Page 4 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire (Heart & Soul #2)

Three

Rose stood, the thin leather strap of her bag digging into her fingers as she mentally composed her curt exit speech. She had sacrificed enough of her night—and sanity—for friendship and social obligation.

Heavy bass vibrated through her skull, each throb a reminder of the impending man-hours required to clean up the colorful aftermath of the confetti bomb that had exploded during tonight’s performance of Beauty and the Beast .

The Beast’s rose petals had burst with enthusiastic vigor courtesy of the special effects department.

She caught movement from the corner of her eye and turned to see Clarissa and Rod gliding back to the table. Clarissa’s flushed cheeks and smudged lipstick screamed she’d just scored a VIP pass to her boy-band fantasy.

Perfect timing.

She pasted on a smile—the kind that could mean mild concussion or murder in progress—and opened her mouth to offer a graceful exit cloaked in the very real excuse of a splitting headache… when the now-familiar boulder with a beard returned.

“Back so soon?” she asked, her voice dry as bone.

“Ma’am,” Rhys greeted with a slightly crooked smile.

Before she could get another word in, Clarissa perked up like a cat spotting a laser dot.

“Hi there, handsome. I’m Clarissa,” she purred, conveniently forgetting Rod—who was too busy draining his glass to notice his girlfriend was practically drooling over another man.

Or maybe that turns them both on, Rose thought, shuddering at the sudden vision of Clarissa sandwiched between two men. She was going to need bleach for her brain to erase that image.

Rhys was saying something, but Rose was distracted by the shadowed man with the tailored lines and a gaze that burned hotter than the lights overhead. She gritted her teeth and squared her shoulders, sending a silent flare of defiance.

Her mind was already composing a new refusal when Clarissa squealed, gathered her handbag like she’d been personally invited to walk a Milan runway, and beamed at Rhys.

“Come on!” Clarissa said, bouncing in place. “We’ve been invited to the VIP lounge! I knew this night wasn’t going to be a total waste.”

Clarissa’s gaze flash-burned Rod at the stake before she turned a smile so fake it could qualify as plastic on Rose. It was as if Clarissa thought she was bestowing a royal favor by allowing Rose to tag along.

Rose blinked. “We… wait… what’s going on?”

“Mr. Kallistratos has extended the invitation again to join him in the VIP lounge—along with your friends,” Rhys repeated, ignoring Clarissa’s not-so-subtle excitement.

“Yes! Let’s go!” Clarissa trilled. “This is major. You don’t just get invited up there unless you’re rich, famous, or incredibly lucky. Nobody normal gets in.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I was just leaving,” Rose replied. “Congratulations on ascending to Olympus. I’m sure Kerry will love to hear about it at work.”

And try not to trip over your ego on the way up, she added silently.

“I’m afraid the invitation is only if you also attend,” Rhys said with an apologetic smile.

Rose looked at Rhys in disbelief before her eyes flicked upward again. Her teeth ached as the VIP god above lifted his glass—just enough to be smug. She didn’t have a clear view of his face thanks to the tinted glass, but she could almost feel his arrogant gaze burning a hole through it.

That’s the Devil, Rose. And you gave him the middle finger. What did you expect?

Clarissa’s eyes narrowed as she leaned in close and hissed in her ear, “You are not bailing. I won’t let you sabotage this for me. If you don’t go, the invitation’s revoked. If it gets revoked, Kerry is going to hear about this!”

Rose hesitated, not wanting Clarissa to make Kerry’s life a living hell, but she also wasn’t going down without a fight, so she was opening her mouth to say she absolutely didn’t give a damn about Clarissa’s dream of rubbing elbows with the elite—when she spotted Clifford, aka Wandering Hands McGee, heading her way with two drinks and the confidence only found in frat boys and failed magician acts.

Damn it. No time.

With a twist of her lips that didn’t even attempt to resemble a smile, she turned back to Rhys.

“Very well.” She lifted her water glass like a war banner. “Lead the way, Sir Rhys.”

Clarissa squealed again, oblivious to the barely restrained murder in Rose’s expression, and tossed her hair, ignoring Rod who was already two sheets to the wind.

As they moved through the crowd, Rose followed with measured steps, fire flickering in her eyes.

So… Mr. Kallistratos wants my company?

Fine.

He wants a rose? Let’s see how he handles the thorns.

She was a master of barbs disguised as banter, at sweet smiles hiding sharp teeth.

