The Billionaire's Allure (The Silver Cross Club Book 5) (9 page)

“I don’t think we could have stopped him,” I said, and she nodded, her face settling once again into sorrow.

That wouldn’t do. I reached for her unconsciously, but checked the motion before I could touch her. She saw my hand move, though, and gave me a look I couldn’t quite decipher. “What’s
your
favorite memory of him, then?” she asked. “You have to share, too.”

“That’s easy,” I said. “When we were in Washington Square Park, and that student had brought her puppy—”

“Oh, God, it was a corgi, too, wasn’t it?” Beth asked. “And Renzo fell completely in love with it—”

“And we couldn’t get him to leave,” I said. “He would have taken that thing back to the shelter with him if the girl would have let him.”

“He missed his dog,” Beth said. “I don’t know if you ever saw it, but he kept a picture of his dog in his backpack, and he would pull it out sometimes at night and look at it.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“He didn’t want anyone to know, I don’t think,” she said. “I only saw him do it a few times, and it was because he thought I was already asleep.” She sighed and shook her head, then gave me a piercing look I felt right down to the marrow of my bones. “So what are you going to do now that you’ve found him?”

Always sharp, my Beth. She could put the pieces together. I had searched for and found her, and now here she was in my living room. I had searched for and found—probably—Renzo. And now? “I’m planning to go look for him in person,” I said. “And I want you to go with me.”

She inhaled sharply, then tried to mask her reaction by taking another sip of wine. “That isn’t a good idea.”

“It’s a brilliant idea,” I said. “He might not talk to me, but he’ll definitely talk to you.”

“Why wouldn’t he talk to you?” she asked.

“The same reason you wouldn’t talk to me at first,” I said. “You took pity on me eventually, but I’m not sure Renzo would. He has far more testosterone than you do, for one thing—”

“Hey,” she said.

“—and he fights dirty. You’re offended that I think Renzo has more testosterone? I’m sorry. Let me amend that statement. Nobody would ever doubt your masculine prowess, Beth.”

“You’re making fun of me,” she said.

“Absolutely,” I said. “It’s fun. You make the most delightful faces.” I touched her chin, very gently, waiting until she smiled. “Beth. I missed you very much.”

She turned her face aside, her mouth twisting. “You shouldn’t have left me, then.”

“I didn’t want to,” I said. “There were circumstances.” I slid my hand along her jaw and behind her neck, cupping her head. “Beth. Don’t look away from me.”

“I don’t want to look at you. I’m so mad at you. Still. I was—I
loved
you. I wanted—I wanted to—”

“I know,” I said. “I wanted that, too. But life rarely cooperates with our plans. But we have a second chance, now. I know you’re angry with me. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me. I don’t want to let you go again.”

“Oh, Max,” she said, her voice shaky. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t get my head all turned around and then walk out on me again.”

“I’m not going to,” I said. I turned toward her and set my other hand on her hip. “Our story isn’t over. Whatever mistakes we’ve made, we still have time to rewrite them.”

“It’s not that easy,” she said, pulling away from me again.

I groaned, frustrated. This wasn’t working. I would never be able to talk her into trusting me. Beth didn’t operate like that. She was too logical, and giving me another chance wasn’t the logical choice. I understood that. It was the
opposite
of logic. I needed to appeal to her baser instincts: sex, intimacy, nostalgia.

I needed her to give me a second chance.

I tightened my hand on her hip. She was soft and yielding, all lush curves, all woman. “Beth,” I said, hearing my own voice strung out with longing, and then I leaned in and kissed her.

She melted against me with a breathy sigh. She lifted her hands to my chest and rested them there, not pushing me away, her palms flat against my shirt, two scorching brands. I started with slow, shallow kisses, teasing her lips with mine, rousing her to sensation. When I deepened the kiss, using the hand cupping her head to tilt her chin toward me, her soft mouth opened willingly beneath mine. She tasted like the wine we had drunk, rich and sweet.

Lust surged through me. I wanted to press her back against the sofa and unzip her dress, kiss her shoulders and collarbones, take her nipples into my mouth. I could take her right here, our bodies tangling together in the lamplight, with the full moon shining down on us from outside. I wouldn’t actually do it, of course, but the desire was there. I wanted to feel every part of her, every inch of her bare skin pressed against mine. It had been too long.

“Christ, Beth,” I groaned, pulling her even closer. My cock was taking an interest in the proceedings. I didn’t want to behave myself. I wanted to
have
her.

She turned her head aside, panting, and I took the opportunity to kiss her neck, deliberately scraping my stubble against her skin. I felt her shiver, and then she said, “Max, no.”

That word. I sighed, and with a last kiss to her jaw, I released her.

She tidied her hair, avoiding eye contact. “I should go.”

“You should stay,” I said, “but I know you won’t. I’ll call you a cab.”

“Thanks,” she said. She stood up and brushed a wrinkle out of her dress. “This isn’t going to happen again.”

I leaned back against the sofa, stretching my arms along the back, letting my thighs splay. Beth’s gaze darted down to my crotch for a moment before she looked away. Through some heroic effort, I managed not to smirk. I knew Beth, and—more generally—I knew women, and whenever a woman used that tone of voice and then looked at your dick, it meant she was trying to talk herself out of it.

Poor Beth. My job was to talk her
into
it, and I’d been told I was pretty persuasive.

She didn’t stand a chance.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Beth

I could not
believe
I had let him kiss me.

What a stupid thing to do. But it had felt so nice. Nobody had kissed me in years, or even touched me beyond a polite handshake. I didn’t date anymore. The one boyfriend I’d had after Max ended up cheating on me, and after that it just seemed like too much of a bother. I had forgotten how nice it was to have someone’s hands on me.

