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He and his two co-owners, Ulysses White and Everett Calhoun, a Brit and an American respectively, had made huge amounts of money in crypto-currency speculation, initially starting Black and White as an online vault that boasted better security than the banks in Switzerland. They’d enjoyed phenomenal success with it and from there had gone on to build a billion-dollar empire that encompassed finance, import-export, luxury hotels, construction, security and God knew what else. They had their fingers in so many pies even they probably didn’t know which was which.
The three of them were famous—or infamous, depending on how you looked at it—for being totally uncompromising both in business and in their private lives, for living however they wanted and not giving a damn.
Certainly Blackwood didn’t.
He was a womaniser who spent millions on massive parties, his luxury lifestyle the stuff of legend. He was renowned not only for his love of beautiful women but for his love of fine jewels. He was a highly regarded collector and connoisseur of gems, and was constantly being talked about on every news platform and every social media channel there was. The man seemed to thrive on attention, a master of the perfect sound bite and the off-the-cuff witty comment, making much of his humble origins as the son of a Sydney burlesque dancer.
He had the kind of confidence and cocky charm that only a lot of money and extreme good looks could buy, and was pretty much my opposite in every possible way. Which I suppose made it strange that I was so fascinated by him. Then again, maybe that was kind of the point; opposites were supposed to attract, weren’t they?
Not that he’d ever be attracted to me. With any luck he wouldn’t notice me at all.
I stared at him from beneath my lashes, watching his mesmerising smile along with all the other women around him. It was a thing of beauty, caught on the cusp between charming and wicked, promising all kinds of naughty, dirty things, and I found my heart beating a little faster than it had before.
He was dressed in an exquisitely tailored dark blue suit that showed off his long, tall, muscular frame to perfection, and he sat on the couch like a king holding court, the women his adoring courtiers.
His black hair was shaved on the sides of his head to leave a soft, spiky kind of Mohawk on top, highlighting the intensely masculine perfection of his face. He had a jawline so sharp you could cut yourself on it, high cheekbones that would do a Hollywood superstar proud and a long mouth that curled at the ends, pure sin and wickedness. His eyes were silver, the light colour emphasised by the thick black of his lashes, and were just as wicked as his mouth.
A pretty man. Maybe too pretty. At least he would have been if not for the piercing in his left eyebrow and the bright colours of the tattoos that peeked through the open neck of his black shirt.
But those things I already knew about. Those things only added an edge.
What I hadn’t understood until now, what all the articles and the interviews hadn’t told me, was that the real source of his power lay in his charisma. It radiated from him, an unholy mix of charm, confidence and focus, bathing people in its light. Rendering both men and women speechless with adoration.
I wasn’t overstating. It was simply a fact.
Watching him was like watching the sun rise after a dark, cold night.
He was in the middle of telling some ridiculous story, his handsome face full of expression, his silver gaze making eye contact with his rapt audience as he made fluid gestures with his large, long-fingered hands.
I tried to resist him, tried to take refuge in my usual distrust, yet still I found myself edging closer, trying to listen, his charm like a tractor beam reeling me in.
His voice rolled over me, rich and deep. He didn’t have that strange transatlantic accent that some ex-pats had, his Australian accent slight but there. He smiled as he told his story—some nonsense about a woman he’d once known back in Sydney, and her dog and her husband, Damian hiding in the closet.
His audience was enthralled, their eyes shining, laughing as he punctuated the story with jokes, some blatant, some dry.
He was a natural storyteller, weaving magic with his hands, and I nearly laughed myself at some ridiculous aside. Though I stopped the instant I realised what I was doing, appalled at myself.
Stupid.
I was letting myself be dazzled and I shouldn’t. I had a job to do and that wasn’t standing around watching him.
I was here to find the necklace he’d bought at a private auction three days earlier and take it back to its rightful owners, not get distracted by staring at his undeniably pretty face.
Making a few more adjustments to my tray, I kept an eye on Blackwood to make sure he stayed on that cripplingly expensive couch of his, only to freeze in place as he turned his head, the full force of his attention suddenly slamming into me.
The air seemed to thicken, the music fading, the rest of the party falling away, leaving only him, me and the incredible silver of his gaze. There was heat in those eyes, the promise of long, hot, decadent nights in silk sheets, the mysteries of sex revealed...
I couldn’t breathe, abruptly aware of the movement of the air across my skin in the humid night and the scratchy feel of my uniform; of the fabric pulling tight across my breasts and the fast beat of my heart.
Of an ache right down low inside me that felt strangely like...longing.
A dim part of my mind told me that I was being stupid, that he was just a man, nothing special. A good-looking man, sure, but not one I should be losing my head over. And yet... I couldn’t look away from him.
No one had ever looked at me the way he was looking right now. No one had ever even noticed me at all. I was ordinary. Unremarkable. Unmemorable.
I wasn’t a woman a man like him would ever look at twice.
