For Angelo(56)

“I think it’s impossible he’d get bored with you. Like, think about it this way. Do you think being with him 24/7 would make you bored in his company?”

Lane shook her head.

“Then it’s the same for him because—” Farica winked. “You’re the perfect match.”

Lane rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help smiling a bit either. Ever since she had told Farica about how Dylan Charbonneau had described her, the other girl had used the words like they were a solution to her every concern about Angelo.

Farica patted her friend’s hand. “There’s no use worrying about the unknown. Just concentrate on the preparations. Tonight’s the night!” She mentally crossed her fingers as she spoke. What Lane was planning was impossible for her to contemplate—

But then, she wasn’t Angelo Valencia’s match.

Lane was, and that might be why tonight would work.





Chapter Seventeen





Faces were plastered on every window on all sixty floors of Valencia Tower, all of them employees who had chosen not to clock out even though it was already two hours past the end of their shift. Who cared about going home early when there was the possibility that—

Everyone started shrieking the moment they saw the limousine rolling down the driveway. The employees held their breaths as a chauffeur came down to open the door—

AAAAAAH!

It really was Dylan Charbonneau of Minuit Rouge!

And oh, wait, who was that coming out behind him? Was that his fiancée Bree, a close friend of Saffi March-Aehrenthal, the wife of Sweden’s #1 Sex God, Staffan Aehrenthal?

Everyone inched their faces as close to the windowpanes as possible, but it was only those on the first five floors who were able to glimpse the tender way in which the rockstar helped the girl out of the limousine before placing a possessive hand on the small of her back.

This time, the women swooned and sighed, loud enough for those on the upper floors to hear them, and they sighed as well, none of them having any difficulties imagining what it would feel like to have a man like Dylan in their lives.

As Bree and Dylan stepped inside the elevators, she smiled at him, saying with good-natured humor, “A few years ago, this scene would have made me very paranoid.”

He kissed the top of her head, murmuring, “And we both know that was my fault.” He tipped her chin up, and his eyes danced with wicked mirth as he asked, “Do you want me to prove to you right now how much I want you?”

Bree’s face flamed. “No!” And thankfully, the elevator doors slid open then, allowing her to escape her fiancé. If she wasn’t careful, he might just convince her to do something outrageous again.

And hot. And—

Oh Lord, what was she thinking?

She quickened her steps, but Dylan’s long-legged stride enabled him to easily catch up with her. Laughing, he curled an arm around her waist and pulled her indecently close to him.

“Dylan, we’re in an office,” she protested weakly, and her attempt to put some distance between them was paltry as well. She loved being close to him, but couldn’t they do it where there weren’t, well, hundreds of gazes trained at them?

Unfortunately, being the center of people’s attention was something rockstars were used to. Seemingly unaware of the way everyone they walked past was gawking at them, Dylan halted mid-stride, bent his head, and stole a kiss from Bree.

When he raised his head, he was deeply satisfied at the look in her eyes.

Good. He liked her looking like that every time they were in a new place. It was an effective way to warn men off his property.

“Now, we can go.” Releasing her waist, he took her hand and led her past an inner set of doors on the penthouse floor, which housed the various rooms of the executives making up Angelo Valencia’s board.

The conference room was directly across them, its glass walls revealing Lane seated, hands primly clasped on her lap, a look of torment on her face.

“Are you sure they’re in good terms?” Bree asked uneasily.

Beside Lane was Angelo Valencia, dressed in an immaculate cerulean suit that had been matched with a silver tie. He was every inch the powerful CEO, but it was the look of sinister pleasure on his face that gave Dylan pause.

That…and the fact that the Italian was currently involved in an activity so crass Dylan couldn’t reconcile it with what he knew of his friend. Why did the man have towers of cash in front of him?

“Dylan?”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Beats me, babe.” Tightening his hold on her hand, he pushed the doors open and together they stepped inside.

Lane’s head lifted just as Dylan drawled, “Did we have the misfortune to interrupt another roleplay—”

Lane squeaked in embarrassment.

But Angelo only smiled. “She wishes.” Setting the bills aside, he stood up and walked closer to greet the newcomers. “I’d shake hands with you, but unfortunately my hands are…” A self-deprecating shrug. “Because I’m filthy rich.”

Behind him, Lane moaned.

Angelo’s smile widened.

Ah. Dylan glanced at his fiancée, who still appeared lost. “He’s probably punishing her, babe.”

“Oh.” But she still didn’t get it.

“She’s afraid of rich people, rich places, anything that has to do with wealth, really,” Dylan explained. Pulling her forward, he introduced her to Lane, who had hastily come to her feet.