“Something like that,” I say, wondering what she wants me to be. “What’s an American girl doing in this snobby old place?”
Her answering smile is forced. I’ve struck a nerve. “I’m a British citizen, actually. Although I grew up in the States. Mom’s American. She met my dad when he was studying at Berkeley.”
Is that why she doesn’t know who you are?
“And a California girl, too. I can’t imagine why you’d trade the beach for rainy old London.”
“I like the fog.” Her voice is soft, and my head turns on the sound, instinctively straining to catch every word.
I want to ask her if she likes the dark? But I already know the answer. She’s full of light. There’s no place for her in my world.
She holds out her hand, and I stare at it for a moment. “I’m Clara Bishop, by the way.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Clara Bishop.” I take it and lift it to my lips, wanting to taste her—just once. But the moment my mouth touches her skin, I feel it. It’s electric, a lightning bolt to my groin that splinters up and finds purchase in my chest.
But it doesn’t satisfy me. My eyes land on her lips, wondering if that would, at the same moment that a familiar, and unwelcome, blonde comes around the corner.
Clara pulls her hand away, but I don’t think. Catching her arm, I yank her to me. I’m pleased with how her body melts into mine as I angle my face to hers. I need to kiss her. My whole being tells me that this woman belongs in my arms, and I coil them possessively around her waist. There’s a moment of hesitation before she submits, her mouth parting to my tongue. I flick it across her teeth, and she welcomes me deeper. This isn’t a dance. It’s not a game. It’s real.
Her legs buckle, and I catch her, keeping her upright—keeping her with me.
It’s where she belongs. Just like my hand belongs on the small of her back. The shift that nearly brought her to her knees realigns my world for one moment, and I see something when I look at her—a feeling I lost a long time ago.
It’s a curious mix of hope and desire, something like a future: purpose.
I release her so suddenly she stumbles, and I steady her.
The feeling pounds through me. It claws at my skin and burns in my veins. I want to kiss her again. I want to carry her away.
I want it so much that I don’t.
She searched my face, her own a question I can’t answer. “Why?”
“My motives are less than chivalrous,” I say, taking my hand from her and instantly missing the contact. “That woman is a particularly horrible mistake of mine.”
“You kissed me to avoid your ex-girlfriend?”
“I would not call her my ex, but my apologies all the same.” Keep it civil, I command myself. Pepper’s appearance was an excuse to do what I already wanted, but even I couldn’t understand it.
I enjoy control. I demand it—of myself, of others. I just lost it entirely.
Her wide eyes are watching me now, and they are the most delicate shade of gray—the color of heavy morning fog. I think I could get lost in her eyes and be happy. I take a step toward her, then think better of it and move toward the terrace.
“Congratulations on your matriculation.”
“Did you graduate as well?” she asks softly.
She really has no idea who I am, and I laugh before I can cover my mouth with my hand. This puzzle of a woman with her oddly affecting attitude wants to know who I am. “I took a rather different career path. Are we playing twenty questions?”
“Will you tell me who you are?” Clara asks.
I wink, playing the role I’ve been dealt. “I think the point, poppet, is to figure that out.”
“You took a different career path? But you’re here—” she gestures around us “—at a prestigious club, so you’re either a well-dressed waiter, or you come from money?” Her eyes narrow. I’ve annoyed her, and it makes me want to do it again. I want to see how she’ll respond.
“That wasn’t a yes or no question.”
“If you don’t want to play…” She looks behind her at the party she abandoned, and I don’t want her to go back to those people.
“I merely want to play by the rules, unless you’d rather I ask the questions,” I suggest.
Her throat slides, and I imagine all the small nuances of her body. If this is how she reacts to a conversation…
Fuck.
“Do you come from money?” she asks.
“You could say that.” She’s going to play.
“Yes or no.”
“Yes,” I say, leaning to catch a lock of her hair. It’s as soft as her lips, and it has my cock thinking about how delicate other parts of her must be. “Is it my turn yet?”
“I haven’t asked all twenty questions,” she whispers.
“Don’t spend them all at once.” I tuck the hair behind her ear. “It’s best to leave some anticipation.”
“You already know who I am.”
“But there are lots of things I’d like to know about you.” I resist the urge to kiss her neck barely. Instead, my words whisper across her skin, and I see her shiver. “And I’m dying to hear you say yes.”
“What if the answer is no?”
“Trust me, it isn’t.” I can’t keep myself from tasting her again, and I brush a kiss across her jaw.
She pushes at her dress, but it does nothing to hide the tight pop of her nipples against the fabric or the flush lingering on her cheeks.
“Last question,” I say, “and then let’s see if you can guess.”
She hesitates, and I live in a lifetime in that moment, wondering if she’ll figure it out.
“Who are you?” she asks.
I shake my head and mouth yes or no, but inside me, my heart rockets into my throat. It was a cheat—a last-ditch effort to find out.
And somehow, it was the right question. I’m not certain I know the answer to it.
“I should be getting back,” she says.
I rake my eyes over her, wondering briefly if I could be whoever she hopes I am. “I hope to see you again, Clara Bishop.”
I don’t wait for her to leave. Turning to the balcony, I wonder what the fuck just happened. I want to ask her. I want to know what she felt. When I look behind me, she’s gone. Her scent, vanilla and rose, hangs in the air like her final question—equally intangible—but it’s her kiss that lingers.
And I want more.
Chapter Two
Mud clings to my limbs as I drag my body through grime and blood. The gnarled wreckage of a helicopter smokes in the distance. I need to reach my friends, and then I see her lying in the muck. Struggling towards her, there’s a blinding flash of light.
Headlights.
I’m on a street in London. Pain sears through my side and I look down to discover half of me is missing; a rib is visible. I choke against bile as my eyes spot her again, her body twisted on the concrete. I don’t feel anything as I crawl toward her and gather her body in my arms, trying to find a pulse. Someone yells, but I can only stare at her. It’s not my sister. It’s someone else.
It’s her.