Page 5 of Jordan

I sip my vodka as I people-watch. Pristine suits and shimmering dresses adorn everyone in the room. Hair and nails are perfectly done. Heels high and shoes shiny. Watches and cuff links that cost more than some people’s houses. They’re definitely above my status, or at least seem that way. My father is a wealthy man and we’ve always lived comfortably, but not this level of comfort. If I were a man, I’m not sure I’d have the entry fee to come to a place like this. Thankfully, the women don’t have to pay a dime. And that has nothing to do with why I’m here. Even if the man I end up with tonight is a trillionaire, I don’t ever want to see him again. This is about experience—not money.

Not running into someone I know—or my father knows—is imperative. It was the main thing stopping me from accepting when I first got my invitation. But as I thought it over, I realized my father doesn’t associate with people who do things like this. My father may run clubs, but not clubs like this. Nothing like this.

Once my drink is halfway gone, there’s a warmth lingering in my belly and a persistent smile on my face as I await the start of the party. A glance at the clock on the wall tells me there’s about fifteen minutes until it starts. Deciding I’ll need another drink before that happens, I quickly finish mine and stand to get another.

I take one step and freeze. I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t help it. The ice clinks in the glass as my hand trembles. My eyes stay glued to a man I would recognize from a mile away. A man who absolutely cannot see me here. One who would call my father the instant he saw me.

If I’m caught, my father will be so upset. Even more disappointed in me than he already is.

Maybe that isn’t him, Jordan. All those rich men look the same.

Only they don’t.

Vincenzo Bramante has this air about him, like he’s locked in a bubble of power and masculinity, and embraces it to its fullest potential. The way he stands perfectly straight, his chin held high, face blank. He gives indifference an entirely new meaning. Sexy.

It shouldn’t be, but it is.

He shouldn’t be.

But he is.

A mix of fear and excitement washes over me, and I blame the latter on the alcohol. Excited over seeing Vincenzo here? I’ve lost my damn mind. But the man is gorgeous.

Many people cower in the presence of Vincenzo Bramante. I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. I’ve felt the power radiating from him but have never had a reason to be afraid of him, and never quite understood why others are. That power he holds onto? It doesn’t scare me. It makes me want it. The confidence he walks around with? I envy it. Envy the type of women he goes after. The ones who don’t hide away in their father’s homes and swoon at the first man who shows them interest. They don’t jump when a man tells them too, and they certainly don’t try to make their life a fairytale because it’s sweet and nostalgic.

A man like Vincenzo doesn't want sweet. He doesn't do sweet.

So maybe I’m not afraid of Vincenzo, but I am afraid of him telling my father and ruining my night. He is, after all, my father’s best friend.

He hasn’t been around in a while, but there is no doubt in my mind he still has Dad on speed dial. They’ve been friends for years. Of course he’d run to my father and tell him his sweet, precious little naive girl is at an adult club doing things she shouldn’t be.

Even though I am an adult and can do whatever I want.

I came here for anonymity, to avoid anyone I would know.

Why is it my luck that I make it here with no problems, only to run into him?

Panic floods my chest, and I look around for somewhere to run to. I can’t let him see me. I don’t want to leave. If I can just find somewhere to hide until the party starts, he won’t be able to stop me fr—oof!

“Oh, Christ. I’m so sorry.”

I glance over my shoulder at the man I bumped into. The one who almost took me out with his large, statue-like body. My gaze moves from his bright green eyes down to his large hands that are resting on my bare arms, holding me upright.

“No, I’m sorry,” I croak, looking back at his face. “It was my fault.”

“I should have been watching where I was going,” he says with a smile.

“I was the one walking backwards.”

A few strands of his dirty blond hair fall over his dark eyebrow and he brushes them away. It’s styled messily, but somehow fits with his navy blue Armani suit that’s perfectly tailored to his large frame. His piercing green eyes hold a kindness, but the smirk on his lips is nothing less than flirty.

“Are you okay?” he questions, narrowing his eyes.

“Just nervous,” I admit.

Good. The alcohol is working because I’m being too honest.

“Can I get you another one of those?” He points to my glass. “As an apology, of course.”