Page 59 of His Daughter

The building appeared. The doorman held the glass door. We crossed the marble lobby. The elevator required the keycard. He swiped it. We stepped in.

The doors closed.

It was just us. The elevator hummed. The numbers began to climb. I watched them — seven, eight, nine — and I was aware of him beside me, the warmth, the proximity, and the cologne.

He turned to me.

His hand came up and found my chin. "I believe you owe me."

He kissed me. His mouth pressed against mine, warm and certain. My back found the elevator wall. His hand slid from my chin to the side of my neck, and I grabbed his lapel and pulled him closer.

The elevator climbed. His mouth moved against mine. My hand slid up his chest, over the collar of his shirt, into his hair. He made a sound against my lips and pressed closer. I could feel his heartbeat through his shirt — fast and matching mine.

The doors opened. We separated. Barely. His forehead was against mine, both of us breathing hard.

The penthouse was dim. We stepped out. Dominique was in the hallway, coming from the nursery. She saw us. We were standing a foot apart, his hand still on my neck, my hand still on his lapel.

She nodded. "Good evening, Mr. Hale. Ms. Calloway. Lena's been asleep since nine." She walked past us and disappeared into the guest wing.

The hallway was empty. We looked at each other. He took my hand. His fingers laced through mine. He walked. I followed. Down the hallway, past the nursery where Lena slept, past my room, to the last door on the left. His room.

He opened it. We stepped inside. He closed the door.

The room was dark. He walked to the dresser, took off his watch, and set it on the wood with a soft click. Then he turned to me.

"Take off your dress."

I held his gaze. I reached behind me, found the zipper, and pulled it down. The dress fell. It pooled around my feet. I was standing in his bedroom in my underwear. The air was cool on my skin. I didn't cross my arms. I didn't cover myself. I stood there and let him look at me.

He came to me. His hands found my waist. My back found the wall. His mouth found my neck — the spot below my ear, the place where my pulse was racing. I arched into him. My hands went into his hair.

Before I knew it, his mouth was on my skin, and my hands were pulling his shirt over his head, and both of us were finally, completely, terrifyingly honest.

SIXTEEN

DECLAN

I stood at the head of the table, adjusting my cuffs. Julian was to my right, flipping through his copy of the contract. David and two of his associates sat at the far end, their own copies open, yellow tabs bristling from every other page.

"Caine's Estimated Time of Arrival (ETA)?" I asked.

Graham checked his phone. "Twenty minutes. His car just left Midtown."

"Good." I smoothed the front of my jacket. "Julian, the earn-out language on page thirty-one. Are we clean?"

"Clean as a whistle. Performance accelerator kicks in at a million subscribers in eighteen months, earn-out triggers early, payout capped at the agreed ceiling." He closed the folder. "This is buttoned up, Dec."

The door suddenly burst open. Nolan walked in. His jaw was set. His eyes went to me and stayed there.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. "Cancel the meeting."

Julian looked up. Graham's phone paused mid-motion. David's associates stopped writing.

"What?" I said.

Nolan closed the door behind him. He was carrying a folder. He crossed the room and set it on the table in front of me.