Black Tie Billionaire

But not with Gideon Knight.

There had been a ring of truth in the blunt observation. As if his description of her wasn’t an opinion but fact. She’d just met him, but she couldn’t shake the sense that he didn’t dole out flowery compliments often. As he’d stated so flatly, he didn’t play games.

She believed him. But it only deepened her confusion over why he’d approached her of all people. To most of the attendees in the ballroom, she’d been invisible, inconsequential. Just another staff member there to serve them.

But not to him.

Even in a room full of Chicago’s wealthiest and most glamorous people, he stood out. In the way a sleek, silent shark would stand out in a pool of clown fish.

God, she was officially losing it. And she laid the blame squarely at the feet of Gideon Knight.

Because, really, how could any woman stare into those midnight eyes and not forget everything but how she could willingly drown in them, even as he submerged her in a pleasure as dark and stunning as his gaze?

As soon as the illicit thought entered her head an image of him crouched over her, all that midnight-black hair loose from its knot and flowing over his shoulders, tumbling around them, flashed through her mind. Her heart thumped against her chest, and she exhaled an unsteady breath, that flame of unwanted desire dancing low in her belly again. With a mental shove, she thrust the hot image out of her mind, but the vision of how he’d looked just moments ago, when she turned for one last glance, refused to be evicted as easily.

His tailor, whoever he or she was, must’ve been in love with Gideon because his tuxedo traced his powerful but lean frame. From the wide shoulders and chest that tapered to a slim waist and down to long, muscular legs, he was the picture of urbane elegance and wealth. Strength. Beauty.

Imperial.

The word leaped into her head, and though she wanted to scoff at the description, she couldn’t. It fit. With the beautiful eyes, the sharp slant of cheekbones, the arrogant nose, the wide, sensual, almost cruel curve of his mouth and the rock-hard jut of his jaw, he reminded her of a long-ago king from a mysterious Asian country, standing on a wall, an unseen wind teasing his long black hair as he surveyed the land he ruled. Hard, shrewd, somehow removed from the masses.

He would’ve been completely intimidating if not for the incongruity of all that hair pulled into a knot at the back of his head. Someone so polished, so sophisticated, so rigid in his appearance wearing a...man bun.

It was the rebellious flouting of the unspoken, constricting rules that governed their social realm that had stirred a curiosity she couldn’t erase. Even now.

You’re being ridiculous.

Shaking her head, she emitted a sound of self-directed disgust and yanked a brown paper towel from the dispensary. She quickly dried her hands, tossed the now damp towel in the trash and strode from the bathroom. With at least another three hours of work ahead of her, she couldn’t afford to remain hiding back here any longer. More prep work awaited her, as dinner hadn’t even been served yet—

The door to the break room swung open, and she barely managed to stifle her startled gasp.

The tall, imposing figure of Gideon Knight filled the doorway.

Her heart lodged in her throat. What the hell was he doing back here? But only seconds passed before the answer whispered through her skull.

You.

Denial, swift and firm, rose within her. But it couldn’t extinguish the kindling of desire and traitorous, foolish hope.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, swiping her already-dry palms down the sides of her pants. And when his gaze took in the nervous gesture, she cursed herself for betraying her agitation to this man.

“Looking for you.”

Excitement fluttered in her before she could smother the reaction. Crossing her arms over her chest, she frowned. Fought the instinctive urge to retreat from the intense, sexual magnetism that seemed to pour off him and vibrate in the room.

“Well, I need to return to work.” She pretended to glance down at the slim, gold-faced watch on her wrist. “So, if you’ll excuse me...”

An emotion crossed his face, but was there and gone before she could decipher it. Probably irritation at being told no. “I wanted to apol—”

But the rest of his explanation snapped off as the room plummeted into darkness.

Three

A cry slipped out of Shay, panic clawing at her throat.

The deep, thick dark pressed down on her chest like a weight, cutting off her breath.

What was going on? What happened? Why...?

