“Back atcha, baby girl.” He headed out. “I’ll head down to the front desk and bring him up. Take your time. He’s ten minutes early.”
Smiling, I watched him saunter into the hallway. The door had closed behind him when I moved into the small sitting room attached to my bedroom. On the very impractical escritoire my mother had picked out, I found a folder filled with articles and printed images. I settled into the chair and got lost in Gideon Cross’s history.
It was like watching a train wreck to read that he was the son of Geoffrey Cross, former chairman of an investment securities firm later found to be a front for a massive Ponzi scheme. Gideon was just five years old when his dad committed suicide with a gunshot to the head rather than face prison time.
Oh, Gideon. I tried to picture him that young and imagined a handsome dark-haired boy with beautiful blue eyes filled with terrible confusion and sadness. The image broke my heart. How devastating his father’s suicide—and the circumstances around it—must have been, for both him and his mother. The stress and strain at such a difficult time would’ve been enormous, especially for a child of that age.
His mother went on to marry Christopher Vidal, a music executive, and had two more children, Christopher Vidal Jr. and Ireland Vidal, but it seemed a larger family and financial security had come too late to help Gideon stabilize after such a huge shakeup. He was too closed off not to bear some painful emotional scars.
With a critical and curious eye, I studied the women who’d been photographed with Gideon and thought about his approach to dating, socializing, and sex. I saw that my mom had been right—they were all brunettes. The woman who appeared with him most often bore the hallmarks of a Hispanic heritage. She was taller than me, willowy rather than curvy.
“Magdalene Perez,” I murmured, grudgingly admitting that she was a stunner. Her posture had the kind of flamboyant confidence that I admired.
“Okay, it’s been long enough,” Cary interrupted with a soft note of amusement. He filled the doorway to my sitting room, leaning insolently into the doorjamb.
“Really?” I’d been so absorbed; I hadn’t realized how much time had passed.
“I would guess you’re about a minute away from him coming to find you. He’s barely restraining himself.”
I shut the folder and stood.
“Interesting reading, isn’t it?”
“Very.” How had Gideon’s father—or more specifically, his father’s suicide—influenced his life?
I knew all the answers I wanted were waiting for me in the next room.
Leaving my bedroom, I took the hallway to the living room. I paused on the threshold, my gaze riveted to Gideon’s back as he stood in front of the windows and looked out at the city. My heart rate kicked up. His reflection revealed a contemplative mood. His gaze was unfocused and his mouth grim. His crossed arms betrayed an inherent unease, as if he was out of his element. He looked remote and removed, a man who was inherently alone.
He sensed my presence or maybe he felt my yearning. He pivoted; then went very still. I took the opportunity to drink him in, my gaze sliding all over him. He looked every inch the powerful magnate. So sensually handsome my eyes burned just from looking at him. The rakish fall of black hair around his face made my fingers flex with the urge to touch it. And the way he looked at me…my pulse leaped.
“Eva.” He came toward me, his stride graceful and strong. He caught up my hand and lifted it to his mouth. His gaze was intense—intensely hot, intensely focused.
The feel of his lips against my skin sent goose bumps racing up my arm and stirred memories of that sinful mouth on other parts of my body. I was instantly aroused. “Hi.”
Amusement warmed his eyes. “Hi, yourself. You look amazing. I can’t wait to show you off.”
I breathed through the delight I felt at the compliment. “Let’s hope I can do you justice.”