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I hold out my hand. “You must be Ivy.”
It’s a few seconds before she offers me her hand, like she still isn’t entirely sure she’ll go through with this. When she finally does, I take it carefully. She’s so small, her skin cool and as soft as silk.
“Alexander Maddox.”
“Nice to meet you, Alexander. I’m sorry I’m late.” Her voice is angelic. It’s sweet and soft, with the lightest smoky husk to it. I can’t help but notice there’s an innocence to her, but one that’s seen the harder edges of life. I might be losing my mind, but her voice is the most alluring sound I’ve ever fucking heard in my life. It makes me want to protect her—savagely, like a knuckle-dragging caveman—and it also makes me wonder if she’s got a good singing voice. I bet she does.
Are you losing your marbles, asshole?
It’s the sassy little attitude that’s getting me hotter than anything else. She’s not intimidated by me in the slightest—or she’s masking it very well.
Most people I meet are intimidated by me. I’m big, I’m powerful, I’m bad-tempered and I’m rich as fuck. More often than not, people are daunted by the combination.
But not this one. She’s feisty. Self-assured. Not remorseful in the least about keeping me waiting.
Her insolence is politely delivered, even if she chooses to call me by my first name, which hardly anyone I see on a daily basis does. Because I’m the boss. Her attitude makes me suddenly feel downright depraved. I have the raging urge to bring it down a notch in the most primal way imaginable. By stuffing my big cock between those ridiculously luscious lips. By making her moan until she fucking begs.
Okay, I really am losing it.
“I’ll forgive you.” But I want to rile her. To get a reaction. To ruffle that calm facade. “Once,” I add.
Her gaze lingers on mine. She bites her bottom lip gently and I watch her girlish white teeth barely sink into it. My cock hardens even more. Damn it.
She’s so damn beautiful.
Her eyes are amber-colored, framed by long, sweeping lashes. Warmth colors her cheeks but she doesn’t look away.
Good girl.
The wind is starting to pick up. I don’t want her to get too windblown. She’s too perfect for that. “Are you ready?” I open the door of the helicopter.
“Yes,” she says, and we both hold each other’s gaze, locked in a mutual fascination.
I help her climb in, fastening her seatbelt before taking my own seat.
Cleo deserves a goddamn promotion.
The pilot gets out to check that the doors are securely locked before climbing back in. Immediately the noise level drops. The Maddox helicopter was one of the last things my father bought before he died and it’s a no-expenses-spared piece of machinery. There are eight roomy seats and two tables in what looks like a swanky, upmarket lounge. A bottle of champagne has already been popped and sits in a refrigerated, see-through chiller.
I pour two glasses and hand her one. She takes it, and her fingers graze mine, causing those light flags of pink to warm her cheeks again.
“This wedding might be easier to deal with when inebriated rather than stone cold sober,” I warn her. Although—and the thought is an unfamiliar one—I suddenly find myself almost looking forward to the weekend.
“Whose wedding is it?” She takes a sip.
It’s impossible not to notice the contours of her body in that dress. The way the silk glides against her sweet, lush curves. I make a point of not staring but it takes effort. Her beauty is clean-looking, like she’s glowing from within with freshness and health. She’s absolutely gorgeous. “A friend from Harvard Business School. His name is Blake Anderson. His fiancee’s name is Leah Preston. I’ve known both of them for years. Blake asked me to be his best man.”
“Cleo said your ex is the wedding planner.” Her amber eyes are earnest. There’s no awkwardness in the mention of my “ex,” but it annoys me—not that Ivy has asked, but that she’s going to have to put up with Margot Russo for two entire days. I have the sudden urge to protect this exquisite girl from the hurricane of melodrama that always surrounds Margot.
“Yes. I’d hardly even call her my ex though.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to clarify this, but I do. “We dated for a short time and it was…well, it was a living hell, if you really want to know.”
She’s watching me, like she’s not sure if she believes me or not, or why I would be telling her that.
“I’m not sure how I let Noah and Cleo talk me into this,” I admit. “But thank you for being here. I’m going to apologize in advance for the scrutiny you’ll be under. People are going to be curious about the date I’m bringing.”
“It’s fine. I’ll put on a good show. That’s what you’re paying me for, right? And thank you, by the way. It’s very generous. I promise I’ll be worth the money.”
She’s already worth the money. And there’s an unrecognizable corner of me that wishes this wasn’t about money.