“Camille.” The sound of that calm voice carrying an undercurrent of steel snapped her out of the dizzying fall into hysteria. Hands wrapped around both her upper arms, the grip firm, steadying. His voice and his touch grounded her, although her pulse continued to thud and echo in her head like a hammer. “Easy.” One of his hands slid up her arm, over her shoulder and slipped around the back of her neck. Squeezed. “Stay with me. Breathe.”

She closed her eyes, as if that could block out the utter lack of light. Still, she latched on to him—his voice, his fresh yet earthy scent of wind and sandalwood, the solid density of the forearms she’d at some point clutched. Seconds, minutes—hell, it felt like hours—passed while she focused on calming her racing heart, on breathing. And soon, the sense of being buried alive started to lift.

His hold on her arm and neck never eased.

As the initial bite of panic slowly unhinged its jaws, the weight of his touch—the security and comforting effect of it—penetrated her fear.

“—I’m sorry.” Embarrassed, she heard a wobbly chuckle escape her. Belatedly, she loosened her grip on him and dropped her arms. “God, I don’t... I’m not even afraid of the dark,” she whispered.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he reassured her.

His hands abandoned her neck and arm, but one located and clasped her fingers. In the next instant, a pale blue glow appeared. A cell phone. The illumination barely pushed back the inky thickness surrounding them, but it highlighted his face, and relief weakened her knees. Only moments ago, she’d wanted to get as far away from him as possible. And now her eyes stung with gratefulness for his serene presence. For not being alone.

“I need to go see if I can find out what’s going on. Here.” Holding the cell out in front of him, he carefully guided her to the couch against the far wall. Still holding her hand, he lowered her to the cushion. “Will you be all right? I have to take my cell with me to try and either get a call or text out. I promise to return in a few minutes.”

“Of course.” She nodded, injecting a vein of steel into her voice. God, she was stronger than this. “I’ll be fine here.”

In the cell’s minimal light, she caught his steady, measuring stare. “Good,” he said after a few moments, returning her nod. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared, returning her to the dark. She focused on maintaining even breathing, reminding herself she hadn’t been catapulted into a deep pit where terrifying, malformed things lurked, eager for the chance to take a bite out of her. She really shouldn’t have watched Stephen King’s It last night...

“Camille.”

She jerked her head up, and once more that rush of relief washed over her as Gideon and his beautiful light appeared in front of her again.

“Hey,” she said, unable to prevent the emotion from flooding her voice. “Were you able to find out anything?” Please let it be something fixable and short-lived, like the owner of this mansion had forgotten to pay his power bill.

“Blackout,” he explained, tone grim, and her heart plummeted toward her stomach. “I wasn’t able to get a call out, but I was able to send and receive a couple of texts to a contact on the police force. It’s citywide. They’re advising people to remain where they are, which,” he continued, his full lips flattening for a brief second, “won’t be an issue with us. I overheard security speaking to the chef and his staff. The tech guru who owns this overcompensating monstrosity of a home installed a so-called cutting-edge security system. And with the blackout, it’s malfunctioned. We’re all locked in for the foreseeable future.”

She expelled a pent-up breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Where was Trevor? Were he and Madison okay? What about Bridgette? Sick and in the dark? More than ever, Shay cursed leaving her phone in her car. Bridgette had warned her that her supervisor frowned on the staff having cells on them, so she’d stashed hers in her glove compartment, but now...

“We’re going to be fine, Camille,” Gideon said, his rough silk voice dragging her away from her worried thoughts. “Most likely, the blackout will only last several hours, and hopefully the boy genius will have his system worked out by them,” he finished drily.

In spite of the anxiety over her brother and friend that still inundated her, she snorted. “Boy genius?”

Gideon arched a black eyebrow. “Have you seen him? He can’t be more than twenty-three. I swear, I can still smell the milk on his breath.”

This time she snickered, belatedly palming her mouth to contain her amusement. “So you’re what? The ripe old age of thirty? Thirty-three? And if you’re here as a guest, then that means you must be at least wealthy or connected enough to have been invited. Which makes you what, Mr. Knight?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “An idle man living off his family name and money? Or a successful businessman in his own right?”

