?” I ask, moving toward the fireplace.
“That depends,” he drawls, crossing to a small bar cart in the corner. “Are you afraid of me?”
I watch him pour two fingers of amber liquid into crystal tumblers. His movements are precise and controlled. Everything about him speaks of power contained rather than power flaunted. It makes him infinitely more dangerous.
“If I were afraid, I wouldn’t be here,” I reply coolly, accepting the glass he offers.
His fingers brush mine during the exchange, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm. Our eyes lock and for a moment, neither of us moves.
“So why are you here, Elena? The truth this time.”
I take a sip of the whiskey to buy myself time. It burns pleasantly down my throat, warming me from within. The truth is a perilous concept.
“I told you, I’m interested in property development along the coast,” I say carefully, sticking as close to my cover story as possible without outright lying.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Bullshit.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not an investor,” he answers with absolute certainty. “Your hands have never signed real estate contracts. They’ve typed, though. A lot. The slight callus on your middle finger gives it away.”
My fingers instinctively curl around my glass. How did he notice such a detail? I suddenly feel exposed, more naked than if he’d unzipped my dress.
“Maybe I’m a writer,” I counter, going for nonchalance.
“Maybe you are.” He moves close enough that I can smell his cologne. It’s expensive and reminds me of cedar and spice. “But not of fiction.”
My heartbeat quickens. He’s too perceptive, too dangerous for this game. I should end this charade, make an excuse, and leave. But the story about what’s happening in Little Havana and who’s behind the forced evictions and mysterious acquisitions is right here, standing in front of me in an impeccably tailored suit, sipping whiskey with infuriating confidence.
“I’m curious about people,” I admit, deciding a partial truth is my safest play. “Especially powerful ones.”
“And what do you do with this curiosity?”
“I satisfy it.”
His lips curve upward. “Is that all you want to satisfy tonight, Elena?”
The question is charged with possibilities. I should be offended. I should shut him down. Instead, a slow burn ignites deep in my core, impossible to ignore.
“That’s presumptuous,” I huff, but my voice has gone slightly husky.
