One Night To Forever. Joss Wood

her head to the side, her bright blue eyes frank.

      Lachlyn pulled a face and nodded her agreement. Sage took her half-empty glass from her hand, half turned and nodded to a large ornamental lemon tree in the corner. “You look like you need a break.”

      “I really do,” Lachlyn agreed. She was thoroughly peopled out.

      “Behind that lemon tree is a small spiral staircase. It leads up to a small, secluded balcony with a great view of the ballroom. It’s not big enough for any illicit shenanigans so nobody goes up there, but it’s a great place to hang out for a little while and get your breath back.”

      Lachlyn looked up and she could see a tiny Juliet balcony, partially obscured by a wrought-iron trellis. Yes, that was exactly where she needed to be, for an hour or three. For the rest of the night if she got really, really lucky. Then Lachlyn remembered that she was one of the reasons for the ball and frowned. “Are you sure it will be okay?”

      “Just go, Lachlyn, because Old Mrs. Preston is heading in your direction and she’s wearing her ‘I’ll harangue the truth out of her’ expression. I’ll head her off while you make your escape.”

      Lachlyn flashed her a quick smile. “Thanks, Sage.”

      “Sure.” Sage returned the smile and moved to intercept the super-thin, super-Botoxed specimen heading in her direction. Lachlyn skirted two men in tuxedos who looked like they wanted to talk to her, ignored the call for her attention and headed for the waiter standing near the hidden staircase. She picked up a fresh glass of champagne and ducked up the spiral staircase, holding her floor-length chiffon dress off the stairs. She stepped onto the small balcony and rested her back against the wall. A little peace, finally.

      Needing to mentally escape, her thoughts drifted to the collection she was in the process of archiving for the New York Public Library. The grandson of a noted French art collector and critic had recently bequeathed his grandfather’s entire collection of diaries, letters, art and mementoes detailing the Parisian art world of the 1920s. It was a fascinating look back into the glamorous era between the two World Wars and the project of a lifetime.

      She couldn’t wait for her two weeks’ vacation to be over so that she could get back to work, to her quiet, empty-of-people apartment. Hearing shouts of laughter, Lachlyn looked through the trellis onto the ballroom below. She took in the exquisite gowns and breathtaking jewelry, carefully made-up faces and sophisticated conversation. A jazz band played in the corner and a few couples were on the dance floor, swaying to the 1940s ballad.

      Lachlyn’s eyes drifted over faces, easily finding her brother Tyce, his arms wrapped around Sage’s baby bump. Tyce couldn’t understand her need to hold the Ballantynes—and the world—at an arm’s length. However, their agreement that she deal with the Ballantynes on her own terms was holding. Just.

      Tyce didn’t realize that Lachlyn was perfectly fine on her own, that he needed this amazing family, a great love affair, more than she did. She hadn’t told him, or anybody, what happened that summer so long ago...

      She didn’t need to try hard to remember the sour smell of his breath on her face, the taste of his slimy tongue, the feel of his rough hands inside her shirt, between her legs. She’d yelled and screamed but her mom—thanks to depression, sleeping pills or, most likely, disinterest—hadn’t lifted her head to help her. Before the assault had turned from horrible to devastating, Lachlyn’s elbow had connected with her assailant’s nose. She’d followed that up with a knee to his scrotum and he’d scuttled off. She’d sat on the floor of her bedroom, weeping and alone. As a result, asking for any type of support or help, emotional or physical, transported her back to feeling like a helpless little girl, and that was something she never wanted to be seen as. Yeah, it also stopped her from making friends, from having normal relationships with normal men, but that was a small price to pay.

      Sometimes, in the early, honest hours of the morning, she suspected that she still might be that girl who didn’t want to do it on her own, who might want a man, a family...that she might want to, sometimes, lean. What stopped her from exploring that terrifying scenario was remembering the past, the experience of looking for support—asking for help—and finding no one there.

      No, she was better off alone.

      Lachlyn felt the change in atmosphere and she stepped up to the trellis, trying to find the source of the disturbance. Yep, and there he was, the alpha-est of alphas. Lachlyn took a sip of her cool champagne, enjoying the way it replaced the moisture in her mouth. She’d only met Reame Jepsen twice, the first time at The Den and she’d had another brief encounter with him at the art gallery when Tyce proposed to Sage. But despite not spending more than ten minutes in total with the blasted man, she was irritated that he was the star of some of her very sexy dreams.

      Like most alpha males, Reame was big, six foot three, six four? Lachlyn’s fingers curled around the trellis as she watched him move across the ballroom. Greeting someone she knew was important, Reame gripped the other man’s hand, flashing a practiced smile. Mr. Important dipped his head, a clear indication that he was submitting to the alpha male. Reame stepped into the group Mr. Important was standing with, and all four men, two CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, an investment banker and a world renowned economist, took a tiny step back. Reame Jepsen dominated the space, claiming it as his own. He was the super-alpha in a room of men who were accustomed to calling the shots and taking charge.

      Lachlyn released a long sigh. Reame Jepsen bothered her.

      No, he bothered the hell out of her.

      And here came the moths to the flame, Lachlyn thought, amused. A tall, thin blonde spun around from the next group, squealed and all but threw herself into Reame’s arms. Cheeks were kissed before the blonde was elbowed out of the way by a redhead, then a brunette. She supposed it was business as usual for Reame. With his caramel-colored hair, olive skin, masculine face and light eyes, he made female eyes water, ovaries quiver and brains start to churn. Linc’s best friend, or so she’d heard, was the most eligible bachelor since Connor Ballantyne, and that list had included, up until very recently, her very hot and rich brothers.

      He was a catch, a prize, a goal.

      Lachlyn wasn’t a game-playing girl.

      She was about to turn away, about to pull her eyes off his angles-and-planes face when his head shot up and their eyes clashed and held. He lifted the glass of whiskey to his lips, his light eyes not leaving her face, ignoring the woman hanging off his arm. Lachlyn stared down at him as the air between them fizzled and crackled.

      She wanted him.

      She was pulsing with lust, attraction, desire, need. Hot, spiky lust. Her womb was as tight as a drum and her lungs had lost their ability to breathe. Lachlyn felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle, goose bumps lifting the skin on her arms. The thought of that sexy mouth on hers, what it would feel like, how he would taste—whiskey, mint, man—drowned out rational thought. The fantasy of her dress up to her waist, his hands on the back of her thighs, her back against the wall as he slid into her was as strong as a memory from yesterday, as powerful as reality.

      She understood why. He was the biggest, most powerful, highest-ranking man in the room and millions of years of biology had programmed her, and every other woman there, to want to mate with all that strength and power. Mating with him would ensure her offspring would be given the strongest chance of survival, the best genes. Her attraction to him was pure animal instinct and nothing to cause her any concern.

      But Lachlyn didn’t date alpha males. Hell, she didn’t date at all. It would be easy to chalk it up to what happened to her so long ago, but Lachlyn refused to give that rapist-in-training that much control over her sex life.

      Sex wasn’t the problem, that much she knew. No, thanks to her mom’s disinterest, her lack of response, her fears had taken on a different form. Lachlyn refused to ask for anything, to give up even a small measure of her independence, to make space in her life for a man, to allow herself to ask for anything, even his company.

      Men liked to feel needed and Lachlyn refused to need anyone ever again.