She didn’t know him, but he struck her as the latter. There was nothing about him that screamed idle. No, the sharklike intelligence that gleamed from his dark eyes belonged to a man who forged his own path, not one satisfied with walking the one others had paved for him.

He didn’t immediately reply, but treated her to another of his intense gazes. He seemed to peer beneath skin and bone to the soul. To her secrets. With effort, she didn’t shirk away from his scrutiny, instead notching her chin up and meeting his eyes without flinching.

Something glinted in his gaze, and the faint light from his phone tricked her into believing it might be admiration.

“I own and run a start-up that provides privately held companies with their equity needs. I suppose you can say we’ve been successful.”

The vague and carefully constructed answer didn’t stop recognition from rocking her. Start-up? As in KayCee Corp start-up? He couldn’t possibly be the Gideon Knight, founder of the corporation that had taken the financial world by storm five years ago? If so, he was either exceedingly modest or being cagey with information.

Because KayCee Corp had been more than “successful.” The electronic platform serviced major businesses, helping them track their shares with its top-of-the-line, unrivaled software. They’d recently announced their intentions to branch out and work with companies that were rolling out their initial public offerings. Though Trevor tried to keep Shay securely ensconced in the Social Development branch of RemingtonNeal Inc., their family business, she knew of KayCee Corp. Knew that Trevor desperately longed to acquire it.

Her wig, contacts and glasses concealed her true identity, but she still lifted her fingers to her cheek as if Gideon could see beneath the camouflage. Her throat tightened. Now would be a good time to come clean about who he sat with in the dark. But something held her back. Something, hell... She could identify it even without him searching her soul.

In that ballroom, Gideon Knight had gazed upon her with fascination, admiration...hunger. And he’d had no idea she was Shay Neal, heiress to a global financial empire. Not that she was an ugly duckling in a lake full of swans, but she bore no illusions. Her money, social status and connections were often just as much, if not more, of an allure than her appearance.

But not for him.

Even now, his dark stare roamed her face, lingering on her eyes before drifting over her cheekbones, her jaw, her mouth. Though it belied reason, she swore she could feel his gaze stroke over her skin. An illicit, mysterious, desire-stoking caress.

And here, in the isolated depths of this mansion, she wanted more.

Even if just for a little while.

The cloak of anonymity bestowed her with a gift of boldness—of freedom—she didn’t ordinarily possess.

“I wonder what’s going through your head right now?” he murmured, drawing her from her thoughts. “And would you honestly tell me?”

That would be a no. “Careful, Mr. Knight,” she drawled, tone dry. “You’re beginning to sound a little too Edward Cullen-ish for my comfort.”

“Last time I checked, I didn’t sparkle in the sunlight or age out at eighteen years old. Although I do admit to a little biting. And liking it.”

A blast of heat barreled through her, warring with surprise over his recognition of her Twilight reference. Curling her fingers into her palms, she willed the searing desire to abate, but it continued to burn a path along her veins.

“Still blunt, I see,” she said, and no way could he miss the hoarseness rasping her voice. “You weren’t lying when you claimed not to play games.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable, Camille?” he asked, his head cocking to the side. His eyes narrowed on her, as if searching out the answer for himself.

She should say yes. Should order him to keep his straight-no-chaser compliments and need-stirring comments to himself.

Instead, she matched his head tilt. “And if I said you were?”

“Then I’d go out there in that kitchen and drag one of those chefs in here so you wouldn’t be. Is that what you want?”

She shook her head, the denial almost immediate. “No,” she said, although wisdom argued she should have him invite the whole crew into this small room. Protect her from herself. The self that couldn’t help wondering if those stark angles softened with pleasure. Wondering if that hard-looking mouth became more pliable.

Wondering if that icy shield of control shattered under desire’s flame?

A shiver danced over her skin. Waltzed along her nerve endings.

She was the moth dancing too close to those flames.

“What do you want?” he pressed, the deep timbre of his voice dipping lower.

He didn’t move, didn’t inch closer to her on the couch. But God, all that intensity crowded her, rubbed over her, slipped inside her. He wasn’t a coy or playful man; he grasped the wealth of possibilities that question carried. And he offered her the choice of not addressing them...or taking all of them.

