Page 33

“Sir Ian, what are your thoughts about your Parisian performances? The reviews were lukewarm—are you disappointed?”

There’s a quiet murmur from the press—pens scratching against paper, the shutter sounds from cameras, whispers and furtive glances. I look at my uncle, finding him sitting tall in his seat behind the long table where we’re having our first international joint press conference in Prague, the second international stop of the tour, between ABTC and Bank of Columbia to discuss the tour and the donations we’ve raised so far.

Ian appears to be smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. This is the smile he taught me when I was young—lips tilted a fraction, eyes slightly squinting to fake the genuine thing.

A muscle twitches on his forehead, but his expression doesn’t waver.

He’s mad—Ian Vaughn’s performances are never mediocre, they are always spectacular.

“The company has undergone a lot of changes recently, with me joining as the director and with our lead dancer getting injured. A slow warm up is to be expected, so no, I’m not disappointed. I’m actually…”

I don’t pay attention to the rest of his words. My gaze trails to the woman next to him, her lips in her signature dark purple, her thick glorious hair in loose waves—hair that I finally got to wrap around my wrist as I made her come and shatter in what was the most erotic experience of my life.

I don’t even want to think why that is the case when I typically prefer sex to be rough and raw, pain and control.

Taylor’s shoulders are hunched forward, like she’s weighed down by Ian’s disappointments. She’s fiddling with the silver bangle I’ve seen her wear often. I wonder what the story is behind it and if she’ll tell me someday.

I frown. Something tugs at me in my mind, but it disappears before the thought crystallizes.

Look up, minx. Where’s that badass I don’t give a fuck ballerina?

As if she heard me, she glances my way, and her gray eyes widen before she quickly looks away.

Taylor did ask Maddy what happened in Paris. Maddy said she promised to perform for a private event for some businessmen to earn money on the side, but decided not to do it at the last minute. There were some arguments, but she was fine. Taylor was obviously relieved and gave me an update, knowing I was concerned as well.

But other than that, she has been avoiding me since that night in the alcove—darting in the opposite direction when she sees me walking down the corridors of the hotel or the rehearsal studios, or leaving the room when I enter.

It’s maddening as fuck.

“Why are you doing this, Taylor?” I cornered her in her dressing room after the last performance in Paris.

My patience was running low after yet another TV interview about the bank’s re-haul efforts, but at least I hadn’t seen any more picket lines. Ironically, the public seemed to have warmed up to me after my unhinged outburst in front of ABTC over the Patterson trial, which was still ongoing. I shredded the invitation from The Association, deciding to heed Grandma and Maxwell’s warnings. We’d weather the trial the old-fashioned way. We Vaughns lived with honor, and I was sure anything to do with that mysterious organization was anything but honorable.

“Doing what?” She moved about the room, her hands fiddling with makeup brushes and random items.

“Avoiding me.”

“I’m not. Just because of what happened doesn’t make you the boss of me. Don’t get your panties all up in a twist.”

A muscle pulsed in my jaw. “I never took you for a coward.”

She whirled around and faced me, her eyes narrowing. “Fuck you. I’m not a coward. I just had a moment of weakness and you happened to be there. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t think so highly of yourself, Charles Vaughn. Nothing happened—nothing important, anyway.”

I stepped toward her and watched her throat rippling as she swallowed. “Nothing important, huh?” A bolt of heat shot up my spine and I wanted to reenact that night to see if she’d say the same thing after she came apart in my arms again.

She backed up a few steps as I continued my pursuit.

“So you didn’t come and leak all over my fingers that night?” I rasped, the fury in my veins slowly turning into something else as heated blood gathered in my cock. “I still remember all your whimpers and moans when I flicked your little piercing, minx. Your sweet smell and taste as you asked me to help you forget the past. Then I wiped your tears away and every inch of me wanted to murder the man who put them there.”

Taylor pressed her back against the vanity table, her pulse fluttering wildly in her throat. Her lips parted, beckoning me to kiss them, to bite them, to get another fix of the addiction I was never supposed to have.

I leaned in and whispered, “Do you remember that? I do…every night before I close my eyes with my hand wrapped around my aching cock, wishing you were there with me, because I knew it meant something to you that night, just as it did for me. And fuck if I know why that is, but at least I’m not a coward about it.”

Our lips were inches apart. I could almost taste her honeyed sweetness. I wanted to give her more pleasure, to chase out the pain of her past.

Suddenly, she pushed me away and pointed toward the door. “I need to change and I’d like to do it alone. Please leave.”

“Mr. Vaughn, what are your thoughts on the matter?” a reporter’s voice draws my attention back to the present.

Heat rushes through my body and I fight the impulse to tug on my tie as I reply, “Sorry, can you repeat the question? I’ve been thinking about our successful tour and how meaningful the donations will be for the organizations—always multitasking.” I finish my remark with a grin and a wink.

