As though the words conjure him to life, as soon as I send the message, Aiden O’Connor appears in the hall, sycophants swarming at both sides. My hand loosens on my phone and the glass of champagne I’m still holding, almost sending them both careening to the floor, but I maintain my grip at the last second.
There hadn’t been any photos of him online and I only know it’s him because one of the men at his side thrusts a hand in his direction. “Mr. O’Connor, you’ve been a hard one to track down. I’m—” I don’t hear the rest because a swell from the band drowns out the words, but I don’t care. I don’t need to hear anymore. Seeing him is enough to make me want to leave without accomplishing a damn thing I set out to do.
Without realizing it, my feet have transported me backward into the doorway leading to the terrace. Most of the partygoers are there, hovering around blackjack and craps tables. Eagerly awaiting the start of the gambling. People with money sure do love to play games with it. My back smacks into the doorframe, but I barely feel a thing.
It’s golden hour, the perfect time for an arc of waning sunlight to streak through the floor to ceiling windows and surround him in a brilliant halo. Like he’s a fallen angel. His sinner’s mouth, so full and tempting, is like art as it forms a response, but there’s a buzzing in my ears drowning it out.
The black suit clinging to his muscular body is perfect tailored around his broad shoulders, trim waist, and thick thighs. A snowy white button up strains over well-toned pectorals and parts at his neck, revealing a wealth of tattoos. The only one I can discern at a distance is a death moth at the base of his throat. The rest are shadows of ink—all black—that cover every available surface aside from his face. The fingers of one hand, covered in rings, dance as he twists a lone black and gold casino chip around his knuckles. He prowls through his admirers, a ready smile on his lips, but it’s one that doesn’t quite reach his stormy gaze.
It's a long time before I can tear my gaze away to note there are two men on his heel. One dressed in an understated black suit like the attendant at the front door. A quick study dismisses him as an assistant or bodyguard, maybe? He sticks to the background, eyes attentive and rejects offers of champagne to murmur into an earbud he touches every few seconds like it doesn’t fit quite right.
The other must be one of O’Connor’s friends, because he sticks close to his side. His wide, manic smile a ready punctuation to whatever he whispers in O’Connor’s ear. He’s dressed much more casually in a pair of black pants and an untucked white button up that’s buttoned halfway up, at best. A variety of gold chains adorn his neck and hang over the sleek muscles of his exposed chest. His hands frequently dive into dark, riotous curls, making them a wild mess around his angular, striking face.
To ease the ache in my stomach, I polish off the rest of my champagne and divert my gaze. A ready server is nearby, appearing as though out of nothing, and replenishes my glass with only a smile. I should pace myself—I’m going to need a clear head for what I have planned—but I down it in several long gulps.
When the fizziness and warmth of the alcohol melt away my nerves, I look up and freeze.
Because Aiden O’Connor glares right back at me from beneath a blank white half-mask, his heavy brows furrowed, silver eyes piercing.
Staring at me like he knows I shouldn’t be there.