A lifetime of playing by the rules slowly unraveled beneath his heated stare. His question vibrated between them, a gauntlet thrown down. A red flag waved.

“Too many things to possibly number in the space of a blackout,” she finally replied. Truth. And evasion. “But I’m fine with you here with me.” She paused, and with her heart tapping an unsteady rhythm against her chest, added, “Only you.”

A fierce approval and satisfaction flashed like diamonds in his eyes. “Good,” he said, those same emotions reflected in the one word. “Because now we don’t have to share this with anyone else.” Reaching down, he picked up a plate and set it on the cushion between them. A grin curved her lips at the sight of the braised lamb, roasted vegetable medley and risotto piled on the fine china.

“Now, that’s lovely,” he murmured, his gaze not on the dinner but on her face.

She ducked her head, wishing the strands of the wig weren’t tied back in a bun so they could hide the red stain creeping up her neck and flooding her face.

“You’re certainly resourceful,” she said, reaching for an asparagus tip. “Or sneaky.”

His soft snort echoed between them. “I’ve been accused of both before. And both are just words. Whatever works to achieve my goal.”

“Yes, I clearly remember your goal for this evening. You didn’t mince words out there earlier. I guess you’ve achieved your aim. Spending the night with me.”

Why had she brought up that conversation? What had possessed her to remind him of his claim to be with her—inside her? To see that glint of hunger again? To tempt him? God, she was flirting with danger. And doing so with a rashness that bordered on recklessness.

“Do you really want to dive into that discussion right now, Camille?” The question—a tease, a taunt—set her pulse off on a rapid tattoo.

Yes.

No.

“Not on an empty stomach,” she whispered, retreating. From the faint quirk of his lips—the first hint of a smile she’d glimpsed on his austere face—he caught her withdrawal. “And you wouldn’t happen to be hiding a bottle of wine over there, would you?”

The quirk deepened, and her heart stuttered. Actually skipped a couple beats at the beauty of that half smile. Jesus, he would be absolutely devastating if he ever truly let go. Her fingertips itched with the urge to trace those sensual lips. To curb the need, she brought her hands to her pants, intent on rubbing them down her thighs. But stopped herself, recalling they were damp from the food she’d just eaten.

“Take this.” He reached inside his jacket and offered her a small white handkerchief.

Startled, she accepted it, again struck with how perceptive he seemed to be.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

For the next half hour, they dined on the pilfered food, and as stellar and flavorful as the cuisine was, it didn’t steal her attention like the man across from her. He...fascinated her. And after they finished, when he asked her if she would be fine with him turning off the phone’s light to conserve the battery, she okayed it without hesitation.

Though he was basically a stranger to her, he emanated safety. Comfort. As if he would release all that barely leashed mercilessness on her behalf instead of against her. Maybe that made her fanciful, too. But in the dark, she could afford it.

Perhaps the blackness affected him in a similar fashion, because he opened up to her—well, as much as someone as controlled as Gideon Knight probably did. They spoke of mundane things. Hobbies. Worst dates. The best way to spend a perfect, lazy afternoon. All so simple, but she hung on every word. Enjoyed it. Enjoyed him.

Enjoyed the lack of sight that peeled away barriers.

Reveled in the desire that thrummed just below the surface like a drum keeping time, marching them forward to...what? She didn’t know. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t weigh the effect of every word, the consequence of every action on the Neal family name.

Here, with him, she was just...Camille.

“We’ll never see each other again once the lights come back on,” she said. And it was true. They’d never see each other as Camille and Gideon, even if they happened to cross paths in the future. Because then, she would once more be Shay Neal of the Chicago Neals. “That almost makes me...sad,” she confessed, then scoffed, shaking her head, though he couldn’t see the gesture. “Ridiculous, right?”

“Why?” he asked. “Honesty is never silly. It’s too rare to be ridiculous.”

A twinge of guilt pinged inside her chest. She was being dishonest about the most basic thing—her identity. “Because fantasies are for teenage girls, not for grown women who know better.”

“And what do you believe you know, Camille?”

