Page 93 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
I scrunch my nose. “I’m not a little girl. And I don’t need a bodyguard.”
“That’s good because he’s not there to guard you. Look at it this way—at least if the building comes down on you, there will be someone to dial 9-1-1.”
“He won’t come in after me?”
A faint smile. “He has orders not to engage.”
“Cold,” I say, but I can’t help laughing. “At least show me pictures.”
He looks only too glad to pull out his phone. A quick swipe reveals a chubby-cheeked baby with her eyes closed tight, tucked into the arms of a woman I recognize as Blue’s young wife. “She’s twelve weeks.”
“She’s so beautiful, both of them.”
He scrolls to the left, where a wide-eyed toddler offers a biscuit to the infant. Another one where a large golden dog sniffs the baby, who wears footie pajamas. Then there’s a little girl with chestnut curls riding a pony, wearing a tiara and rainbow leggings.
“Three of them?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“And they’re all as beautiful as their mother.” He keeps scrolling through an endless display of familial love, and I soak it up. Until another swipe reveals a woman who must be his wife. They’re in a fancy restaurant with china and wineglasses between them. Date night? She’s looking up, a little shy, a mild reproach, as if he’s snapping a picture against her wishes.
“She is beautiful,” I admit, my voice solemn. “What did she see in you?”
He gives me a secret smile. “I didn’t give her much choice.”
The words might be ominous if I hadn’t seen such love glowing from the dark eyes in the photo. “A husband who actually wants to stay with his wife. A little strange where I come from.”
Blue tucks his phone back in his pocket. “And where is it that you come from?”
“I’m surprised that’s not in your fancy reports.” It probably is, but I humor him anyway. “I suppose you could say I come from all over the place. All over the country. All over the world. But mostly you could say I come from money.”
He nods. “That’s a whole different ball game.”
I take in his tailored suit, which molds to his large body perfectly. The watch that easily rivals something the fancy businessmen in the Den are wearing. “I think you play that game just fine.”
“It helps when you’re so damn entertaining you have half the Tanglewood population paying for information about you. If you get any more interesting, I’ll be able to buy a vacation home.”
On that note he gives me a small salute and walks toward the velvet curtains. I slip inside after him, pretending I have every right to be here. It takes a second to adjust to the dim light and smoke in the air. Then I see players sitting around the table and someone dressed in a white dress shirt and a maroon vest that must be the dealer.
There’s Damon Scott, leaning back like a king in his three-piece suit, which is a reasonable analogy considering he owns the Den. His fingers drum against cards facedown on the table.
Beside him is a man I don’t recognize, with deeply tanned skin and dark hair in wild disarray, his eyes a striking green. A man who can only be a bodyguard stands beside him, filling out his suit almost to bursting, his jaw hard-set. As I watch, Blue joins him and murmurs something.
Then there’s Christopher Bardot, who scans the cards he holds with pure calculation. I don’t really know what counting cards entails, but I’m sure he’s doing it. Not as part of any trick, but because his analytical, highly intelligent brain can’t help but solve the equation on the velvet table.
He looks up, his black eyes widening in surprise. “Harper,” he says, his voice low. Somehow intimate even as we sit in a roomful of people.
On the other side of the table are more men I don’t recognize, one young and determined, the other weathered and shrewd, both with a smaller pile of chips. A bodyguard stands behind a gorgeous woman with dark hair who has a large pile of chips.
And then there’s Sutton, sitting directly across from Christopher. He leans back, deceptively casual in his seat. He doesn’t look like a man about to meet me for a drink. I think he would have spent the whole night in here.
From across the room he catches my gaze. His blue eyes are wide as the sky above Gold Rush, leading me toward a horizon I’ll never reach. He looks at me with both desire and determination, as if he’s pushing me away. As if he wants me to choose Christopher. I’m about two seconds away from breaking completely, and these men are playing games. It makes me want to hurt him, even if it means hurting myself.
Sutton watches me with opaque blue eyes, his expression unreadable. It isn’t exactly welcoming, but I feel my body open to him anyway. To the warmth he emanates like a goddamn sun. One step, two. My hips sway to a rhythm only I can hear, and I feel some of my old confidence return. This is the Harper St. Claire wanted by every frat boy—and some of the sorority girls, too. This is the Harper St. Claire who owns the room.
