I exhaled in relief. “Thank you.”
Arthur’s jaw-length hair was swept off his face in a slick ponytail. From the front, he looked like a distinguished businessman in a tailored charcoal suit and tie, but from the side—with his rugged jaw, roguish hair, and bulging arms threatening the seams of the suit—the truth was visible.
He was dangerous.
He was a man not to be messed with.
He played with the ribbon in my hair. “You know me so well, Buttercup. You know my thoughts, my heart, my past. But you’re still blind to what my life truly entails.” He pulled me tighter against his body. “Tonight, you’ll see the truth. You’ll see the other world I exist in, the one run by politicians and democrats rather than bikers and gasoline.” Kissing my forehead, he magically smoothed away my final nerves. “This is yet another facet of my life.”
The door swung open, revealing a butler dressed all in black with combed balding hair. “Welcome, Mr. Killian.”
A security guard I hadn’t seen ghosted from the shadows behind one of the pillars. His eyes were shielded by dark glasses—even though it was far too gloomy to need them.
Why was there security detail for a simple house party?
Because this isn’t a simple house party.
I wasn’t stupid. Even though my lack of memory often made me seem that way. Whatever Arthur was coordinating relied on something to do with this evening’s success.
I don’t mean to ruin it for him.
“And who shall I say is accompanying you tonight, Mr. Killian?” The kind-faced butler smiled in my direction.
Arthur stood taller. “Cleo Price.”
My heart winged at the possession in his tone.
The butler looked at the guard who shifted on his toes and peered intensely behind smoky lenses. A clipboard magically materialized in his hands. After a quick glance, he nodded curtly.
I guess I’m approved.
The butler sidestepped into the grand entrance, beckoning us inside. “Please, come in.”
I mumbled thanks as Arthur and I stepped into the extravagant foyer and feasted on the oversized modern artwork and the three-meter-high driftwood horse dominating the space.
“Do you have any jackets or coats you wish me to take?” the butler asked.
Arthur shook his head. “We’re good. Thanks.” His height gave him an advantage, easily browsing over the milling guests in distinguished suits and bright dresses. The men were punctuations to their pretty wives decorating the space like sugary confectionary.
“Mr. Samson is awaiting your arrival.” The butler pointed across the room where a punch bowl and delicate sandwiches rested on side tables. “He requested you speak to him first.”
Arthur stole my hand. “Will do.”
Leaving the butler in our wake, we weaved our way through the crowd. Bubbles of perfume and clouds of aftershave popped and swarmed as we brushed past men and women who would never step foot inside a biker compound, let alone mingle with one.
Squeezing Arthur’s fingers, I asked, “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
He looked down, his face cordial and cocky. “Soon.”
Happiness filled me to think he might be on the mend, but then I stared harder and saw past his walls. Whatever headache he suffered, it hadn’t dispersed yet. It was there with its fingers of agony and heartbeats of pressure.
A waitress appeared with champagne flutes. “Drink?”
I raised my hand to say no, but Arthur released me and plucked two sparkling glasses from her silver tray. “Thank you.”
She nodded, cast an appreciative glance at Arthur, then glided away to provide liquor to other parched individuals.
I scowled. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”
His eyebrow rose. “Uh, I’d thought about it, yes.” Offering a flute to me, he added, “And you, too. Unless you’ve stopped drinking after being spoiled by Melanie’s concoctions last night?”
I took the glass, rubbing my thumb through the icy condensation. “No, I’ll sip one. I just don’t think it’s a good idea that you do.”
He scoffed, deliberately taking a swig. Somehow, he made sipping golden champagne from a dainty glass rough and tough and utterly masculine.
My throat turned dry.
Licking his lips, his eyes shot to a forest green. Desire sparked, lacing around us and shunning everyone else in the room. The unfinished business in the limo only grew more intense. “You were saying.”
All I could focus on was a glistening drop on his bottom lip. “I was saying?”
Taking a step toward me, Arthur twirled the ribbon from my braid, gracing my décolletage with his knuckles.
I shivered.
“You were saying I shouldn’t drink. If your concern is because of my head, I told you—stop worrying about me. I’m fine.”
I twirled the stem of my flute. “I’m worried that you aren’t taking this seriously. Alcohol can’t be good for your condition.”
His shoulders braced. “I drank last night and it didn’t bother you.”
“That was different.”