Breathe You In (Sweet Torment 1)

Chapter One

So you see, sir, the new rehabilitation facility would really benefit the citizens of New York,” I said, trying to tamp down my growing anxiety, and mentally chanting that I would not vomit from panic.

House Representative Walter Miller was short, bald, and wore a permanent scowl, which only heightened my already-skyrocketing blood pressure. But he also had influence over this year’s proposed state budget.

I shifted my weight. Between the nearby clinking of champagne flutes and the low conversations being held by some of New York’s elite, I felt like a sore thumb in the middle of the high-class gala I was attending.

“What was your name again?” he asked, shuffling in his tuxedo and draining his brandy.

“Amy Underwood. I work with New Beginnings, a nonprofit addiction counseling, prevention, and rehabilitation—”

“Yes, I’m aware of your organization. And, young lady, while it’s admirable that you’re trying to get funding for that little facility, Arbor Hill is not an effective use of state dollars.”

“But that’s where people need help the most, sir. The substance abuse rate is higher there than in the whole of Albany put together.”

His beady eyes looked over the top of his glasses and very much down at me. Suddenly, the cream couture sheath dress I’d borrowed from my roommate, Paige, felt cheap, as Miller’s judgmental glare burned a hole right through me.

“And you are so concerned because you grew up there?” He phrased it as a question, but it held a negative, probing undertone.

“No, sir. I live there now, but I’m originally from Indiana. I moved to New York a few months ago.”

“I see. Well,” he lifted his now-empty glass, “good evening, young lady.”

He didn’t even bother looking me in the eye. He just waddled off and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me standing with an erratic pulse and LOSER stamped on my forehead.

“Shit,” I breathed. Walter Miller had been my one chance, and I’d blown it. Paige had put her job on the line to sneak me into this political function tonight, and I hadn’t even hit the two-minute mark before Miller had shut me down.

The whole reason I’d moved to New York and taken the entry-level job at New Beginnings was that people needed the rehab center. There were seven other employees with the same Level One job description as me, and only one Level Two position available. If I got this funding, I’d get that Level Two job and really be able to make a difference—not to mention benefits and a livable wage so that I could afford to stay in New York.

I closed my eyes briefly, hoping the rejection would wash away as quickly as it had come, but it didn’t. Instead, I felt like an ignorant, small-town girl in a borrowed dress and stilettos that were both a size too small.

It was a feeling I knew well, and had hoped I’d never experience again.

Everything I had fought for this past year—my fresh start and take-charge attitude, coming to New York to rebuild my life—was crumbling around me. No matter how hard I tried, my sister’s death was still a haunting memory I couldn’t fix. Smoothing my long blonde hair, thankful I’d worn it down because my dress was more revealing than I was used to, I walked to the bar.

“Ow—” An elbow jabbed into my side and I nearly toppled over, scuffing my—Paige’s—pumps along the floor to keep from falling. Regaining my balance, I looked up and saw a tall, well-manicured woman walking away, apparently with no regard for the fact that she’d just run into me. Maybe one of the many shiny diamonds she was wearing had blurred her vision, or maybe she didn’t give a damn that she had practically walked right over me. My guess was the latter. Running my palms down my dress, I continued toward the bar.

“What can I serve you, ma’am?” the bartender asked. He was dressed in all white, from his button-down shirt and vest to his pants and shoes.

“May I have a blueberry vodka and tonic, please?”

“Coming right up.”

I placed my hands on the counter and reminded myself not to fidget.

Fidgeting shows you’re ill-bred and insecure, a voice sizzled through my mind. The same voice I’d been running from for the past two years. For a long time, I had made it a point to stay out of situations that made me feel inferior, that put on display all my shortcomings and flaws. Problem was, the career path I had chosen required me to talk to powerful people.

Powerful people control the money, Paige always said.

Taking another deep breath, I wished for the millionth time that it wasn’t true. Not only was my anxiety rising, but I had no interest in politics or money. I just wanted to get this center built.

The bartender placed my drink before me.

“Thank you.” I took a long swallow. The cold liquor burned going down my throat, but it was something that I very much needed in that moment.

“You don’t belong here,” said a rough voice behind me.

I looked over my shoulder and nearly toppled out of my heels. A pair of dark eyes bore down on me. Even more startling, the eyes were attached to a tall, chiseled man with equally dark hair and features.

My lungs stilled and my stupid heart suddenly decided to stop pumping blood. Did he know I hadn’t been invited? If he did and tied it back to Paige, her job could definitely be in danger.

Shit, shit, shit!

“I…that’s just—”

“I meant it as a compliment,” he said, forestalling my stuttering.

“Oh.” Not the most intelligent thing to say, but getting my synapses to communicate with each other in that moment was a challenge: He was hovering over me and taking up the oxygen I needed.

I couldn’t look away from him. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’d seen him. He was younger than most of the men here. Early thirties maybe. Beneath the well-t

ailored tuxedo, I could tell he was fit. Between the way he held himself and that intense stare, the man radiated power and strength.

“I saw you talking to Walter.” My shoulders sank and I took another sip of my drink. “Don’t let him bother you. He’s an ass, especially after a few brandies.”

I smiled at the handsome stranger. He was the first nice person I’d met all night. His strong jaw was cleanly shaven but between the tan skin and thick, chocolate hair, I guessed he could shave every day and still have stubble by five p.m. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had Italian ancestry.

He pulled out a bar stool and offered me a seat. I took it.

“Your feet must be killing you.” He looked at the four-inch red heels I was wearing. While they were sexy and gave my usual five-foot three-inch stature a nice boost, they hurt like a mother.

“I’m thinking of writing a letter to my local assemblyman, telling him that torture devices do exist in the US.” I wiggled my feet and—holy hell!—Mr. Handsome unleashed a dazzling smile, complete with dimples and so much male swagger it should have been considered a weapon.

He knelt down and cupped my calf in his warm palm. I almost jerked out of my seat at his unexpected touch. Before I could form words, he slipped one stiletto off, then the other, and placed them beneath the stool.

“Can’t have you being tortured on my watch.”

Trying to relocate my mind and figure out how my panties had gotten a bit damp in a matter of seconds, I folded my lips together to keep from speaking. That onyx glare shot to my mouth. There was an odd contradiction to him. Influence and capability were obvious at the surface, but there was a glimmer of something deeper going on behind the kempt facade. An expression like that came from a man who had seen certain things and lived a life very different from one I could imagine, yet he coaxed me to go barefoot at a thousand-dollars-a-head dinner like I had nothing to be ashamed of.