Poison

Aaron

I had attended enough parties like this one to know exactly when to leave.

It usually happened right after the toast, when the champagne stopped hiding the desperation in the room and the smiles began to crack around the edges.

I stood by the fireplace in Gordon Vale's great room with a glass of water in my hand, watching the city's elite parade their sins beneath the chandeliers.

The room exploded. Applause. Whistles. Flashes going off like gunfire.

I didn't clap.

"Try to look like you don't hate everyone in this room…" Elena murmured as she stepped up beside me, her tablet pressed to her chest and her dark eyes scanning the crowd.

Elena was appointed as the manager of Empire Group three months ago. She was the only woman in the company who could talk to me like that.

"I don't hate them," I replied dryly, keeping my gaze straight ahead. "Hating them would require acknowledging they matter. How much longer, Elena?"

"Ten minutes. You made your appearance. You shook Gordon's hand. The board will be satisfied." She checked her watch. "Once the happy couple kisses for the cameras, we slip out the side doors."

"Can't wait," I said.

At the center of the dance floor, Nathan Vale, the arrogant, silver-spoon heir to Vale Logistics, let go of the woman beside him and dropped to one knee.

The whole room gasped. Phones went up.

He opened a velvet box. "Marry me, Raven."

Gordon tilted the microphone toward her.

Raven Vance.

My pulse did a faint, unnatural hitch that irritated me instantly.

She was wearing champagne silk that skimmed her body like liquid gold, yet there was nothing soft about her. She didn't stand like the socialites who drifted through events like this. Every line of her posture looked taut, as if she were holding herself together by force.

Eight days ago, she had parked my car and tried to keep my keys.

She was the daughter of my primary political enemy, a man currently trying to pass legislation that would strangle Empire Group's shipping lines.

By all logic, she was poison.

Yet I couldn't look away.

She didn't answer. She just looked at her father.

One second. Two. Three.

Nathan's smile began to stiffen.

Senator Vance took the microphone out of Gordon's hand and laughed into it. "Look at that. She's speechless." The room laughed with him. "I'll take that as a yes."

And then, while the cameras kept flashing and the crowd applauded like trained seals, Raven turned her head toward her father and mouthed four silent words.

What the fuck are you on?

I blinked once, caught off guard.

"What the fuck are you on…" I repeated under my breath, reading her lips.

A laugh almost escaped me.

Not because it was funny… because it was so wildly inappropriate.

It's not every day you see a senator's daughter stand in front of three hundred people and silently tell her father he'd lost his damn mind.

Interesting, indeed.

She wasn't finished.

She reached into the velvet box and took out the ring. Then she leaned into the microphone in her father's hand.

"Since my father's answering for me tonight," she said, "he can marry you."

She dropped the ring into his bourbon.

Clink.

Without a backward glance, she turned and walked right off the dance floor.

A low murmur rippled through the room as the guests traded scandalized whispers. Nathan was still on one knee, holding an empty box. Senator Vance's smile strained, his eyes flashing with panic as he tried to laugh off his daughter's exit as nerves.

"Well," Elena murmured beside me, her eyebrows raised. "That was certainly not on the itinerary."

"No," I agreed softly, my eyes tracking Raven's retreating figure as she vanished through the kitchen door.

"It's time," Elena said, tapping her tablet. "Your car is out front. I will handle Gordon and the press."

I nodded and set my untouched water down on a passing waiter's tray.

I slipped out the front doors, away from the press. The doors muffled the noise of the party, restoring the silence I preferred.

It had started to rain.

The valet brought my car around. I was reaching for the door when a flash of champagne silk came around the side of the house.

Raven.

She walked straight past me without a glance, took a helmet off the mirror of a white-and-blue BMW idling at the curb, hiked her dress up to her thighs and swung a leg over the bike.

"Hey! That's my—" its owner shouted.

She twisted the throttle and tore down the drive, her rear tire spitting water across the gravel.

A senator's daughter stealing a bike! Again, interesting!

I got behind the wheel of my matte-black Aston Martin and pulled out after her.

I watched her take Linden Ridge far past the legal speed limit.

She rode like she was trying to outrun her own life.

