The Evolution of Man (The Trust Fund Duet 2)

There’s Damon Scott, leaning back like a king in his three-piece suit, which is a reasonable analogy considering he owns the Den. His fingers drum against cards facedown on the table.

Beside him is a man I don’t recognize, with deeply tanned skin and dark hair in wild disarray, his eyes a striking green. A man who can only be a bodyguard stands beside him, filling out his suit almost to bursting, his jaw hard-set. As I watch, Blue joins him and murmurs something.

Then there’s Christopher Bardot, who scans the cards he holds with pure calculation. I don’t really know what counting cards entails, but I’m sure he’s doing it. Not as part of any trick, but because his analytical, highly intelligent brain can’t help but solve the equation on the velvet table.

He looks up, his black eyes widening in surprise. “Harper,” he says, his voice low. Somehow intimate even as we sit in a roomful of people.

On the other side of the table are more men I don’t recognize, one young and determined, the other weathered and shrewd, both with a smaller pile of chips. A bodyguard stands behind a gorgeous woman with dark hair who has a large pile of chips.

And then there’s Sutton, sitting directly across from Christopher. He leans back, deceptively casual in his seat. He doesn’t look like a man about to meet me for a drink. I think he would have spent the whole night in here.

From across the room he catches my gaze. His blue eyes are wide as the sky above Gold Rush, leading me toward a horizon I’ll never reach. He looks at me with both desire and determination, as if he’s pushing me away. As if he wants me to choose Christopher. I’m about two seconds away from breaking completely, and these men are playing games. It makes me want to hurt him, even if it means hurting myself.

Sutton watches me with opaque blue eyes, his expression unreadable. It isn’t exactly welcoming, but I feel my body open to him anyway. To the warmth he emanates like a goddamn sun. One step, two. My hips sway to a rhythm only I can hear, and I feel some of my old confidence return. This is the Harper St. Claire wanted by every frat boy—and some of the sorority girls, too. This is the Harper St. Claire who owns the room.

This is Harper St. Claire, pressing the self-destruct button.

I’ll break into a million pieces, but I’ll take them all with me.

I don’t bother with anything so mundane as permission. I don’t wait for him to welcome me. Instead I throw myself into his lap, and he doesn’t miss a beat.

As if my body is made to fall. As if his is made to catch me.

Up close I can see the glint of bristle on his jaw, the tired lines under his eyes. Why is he playing a high-stakes game when he’s tired? A surge of affection takes me by surprise. Lust is something I understand. With a man built like him it’s only natural. I run my fingers through his golden hair, yanking a little before I let him go.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You want to play, Harper?”

There’s a pull deep inside my body, an answering yes that comes from the memory of how it can be between us. Hot. Intense. Devastating. “I’m just here to watch.”

A small smile. “Then watch.”

The words sound unbearably erotic, as if I’m going to watch something more intimate than a high-stakes poker game. I turn slightly in Sutton’s lap so that I can see the table. And his cards. I touch them with my forefinger, affecting a surprised look. “Hey, there’s one of these on the table!”

Sounds of muffled amusement come from around the table. The man with dark tousled hair gives a bark of laughter. “Watch your woman, Mayfair,” he says with a curl of his lip.

“She doesn’t belong to him,” Christopher says, his voice sharp.

Something flashes through his onyx eyes, something I’ve never seen there—violence. It’s cold and calculating, everything I know him to be. And terribly serious. I’m not sure whether he’s mad that the stranger’s words implied ownership—or that he said I belonged to Sutton instead of him.

An uneasy silence descends on the table, which makes me flutter my eyelashes at the stranger. “I’m sorry, I d

on’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Harper. Harper St. Claire.”

“Ms. St. Claire,” the man says with a look I suppose some women would find charming. It reminds me of a snake, the way it studies you before striking. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Sutton tenses. The words would be a compliment to a man. They’re the worst kind of insult to a woman. “You want to be careful,” he says softly, mirroring the earlier warning.

The man grins, looking like the dictionary entry for reckless. “I meant her artwork, of course. And her social causes. What was it you wanted to free? A post office?”

Asshole. “It was a library. And you are?”

He manages a small, mocking bow while remaining seated. “Victor Emmanuel, Prince of Piedmont. At your service, of course.”

“A prince.” I give a wide-eyed look. “Is that like Prince Harry? Are you going to marry a commoner? Oh, I do love a royal wedding.”

That earns me a lazy smile. “I suppose I haven’t met the right woman.”

The statement could be considered flirting if he hadn’t basically just called me a slut in a roomful of people. Does he think he could get away with that because he’s minor royalty? I can feel Christopher’s anger in the air, feel Sutton’s tension beneath me. From the corner of my eyes I see Blue and his bodyguards stiffen, as if preparing for a fight to break out.