Then he gestured at me, making shock pulse hard in my veins. Oh, my God. What the hell did he want?
You’re standing there dressed as a waitress, holding a tray of drinks. What do you think he wants?
Oh. Right. Yes. The uniform. He didn’t want me,he only wanted a waitress.
Forcing away the effects of his gaze, not to mention the odd dip in my stomach that definitely wasn’t disappointment, I concentrated on making sure my hands didn’t shake as I made my way towards him and his entourage.
The women were all pleading with him to finish his story—he’d stopped at a very important part, apparently—and thank God he looked away from me as I approached, his mouth curling. ‘Patience, ladies. Good things come to those who wait. Now, who else needs a drink?’
I came to a stop in front of him and held out the tray. He rose to his feet in one fluid, athletic movement, towering above me as he picked up the bottle, pouring liberal amounts into the glasses on the tray next to it. He didn’t look at me, too busy talking and laughing with a couple of the women next to him.
The tension that had gathered across my shoulders relaxed a fraction, even as the dip in my stomach intensified. He’d definitely looked at me because I was a waitress and he wanted a drink. No other reason. And just as well, since anonymity was my number one weapon and the reason Mr Chen’s business was so successful.
Go unnoticed. Stay under the radar. That was what he’d always told me and that was what I always did.
But you want to be noticed.
The thought slid through my brain like a snake.
No, that was ridiculous. Sure, being a reacquisition agent made for a lonely kind of existence, and sometimes I felt as though I was a ghost living in the walls of the city, passing by people unseen, leaving behind no trace of my presence. And, yes, there were times when I might have nursed a fantasy or two, late at night in my bed. Of having a lover. Someone to touch me and hold me when I was sad and lonely. Someone with whom to laugh and share the good times.
But Mr Chen had been very clear that it wasn’t possible to have that and be in the business I was in. Draw too much attention from anyone, and there was the risk that I’d find myself in a jail cell.
I couldn’t have that. I couldn’t put Mr Chen’s business and my livelihood in danger just because I was lonely. Which made the answer simple: I just wouldn’t be lonely. And so far I hadn’t been.
Shooting Blackwood a glance as he smiled at yet another adoring woman, I steadied my grip on the tray. It was slightly intimidating being this close to him after months of seeing him on a screen or in magazines. He was so much taller than I’d expected, even though the Internet had been very helpful as to his height and weight—six foot two, ninety kilos. He was a lot broader too. When he moved, his suit jacket pulled across his shoulders, highlighting the heavy muscle beneath it, and I could see by the way his trousers sat low on his lean hips that he probably didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.
He laughed as one of the women made a joke, and I felt the vibration of that laugh settle right down low inside me, a deep, purring, sexy sound.
No wonder he was a terrific man-whore. Who could resist him?
You, for a start.
Yes, well, luckily for me, resisting him wasn’t going to be an issue, as he hadn’t looked at me again since I’d come over with the drinks.
Not once.
Which was good and definitely not in any way a disappointment.
I was still staring at him and silently judging the people around him for their open adoration, when he turned and looked at me again.
And, as it had before, the impact of his gaze moved through me like slow, sensual lightning.
Then his mouth curled and he winked.
Shock rooted me to the spot and I gaped, unable to stop myself, but he’d already looked away, turning that brilliant, sexy smile onto someone else.
It was as if I’d been under a spotlight and the beam had shifted, plunging me into darkness and leaving me blinded.
My heart raced and I struggled to get a breath.
Not good, fool. Not good at all.
No, it wasn’t. I was staring at him like a rabbit in the headlights and if I didn’t shift my butt he was going to notice me again. And not in a good way.
Because the one thing I wasn’t supposed to do was gain his attention.
Damn it. I’d been so confident in my own ordinariness that I’d thought he’d never even look at me. Apparently, I was wrong.
It doesn’t matter. Get moving.
No, it really didn’t. After all, I wasn’t here to get his attention. I was here to get in, find the Red Queen, take it and get out again. Simple.
On that bracing thought, I gripped my tray and turned away from sexy Damian Blackwood and his entourage.
And got on with the business of robbing him blind.
CHAPTER TWO (#u9bfae314-9849-5a3e-9783-bf4fd66d8e82)
Damian
I SAT BACK on the couch with another glass of champagne and watched the sweet-faced little waitress who’d given me a pissy look disappear into the crowd with her now-empty tray.
It wasn’t often that women looked at me as if they’d like to punch me in the face. Men, sure. Women, no.
She’d been standing there staring at me, a watchful, still point in the chaos of the party around her, which should have made my eyes slide right over her. Yet the opposite had happened. Almost as if her stillness was the reason my attention had been drawn to her.
Her eyes had been very dark and absolutely unreadable, like the surface of a deep lake I couldn’t see the bottom of, and I’d found that interesting. So I’d winked at her, purely to see the surface of that lake ripple a little, and ripple it did; her shock at my attention had been loud and clear.
