Page 3 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire (Heart & Soul #2)

Two

The low thud of the bass pulsed through the floor like a second heartbeat. Beneath the glass-paneled balcony, the club swarmed with bodies—twisting, grinding, and glowing under violet and amber lights that swept the room like the hands of a restless lover.

The Rocks was at capacity again. Downstairs, the bar glittered with rows of glass bottles and flashing cameras. Heat rolled off the crowd like waves, thick with perfume, sweat, and anticipation.

Theo swirled the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler, the drink catching the soft blue lighting of the VIP lounge. From his private booth—tucked into the shadows above the chaos—he observed it all with a detachment that had grown over the past two months.

The music no longer pulsed in his blood. The dancers no longer intrigued him. Tonight, like so many others, he was simply… here. Waiting for someone to dull the tension in his veins.

He was lifting the glass to his lips when a firm slap landed on his shoulder.

“Bro.” Nikos slid in beside him with a grin. “Packed house again. Look at that floor—moving like a damn tide. There’s a line outside that wraps around the block, waiting to be let in.”

Theo grunted, raised an eyebrow, and nodded. “Another great night,” he said dryly.

The club—one of three he co-owned with Nikos and Markos Aetos—was thriving. Just like everything else in his portfolio. The investments, the mergers, the acquisitions. All of it was flourishing. Everything—except the one thing that mattered most right now.

Lorenzo’s granddaughter.

Nikos leaned back, his arm slung over the back of the leather booth. “So? Any luck with finding Lorenzo’s granddaughter?”

Theo set his drink down with a muted clink. “One more dead end. But…” He sighed. “The old woman at the nursing home did give me something. A last name.”

Nikos perked up. “Yeah? What was it?”

Theo’s jaw ticked. “Smith.”

Nikos winced. “Damn. That’s practically like saying John Doe. There must be a thousand Chris Smiths in the U.S. alone.”

“You think?” Theo muttered, dry as dust.

His fingers flexed around his glass. He owned one of the largest global security and intelligence firms in the world.

He protected multi-billion-dollar secrets, governments, and VIPs so high-profile their shadows had NDAs.

And yet, it had taken him over two months just to uncover the last name of the man in that photo.

Fat lot of good that’ll do me. I still don’t know who he is, he thought.

He exhaled, low and controlled. Maybe that was worth celebrating.

“What you need,” Nikos said, gesturing to the chaos below, “is a little rest and relaxation. Loosen the leash a bit. It’s been two months, man. When’s the last time you were laid? And Allegra doesn’t count.”

Theo shuddered. Allegra was on his ‘do not touch’ list, the same as her half-sister, Gina. He knew if one of the Rossi sisters got their perfectly manicured talons into him, it would be damn near impossible to get them out.

Maybe Nikos had a point. He hadn’t been with another woman since he’d ended things with his last mistress in London—a clean, clinical affair, like most of his relationships. But the thought of returning to that kind of arrangement now felt… empty.

Another thing to blame on Alexandros, he mused, thinking of his brother and his newly wedded bliss.

Still, a distraction might help. A brief pause. Something to take the edge off. It had been years since he’d had a one-night stand, but that was all he wanted at the moment.

He leaned forward, his elbow on his knee, and let his gaze drift lazily across the writhing crowd below. His eyes passed over glittering dresses, sky-high heels, and waves of chemically perfected hair. Everything shimmered, sparkled, pouted—until it didn’t. Until one woman made it all vanish.

He stiffened, his muscles tensing. A muted curse slipped out as every nerve lit up, like a lightning strike straight to the chest.

At a corner table near the back, slightly tucked behind a column and away from the strobes, sat a woman who didn’t belong in the crowd but somehow eclipsed everyone in it.

She was dressed in an oversized pullover sweater, worn jeans, and sneakers.

Her dark hair was swept into a casually messy ponytail that looked both effortless and… effortlessly sexy.

She wasn’t posing, preening, glued to her phone, or clinging to a man. She sat there calmly, a drink in front of her, watching the room with quiet curiosity.

From this distance, he couldn’t tell how much makeup she wore, if any. If she was wearing any, she was a magician, because she was absolutely breathtaking.

His gaze sharpened when a man approached her. She smiled—politely—and shook her head. He walked away. Another followed, then another. Same outcome. Brief exchange. Dismissed. Her space remained hers alone.

A slow burn lit in Theo’s chest. It took him a second to name it.

Possessiveness.

Raw and unfiltered.

It struck without warning. He wanted to stalk down the stairs and plant himself between her and the world. The thought of those men touching her made something dark and primal unfurl inside him.

He had never— ever —felt this way about a woman before. Not once. And yet, every cell in his body was coiled, ready to strike.

“You good? You seem a little tense,” Nikos asked, sipping his drink.

Theo didn’t answer. His eyes remained locked on her. “Who’s on the door tonight?”

“Rhys,” Nikos replied. “Why?”

Theo lifted a hand, silently signaling the upstairs bouncer. Rhys appeared seconds later, attentive and watchful.

Theo nodded toward the table below. “The woman in the gray sweater, alone. Invite her up.”

Rhys glanced once, gave a subtle nod, and disappeared.

Theo stood and watched as Rhys threaded his way through the crowd to the woman. A slow smile curved his lips. There was something about her watching the room with quiet curiosity. She was untouched, real, in a sea of imitation.

Maybe Nikos was right. Maybe a little company was exactly what he needed tonight.

Rose took a slow sip of her ice water and mentally counted the number of ceiling tiles she could see from her angle. Twelve. Possibly thirteen if she squinted past the pulsing LED lights.