She turned toward him, toward the temptation of his voice. “That if not for a citywide blackout, a man like you wouldn’t be with me...” She paused. “Talking.”

“I don’t know if I should be more offended that you’re belittling me or yourself with that statement.” A whisper of sound and then fingers—questing, gentle, but so damn sure—stroked across her jaw, her temple, the strangely callused tips abrading her skin. What did a man like him do to earn that hardened skin that spoke of hard labor, not crunching numbers? “Yes, I do. It annoys me more that you would demean yourself. A woman like you,” he murmured. “Beautiful. Intelligent. Bold. Confident. What man wouldn’t want to spend time with you? Only one too blind or stupid to see who stands right before his eyes. Read any financial blog or journal, Camille. I’m not a stupid man.”

She snorted, trying to mask the flame licking at her from the inside out. Cover the yearning his words caused deep within her. “How did you manage to compliment yourself and reprimand me at the same time?”

But he ignored her attempt to inject levity into the thick, pulsing atmosphere. No, instead, he swept another caress over her skin. This time, brushing a barely there touch to the curve of her bottom lip. She trembled. And God, he had to sense it, to feel it. Because he repeated it.

“I don’t date,” he informed her, and the frankness of the statement caught her off guard. Almost made her forget the long fingers still cradling her jaw.

Almost.

“Excuse me?” she breathed.

“I don’t date,” he repeated. “I know something, too, Camille. Relationships, commitments—they’re lies we tell ourselves so we can justify using each other. Sex. Need. Passion—they’re honest. The body can’t lie. Lust is the great equalizer regardless of social status, race or tax bracket. So no, I rescind my earlier statement. If not for this blackout, it’s very possible we wouldn’t have passed these last couple of hours talking. But I don’t care if we were in a ballroom or a boardroom, I would’ve noticed you. I would’ve wanted you. I would’ve done everything in my power to convince you to trust me with your body, your pleasure.”

Oh damn.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Suspended by the hunger swamping her.

“Your turn, moonbeam,” he said, his hand falling away from her face. And she immediately missed his touch, that firm grasp. Because he couldn’t see her, she lifted her fingers to the skin that continued to tingle. “Tell me again what you know.”

Moonbeam. The endearment reminded her of their conversation in the ballroom. Her brain argued that the word had nothing to do with love or sweetness and everything to do with hunger and darkness, and yet she jolted at the coiling in her lower belly.

“I know you’re telling me you haven’t changed your mind about wanting to spend the night with me. Inside me,” she added, on a soft, almost hushed rush of breath.

“And have you changed yours?”

From the moment you called me your moon.

The truth reverberated against her skull, but she clenched her jaw, preventing it from escaping. Her defenses had started crumbling long before he’d come looking for her.

Did this make her a cliché? He wasn’t the first man to profess he wanted her, but he was the first she longed to touch with a need that unnerved her. She’d never yearned for a man’s hands on her body as much as she longed for Gideon Knight’s big, elegant, long-fingered ones stroking over her breasts. Or gripping her hips, holding her steady for a deep, hot possession that had her sex spasming in anticipation...in preparation.

She exhaled a breath. Right, he still waited for her answer, and she suspected he wouldn’t make a move, wouldn’t feather another of those caresses over her until she gave it to him.

“Yes,” she confessed, her heart thudding heavily against her rib cage.

“About what, Camille?” he pressed, relentless. “What have you decided? What do you want?”

He wasn’t granting her a reprieve; he was making her say it. Making her lay herself bare.

Her sense of self-preservation launched a last-ditch effort to save her from who she’d become in the dark. Who she’d become in that ballroom. But desire crushed it, and she willingly surrendered to the irresistible lure of freedom...of him.

“You,” she whispered. “I’ve decided on you.”

She slid across the small space separating them and located his face. A soft groan rolled up her throat, and she didn’t even try and trap it. Not when she curved her hand around the strong jut of his jaw, the faintest bristles of what would become a five o’clock shadow abrading her palm. Unable to stop, she stroked the pad of her thumb over the mouth she had been craving since she first noticed him.