That she’d clearly not expected me to notice her was obvious, and I might have found that amusing if there hadn’t also been something else about her that had bothered me. Something I hadn’t been able to put my finger on. Something I should have been aware of...
But the ladies around me were begging me to finish the bullshit story I’d been telling them, and I couldn’t be bothered figuring out what the issue with the waitress was. Not when my public was demanding a performance.
I took a sip of my champagne and put it down—fucking hate the stuff—and leaned forward, continuing with my story. The ladies were thoroughly enjoying it, and I was thoroughly enjoying pleasing them, especially when they all erupted into laughter as I punctuated the end with a very off-colour joke.
That laughter was music to my ears, making me smile. Because if there was one thing that made life on this shitty planet worth living it was making a woman laugh. It was almost as good as making a woman come, and since I was extremely skilled at doing both I indulged myself and them as often as humanly possible. Occasionally at the same time.
I sat back on the couch, watching the ladies around me, satisfied that they were all having a good time. Then I scanned the crowd in general, making sure everyone else was as well, as I took my parties very seriously.
They were a chance for guests to let their hair down without worrying about the press or whether their name would be plastered all over the Internet the next morning. A chance to cut loose and relax with no rules and no judgement.
Correction. There were two rules: nothing illegal and no one took advantage of anyone.
I policed those two things religiously, my security staff confiscating any illegal substances, not to mention phones or other recording devices, and kicking out any person stupid enough to think they could take advantage of anyone else.
Only people with a verified invite could attend, plus I personally vetted all staff working during the event so that...
Wait a second.
I narrowed my gaze in the direction the waitress had gone, going over her face in my memory. It was eidetic, so it was impossible for me to forget—both a blessing and a goddamn curse.
Small, with a sweet, heart-shaped face. Short, dark-brown hair in a straight glossy bob grazing a sharp, determined chin. Black almond-shaped eyes. Not pretty in the traditional sense but with a certain something.
I mentally compared her features to the list of staff photos I’d requested from the Black and WhiteEnterprises catering company handling the party tonight.
No match.
If she wasn’t on the staff list then that could only mean one thing: she was a fucking gate crasher.
Shit. That was the last thing I wanted to deal with, especially as she’d probably end up being a reporter, because there were always reporters trying to gate crash my goddamn parties.
Tonight was supposed to be about celebrating me finally getting my hands on the Red Queen, a necklace I’d been chasing down for the last three months and had managed to buy at a private auction a few days ago.
I’d seen a picture of it in an article on famous jewels about two years back and had decided that, as rubies had been my mother’s favourite stone and I knew it was a piece she would have loved, I wanted to add it to my collection.
It would be the perfect advertisement for the jewellery auction that was to be part of the launch of the Black and White Foundation, a new non-profit organisation that Ulysses, Everett and I were hoping to get off the ground. I was putting up some of my more famous pieces as a fundraiser, and hopefully some of the proceeds would be going towards the new cancer research facility I’d set up back in Australia.
Yeah, jewellery might be a strange thing for a man like me to collect, but I liked a bit of glitter, especially against a woman’s skin.
Call it a holdover from my childhood, watching my mother and her friends get ready for their performances at the burlesque club where they’d worked. I hadn’t been allowed to see the show, but I’d loved watching them get ready. My always happy, always laughing mother, gossiping as she painted her face and did her hair, making herself look beautiful. The smell of greasepaint and hairspray in the air, the sparkle of jewelled and feathered costumes glittering in the light.
I had been a serious, quiet kid and she had taken her job of making the hand-to-mouth existence we led back then very seriously, trying to make it fun. Trying to get me to smile. It had mostly worked.
Until she’d died of cancer, of course.
But I didn’t think about those days. Instead, I buried them under glitter, good times and the joy of hunting down the perfect jewel. And the Red Queen had led me on quite a hunt. I’d loved every fucking second of stalking that piece down, but now it was safe in the vault in my office, I was going to have to find something else to turn on my hunter’s instincts...
That waitress, perhaps?
Ah, fuck. That’s right. The damn waitress.
Pushing myself up and out of the couch, I excused myself to the ladies and made my way through the crowd towards Clarence, the head of my personal security team, checking on people as I went like the good host I was.
Everett was here—he’d been in Hong Kong for one of his hush-hush meetings—and he gave me a look from where he was standing by the pool, lifting a blond brow. If Ulysses had been here, he would have scowled, but Ulysses wasn’t here. He was in London, where he always was, managing Black and White’s money from his bank of computers, boring bastard that he was.
Not that Everett was any more exciting. He was a man of few words and fewer smiles, and took his role of being responsible for company-wide security far more seriously than he should have. The guy really needed to lighten up.
I shook my head to indicate everything was fine and he gave a nod, turning his attention back to the action in the pool, where a famous actor and an equally famous musician had got rid of their clothing and were playing a game of naked tag.
Looked like fun. Sadly, I had business to attend to before I could join in.
