Larenzo's Christmas Baby

‘I think she’s settled.’

He shook hands with the sitter and then, with one hand on the small of her back, he led Emma out of the apartment and into the elevator.

The elevator was huge, and yet it felt tiny and airless as they stood there, shoulders brushing, Emma’s stomach clenching hard with suppressed desire.

‘You look good too,’ she blurted, because how could she not say it?

Larenzo arched an eyebrow. ‘Thank you.’

She felt like an idiot, but she didn’t even care. Tonight she just wanted to enjoy this time with Larenzo. Pretend, even, that it really was a date. Tomorrow they could go back to the reality of being sort of friends. Tonight was for magic.

* * *

Larenzo gazed at Emma covertly, out of the corner of his eye. She looked so very lovely standing there, like a proud, emerald flame in her dress, standing tall and straight, her chin lifted. Her hair, usually caught in a practical ponytail, was loose about her shoulders and Larenzo’s palms itched with the desire and even the need to touch it. To slide his hands along her skull as he’d done the other night, but this time he wouldn’t stop. He wouldn’t ease away with regret. No, instead, he’d kiss her as he’d longed to then, deeply, exploring every sensitive curve and contour of her mouth, bringing her body in exquisite contact with his...

Too late Larenzo realised what this little fantasy was doing to him. He shifted discreetly, trying to ease the persistent ache in his groin, and then the doors of the elevator thankfully pinged open. It was going to be a long, uncomfortable night.

And yet he knew, as he took Emma’s arm and helped her into the waiting limo, that he was going to enjoy every moment of it, with Emma by his side.

That presumption was questioned just twenty minutes later when he entered the ballroom where the gala was being held and heard the murmurs of speculation ripple through the room. Heads turned, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. Whispers seemed to mock him from every corner of the room.

Larenzo tensed, and then glanced down at Emma, who was gazing around the ballroom, enraptured. Had she noticed? Was he being too sensitive, or even paranoid? God knew he’d learned to be suspicious about everything and everyone. Even Emma.

Which was why they would enjoy this one evening together, and no more.

He looked up, and met the gaze of a CEO he’d been on friendly terms with before everything had come falling down. The man nodded curtly and then looked away.

In the two months since he’d been in America, Larenzo had kept a low profile, meeting privately with investors and entrepreneurs, working hard to restore his reputation one individual at a time. He hadn’t gone to any major events because he hadn’t wanted a reaction like this one. Yet he’d also known he needed to get out, show his face, prove to the world he had nothing to hide.

Clearly that was going to be a harder task than he’d anticipated.

Straightening, he guided Emma towards the bar in the corner. ‘Champagne?’ he asked and she nodded happily.

‘Definitely.’

He procured glasses for them both and handed one to Emma. Tension was tightening the muscles in his shoulder blades, and he could feel the start of a headache. No one approached them, but he saw and felt the sideways glances, and knew Emma did too. She glanced up at him, her flute of champagne held to her lips.

‘I see what you mean about needing to restore your image,’ she said quietly.

He shrugged as if it were no matter, keeping his face blankly indifferent. He was good at that. He’d been hiding his emotions since he was a child, when the nuns at the orphanage took delight in your fear and considered any smile smug, laughter punishable.

‘Shall we go chat?’ Emma suggested brightly. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

He nodded tersely, dread pooling like acid in his stomach, corroding even the pleasure he had in being with Emma. It had been such a mistake to bring her tonight. He’d thought it would help, but now he cringed to think of her seeing his shame, the condemnation or at least awful curiosity on everyone’s faces. Everyone here was wondering if he was guilty.

‘Who should we talk to?’ Emma pressed. ‘What about the science technology guy? Is he here?’

Larenzo almost smiled at her tenacity. ‘He’s over there,’ he said, nodding towards the other side of the ballroom, and determinedly Emma stared forward. Larenzo did smile then, wryly, and he guided her to Stephen Blane, one man, at least, who didn’t think he was guilty. Or at least was willing to do business with him, guilty or not.