Page 3 of 3 Stolen Kisses

The low rumble of his voice jolts me back to earth. How long was I staring at him, lost in my thoughts, with cartoon hearts floating in my eyes?

Saxon frowns at the cream dress clinging to my small curves, and I bite my lip under his scrutiny. Fight the urge to fidget and pluck at the fabric.

“Don’t you like it?” I ask stupidly.

But of course he doesn’t. Saxon is a practical man, and this is a ridiculous dress for anything except standing around in, useless. The fabric is delicate, yet clings to my thighs so tightly I can’t take full-length steps; the pearls are expensive but at least a few have dropped off the hem already, pinging over the floorboards inside. Frankly, it’s a wonder the cream-color hasn’t already attracted a dozen stains.

This dress is the manifestation of everything Saxon rolls his eyes at: vanity, impracticality, waste. And yet—

“I like it,” he says, voice rough. “On you, anyway.”

There’s a long pause, the moment taut and stretching between us. I press my lips together, inching closer, my hand damp where it clings to his. Because maybe, just maybe, this isfinallygoing to happen—

Saxon drops my hand and steps back, face turned to the grounds again. His features are cast in shadow, impossible to read, but I don’t miss the way he shakes out his fingers. Like he wants to cast off my touch.

Oh.

My stomach plummets, and my throat squeezes tight.

So Saxon really doesn’t want me, whatever he says about the dress. Our head of security was being polite, and this crush is entirely one-sided. Not only that, but my touchrepulseshim.

I suck in a trembling breath, and Saxon glances at me in alarm.

“Ali?”

I’m already sliding along the wall, my legs like jelly even though I’ve sipped nothing but water this whole night. “I’m good. It’s fine. I’d better… better get back in there. You know what Dad’s like when I play hooky at these things.”

And I sound strangled, my voice too high pitched, so Saxon moves to follow me. He only jerks to a halt when I hold up one palm—as if I could ever really hold back his bulk. As if I’d everwantto.

Oh, god. My poor heart is so screwed.

“No, don’t worry. I’m, uh. I’m gonna find a bathroom in there and… take care of business.”

Take care ofbusiness? Why, brain, why?

And my behavior must be truly odd, because Saxon doesn’t smirk at that. Doesn’t tease me for my choice of words. He frowns at me instead, watching me closely as I back away along the terrace, his bulk half-swallowed up by shadow. The whoops and splashes of the pool get louder, and the music does too as I get closer to the open doors, and still Saxon’s watching me, his expression thoughtful.

Normally, I treasure every moment of peace I get at these parties. I have to gird myself up to head back in there, back to the wandering hands and too-loud voices and sloppy, drunk behavior, counting down the minutes until everyone leaves.

Not tonight. For once, I push back into the crowd, eager.

Wish it would swallow me whole.

Two

Saxon

Eleven months out of the year, I get along fine with Charles Wainwright. Oh, he’s pompous and privileged and he throws his weight around in the world with barely any regard for the consequences, but frankly, that’s the deal with working in private security. Most folks who can afford a protection detail are… let’s say… out of touch with reality.

It’s fine. I’m thick-skinned enough to let any accidental insults slide, and I like the work. It’s practical. Tangible. Gives me a reason to stay in shape, too. Stay sharp.

At this time of year, though, with all these wild parties all December long… it gets harder and harder not to punch that man. Doesn’t he see what he’s doing to his own daughter?

It wasn’t so bad when Ali was younger—too young to attend these nights. We’d barricade her up in her suite with a radio in case she needed anything, and I’d keep a man stationed at her door until every last party guest had gone home. I’m sure she slept like shit, but at least she was safe.

Since she turned twenty one, though, old enough to be around alcohol…

It’s messed up, the way Charles Wainwright shows his daughter off.

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