I don’t have time to ponder that. I hear a door open, and my back straightens. The music stops. I hear voices.
Oh God.
I scramble to my feet and mess with the thread of a rip in the thigh of my jeans as he rounds the corner at the top of the stairs, pulling on a T-shirt as he takes the steps. “Oh my God,” I whisper, my eyes following him down the stairs.
Don’t choke, Beau.
His face. He’s brutally handsome, and yet almost callous. His dark hair is falling around his ears and across his eyes, wet and wavy, his rough, square jaw is tense. His body looks powerful. Hard and powerful, every muscle on his tall physique sharp.
I rip my eyes away from his bare chest, seeing the woman, now fully dressed in a business suit, following him. And behind her, the man from the chair. My mind blesses me with a quick, detailed recap of what I walked in on, although the people heading down the stairs toward me now look . . . different. Composed.
Dressed.
I wait to be spotted, feeling so fucking awkward.
“It was nice to see you, James,” the woman says.
“Sure.” His reply is simple and flat and with absolutely no hint that he feels the same.
“Yeah, really nice,” the man adds.
James halts pulling his T-shirt down his torso, coming to an abrupt stop halfway down the stairs, forcing the man and woman to stop too. His hands remain motionless, still holding on to the material around his chest, his eyes laser beams.
On me.
I swallow.
“Beau Hayley,” he murmurs, as the man and woman regard me with interest. My ability to talk has escaped me. Gone. I swallow, shift, and look away from him, needing a break from his penetrating eyes.
I eventually locate some words. They’re not the words I need, but all the words I can find. “James Kelly,” I whisper, willing myself to look at him. Face him. It’s a task.
I exhale, my shoulders dropping with the air that leaves me.
“Thanks for waiting,” he says quietly, his tone flat.
I dig deep for the woman who always remained cool and unaffected in the face of uncertainty. “No problem.” I look past him to the two silent people in the background, and he glances over his shoulder.
“I’ll see you out.” He continues down the stairs, his naked feet padding toward me, the hem of his frayed jeans dragging the floor. He hits the call button on the wall and the doors open. I move back, out of their way, managing a small, awkward smile to the man and woman as they pass me and enter.
“Beth, Darren, good evening,” James says. The doors close.
And . . . silence.
A horrible, screaming silence.
I look up at him. He’s biting the corner of his lip, his chiseled jaw ticking. He’s thinking. What is he thinking?
He steps back, away from me. His eyes are crystal clear pits of blue. Sharp, like his jaw, intense, like his persona, and his eyebrows are heavy, making him appear as unfriendly as he feels. His wavy hair’s darkened by sweat. He’s stupidly stunning. “I ran over on my meeting.” His words are quiet. Rough.
I can’t look at him. His eyes are too astute, his lazy gaze potent. I feel like he’s tapping in on my thoughts. “I called, but you obviously couldn’t hear me.” Because you were lost in some pretty intense-looking kink. “I would have left”—I motion back to the elevator— “but I don’t have a keycard or a code.”
He points to the button above the slot for the card. “You don’t need a card or a code to leave, just to enter.”
“Oh.” I inwardly shake my head to myself. I could have left? I could have spared us both this embarrassment? Yet, as I look at him, he doesn’t look very embarrassed. He just looks inconvenienced. “You know, if now’s not a good time, I could come back.”
“Now’s fine.” He turns on his bare feet and heads to the open kitchen on the other side of the room. “Would you like a drink?”
“I’m good, thanks.” I follow him, glancing around again. More glass. “Nice place.”
“Thanks.” He opens a tall glass-fronted fridge and pulls out a beer, twisting the cap off and resting back on the countertop as he takes a slug.
I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t look him in the eye, so I take another pointless peek around his apartment.
“Do you struggle with eye contact?” he asks, and I dart my stare back to his. He regards me as he takes another swig of his beer. “Or is it just me?”
I laugh on the inside. Only when I’ve unexpectedly stumbled upon your orgy, and then have to pretend I’ve not seen your gloriously naked body pounding relentlessly into a woman.
Holding his eyes, if only to make a point, I scratch through my mind for what to say. This guy is dark. How dark is yet to be determined, but my intuition tells me very dark. I’ve been submerged in enough darkness in my time to recognize a damaged soul. To sense someone’s anger. To feel their pain. I’m a walking, talking example.
What’s his story?
It’s like he’s purposely trying to make me feel uncomfortable, and I hate him for succeeding. What I was faced with before isn’t helping, of course, but he doesn’t know I saw.
Or does he?
He cocks his head, and I cock mine right back as he watches me. “You know, I think I will have that drink.” Give me all the alcohol, for the love of God.
He nods mildly, pulling the fridge open, eyes still on me. “Beer?”
He’s goading me, and that pisses me off. “Please.” I’ll feel like I’ve failed if I look away, so, like a stubborn fool, I maintain our eye contact, refusing to let him win. I will not give him that power.
He sets his bottle aside to unscrew the cap of mine and then hands it to me. It’s all I can do not to scowl as I accept it and take a sip.
Eyes. Still. On. Me.
I’m beginning to think he knows I saw what was going on upstairs. The way he’s being, this staring shit. He really is trying to make me feel uncomfortable. Why? I am Jaz Hayley’s daughter. I absolutely will not break, and as if he’s read my mind, I see the tiniest of smirks crack the straightness of his lips. And then he looks away, running a hand through his messy, sexed-up waves.
“Let me show you my office.” He pushes himself off the countertop and heads for the stairs, and I stare at his wide shoulders as he goes.
“Your office?” I call, and he stops, his foot on the first step, looking back.
“You’re here to paint, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but you mentioned your bedroom.” Why the hell would I point that out? I don’t want to step foot in his bedroom.
“I did?” he questions. “I meant my office.”
“But all I’ve seen is glass.”
His eyebrows lazily rise, and I die on the inside, looking away. “But you’ve not seen upstairs.”
Oh God, Beau, just leave. Go. Put yourself out of this misery. But I don’t. Instead, I say nothing and follow, kicking my flip-flops off again at the bottom of the stairs before climbing them, my eyes nailed to the backs of his thighs.
We round the corner at the top and, naturally, my focus lands on the door into his dungeon. “Do you live alone?” I ask, making idle chitchat in an attempt to break the ice. I’ve never met a man so cold.