London was too big, too gray, and everyone drove on the wrong side of the road like they were doing it just to spite me.
I'd spent the last twenty-four hours vibrating with a mix of jet lag and pure, unadulterated stubbornness. I'd found him through a Google search in an airport terminal, a press release for some "Vane International" merger.
In the photo, Julian stood among a group of starchy British suits, looking like a wolf that had been forced to wear a collar. His face was leaner, his eyes darker, but that shark-like edge was still cutting through the pixels.
I got lost twice. Once on the Tube, which felt like being a sardine in a very expensive tin, and once wandering through Mayfair looking for an address that didn't seem to exist. By the time I found the glass-fronted monolith where he worked, I looked like a disaster. My thrift-store boots were scuffed, my hair was a frizzy mess from the London drizzle, and my old flannel shirt was definitely not 'Mayfair chic.
I stood across the street, leaning against a damp stone wall, watching the black cars pull up to the curb.
What the hell am I doing? I thought, my fingers twitching at my sides. I should be back at Martha's, eating stale toast and listening to Silas talk about diaper brands.
But the thought of the ridge felt like a fever dream I'd finally woken up from.
A sleek, obsidian-black Bentley pulled up to the entrance. A driver stepped out, opening the rear door with a precision that felt clinical.
And then, there he was.
Julian stepped out. He looked immaculate in a navy blue suit that probably cost more than the diner's entire inventory. He looked like the king of the world, composed and untouchable. Until he turned his head.
He saw me.
Across four lanes of traffic and a sea of umbrellas, his gaze locked onto mine. He froze. I counted the seconds in my head, the world slowing down until the sound of the buses and the rain faded into a dull hum.
One. Two. Three.
He didn't move. He didn't blink. He looked horrified, as if he'd seen a ghost rising from the pavement.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
Then He snapped. He didn't wait for the light. He didn't signal his driver. He lunged across the street, dodging a black cab that honked its brains out, his eyes never leaving mine. He moved with a frantic, predatory grace that made my heart do a triple somersault in my chest.
He reached me in three strides. Before I could even open my mouth to drop a witty "Cheerio," his hand was there.
He didn't slap me. He didn't shake me. He grabbed me by the throat, not to choke me, but to claim me. His thumb pressed hard against the line of my jaw, forcing my head back, and then his mouth was on mine.
It wasn't a "gentlemanly" kiss. It was a devouring. He tasted like expensive espresso and the same dark, addictive desperation that had nearly ruined me in the penthouse. He kissed me like he was trying to swallow my soul, his tongue a demand I was more than happy to meet.
I dropped my suitcase. The sound of it hitting the sidewalk was muffled by the roar of the city, but I didn't care. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my fingers tangling in his perfectly groomed hair, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single atom of London air between us. Just his mouth on mine, and the sound of his deep groan with my heavy breathing.
He finally pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. His breathing was ragged, a sharp contrast to the polished man who had stepped out of the car.
"You," he hissed, his voice a rasp of disbelief and hunger. "You're supposed to be on the ridge. You're supposed to be with the mountain man. Or whatever it is you call him."
"The mountain man is busy picking out baby names with a blonde who has the personality of a damp napkin," I panted, my childish wit returning like a long-lost friend. "And I realized I'm not really a 'nature' girl, Julian. I prefer the view from forty floors up. Even if the landlord is a sociopath."
Julian's grip on my throat tightened just a fraction, his eyes dilating until they were almost entirely black. A slow, dangerous smirk spread across his face, the look of a man who had just found his favorite toy at the bottom of a gutter.
"You look like hell, Alina," he murmured, his gaze traveling over my worn flannel and messy hair with a look of pure, unadulterated worship. "You look absolutely foul."
"Missed you too, you prick," I whispered.
"I'm going to ruin you," he breathed, his mouth grazing my ear. "I'm going to take everything you have left and make sure you never even remember the name Silas Mercer."
"Promises, promises," I said, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his chest. "Now are you gonna take me up to your fancy office and show me your big, shiny desk, or are we just gonna give the London public a free show?"
Julian didn't answer. He just grabbed my suitcase with one hand and kept his other hand firmly on the back of my neck, steering me toward the Bentley like I was his most prized, stolen possession.
The shark had his girl back.