Page 20

That should be his focus.
And yet, he found himself captured by Polly. He noticed that many men were. Her long hair fell in waves over her shoulders. Her body was on tempting display, barely covered by the liquid gold gown she wore.
And after this, she would be leaving his life forever. It was the thing he had been avoiding thinking about. Suddenly, it was all he could think of. It filled his mind, filled his vision.
She had been everything these past few years. She had been compelling, constant, consistent.
She was the content of the inner workings of his life. And he could not remember a time when he did not have her.
At the same time, he wanted to bury his fingers in her hair and claim that sweet mouth for himself.
He thought that, standing right in the glittering ballroom where everyone was celebrating a successful summit.
He thought only of kissing Polly.
What if he did? What if he claimed the one thing he should not have? What if he claimed the one thing he should not want? How different would it feel?
Perhaps he could do something with this gnawing ache. This craving, by making it real.
Suddenly, sex became something different. Something beyond the usual appetite, something beyond even a general craving.
He would die if he did not have her. He was not a man given to excess. And so this first experience of wanting something excessively was like a drug.
He had never taken those either. Only because he knew himself to be a man of obsession. A man who would likely lose himself entirely if addiction were to ever meet obsession.
And yet, that was what she felt like.
Addiction. Obsession.
Something he could not control.
People were dancing. He never partook in such things. These were nothing more than business events to him, and he did not participate in the more festive aspects. But as he saw her standing there on the edge of the dance floor looking on, he realized that either she would stand there alone—which was a crime all on its own—or another man would ask her to dance. Another man would take her in his arms.
He could not allow that. He crossed the room to her. “Luca—”
“Dance with me,” he commanded.
“What?”
“You do not need me to repeat myself. You heard me. Dance with me.” He realized then that he had repeated himself anyway.
“Oh.”
That was neither an affirmation nor a rejection. So, he took her hand without waiting for either one. He brought her out to the dance floor and pulled her against his chest. The contact was electric. Her breasts brushed against him, and he wanted nothing more than to clear the room and strip her body of that offending dress. It was beautiful, and yet it was an obstacle. And he supported the removal of obstacles.
“Luca,” she said, her eyes round. Was she afraid of him? Or was it something else? He could not read it. He did best when emotions were simple. Like science. When there were definitive answers. When things became open-ended he found he could not know them, and when he could not know something, he was only ever angry at it. And yet, he was not angry at her.
“Do I scare you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry.”
He stepped away from her, regret filling him.
But she took a step toward him, and put her hand on his forearm. “No, Luca. You scare me because I want you too.”
CHAPTER FIVE