Page 3 of Protected by the Sinner (The Sinner’s Touch #2)
Dallas – Texas
Hazard Night Club
Opening Night
It’s been half an hour since I came downstairs, and I’m already ready to leave my own party.
I thought a change of scenery, coming to Texas, might ease the boredom, since I’ve been spending more time in New Orleans than anywhere else, but the truth is, no matter where I am, I can always predict how the night will go.
I move through the VIP lounge, not focusing on anyone in particular.
Sweaty bodies sway to the music, and I have no doubt most of them have more alcohol in their systems than they can handle.
I’m about to head back to my office on the third floor when I spot someone near the bar, sitting on a stool, someone who might just save my night.
“Reed Gray,” I call out as I approach.
He turns around, smiling. “Your voice is unmistakable.”
Funny hearing that from a Texan, since their accent sounds pretty exotic to me.
Reed always teases me about my French intonation, which I can’t even call a second language—it’s as first as English in my life.
At home, my mother and I only ever spoke in French.
Before I knew I was adopted, I thought my ease with the language came from the woman I believed to be my mother, since she was one hundred percent Cajun.
Landon, whenever he rarely showed up at home, only spoke to us in English. I never understood why Aurellie insisted on bringing me into the Cajun culture she belonged to.
Only on her deathbed, when she revealed the truth—that my biological parents were Cajun too—did it finally make sense.
Maybe the guilt over what Landon did, and her own lies, letting me believe I was their child, made her try to give me back a culture I would never have claimed otherwise, because I never felt I had roots.
They say kids start forming memories at three. They took me at four. Now I understand my nightmares, probably fragments from the day my parents were murdered.
Reed stands to greet me, and I feel the eyes of those around us turning to look.
I rarely interact with customers in any of my clubs, so it must be a surprise that I even came down to the VIP lounge to begin with.
He glances at the drink in my hand and smiles. We’ve hung out a few times. Reed knows I don’t drink or touch anything that could mess with my head.
Even before I started planning my revenge against Angelo Brambilla—the man behind my parents’ deaths and nephew of the Sicilian mafia boss in Louisiana—I’d already cultivated my image as a nightlife entrepreneur, a carefree playboy. That facade was essential for what I was really doing.
The press watches my every move, but they’ve never found a damn thing. They only know what I allow them to know—which is almost nothing.
I erased my past. Changed my birth certificate.
I could be anyone and come from anywhere.
All those constant moves we were forced to make because of Landon’s activities only helped deepen the mystery.
“For the miracle to be complete, all that’s missing is Jaxson showing up,” I say, with a touch of false levity.
Reed only knows my surface persona, but that’s already more than most people. My circle of friends—if I can even call them that—is extremely limited.
“He’s on his way,” he replies.
“I heard we’re celebrating two things tonight: the club’s opening and your return to bachelorhood,” I say. “Or not?” I know he finally ditched that crazy woman he’d been with since the dawn of time—and that his new girl is out on the dance floor as we speak. Dominika Wos, the governor’s assistant.
“Yes to both. I’m no longer engaged, but I’m not alone either.”
His eyes drift in Dominika’s direction—instinctively, I think—and I turn to take a better look.
The blonde looks lively on the dance floor, accompanied by the other Gray girl—Rebecca.
“Looks like your taste hasn’t changed. She’s gorgeous, but I’ve always had a thing for brunettes,” I say, teasing, referring to Rebecca. I’m not lying about the brunette part—that’s true. Blondes have never done it for me.
He doesn’t take the bait, probably because he knows the almost childlike sensuality of the other one doesn’t do it for me either.
But right then, Jaxson arrives, and now I know I’ve hit a nerve.
“Don’t even think about looking at her,” Jaxson says.
“She’s yours?” I ask, suddenly curious.
Weren’t they raised as siblings?
Then I remember.
Rebecca is the mysterious Gray, the girl who appeared out of nowhere when she was already a teenager.
I don’t like mysteries, so I make a mental note to have my men look into her.
“Our sister,” Reed says, but it sounds more like a warning to Jaxson. Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s noticed there’s nothing brotherly about the way he acts around Rebecca.
“Alright, got it,” I reply. “Either way, I’m not a fan of Texan girls. I hear they’re usually packing heat. Then again . . . for her, might be worth taking a bullet.” I keep teasing him just for the fun of it. I thought I’d die before I ever saw Jaxson all territorial over a woman.
There must be something in the Grayland water that’s making the brothers latch onto their soulmates one after the other.
Before he can reply, a redhead, one of the hostesses brought in from the New York club to help with the launch, approaches. “Mr. Carmouche-LeBlanc, this young lady says she’s a guest, but I can’t find her name on the list.”
“Then why’d you let her in?” I ask, not understanding why I’m being bothered with this.
It’s not the first time someone’s tried to get into one of my clubs without being a member or guest of one, but it is the first time someone’s succeeded, and now I want to know why.
This intruder shouldn’t even be in front of me.
“I thought . . . I...” the hostess stammers as I turn to face the supposed guest.
The moment she steps to the side and I see the party crasher, I understand exactly why the hostess let her through.
The intruder is exactly my type—which isn’t much of a secret: golden skin, slim figure, dark hair.
But this one has something more. Nothing in her posture shows she’s intimidated by being face-to-face with the club owner or caught crashing a private high society party.
On the contrary, she looks like an Amazon—ready to take on anyone who crosses her path.
Deliberately, I let my eyes drop to her feet in red stilettos, then work my way up.
She’s wearing a short black mini skirt that shows the gap between her long legs and, at the same time, makes me want to hike that tiny piece of fabric up and see what color her panties are.
The halter top’s neckline is so deep it’s clear she’s not wearing a bra and that she has large, perky breasts.
Her neck is delicate, and her hair, from what I can tell in the club’s lighting, is dark. Long too, long enough for me to wrap around my fist.
My dick pushes against the zipper of my jeans, and I haven’t even studied her face yet.
Her bone structure is flawless. A defiant little chin. Lips so full they’re sinful, promising pleasure.
And finally, the eyes.
I take a step forward, as I want to see them up close.
She doesn’t flinch, staring boldly back at me, though I catch a faint tremble in her right eyelid.
Her eyes are mesmerizing. They practically glow in the club’s dim light, as if they’re alive.
The woman is breathtaking.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Amber Martin. Actually, I lied. My name was never on that list. But it would’ve been a huge loss for your party if I weren’t here.”
I look at her more closely now because this woman just climbed several rungs on the ladder of how to catch my attention.
I know exactly what my body wants: to drag her into one of the back rooms, bend her over a table, and fuck her with those heels still on.
But I’m too experienced not to realize Amber’s already hooked me. A quick fuck with the brunette won’t be enough.
My instinct says I should back off, but I’ve never walked away from a challenge.
“Loss? I don’t like that word. And I’m not the kind of man who lets opportunities slip by,” I say, wrapping my arm around her slender waist.