She set the glass down with a quiet clink and sighed. “Next time,” she muttered, “say no to glitter, body heat, and whatever DJ Sadism is torturing me with. What I wouldn’t give for a little Ella or Louie Armstrong right about now.”

Her head ached, and her tolerance for over-spritzed strangers had evaporated the minute Kerry had texted:

So sorry! Called in to work. I owe you. Big.

Of course, that message had arrived after Rose was already here—after she’d dolled herself up with lip balm and put on her grandfather’s old, oversize sweater that she hadn’t had the heart to donate to the thrift store.

After tonight’s performance of Beauty and the Beast, she just wanted comfort clothes.

She would’ve bolted immediately if not for Clarissa and her entourage showing up like an obnoxiously perfect perfume commercial: windblown hair, glitzy makeup, and a giggle that could pierce steel.

Rod, Clarissa’s boyfriend, had brought along some guy whose name Rose didn’t catch.

Probably something pretentious like ‘Bryson’ or ‘Clifford.’

Apparently, this guy wouldn’t be allowed into the club unless he had a date. A ‘date’ who had rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw her childhood.

She’d barely said hello before his hand tried to migrate to the region of her butt. That hand had been redirected with a glare cold enough to flash-freeze the surface of the sun.

After that, Clarissa had pouted, Rod had shrugged, and Bryson-Clifford-Whoever had slunk off to try his luck elsewhere. Rose, by unspoken decree, had been dubbed the official table and drink guardian. Which suited her just fine.

No need to fake enthusiasm for the overpriced cocktails or endure Clarissa’s giggles weaponized as flirtation. All she had to do was nurse her water, stare at the swirling mass of humanity, and mentally draft tomorrow’s grocery list.

Food. That is something I should have thought about before coming, she ruefully thought as her stomach grumbled with displeasure.

She stiffened when another would-be Lothario with a dry smile and a raised eyebrow approached her. She offered a sweet smile before addressing him.

“Unless you have snacks, a heating pad for severe menstrual cramps, and a signed apology for the state of modern dating, I’m not interested.”

Amusement flashed through her when the guy blinked like a barn-owl, looked confused, and muttered said apology verbally before he wandered off, possibly in search of more alcohol.

She was breathing out another exasperated sigh when the universe decided to level up—or at least double the size—of her next male contender. It took everything inside her not to bang her aching head on the table.

Kerry is so going to owe me for this one, she thought, groaning inwardly.

The man beside her looked like a boulder in a tux—massive, muscled, and disturbingly symmetrical. His beard alone probably had its own gym membership.

“Good evening, miss,” he said, his voice low and polite. “My name is Rhys. I’m a team member of the club.”

Rose smiled back at him. “Good for you. I hope they pay you well—and throw in earplugs and a lifetime supply of ibuprofen.”

“I—” He looked confused for a moment before he chuckled and nodded. “Yes, well… um, you’ve been invited to the VIP lounge, ma’am.”

She stared at him. “Why?”

Another flash of confusion swept across his face before he schooled his features again. “Because Mr. Kallistratos requested it personally.”

Rose lifted an eyebrow and stared back at poor Rhys until he shifted uncomfortably in his size 16 shoes.

Who the hell was Mr. Kalli-whatever? A model? A Bond villain? A celebrity from one of those real-life shows that weren’t real? she wondered, unimpressed by the invitation.

“While I appreciate the flattering offer, I’m afraid I’m unavailable. I’m guarding the sacred chalices of my companions.” She gestured to the three untouched drinks and Clarissa’s sequin-studded purse. “A mission I take great pains to succeed in.”

Rhys blinked. “You… what?”

“I said I’m good. But tell Mr. Kalli-whatsit I appreciate the invite,” she said, softening her rejection with a sweet smile.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. Nothing came out.

Rose gave him a sunny smile and an encouraging shooing motion. “Run along now. Go be intimidating somewhere else.”

He hesitated, as if waiting for her to change her mind, then gave a slow frown and turned, weaving his way back toward the stairs.

She watched him go, amused, then glanced up—and stiffened.

Behind the smoked-glass railing of the VIP lounge, a man stood watching her.

Tall. Sharp. Effortless in black-on-black tailored perfection. His posture screamed control and confidence, but it was his eyes that made her pulse stutter. Even from here, she felt it. A gaze like flame. Direct. Devouring. Intrigued.

He didn’t look away.

Danger, Rose Smythe! The warning in her head felt like it was spoken in the exact voice of the 1960s robot from the television series Lost in Space .

Rose knew she should look away, but she didn’t.

Instead, she lifted her glass, tilted it in mock salute, and took a sip, her eyes never leaving his. Then, just as deliberately, she forced her gaze away and stared at the dance floor like he wasn’t even worth a second glance.

But inside?

A shiver of unease rippled down her spine. While her bad side cheered on her false bravo, her good side was shaking its head, asking when she’d learn: you don’t tease the devil and expect him not to notice.

Her life had been spent sharpening her senses, learning to detect the subtle signs of men like him from afar. She was fortunate to have two master instructors guiding her path.

Her grandmother, despite her petite, four-foot-eleven size, could stare down a street punk or a diva primavera backstage until they whimpered like an overtired puppy. She had also taught her how to discern the subtle tells of deception, even from actors with the most polished performances.

The men here, especially the one upstairs, were the type of men her grandfather had warned her about—powerful, poised, predatory. The kind who saw the world as theirs and took what they wanted without asking.

She fingered the hem of her grandfather’s old sweater, feeling his presence, and smoothed her expression. She just needed to remind herself she wasn’t anyone’s prey. Not tonight. Not ever.

Let him watch.

She wasn’t named Rose for nothing. She came with a wall of thorns not even the most charming prince could cut through.