Page 9 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire
Because the next thing Theo Kallistratos was about to learn?
She didn’t just prick.
She drew blood.
Theo watched from behind the smoked-glass railing, a low hum of satisfaction thrumming through his veins as Rhys led her—the woman who’d hijacked his attention with a single glance—toward the staircase. The crowd below parted, unaware they’d just been rendered irrelevant.
Nikos, slouched beside him at the railing, barked out a laugh. “Did you see Rhys’s face? It looked like he was about to be rejected again—politely, but firmly—if not for your lady friend’s friends.” He clinked his glass against Theo’s with a wicked grin. “Good luck. You know I’m going to have to share this with Markos. He’ll love it. How the mighty Theo was reduced to blackmail to get a woman.”
Theo’s lips curled. “Watch and learn. It’s about the hunt. A good hunter knows what bait he needs.”
“Something tells me you may not want to share that analogy with your lady friend. I have a feeling that little she-cat might just rip your balls off and feed them to you,” Nikos retorted with a shake of his head.
“It’s time for you to make yourself scarce,” Theo responded.
Nikos chuckled again, muttering something about grabbing a drink and working his magic on the Contessa twins—heiresses who seemed to spend more time in the VIP lounge than they did at home.
Theo didn’t comment. His focus had zeroed in on the woman below, whose glare—sharp as a switchblade—had sent bloodrushing south. That look—pure fire, all challenge—made his pulse kick like a racehorse.
She was the one.
Not theonein any fairytale sense. Theo didn’t believe in fate, or soulmates, or any of that poetic nonsense. But she was the one tonight—the spark that could make the slow burn of boredom and disillusionment finally ignite into something worth remembering.
She wasn’t just beautiful.
She was real.
And she was climbing the stairs.
Rhys appeared at the top a moment later, opening the velvet-draped door to the private lounge. The bottled-blond entered first, swaying slightly, her skin-tight dress clinging to her like cellophane, heels click-clacking with every unsteady step. Theo took one glance and subtly flicked two fingers. One of his bodyguards moved into place, intercepting her trajectory with polite firmness.
The man, her drunken shadow, trailed behind her before he veered off toward the bar like a heat-seeking missile looking for more liquor.
Then she entered.
The noise in the club dimmed, as if the bass itself held its breath.
Theo straightened. Every inch of his six-foot-three body went taut. His gaze swept over her, drinking her in like a man who had never tasted pure, unfiltered glacier water.
She was smaller than he expected—maybe five-foot-three in her worn sneakers—but she radiated a presence that swallowed the room. Her oversized navy sweater slipped off one shoulder, a simple white camisole strap peeking through. Her jeans clung just enough to tease. Her dark hair held hints of red when the light hit it—a subtle halo of auburn warmth that had nothing to do with hair dye.
No makeup. No pretense. Just all woman.
Her eyes locked with his—sapphire, unnaturally vivid, set in a face that didn’t belong in a place like this. That face belonged in an art gallery.
Or under my hands, her head tilted back with her lips parted in breathless surrender.
Theo stepped forward, unable to stop himself.
Every move she made seemed to challenge him—especially the way she held her water glass like a weapon and gripped the strap of her purse like she might use it to swing at his head if he said the wrong thing.
Good.
He liked danger.
He liked a fight.
He savored the hunt.
