Looking up at him, feeling a bit intimidated as he towered over her, and a lot nervous about his reaction to her words, she questioned him, “Royce?”
His voice was raspy when he spoke, his eyes so intense she felt they might burn her skin, his voice urgent, and oddly edgy. “What are you saying to me, Lauren? Is something scaring you? Is there something you need to tell—"
“No,” she said quickly, thinking again how terribly, horribly bad she was at seduction. The man now thought she was in some sort of danger. “I mean yes.” She’d gone this far, she wasn’t going to back down. Not when Royce Walker had her trapped in a small corner and she liked it so very, very much. Lauren reached out, forcing herself to act on her desire to touch him, flattening her hand on his deliciously perfect chest. Inhibitions be damned, she vowed. “I… want...”
“You want what?”
“You.” Oh my God, had she really just said that?
His eyes narrowed, his voice lowering an octave. “Are you saying that scares you?”
“In a good way,” she admitted softly, then louder, “In a good way.
Suddenly Julie’s voice broke into their exchange. “Sorry to break up the party, but it’s cake time, and everyone is looking for Lauren.”
Lauren could have screamed at her friend’s untimely interruption.
Royce seemed to agree, flicking a quick look over his shoulder and saying, rather than asking, “Give us one minute.”
Julie cleared her throat. “Hurry.” And then she was gone.
Royce fixed Lauren with a probing stare, his eyes roaming her face, searching, his expression giving away nothing. “You better go be with your father. We’ll talk afterwards.”
Her heart thundered in her chest, and real fear, the kind made of rejection, balled in her chest. No way was she going to wonder what he meant through the rest of the party. “There’s nothing to talk about. You want me or you don’t. Which is it, Royce?”
His reply came in actions, not words. He tipped his head down and brushed his lips across hers. The touch was brief, but somehow possessive and powerful, and a shiver of pure arousal charged down her spine and spread to other, much more intimate places.
“Oh, I want you,” he said, his voice whiskey rough, where it had been a cool breeze only moments before. “Which is exactly why we need to talk.”
Her stomach lurched. Not the ‘talk’ thing again. Why did they need to talk? Talking was what she wanted to avoid. She needed an escape, not an inquiry.
Royce surprised her and laughed. “Stop frowning.” He chucked her lightly on the chin. “Go celebrate with your father so we can get out of here.” His mouth was so near her ear, she felt the warmth of his breath. “Together, Lauren.”
***
Ten minutes later, Lauren was on stage in the front of the room, trying to focus on her father and the birthday gifts he was opening, not on Royce and what would come after the party. But truth be told, her father’s public persona meant far more to him than she did. Oh, he wanted her here, and he wanted her to run for office, but only because it was good for his image, for his politics, for that damn dynasty he, and his father before him who’d also been a politician, aspired to create. And because her political career would keep him in the spotlight without the pressure of holding office.
As usual, her stepmother Sharon stood quietly by his side, her long brown hair swept into an elegant knot at her neck, her exotic features carefully crafted into a mask of happiness and dedication. The press loved her. Her husband adored her for all the wrong reasons.
Sharon’s gaze rushed over Lauren and she moved towards her, her clingy light blue dress bringing to mind the word inappropriate. She was so tired of that word, but the truth was, Sharon was inappropriate. Sharon knew it too, and she knew Lauren knew it. It was her father who didn’t seem to see things clearly. Mr. Practical and Conservative looked the other way for a set of surgically enhanced breasts that made him feel vibrant and young.
“Lauren, dear,” Sharon drawled, stepping to her side. “You seem distracted.”
Lauren’s teeth ground together but she managed a nonchalant shrug. “You know how I feel about these events.”
Sharon cast her a reprimanding look. “This event, as you call it, is your father’s birthday party.”
Lauren fought the childish urge to roll her eyes, and with it, the pang of hurt inside her, a longing for the family she’d once had, and lost. “I’m going to suggest we have a backyard picnic or intimate dinner next year. You know, the normal things families do.”
Sharon smiled, smugness radiating off her like a second skin. “We’re not most families, and thank God for it.”
“Exactly my point,” Lauren mumbled and accepted a champagne flute from a waiter, feeling the hot stare of Royce without even looking at him. But she knew where he was in the far corner, leaning on the bar, waiting for her. She tipped her wrist back to drink and silently vowed that tonight was about indulging, about living a little.
“I see you received the watch,” Sharon said, glancing at Lauren’s wrist. “At least thank us for it.”
Lauren didn’t bother commenting. Sharon would never understand the difference between giving love and buying it. “Where is my dear brother Brad?” she asked instead, unable to stop the intended jab from slipping past her lips. She didn’t like Sharon’s son any more than she liked Sharon. He’d been eighteen and Lauren seventeen when her father had remarried, not three years after her mother’s cancer had shattered her world, and though they were siblings by marriage, his creepy flirtation had been almost instant. Now, seven years later, nothing had changed.
“Brad,” Sharon replied, “is off taking depositions in an important case for your father’s firm, and your father would expect nothing less. In case you forgot, he runs it now, after you refused the job.” Sharon's eyes darted toward Royce. “I see you have caught the eye of the oldest Walker brother. You should be more discreet.”
No, Lauren thought, downing the rest of her champagne. She was tired of discreet. Really darn tired of it and Sharon. She might have said as much, had Sharon stayed by her side one more second.
Lauren’s gaze immediately sought Royce’s and found it. He was watching her exchange with Sharon. He knew they’d fought, she realized. He was too attentive not to have noticed. And oddly, considering the man was a complete stranger, she had this sense that if she needed him, he was primed and ready to act, to be there for her. For a girl who normally valued her independence, Lauren was shocked to find that idea beyond sexy, while still dipping into the realm of being downright comforting. And for the first time all week, she let herself admit that she’d been feeling uneasy, like she needed to look over her shoulder, for no explainable reason. Correction, Lauren thought. No explainable reason besides the obvious that she was readying for a murder trial and dealing with her stepmother both in a two week span. If those two things didn’t deserve a dose of comfort Royce Walker style, she didn’t know what else did.
***
If Royce had ever seen a woman looking for escape, it was Lauren. She didn’t like the politics of her father’s world, nor most definitely the disposition of her stepmother. It was clear to him that Lauren was realizing that she had no real control that it all belonged to her father. She wanted out desperately yearning for freedom. He’d spent years as a hostage negotiator, seen how people dealt with the feeling of being trapped, of having all control stripped. So when Royce watched Lauren reach for yet another glass of champagne, he knew she was in trouble. He knew she never had more than one drink. He knew this from her profile. He knew a lot about Lauren that he’d venture to say she didn’t want him to know. Most importantly, he knew it was time to escort her home before she did something she’d regret in the morning.
He shoved off the bar, intending to go after her, when Lauren headed down the stairs, and began weaving or rather wobbling her way in his direction. In several long strides, Royce was in front of her, gently shackling her arms to steady her. Her hand went to her forehead, distress in her delicate features.