That was no excuse. Max was bad news, and I wasn’t going down that road again. No more dinners. No more kissing on his couch. And absolutely no going on a wild goose chase with him to search for Renzo. It was sweet that he wanted to try, but I knew Renzo didn’t want to be found. He’d made that clear when he stopped returning my calls. I was finished with Max’s adventures.

I was a fool, and Max was a terrible idea, but that didn’t stop me from bringing myself to orgasm in bed that night, both of my hands tucked between my thighs, lying there in the dark thinking about Max’s hand on my hip.

The next day, I tried to write and couldn’t. I ended up staring out the window and thinking about Max and Renzo and the past and what I wanted from the future. Happiness. A family. I wanted kids at some point. Maybe a farm upstate and some chickens. And it was far too easy to insert Max into those daydreams. Max beside me in the car, our dog in the back seat with its head lolling out the window. Max helping me with breakfast in our light-filled kitchen.

Oh, help me. I couldn’t have those things, and didn’t even necessarily
want
them. It was nothing more than a silly fantasy.

I went to work. One of the waitresses had called in sick, and I debated calling someone to cover for her, but Amy convinced me that because it was Monday we didn’t really need the extra help. More tips for the rest of us. I usually ended up regretting listening to Amy, and I told her as much.

She just grinned at me and said, “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked. “What’s wrong with you? Go make yourself useful and fold some napkins.”

“Beth’s in a bad mood,” she hollered as she headed for the back. The gathered dancers gave me speculative looks. Mike raised his eyebrows, then started whistling as he sliced lemons.

Unbelievable.

Scarlet approached me, still in her street clothes. She had come into the room just as Amy left, and based on the way she was looking at me, she had heard Amy’s warning.

“Don’t show any fear,” Mike told her. “She can smell it on you.”

“For God’s sake, Mike,” I snapped. “I’m not a tyrant.”

“You think I’m afraid of her?” Scarlet asked. “Get real. Beth, Germaine says she wants to see you.”

“Okay,” I said. I rubbed my face. What now? “Thanks.”

The club wouldn’t open for another fifteen minutes, so I went directly to Germaine’s office. The door was closed for once. Odd. I knocked. There was no response—also odd—but a few moments later, the door swung open to reveal Germaine’s pale and unsmiling face.

Something was wrong. The hair at the back of my neck prickled. “Germaine,” I said, an unspoken question in my voice.

“Beth. Come in,” she said, and stood aside just far enough for me to slip through the door.

Max was there in her office.

“
Really
?” I said, before I could stop myself.

Germaine closed the door behind me and leaned back against the solid wood, her arms folded against her chest. She didn’t look amused. “Beth, your gentleman caller seems to think that my club is a social venue.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t told him to come here, you know. He just keeps showing up. Max, you are
really
causing problems for me.”

He looked completely unconcerned, hands loosely tucked in his pockets, fair cheeks flushed. He was wearing a canvas jacket and a knit cap. He must have just been outside. “I’ll stop coming here if you stop blowing me off,” he said. “I have no other way to get in touch with you, you realize.”

“That’s the idea,” I snapped. “I told you I’m not going with you, and that’s final.”

“Sir, if you’re harassing my employees, I won’t hesitate to get the authorities involved,” Germaine said.

Good old Germaine. She was so cool and formal that it was easy to forget how fierce she could be when trouble threatened. “Thanks, Germaine,” I said. “It’s not that kind of problem, though. Max is harmless. Just annoying.”

His mouth quirked. He didn’t like being referred to as
harmless
. That was his problem, not mine. I was so angry with him for coming to the club
again
and trying to get me embroiled in his latest Great Adventure. What a presumptuous jerk. His own interests took precedence over everyone else’s. His desire to find Renzo trumped my need to keep my job and live my quiet, safe, and uneventful life.

“Please deal with this, Beth,” Germaine said. “I understand that you don’t want him here, but this needs to stop.”

My face went hot with shame. Germaine was right. I hadn’t been firm enough with Max. I needed to put my foot down once and for all. “Okay,” I said. “Sorry, Germaine. I’ll talk to him right now.” I crossed the room to where Max was standing and seized the elbow of his jacket. I gave a sharp tug and said, “You need to come with me.”

“For the record,” he said, “I’m not obeying you, but I am
terrified
of that woman, so I’ll go quietly.”

“I would hope so,” Germaine said, cold as ice.

With a final apologetic smile to Germaine, I towed Max out of the room.

Then I stopped, trying to think of where to take him. Not the locker room—too many listening ears. Not outside, where anyone could see us. It was still early—I could take him to one of the private rooms, where the dancers entertained their clients. It would be a little weird to yell at Max in a room with a huge bed and a soaking tub, and I was sure he would make some inappropriate comments about the nature of our interaction, but it was a sacrifice I was willing to make to get him to leave me alone for good.

Decision made, I dragged him down the hallway toward the smallest and least frequented room, where we wouldn’t be disturbed. I tapped on the door to be sure nobody was inside, and when there was no answer, I flung the door open and hauled Max inside.

He had been very agreeable thus far, willingly following behind me even though I wasn’t strong enough to move him by force, but now he shook me off and took a few steps into the room, looking around at the bed and overstuffed chaise longue and the shockingly explicit paintings on the walls. “Wow,” he said.

“I told you it wasn’t just a strip club,” I said, a little embarrassed. I didn’t come in these rooms much, and I had forgotten how obvious their purpose was. Nobody could mistake this room for anything other than what it was: a place for sex to be exchanged like coins passed from hand to hand. The red satin sheets, the abundant throw pillows, even the soft, thick-piled carpet—it all spoke of sensuality and decadence.