If he thought she was just another pretty flower at the club, ripe for the picking, he was about to learn the difference between a florist’s bouquet and a wild thing grown with wind and grit.

Let him come close.

Let him reach.

Because the next thing Theo Kallistratos was about to learn?

She didn’t just prick.

She drew blood.

Theo watched from behind the smoked-glass railing, a low hum of satisfaction thrumming through his veins as Rhys led her—the woman who’d hijacked his attention with a single glance—toward the staircase. The crowd below parted, unaware they’d just been rendered irrelevant.

Nikos, slouched beside him at the railing, barked out a laugh.

“Did you see Rhys’s face? It looked like he was about to be rejected again—politely, but firmly—if not for your lady friend’s friends.

” He clinked his glass against Theo’s with a wicked grin.

“Good luck. You know I’m going to have to share this with Markos.

He’ll love it. How the mighty Theo was reduced to blackmail to get a woman. ”

Theo’s lips curled. “Watch and learn. It’s about the hunt. A good hunter knows what bait he needs.”

“Something tells me you may not want to share that analogy with your lady friend. I have a feeling that little she-cat might just rip your balls off and feed them to you,” Nikos retorted with a shake of his head.

“It’s time for you to make yourself scarce,” Theo responded.

Nikos chuckled again, muttering something about grabbing a drink and working his magic on the Contessa twins—heiresses who seemed to spend more time in the VIP lounge than they did at home.

Theo didn’t comment. His focus had zeroed in on the woman below, whose glare—sharp as a switchblade—had sent blood rushing south. That look—pure fire, all challenge—made his pulse kick like a racehorse.

She was the one.

Not the one in any fairytale sense. Theo didn’t believe in fate, or soulmates, or any of that poetic nonsense. But she was the one tonight—the spark that could make the slow burn of boredom and disillusionment finally ignite into something worth remembering.

She wasn’t just beautiful.

She was real.

And she was climbing the stairs.

Rhys appeared at the top a moment later, opening the velvet-draped door to the private lounge.

The bottled-blond entered first, swaying slightly, her skin-tight dress clinging to her like cellophane, heels click-clacking with every unsteady step.

Theo took one glance and subtly flicked two fingers.

One of his bodyguards moved into place, intercepting her trajectory with polite firmness.

The man, her drunken shadow, trailed behind her before he veered off toward the bar like a heat-seeking missile looking for more liquor.

Then she entered.

The noise in the club dimmed, as if the bass itself held its breath.

Theo straightened. Every inch of his six-foot-three body went taut. His gaze swept over her, drinking her in like a man who had never tasted pure, unfiltered glacier water.

She was smaller than he expected—maybe five-foot-three in her worn sneakers—but she radiated a presence that swallowed the room.

Her oversized navy sweater slipped off one shoulder, a simple white camisole strap peeking through.

Her jeans clung just enough to tease. Her dark hair held hints of red when the light hit it—a subtle halo of auburn warmth that had nothing to do with hair dye.

No makeup. No pretense. Just all woman.

Her eyes locked with his—sapphire, unnaturally vivid, set in a face that didn’t belong in a place like this. That face belonged in an art gallery.

Or under my hands, her head tilted back with her lips parted in breathless surrender.

Theo stepped forward, unable to stop himself.

Every move she made seemed to challenge him—especially the way she held her water glass like a weapon and gripped the strap of her purse like she might use it to swing at his head if he said the wrong thing.

Good.

He liked danger.

He liked a fight.

He savored the hunt.

He was almost close enough to touch her when she cocked her head and gave him a slow, assessing once-over, her lips curving in mock sweetness.

“Are you finished with your inspection?” she asked, her voice honey-laced steel. “If so, do I get a shiny sticker of approval so I can flash it at the rest of the thousand-and-one guys who tried their luck tonight?”

His mouth twitched. He couldn’t help it.

Game on.

He offered a small dip of his head, acknowledging her admonishment. The edge of his lips tilted into a smile most women would have melted for. She didn’t.

“Theo Kallistratos,” he introduced, his voice smooth, low. “At your service.”

“Nice,” she replied, glancing around the lounge. “Rose. I can see why you like to hide up here. It’s much quieter.”

His laugh came easily—surprising him. That hadn’t happened in a while.

“It is,” he admitted. “Although tonight, I’m more interested in… conversation… than in hiding.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

God, she was quick.

He motioned toward the secluded corner booth, a space more intimate than imposing. “May I offer you a seat?”

She looked at him.

Then at the booth.

Then back again.