The reporter flushes before speaking, “Sir Ian mentioned some hiccups at the beginning are to be expected. What are your thoughts?”

I clasp my hands together. “I completely agree. I have one hundred and ten percent faith in Sir Ian’s direction and Ms. Peyton-Anderson’s abilities. The best is yet to come. Mark my words.” I feel the weight of her stare on my face.

“Is the Bank of Columbia still firm on their commitment that all proceeds will go toward victims’ rights organizations?”

“Definitely. That is the least we can do for the victims.”

“What is your response to your former CFO claiming his relationships with his underlings were sanctioned by the company?”

Closing my eyes, I tamp down the anger forming at the base of my spine. That spineless idiot is trying to bring everyone down with him because we washed our hands clear of him the moment the allegations came out.

Gritting my teeth, I reply, “That is categorically untrue. I wouldn’t put stock in the words of a predator.”

The reporter nods as she flips to another page in her notebook. She looks up and asks, “The scandal has sparked a debate on whether it is appropriate for a person in power to engage in a relationship with a subordinate or someone in a lesser position. What is your stance on this?”

Sweat beads on my forehead, and I fight the urge to look at Taylor, the dancer in the ballet company I’m sponsoring, who falls under the definition of ‘someone in a lesser position.’ My mind flashes back to the lurid images of us devouring each other in the darkness, my hands on her tits, her cum soaking her underwear as I pushed her over the limit.

I reply, “It isn’t recommended but not forbidden as long as there’s consent and the relationship is adequately disclosed to human resources.”

“But aren’t human resources always on the side of the company? Do you think having this policy could’ve prevented Patterson’s alleged crimes?”

The tie cinches tightly around my neck and I drum my fingers on the table. I eye her name tag. “It’d be archaic for us to forbid human emotions in the workplace, Candace. Hence my position—such relationships aren’t recommended.”

What a load of bullshit, Charles.

Leaning forward, I add, “And I can’t comment on what could’ve happened to past events. I’d like to keep us focused on the ballet tour, please.”

My palms grow sweaty and I maintain my calm smile as Candace finishes jotting her notes and sits down. Another reporter stands up, this time directing his attention to Taylor.

“Ms. Peyton-Anderson, are you satisfied with your performance so far?”

Taylor wets her lips before replying, “I can do better.” Her words carry a steely edge and she sits up straighter.

“There are rumors you got to your position because of the alleged sabotage of the previous lead dancer. Are they true?”

Her skin turns red. “No. Definitely not true. And why are we talking about this? I thought this was supposed to be a conference about the tour and the proceeds to the assault victims. This is a strange line of questioning, don’t you think?”

My lips twitch even as I groan inwardly. The minx has no finesse.

But fuck, that’s what you like about her.

Chuckles erupt in the room as the reporter purses his lips. “We ask questions the public is interested in.” He clears his throat, a predatory gaze in his eyes. I see Taylor flinch at his attitude change. “The ballet world was plagued with a few high profile scandals in the past—sexual harassment by management or company doctors. As one of the highest ranking female dancers at ABTC, you must’ve seen a lot in your career. Is this still rampant in the industry? Have you experienced it yourself?”

Gasps and murmurs arise from the crowd, and Taylor pales. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she opens her mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

“I…I—” she whispers, “I think—”

The seconds feel like eternity as I ball my hands into fists on top of my lap.

Quickly, I click on my microphone. “Ms. Peyton-Anderson, you don’t need to answer that question.”

I turn toward the reporter, a muscle pulsing in my jaw as I watch his lips twist into a smug grin. The bastard wanted to put Taylor on the spot to get back at her for embarrassing him. “We’ve entertained your line of questioning long enough. We’re hoping this tour will shine awareness on the rampant harassment and sexual assault women face in their daily lives and you, sir, by putting a dancer on the spot with your ridiculous questions, is the definition of not being an ally. As men, we need to do better. We need to create safe environments for women—victims or not—to speak up, not hostile environments.”

Standing up, I turn to the rest of the crowd, noting the shocked expressions on their faces and force myself to smile. Calm the fuck down, Charles.

I want to strangle the asshole in front of me.

“Time’s up and the press conference is over. We’re thankful for your support of this important cause.” I button my blazer.

Catching Taylor’s eyes, I watch the color returning to her face and she rakes in a shuddering inhale. She rolls her lips inward as she stares at me, the same vulnerable expression I saw that night in the alcove on her face.

Gritting my teeth, I tear my gaze away from her and leave the room as reporters hurl questions at my back. Anything to not draw more attention to her, even though I want nothing more than to walk up to her, take her hand in mine, and haul her out of this room, away from the soulless leeches.

But what will people think? CEO in a tainted bank in an illicit relationship with a ballerina under his sponsorship?

The last vestiges of rational thought hammer in my brain, reining back the emotional impulse. I’m starting to understand why my parents are swept up in their feelings.

They burn and consume until common sense ceases to matter.

I can’t become like them.

Or maybe it’s already too late.