Page 27 of The Devil of Downtown

My favorite little Peeping Tom.

When I came back to my room yesterday after a long, drawn-out meeting, I thought tiredness was making me insane. Her honey scent was everywhere, saturating the walls, crawlingunder my skin like she’d bewitched me. Worse, I swore I heard her—soft, breathy, that little moan bleeding into my skull while I tried to jerk her out of my soul. Then it turns out the moan wasn’t born out of my twisted fantasies. It was real. And the equally real version was tiptoeing out of my suite like someone sneaking off to avoid the morning after.

But there’s no running from me. She should know better. Because after the best sleep in months, I’m ready to play. The idea of a parliamentary select committee has never filled me with so much anticipation. She probably thinks she’s safe. But I’ll let her squirm for a bit. Toy with her.

Until it’s time to let her know her dirty little secret is safe with me—for now.

I swing my legs over the side of my bed and grab my phone. I walk toward the bathroom, my stupid-ass grin reflecting in the screen as I type a message to Sloane.

me

Be ready to leave at 7:30 am; we’re going to Westminster

Her reply is immediate.

sloane

Yes. Should I bring any paperwork?

me

No. You’re enough.

More than enough.

I chuckle darkly and throw my phone down before hitting the shower, except this time it’s strangely disappointing I don’t havean audience. After I’m done, I wrap a towel around my waist and lather shaving foam on, another grin breaking free when my cologne bottle catches my eye—the lid is off. Interesting. So, as well as enjoying the free show, she had a little snoop. I whistle as I slip into my black Brioni suit, my mood more perky than normal. Either it’s the sleep orher.Regardless, there’s a definite spring in my step that’s been missing for far too long.

As I step out of the elevator, my eyes sweep the lobby before I can stop myself—a reflex that’s getting harder to control. A ghost of a smile tugs at my mouth when I spot her leaning against the wall, chewing her lip in that maddening way she does when she’s lost in thought, gaze fixed on her phone.

“Good morning, Dane.”

I turn, masking my disappointment when our press officer, Maria Hamel, strides over—impeccable as ever. Copper waves, red lips, the perfect contrast to her black Chanel suit. Every detail curated to project control.

“Were you looking for me?” she asks, voice laced with the easy confidence of someone who assumes she’s the star of every room she walks into.

She’s beautiful, brilliant—women want to be her; men want her. But to me, she’s too contrived. Too polished. Too much like my father’s world. I’ve lived that future—society weddings, summers in the Hamptons, golf club presidencies, kids chauffeured to Ivy League schools with their calendars managed like CEOs.

“We should go,” she says. “The car is waiting.” She frowns as my eyes drift over her shoulder once again.

This time, Sloane glances up, and our eyes meet. The flush that colors her cheeks hits fast, betraying her even from across the room. I can practically feel the spike of panic she tries to hide as she pushes off the wall and heads toward us.

I shouldn’t enjoy this as much as I do, but it takes a monumental effort to wipe the twisted satisfaction from my face.

“Sloane,” Maria says, making no effort to hide her disappointment that she’s interrupting our cozy party of two.

“Good morning, Sloane.” My voice comes out lower than I plan, threaded with smug amusement, my pulse kicking up a notch with an unfamiliar rush I don’t care to analyze. Her hair is pulled back today, neat, professional—but that only makes me think about it spilling loose across my pillow.

I fight back a smirk as she mumbles a quick good morning; her gaze anywhere but me. As we walk to the car, she doesn’t risk a single glance my way.

Yep, I’m going to enjoy this.

The car glides through London’s gray morning, the city half awake beyond the tinted glass. Maria’s voice rattles from the seat next to me—something about figures, projections, parliamentary talking points. I nod occasionally, though my attention isn’t on her.

It’s on Sloane.

She’s seated opposite me, spine straight, chin tilted as if perfect posture can shield her from my gaze. Every few seconds, she crosses and uncrosses her legs, the movement small, controlled. But not small enough to miss.

Maria keeps talking.