My hands tightened on the leather of my steering wheel.

At the bottom of the ridge, instead of turning left toward the city, my foot pressed down on the accelerator.

I kept a distance, watching the red taillight of her bike cut through the fog.

The city thinned around us. Glass towers gave way to warehouses, rail yards and empty loading docks washed silver by the rain. The only sounds were the hiss of my tires on the wet road and the distant growl of her bike ahead.

She glanced briefly in her side mirror.

I eased off the gas on instinct, not wanting her to think I was following her.

Which was exactly what I was doing.

Fuck. What the hell was I doing?

The absurdity hit me like a bucket of ice water.

I was Aaron Wylder. I didn't follow random women. I didn't get distracted by political drama, and I certainly didn't chase bike-stealing senator's daughters in the middle of the night.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I muttered to myself, and slammed my foot onto the brake pedal.

The Aston Martin slowed quickly and rolled to a stop on the empty road.

I shifted into reverse, turned the wheel and made a clean U-turn before accelerating back toward the penthouse I had moved into recently.

I had gone less than three hundred yards when a motorcycle engine screamed through the fog behind me.

Bright headlights flooded my rear windshield.

Before I could react, the bike roared past my driver's side, swerved violently into my lane and locked its brakes. The rear tire skidded sideways, blocking both lanes of the road.

I slammed on the brakes.

The Aston Martin shuddered violently and stopped only a few feet from the bike.

Smoke and steam rose from the wet pavement.

The rider didn't move. She kept one foot planted on the asphalt, the bike idling with a deep, gut-rumbling growl.

Slowly, she reached up, unlatched the helmet and pulled it off, letting her wild hair cascade over her bare shoulders.

Raven.

For three long seconds, neither of us moved.

Rain lashed against the windshield, turning the taillights into blurred smears of gold and red. Steam rose from the wet asphalt between my bumper and her front tire, swirling around her like smoke.

Raven didn't bother lowering the kickstand. She killed the engine and let the stolen BMW tip onto its side in the middle of the road, deliberately blocking both lanes.

Then she swung one leg over the bike.

She walked toward my passenger side with the confidence of someone who had never asked for permission in her entire life. Water glistened on her bare shoulders, the champagne silk soaked dark, wet strands of hair clinging to her jaw.

She stopped beside the tinted window.

Tap.

Tap.

She tapped two sharp nails against the glass.

Our eyes met through the dark tint.

She simply tilted her head, lifted those two fingers and curled them once.

Unlock it.

Every instinct I possessed told me to shift into gear, drive around the bike and erase this entire encounter from my night.

She was Marcus Vance's daughter. She was chaos wearing silk. She was the kind of complication I had spent my entire life avoiding.

And yet…

My thumb hovered over the lock. "No," I muttered to myself.

The word sounded convincing. But the click of the central lock disagreed.

The passenger door swung open.

Raven slipped inside before the mechanism had even finished unlocking.

She shut the door, sealing us inside the quiet cabin. Cold air rushed in with her, carrying the scent of rain, wet silk, vanilla perfume and gasoline.

Without asking, she tossed the helmet onto the back seat, wiped a stray drop of water from her cheekbone with the back of her hand and stared straight ahead through the windshield.

"Drive," she ordered.

I didn't touch the gear shift. I kept both hands resting at ten and two on the leather steering wheel.

My posture stayed perfectly straight. "I don't remember putting a taxi meter on this car," I said dryly. "Nor do I recall offering chauffeur services to runaway brides."

Only then did she look at me. Those storm-gray eyes settled on mine, bright with restrained fury. "Save the dry wit for your board meetings, Wylder," she snapped, and leaned back. "Drive the fucking car."

I didn't blink. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't throw you back into the street."

A corner of her mouth lifted. "Because my father's security detail has been following me since I left the party." She glanced into the passenger mirror. "Two SUVs." Then she glanced back at me. "They're about thirty seconds away."

I held her gaze. "That sounds like a Vance family crisis. Why, exactly, is that my problem?"

A sharp, bitter smirk curved her lips. She leaned slightly toward me, invading my personal space without a shred of hesitation.

"It became your problem," she replied calmly, "the moment you decided to follow me."