Chapter One
One Night With The Forbidden Billionaire
Parker
Why the fuck did I agree to this?
The camera flashes are like lightning strikes, blinding and relentless, and I’m the unlucky tree getting hit repeatedly. My jaw tightens as the paparazzi swarm, shouting questions.
“Mr. Devlin! What can we expect from River?”
“Parker, is it true the app could disrupt the financial sector?”
“Is your family attending the gala this weekend?”
“Mr. Devlin! Over here!”
I swear, if one more reporter shoves a mic under my nose, I might throw it into the street.
“Mr. Devlin! Over here!”
I don’t know what’s colder, the wind or my mood.
I duck my head. “If these people get any closer, they’ll be asking me for my blood type.”
I hate cameras. Hate them. Always have, always will. My bodyguard, Jordan, muscles through the crowd, carving a path to the revolving doors of the Hilltop Hotel. The hotel looms above me, its massive glass facade glittering against the night sky.
His hand hovers protectively near my back, but I’ve dealt with these vultures long enough to know how to keep moving without flinching.
Connor steps out of his car behind me, already wearing a sleek black mask that covers the upper half of his face. He’s grinning like he’s having the time of his life.
“Did you miss the memo, Parker?” he teases, handing me a matching mask.
I snatch it from him. “If the memo was about wasting my fucking evening at a party I don’t want to be at, then yeah, I missed it.”
Connor adjusts his mask, his grin widening. “It’s called networking, boss man. You should try it sometime.”
“I call it torture,” I mutter, slipping the mask on. It fits snugly, leaving my mouth free but shrouding the rest of my face. “Happy now?”
“Thrilled. Now, let’s go before Lila decides you’re enemy number one again.”
We step inside, and the air shifts from frigid to warm, almost stifling. The ballroom is dimly lit, the walls draped in black and gold, with chandeliers casting a soft glow over the scene. People in masks and expensive gowns move like shadows across the polished floor.
A string quartet plays a haunting melody in the background, setting an almost otherworldly tone. Couples twirl on the dance floor, their laughter muffled by the music. Servers glide between groups, balancing trays of champagne flutes.
Connor claps me on the back. “See? Not so bad. You just have to smile, nod, and pretend you care for thirty minutes. Then you can sneak off to the suite I booked for you.”
I shoot him a look. “Thirty minutes, huh? Let’s make it twenty.”
“Baby steps.” He beams and melts into the crowd, already schmoozing with board members like the politician he should’ve been.
I head straight for the bar. The bartender nods as I approach. “Whiskey, neat.”
The glass lands in front of me within seconds. I take a sip, savoring the burn.
Then, I see her.
She’s leaning against the bar a few feet away, swirling her drink in her hand like it’s the only thing keeping her sane. Her gown clings to her figure, a deep emerald green with a plunging neckline and thin straps that reveal pale, beautiful skin. The satin catches the light every time she moves, shimmering like a jewel.
Her brown hair is pinned up, but a few strands frame her face.
It’s her eyes behind the mask that pull me in, green, though they seem almost black in the dim light. They’re sharp, scanning the room like she’s calculating how fast she can leave without anyone noticing.
I’m not the only one out of place here.
I get off my stool and occupy the stool beside her. “You look like you hate this party as much as I do,” I say, leaning closer.
She turns to me, one brow arched beneath her delicate mask. “Hate is a strong word. But yeah, I’m not exactly thrilled to be here.”
“Not your scene?”
“Not even in the slightest.”
“Same. Let me guess, dragged here by someone who claimed it would be ‘fun’?”
She laughs softly, and it’s a low, warm sound that catches me off guard. It makes me want to smile. “How’d you know?”
“Wild guess. My so-called best friend is somewhere in this crowd, convincing people I’m enjoying myself.” I take another sip of whiskey. “Who do I have to blame for your misery?”
She tilts her glass toward me. “That’d be my best friend, Jasmine. Said I needed to ‘let loose.’” She rolls her eyes. “This is not what I had in mind.”
I chuckle, the sound surprising even me. “Yeah, this isn’t exactly my definition of fun either.”
“What is your definition of fun?”
I pause, caught off guard by the question. “Not this.”
“What is?”
“I feel like we should know each other a little better before I tell you what my definition of fun is.”
“Ooh.” She smiles, flashing perfect teeth. “Mysterious.”
“Well, I do have a mask.”
She grins, and it’s a quick, mischievous thing that makes something in my chest tighten. “Well, you’re in luck. I have an idea.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Probably not. But it’ll be better than standing here pretending to enjoy overpriced whiskey.” She downs the rest of her drink and sets the glass on the bar.
“What kind of idea are we talking about?”
She steps closer, and her scent, floral and warm, wraps around me.
“Dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“Yeah, you know, that thing people do when there’s music playing?”
Her grin widens as she shakes her body, and her teeth sink into her bottom lip like she’s daring me to say no.
“I don’t dance.”
“Perfect. Neither do I.” She grabs my hand, her fingers cool against mine. “Come on. Live a little.”
For a second, I consider saying no. I should. But before I can stop myself, I down the rest of my drink, set the glass down, and let her pull me toward the dance floor.
“What the hell am I doing?” I mutter under my breath.
She glances back at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Having fun, maybe?”
The music shifts as we reach the edge of the dance floor. It’s slower now, sultry, the kind of melody that drips with tension. She stops, turning to face me, her hand still in mine.
“Ready?”
“Not even a little.”
“Good.” She steps closer, her other hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “Just follow my lead.”
Then she moves in, her body aligning with mine until there’s no space left to pretend this is just a dance. Heat flares where her gown grazes my suit, silk on wool, a subtle friction that seems to ignite every nerve. Her breath mingles with mine, soft and steady, and the barest tilt of her head brings her lips tantalizingly close.
My hand settles at her waist, hesitant, fingers barely pressing against the fabric. But she leans in, a subtle shift that answers without words. Her eyes catch mine, wide and unguarded, and suddenly the room collapses away, the music and chatter reduced to a distant drone.
“You’re better at this than you let on”
“Don’t get used to it.”
She laughs again, and the sound wraps around me, loosening something tight in my chest. “I don’t do this, you know?”
“What? Force strange men to dance with you?”
She chuckles. “You’re grinning a lot for someone being forced, you know?”
“What can I say? I’m a nice person.”
My hand hovers just above the curve of her ass, and I can feel my length pressed against her. If she can feel it, she doesn’t give a hint. This isn’t me: I don’t dance. I don’t spend my night laughing with masked women, but maybe my hidden identity is why I’m acting out of character.
“What’s on your mind?”
I stare down at her, her green eyes holding mine. She feels perfect in my arms. My gaze drops to her heart-shaped red lips, and I wonder what they taste like, cherry? The thought grips me, and refuses to let go. The alcohol must’ve gone to my head because I can feel myself hardening right there on the dance floor.
“Mr. Blue-eyes,” she says, her voice low. “You still haven’t told me what’s on your mind.”
“You really wanna know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to.”
“What’s on my mind is I want to know what you taste like.” Before she can say anything, I continue, “And I know that’s a crazy thing to say to someone I literally met a few minutes ago, but I can’t stop thinking about kissing you.”
She stares at me for a second, freezing in my arms. “What if I say I’m thinking the exact same thing?”
Just like that, my entire night takes a turn.