Billionaire Boss's Unexpected Child

He shrugs. “I have no idea. I know they like theater, so you should be able to talk to her about that if nothing else.”

“Lovely.”

He’s looking at me again, and there’s a dangerous glint in his eyes, like he’s a man on the edge and I’m the one he blames.

“Let’s go,” he mutters. He walks toward the door and pulls it open, waiting for me. I walk past, keeping my eyes straight ahead. We take the elevator down to the lower level, get into the back of the limo, and then we’re away.

The truth is, I’m having a hard time pretending indifference to him. His dark, intense gaze undid me the moment I saw him at the Calla Club, and it’s only more potent now that I know the passion that lies behind it. Flashes of that night, of the things he did to me, keep crossing my mind as we sit in the back of the limo, and the spacious car suddenly feels as cramped as the little used Honda I drove through high school and college.

We sit through the ride in silence until we pull up in front of a sprawling mansion in one of the more exclusive suburbs. Our driver gets out, and Dante looks at me. I’m sitting in the seat across from him.

“Sit over here so they can sit next to each other,” he says, and I quickly move over to the seat beside Dante’s.

“You don’t have to sit all the way over there,” he says in a wry tone. “We’re at least supposed to act like we can somewhat tolerate each other.”

I take a deep breath and scoot a little closer to Dante, and then the door opens and an elegant woman with snow white hair and a stunning black gown slides into the seat across from mine, just as a man in a tux seats himself across from Dante.

“Stunning as always, LeeAnn,” Dante says, briefly shaking the woman’s hand. “Nice to see you, John,” he says to the man who has silvery hair and a goatee to match. “LeeAnn and John Carver, this is my friend Samantha Day.” I shake hands with both of them, and then Dante is chatting with John and LeeAnn and I start gushing about the show we’re about to see. We’re at the theater before I know it, and I’ve decided that I like LeeAnn a lot. She’s as much of a musical theater geek as I am, except that she’s seen more live shows.

An usher guides us to our seats, except of course we’re not sitting where everyone else sits. He leads us to a private VIP balcony. There’s a door, and the usher closes it behind him as he leaves. In the VIP box, there are four cushy-looking seats, and we have an amazing view of the stage. I expected LeeAnn and John to sit next to each other, but it ends up that Dante and I are sitting beside each other, John next to Dante, and LeeAnn next to me. I’m glad to have her there; chatting with her distracts me from having Dante so close to me. I swear I can feel the heat emanating from his body, and the scent of his cologne is making me feel warm. I had that same scent all over my skin the night I spent with him, and I know I’ll never forget it.

I can almost forget about him, though, once the show starts. Every moment of the show, every song, every dance, has my heart pounding, and I can’t stop smiling. This, what these amazing people on stage are doing, is what I’m meant for.

At one point, I swear I can feel Dante’s eyes on me, and I turn to look at him. He’s watching me intently, and I blush and look away.

The first act wraps up, and the house lights come up

for the intermission. John and LeeAnn say they’re going to get a drink and ask Dante if we’re coming. Dante shakes his head and says he’ll see them in a while. When they leave, Dante and I sit there in awkward silence for a bit. He’s watching me, and it’s almost like a caress.

***

Dante

She’s so fucking gorgeous I can’t take my eyes off her. I can’t do this anymore. I’m out of my mind being near her and not touching her, and the excitement in her eyes, the little smile she wore through much of the first act, only made her even more beautiful.

“You seem really into this,” I finally say, determined to break the ice. The ice I put there, and never should have. She’s clearly not falling apart over me, so my whole “I don’t fuck virgins” thing seems pointless now. And if I don’t have her again soon, I’m going to lose my mind.

She glances at me, and she’s too happy to be wary of me. “This is amazing. Everything. The choreography, the music, the sets, the costumes! Oh, my god, the costumes,” she says, smiling and shaking her head. “They’re all so talented, and I’m going to remember seeing this show forever.”

“I have no idea what’s going on in the show,” I tell her, and she gives me a glance.

“Yeah, you have to listen to the lyrics a bit to pick up all of the details,” she finally says with a laugh.

“That’s not it.”

“No?”

“No. Kinda hard to pay attention to anything else when all I can do is stare at you.”

She swallows, and I can see her pulse jumping at the base of her throat.

“The show’s more interesting, I’m sure,” she finally says.

“Not even close.”

She looks away, and I reach out and run my fingertips over her shoulder and down her arm. I feel her tremble beneath my touch, and I know this little cool and professional act she’s put on with me all week is just that: an act. She’s as affected by me as I am by her.

I run my fingertips back up her arm, her shoulder, up the side of her neck, and she lets out a shaky breath. When I lean over and press my lips to her shoulder, I take the fact that she doesn’t back away as a good sign.