Page 4 of His to Claim (The Owner’s Club #2)

Delilah

The valet brings Graham's car around, and I have to bite back a whistle.

It's not just expensive—it's the kind of vehicle that screams understated wealth. A midnight blue Aston Martin, all sleek lines and quiet power. The irony isn’t lost on me—trading one Martin for another, only this one comes with a far more dangerous engine and an even more reckless driver.

Graham tips the valet with the casual generosity of someone who doesn't need to think about money, then moves to open my door himself. The gesture is old-fashioned, charming in a way that makes my pulse quicken despite my better judgment.

"Such a gentleman," I murmur as I slide into the leather interior, making sure the slit in my dress gives him just enough of a view to keep his interest.

"I have my moments," he replies, his voice carrying that low, amused tone that suggests he's enjoying this game as much as I am.

He settles into the driver's seat with fluid grace, and I catch a whiff of his cologne—expensive and masculine that makes me want to lean closer. Instead, I maintain the careful distance that keeps him wanting more.

"So," I say as he pulls away from the opera house, "that was quite an exit we made. Poor Marty looked like he'd been hit by a truck."

Graham's laugh is rich and genuinely amused. "Martin Pemberton has been coasting on family money and mediocre charm his entire life. A little competition is probably good for him."

"Competition?" I arch an eyebrow, playing coy. "Is that what this is?"

"Among other things." He darts his eyes away from the road for a moment, and the heat in them makes my breath catch. "Though I have to say, watching you work him tonight was impressive. That little performance over the Cole painting? Masterful."

My blood runs cold for a split second before I recover. He's fishing, testing to see how I'll react. I force a confused laugh. "Work him? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. I genuinely love Hudson River School art."

"Of course you do." His tone is perfectly neutral, but I catch the slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "And I'm sure it's pure coincidence that you bid exactly high enough to discourage other collectors without going so high that Marty would panic about the expense."

Shit. He's definitely more observant than I gave him credit for. But I've talked my way out of tighter spots than this.

"You make it sound so calculated," I say with a breathy laugh. "I was just excited. Maybe I got a little carried away, but Martin seemed happy to indulge me."

"Marty seemed many things tonight. Happy wasn't one of them." Graham's hand finds my knee as we stop at a red light, his touch warm through the thin fabric of my dress. "The question is, what does a woman like you want with a man like him anyway?"

The contact sends electricity shooting up my leg, and I have to work to keep my voice steady. "A woman like me?"

"Beautiful. Intelligent. Clearly capable of having any man in that room." His thumb traces a small circle against my skin, and I resist the urge to press closer. "So why settle for Marty?"

Because he was my entry point to bigger things, I think. Because men like him keep detailed records of their social circles, and I needed access to the kind of information that leads to men like you.

"Maybe I have expensive tastes," I say instead, letting my voice drop to something sultry and inviting.

"I certainly hope so." His hand slides higher, just enough to make me acutely aware of how little fabric separates his fingers from significantly more intimate territory. "The question is, how expensive?"

"Graham," I breathe, catching his wrist with my hand. "We just met. I barely know you."

“What’s there to know?” His grin is pure trouble.

“Graham Ellsworth. Thirty-three. Born in Florida, raised in New York. Allergic to dogs, obsessed with cats, addicted to espresso. Six foot two, blue eyes, black Amex, Aston Martin. And my shoe size?” He pauses, his eyes glinting with mock innocence.

“Thirteen. And yes, it correlates.” He doesn't move his hand, but he doesn't push further either, letting me feel the potential energy of where this could go.

“Anything else you want to know, just ask.”

I bite back a laugh. "Okay, well how about where exactly are we going?"

"Wherever you want to go, baby." The endearment rolls off his tongue like honey laced with whiskey. "Your call."

I realize with a start that I don't actually have an answer.

Sophia Reeves has a lovely apartment on the Upper East Side—at least on paper.

In reality, it's a short-term rental that Iris arranged, barely furnished, definitely not somewhere I want to take Graham Ellsworth if I'm trying to maintain the illusion of belonging to his world.

"I..." I hesitate, and he picks up on it immediately.

"No place to go?" His voice is gentle, not mocking, which somehow makes it worse.

"It's not that," I say quickly. "I just... my apartment is being renovated. I've been staying with friends, and I'd rather not impose on them tonight."

It's a weak lie, and we both know it, but Graham doesn't call me on it.

"Well then," he says, his hand finally moving away from my leg to shift the car into gear as the light turns green, "why don't I take you back to my hotel?"

"Don't you live in the city? Why would you take me to a hotel?"

His smile turns predatory in a way that makes my stomach flutter with anticipation and alarm in equal measure. "I don't mean my hotel room, sweetheart. I mean my hotel."

I blink trying to understand what he’s saying. "Your hotel?"

"The Ellsworth. Midtown Manhattan. I had it built three years ago." He says it so casually, like owning a luxury hotel in one of the most expensive real estate markets in the world is just a hobby. "Penthouse suite has an incredible view of the city. I think you'd appreciate it."

Holy shit. Graham Ellsworth doesn't just have money—he has the kind of money that builds monuments to itself in steel and glass.

The Ellsworth is one of the most exclusive hotels in the city, the kind of place where movie stars and foreign dignitaries stay when they want privacy and luxury in equal measure.

And he owns it.

My mind races, recalculating everything I thought I knew about him. This isn't just a wealthy businessman or even a successful entrepreneur. This has to be generational wealth, the kind of power that shapes cities and topples governments.

This is exactly the kind of target I've been hoping to find.

"That sounds..." I let my voice trail off, as if I'm overwhelmed by the suggestion. Which, honestly, I am. "I mean, I don't usually... on the first night..."

"Of course not," he says smoothly, though his eyes hold mine with an intensity that suggests he knows exactly what effect he's having on me. "I'm simply offering you somewhere safe and comfortable to spend the evening. No expectations beyond good conversation and better wine."

The lie is beautifully delivered, wrapped in just enough sincerity to be believable while leaving no doubt about what he's really offering. A night with Graham Ellsworth, in his penthouse suite, with all the implications that carries.

Six hours ago, I thought Martin Pemberton and his modest millions were a good score. Now I'm sitting in a Aston Martin with a man who owns hotels, who moves through the world with the kind of confidence that comes from never having to ask permission for anything.

The kind of man who could change my life forever—if I play this right.

"Okay," I hear myself saying, the word slipping out before I can second-guess it. "But just for conversation and wine."

His smile is sharp enough to cut glass. "Of course. Just conversation."

As we glide through the Manhattan streets toward whatever comes next, I can't help but think that maybe I've finally found a game worth playing. And a man worth playing it with.