“And my changing it up and having you two as the face of the campaign has been successful.”
“But that’s where the line ends. We don’t have to open every part of our life for your approval. Harlow didn’t feel well last night so she suggested that she sleep in the hotel as to not get me sick and so she could go soak in the tub. Maybe have a little space. I came and sat in here, had a few drinks, and that woman who knocked on the coach this morning wasn’t my type last night when she tried to flirt with me and she sure as hell wasn’t this morning . . . so if you’re done trying to tell me how to live my life, then I’ll get back to the coach and the conference calls I have scheduled for the next few hours.”
The ice in his glass clinks when he sets it down on the table and his eyes measure whether he believes me or not. “What I can’t figure out, Zane, is if you’re being defensive to protect the woman you love or to protect a lie you’ve told me?”
“And I’m trying to figure out why if you don’t trust me, you went into business with me.”
There’s a cold smile on his face. The fucker is serious. Talk about being blindsided by a person when I never am.
He leans in and lowers his voice. “Fair enough . . . but just remember this, I may be old, I may be lonely, but I won’t be had.” He scoots his chair out and throws a few bills on the table for the drink. “If you’re lying to me, this deal is over and your reputation”—he shrugs nonchalantly—“you’re reputation will be done with in my circles.”
I don’t trust myself to say a word. Memories flood back. The threats of what I can and can’t do reinforced with an open palm to my cheek. The crash of the vodka bottle from his hands the first time I fought back. The vow I made myself to never allow someone to threaten me again.
To never live that life again.
I haven’t come this far to be told who to be, who to fuck, and how to run my business.
He’s not your dad, Zane. Just an investor wanting the same results as you do.
Success.
ZANE’S HEATED BREATH HITS MY ears and sends shivers down my spine.
I’ve successfully kept my promise to myself. The one I made when I left the hotel room this morning to make sure I kept busy, kept my distance physically from him, and kept my mind off of him.
Kept it that is, until right now.
Of course I participated in our dog and pony show tonight for our attendees. The sweet smiles on stage, the lingering glances, but I did so from afar. I made a point to always be on the move so I could avoid his touch.
Distance means a clear head. Space means I can avoid that weightless free fall of a crush that inevitably turns into a painful landing once you crash down to earth.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A silly crush on a handsome and successful man that will amount to nothing. Not that I’d want it to either . . . but just . . . Zane’s breath hits my neck again and I lose my train of thought when his arms slip around my waist and pull me back against him. Every long lean hard inch of him.
“Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs and when my eyes move up, they meet Robert’s from where he’s been sitting quietly, watching us across the room and observing the whole event.
“We can’t.” When I turn around in protest, I find myself chest to chest with Zane. I go to step back but his hands are on my lower back preventing me.
His head dips down, his lips finding my ear again. “Yes, we can.”
“Where are we—”
“Anywhere but here.” He links his fingers with mine and turns to those standing around us. “If you’ll excuse us for a minute, Harlow and I are needed for some interviews.”
And before my mind can process the fact that we’re playing hooky, Zane is leading me out of the ballroom without another word.
We clear the doorway, then the hallway, and are out the side door and heading toward the coach.
“Go change. We’re going out,” he mutters as he opens the door to the tour bus.
“Zane—what are—”
“What the fuck is it with people questioning me today?” There’s a bite to his voice as he works the buttons on the front of his dress shirt. I stand to the side of him, watching as he strips his shirt off, balls it up, and then throws it into the corner.
“What are you talking about?”
“Robert.” He eyes me over his shoulder and I immediately jerk my eyes from admiring the subtle ripple of muscles in his back. “Are you wearing that or are you changing?”
“Robert?” I take a step toward him. “Where are we going?”
“Out. We’re going out.”
“What’s going on, Zane?”