The Bride Goes Rogue (The Fifth Avenue Rebels #3)(31)
But she didn’t fit into the life he’d built for himself. She wasn’t a mistress or a friend. That was all he had time for, probably all he’d ever have time for, and this woman would never fill one of those two boxes. Which meant he had no idea what the hell this was about.
It was time to stop interfering in her life.
He put up his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you to your meeting, then. Please, heed my advice and look elsewhere. I wish you luck.”
Turning, he started to walk away. He needed to return to the office and the mountain of work and meetings awaiting him. There was no time for a beautiful brunette with plump, kissable lips and a gorgeous smile.
“Wait,” she called from behind him.
Pausing, he glanced over his shoulder, surprised to find she’d caught up to him. “Preston, I want to hear why you think my father is plotting against you. I want to know . . .”
“What?” he prompted when she fell silent.
“I want to know why you hate my father. Why you hate me.”
A weight settled in his chest, one he suspected was guilt, which he deserved. He’d treated her abominably. “I don’t hate you,” he said quietly, staring down into her big brown gaze. “Far from it, actually. Furthermore, I’m sorry. For everything I’ve said and accused you of, and that you’re being dragged into my history with your father.”
“Thank you.” She searched his face, perhaps to ensure he was telling the truth. “I’d still like to know what happened, though.”
“Why? You can’t change it, and you might not like the answer.” It would certainly alter her opinion of her father. “It’s best if you ask him instead.”
“Oh, I will, but I’d also like to hear your side.”
Side? He nearly snarled in response to the word. There were no fucking sides. There were clear winners and losers in this world, and Lloyd thought he had Preston beat, but he didn’t. In the next few days, Preston’s lawyers would discover how Lloyd had perpetuated this flimflam and get the proper rights back.
Tamping down his irritation, Preston reminded himself that she didn’t deserve it. “Perhaps someday I’ll tell you,” he hedged.
She struck out her hand. “In the meantime, truce?”
He accepted her hand, engulfing it in his larger grip as they shook. “Truce.”
The busy Twenty-Third Street traffic carried on around them, but he didn’t let go of her hand. He stood perfectly still and watched her, fascinated, enjoying the different emotions that played out on her face. Katherine wore her every thought, as transparent as glass, and her suspicion and relief transformed into a nervous blush. The slim column of her throat worked as she swallowed.
Was she thinking about the French Ball? About their kisses and heated breaths? The whispered words and naughty games? Because he was very much thinking about it, about how he craved more of the same. She brought out something in him that no one else ever had, a playful and impulsive side he’d long thought buried.
In that moment, he didn’t care about her last name or her father. He only wanted to spend more time with her, however he could get it.
Before he could change his mind, he said, “May I buy you a drink, reinette?”
Chapter Ten
Biting the inside of her cheek, Katherine stared up at him. A drink? In the middle of the day? The old Katherine would never have agreed to something so scandalous.
But she was the new Katherine, the girl who’d found adventure and a lover—and that man was standing across from her, hidden under layers of bitterness and ambition. Did she dare try to coax him out again?
I even know the taste of your slick arousal and the feel of your orgasm on my tongue.
Was he obsessed with memories of the ball, as well? Because Katherine couldn’t stop remembering, couldn’t stop replaying that short time in her head. He’d been so different, so relaxed. Mischievous and sweet. The opposite of how she knew him as Preston Clarke.
Something new lurked in his mahogany gaze, however—a softness that hadn’t been there before. Like he saw her, really saw her, and appreciated what he noticed. It caused her skin to pebble and her breath to catch. She wanted to lean into it, let it surround and consume her.
She wanted to say yes.
Shoving aside her misgivings, she said, “Let me finish with my meeting first.”
“Of course.”
He released her hand and stepped back. “I need to cable Mrs. Cohen to reschedule my afternoon appointments.” One dark brow quirked. “And perhaps my dinner engagement.”
Always striving for more, this man.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Clarke.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Delafield.” Shoving his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, he said, “Wait here for me. I’ll return in ten minutes with a carriage and fetch you.”
She nodded once, her head spinning with what she’d just agreed to.
It’s merely a drink. Nothing more.
“Miss?”
Dragging in a deep breath, she tried to appear calm and collected. Intelligent, a woman capable of overseeing the construction and development of the Madison Square Art Museum, or so she’d been calling it in her head. Walking over to the architect, she said, “I apologize, sir. Shall we continue?”