1
Damon
She glides in like the queen of everything without bothering to notice the fancy Friday night crowd here at Bemelmans in the Carlyle Hotel on the Upper East Side. Forget about making eye contact with anyone or acknowledging the pianist plinking away on the grand. The server gets a nod of thanks as he seats her at the leather banquette against the wall at one of the small round tables nearest where my brothers and I sit. A hint of a dimpled smile as she accepts the menu. Then the server walks off and she lowers her eyes to study the drink selections, retreating into a cool bubble of aloofness that only the brave would dare try to penetrate.
I am nothing if not brave.
Don’t get me wrong. Brave is probably not the first word people use to describe me. Ruthless comes to mind. As do arrogant, brilliant and rich. Generally followed by the word bastard.
For example? Damon Black is an arrogant bastard.
Not that I care what anyone thinks of me. You don’t bring your late father’s floundering property development company back from the brink of disaster and turn it into a billion-dollar-ish real estate empire by the age of thirty-four by tiptoeing around people’s feelings.
But her…
I notice everything about her, oblivious to my brothers’ ongoing conversation and too riveted to bother lowering my dirty martini all the way back to the table.
The pale skin and vivid auburn hair that seem to distill and concentrate the room’s rosy glow on her sleek face and swelling cleavage. The way the spaghetti straps of her little black dress skim her kissable shoulders. The graceful neck and the way a single gleaming corkscrew strand of hair escapes her severe bun and trails down her back. The way her long and shapely legs culminate in pretty feet that feature pink-tipped toes strapped into killer heels.
No rings on her left hand. A funny detail I usually don’t care to notice one way or the other but that now gives me a surge of satisfaction that I plan to pretend I don’t feel.
She studies the menu. I study her, my skin prickling with awareness as I experience the slow curl of desire in my belly and lower.
“Damon?”
The thing is, this is new for me. Not noticing women in bars, obviously. I notice women. I hook up with women. But lately I do both with all the enthusiasm of a man brushing his teeth before bed. My body needs it and it’s got to get done. I may as well get it over with as quickly as possible so I can move on to more important things. My boredom, which teeters on complete indifference most of the time now, is a hazard of the singles scene here in the city as much as my chronic workaholism. I’m not excited by too much of anything these days, except for the huge deal my brothers and I closed this afternoon.
Wanting someone to screw is not new for me.
Wanting anyone the way I suddenly want ye olde ice princess over there? Brand new for me.
I don’t believe in romantic love. Let’s put that out there right now. My parents blasted the idea out of my head and left a crater for my heart when they savaged each other during their divorce back when I was ten. I jeer at friends who fall “in love.” But a woman like that? I can understand how she’d put a crazy thought or two into an unsuspecting guy’s head.
“Damon? You with us?” one of my brothers asks.
“Shut the hell up,” I say mildly without ever looking away from her, ignoring their round of sniggering at my expense as best I can.
The server delivers the woman’s martini and slips away again. She looks up suddenly, possibly feeling the weight—or maybe the heat—from all my focused attention on her face. She looks across at me, and our gazes connect. I freeze and do my best to overcome the sensation of landing flat on my ass and having the wind knocked out of me.
She’s insanely gorgeous. Huge eyes with sweeping brows. Oval face. The kind of plump berry mouth that’ll make a plastic surgeon rich quick around these parts.
I watch as she freezes like I just did. As her mouth opens into a surprised little O. As a telltale blush originates across the tops of her breasts, creeps north and settles in her high cheeks. As her expression cycles through surprise and subtle feminine appreciation before ending in an unmistakable flare of annoyance that makes her lips thin.
My glass continues to hover somewhere near my mouth, so I raise it to her in a toast and die a thousand tiny deaths while I wait for her reaction.
She hesitates, clearly thinking it over. Then, to my utter astonishment, she flashes the beginnings of a sexy smile that promises heaven on earth between her legs. My heart pounds and pounds harder as she stands and shimmies her clingy dress into place with some delightful hip action. My mouth waters, I admit, and keeps watering when she picks up her drink and takes a couple of steps in my direction. My floundering brain recovers enough to order me to stand and greet her, which I start to do. I should mention that I usually prefer to do the hunting, but this works for me. If you’re out deep-sea fishing and a swordfish flops onto your boat and lands at your feet, you don’t throw the thing back, do you? No. You don’t. I’m also usually low-key about these interactions, but there’s no stopping my thrilled grin from its complete facial takeover.
Until she stops on the other side of her own little table, lobs a withering frown in my direction and sits facing the banquette she just vacated, presenting me with her lovely back. Leaving me stunned and seriously disappointed.
Like a fucking loser.
My brothers guffaw while I linger there, half up and half down.
“That one’s going to leave a nasty bruise in the morning.” Griffin, my thirty-two-year-old middle brother, claps me on the back in a mock show of sympathy. “You’re going to want to ice it down before you go to bed by yourself tonight.”
He’s right. I snort back an involuntary laugh as I sit again, rubbing my aching chest under the guise of straightening my tie.
I feel dazed. No shit.
She got me. I’m man enough to admit that. She’s got beauty and a sharp sense of humor. I like that. A lot. I’m also betting that she can run pretty hot for the right man.
I am that man. I will be that man. Tonight, if I can help it.
She can sit there with her back to me all she wants, sipping her martini while congratulating herself on her cleverness. Let her enjoy her brief victory. The poor thing doesn’t know that she just took my smoldering fire for her and poured a million gallons of gasoline on it.
But she’ll learn.
“Want me to show you how it’s done?” says my thirty-year-old youngest brother, Ryker, jerking his head in her direction and starting to stand. Just like that, a haze of red filters my vision, and it has nothing to do with the ambience here at Bemelmans.
“Sure,” I say, reaching up to push him back down again with all the force I can muster. “As long as you’re cool with that being your last act on earth.”
This kicks off another round of raucous laughter between Tweedledee and Tweedledum, but a bigger problem materializes in the form of a corporate titan wannabe who sidles up to her table with his cheesy grin firmly in place. I watch and wait to see how she greets him, the tinge of jealousy I just felt with my brother now escalating into a wave of bloodlust.
It’s probably her date. A woman who looks like that doesn’t spent her Friday nights alone.
But she stiffens when he steps into her range of vision. Shakes her head when he leans in and says something to her. Speaks loudly and clearly when he persists: