Black Tie Billionaire. Naima Simone

Thirteen

       Fourteen

       Fifteen

       Sixteen

       Seventeen

       Eighteen

       Nineteen

       Epilogue

       About the Publisher

       One

      She was beautiful.

      Gideon Knight tuned out the man speaking to him as he studied the petite woman weaving a path through the crowded ballroom. Even wearing the white shirt, black bow tie and dark pants of the waitstaff, she stood out like the brightest jewel among the hundreds of guests at the Du Sable City Gala, the annual event of the Chicago social season, rendering those around her to mere cubic zirconia.

      How was it that only he noticed the elegant length of her neck, the straight line of her back that tapered at the waist and flowed out in a gentle, sensual swell of hips? How did the other people in the room not ogle the particular way the light from the crystal chandeliers hit her bronze skin, causing it to gleam? How did they not stop and study the graceful stride that wouldn’t have been out of place on the most exclusive catwalk?

      Had he said beautiful? He meant exquisite.

      And he hadn’t even seen her face.

      Yet.

      “Excuse me.” Gideon abruptly interrupted the prattling of the older gentleman, not bothering with a polite explanation for walking away.

      The other man’s surprised sputtering should’ve dredged up a semblance of regret, especially since Gideon’s mother had hammered better manners into him. But just ten years ago this gentleman wouldn’t have deigned to acknowledge Gideon’s existence. Then he’d been just another penniless, dream-filled, University of Chicago business student. He hadn’t been the Gideon Knight, cofounder and CEO of KayCee Corp, one of the hottest and most successful start-up companies to hit the market in the last five years. Now that he was a multibillionaire, this businessman, and people of his tax bracket and social sphere, damn near scraped their chins on the floor with all the bowing and kowtowing they directed Gideon’s way.

      Money and power had that peculiar effect.

      Usually, he could dredge up more patience, but he despised events like this high society benefit gala. One thing he’d learned in his grueling battle to breach the inner sanctum zealously guarded by the obscenely wealthy one percent was that a good portion of business deals were landed at dinner tables, country club golf courses and social events like the Du Sable City Gala. So even though attending ranked only slightly higher than shopping with his sister or vacationing in one of Dante’s nine levels of hell, he attended.

      But for the first time that he could remember, he was distracted from networking. And again, for the first time, he welcomed the disruption.

      He wound his way through the tuxedoed and gowned throng, pretending not to hear when his name was called, and uttering a “Pardon me” when more persistent individuals tried to halt him with a touch to his arm. Many articles written about him had mentioned his laser-sharp focus, and at this moment, it was trained on a certain server with black hair swept into a low knot at the back of her head, a body created for the sweetest sin and skin that had his fingertips itching with the need to touch...to caress.

      That need—the unprecedented urgency of it—should’ve been a warning to proceed with caution. And if he’d paused, he might’ve analyzed why the impulse to approach her, to look into her face, raked at him like a tiger’s sharp claws. He might’ve retreated, or placed distance between him and her. Discipline, control, focus—they were the daily refrains of his life, the blocks upon which he’d built his business, his success. That this unknown woman already threatened all three by just being in the room... Not even his ex-fiancée had stirred this kind of attraction in him. Which only underscored why he should walk away. It boded nothing good.

      Yet he followed her with the determination of a predator stalking its unsuspecting prey.

      How cliché, but damn, how true. Because every instinct in him growled to capture, cover, take...bite.

      She would be his tonight.

      As the strength and certainty of the thought echoed inside him, he neared her. Close enough to glimpse the delicate line of her jaw and the vulnerable nape of her neck. To inhale the heady, sensual musk that contained notes of roses, and warmer hints of cedarwood and amber...or maybe almond.

      Tonight’s mission would be to discover which one.

      For yet another time this evening, he murmured, “Excuse me.” But in this instance, he wasn’t trying to escape someone. No, he wanted to snare her. Keep her.

      At least for the next few hours.

      Look at me. Turn around and look at me.

      The plea rebounded off his skull, and the seconds seemed to slow as she shifted, lifting her head and meeting his gaze.

      His gut clenched, desire slamming into him so hard he braced himself against the impact. But it still left him reeling. Left his body tense, hard.

      A long fringe of black hair swept over her forehead and dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, but neither could hide the strong, regal lines of her face, the sharp cheekbones, the chocolate eyes or the lush siren’s call of her mouth.

      Damn, that mouth.

      He dragged his fascinated gaze away from it with a strength that deserved a gold medal. But nothing, not even God Himself, could cleanse his mind of the acts those curves elicited. Acts that left him throbbing and greedy.

      “Did you need a glass of champagne?” she asked, lowering her eyes to the tray she held.

      No, keep your eyes on me.

      The order rolled up his throat and hovered on his tongue, but he locked it down. Damn, with just a few words uttered in a silk-and-midnight voice, he’d devolved into a caveman.

      Once more, a warning to walk away clanged inside him, but—like moments earlier—he ignored it. Nothing else mattered at the moment. Nothing but having that sex-and-sin voice stroke his ears. Having those hands slip under his clothes to caress his skin. And those oval-shaped eyes fixed on him.

      “What’s your name?” He delivered a question of his own, answering hers by picking up a glass flute full of pale wine.

      If he hadn’t been studying her so closely, he might’ve missed the slight stiffening of her shoulders, the minute hesitation before, head still bowed, she said, “I need to continue...”

      She shifted away from him, preparing to escape into the crowd.

      “Wait.” He lifted his arm, instinct guiding him to grasp her elbow to prevent her departure. But at the last moment, he lowered his arm back to his side.

      As much as he wanted to discover how she felt under his hand, he refused to touch her without her permission. Rich assholes accosting