KING OF EMPIRE

CHAPTER NINE

      KAI YOUNG'S POV

I hadn’t planned on tagging along with Dante after our meeting, but when
he mentioned the Monarch reservation, I’d been curious. My job included
checking out the most buzz-worthy places in the city, and I’d been putting
Monarch off for too long.
Certainly, my decision to abandon a relaxing night in for the somewhat
tedious fine dining scene had nothing to do with Dante’s casual comment
about picking Vivian up from girls’ night with her friends.
Sloane had departed for the airport, leaving me and Isabella in the back
seat of Dante’s car while the newlyweds cozied up in front. Of all the
nights, Dante had to choose tonight to drive instead of relying on his
chauffeur.
Silence suffocated the air as we inched through Manhattan traffic,
interrupted only by the soft patter of rain against glass.
Isabella and I sat as far apart as humanly possible, but it wouldn’t matter
if the Atlantic Ocean itself separated us. My senses were imprinted with the
smell and feel of her—the lush sensuality of roses mixed with the rich
warmth of vanilla; the brief, tantalizing glide of her hand against mine; the
static charge that clung to my skin every time she was near.
It was maddening.
I answered an email about the DigiStream deal and slid my phone into
my pocket. I’d been working on acquiring the video streaming app for over a year. It was so close I could taste it, but for once, my thoughts were
consumed with something other than business.
I glanced at Isabella. She stared out the window, her fingers drumming
an absentminded rhythm against her thigh, her face soft with introspection.
Her backpack sat between us like a concrete wall, dividing my runaway
thoughts from her unusual quiet.
“How many speeds does it have?”
The drumming stopped. Isabella turned, confusion stamped across her
features. “What?”
“Your test at Sloane’s house.” The memory of her answering the door
with that ridiculous pink toy in hand pulled at the corners of my mouth.
“How many speeds does it have?”
Although I disapproved of Isabella’s distressingly common lack of
propriety, part of me was charmed by it. She was so completely,
irrepressibly herself, like a painting that refused to be dulled by time. It was
enthralling.
Color glazed her cheekbones and the tip of her nose. Unlike Vivian’s
refined elegance or Sloane’s icy blond beauty, Isabella’s features were a
bold, expressive canvas for her emotions. Dark brows pulled together over
eyes that sparked with defiance, and her full, red lips pressed into a firm
line.
“Twelve,” she said, her tone sweet enough to induce a cavity. “I’m happy
to lend it to you. It might help loosen you up so you don’t die of a stressinduced
heart attack before age forty.”
I’d much rather have you loosen me up instead.
The thought was so sudden, so absurd and unexpected, it robbed me of a
timely response.
First and foremost, I did not require loosening up. Yes, my life was
quilted with neat squares and perfectly delineated lines, but that was
preferable to chaos and whimsy. One wrong tug at the latter, and everything
would unravel. I’d worked too hard to let something as unreliable as a
passing fancy ruin things.
Second, even if I did need to loosen up (which, again, I did not), I would
do so with anyone but Isabella. She was off-limits, no matter how beautiful
or intriguing she was. Not only because of Valhalla’s no fraternization rule
but because she was going to be the death of me in one way or another.
Still, lust rushed through my veins in all its raw, hot glory at the thought
of dipping my head over hers. Of tasting, testing, and exploring whether she
was as uninhibited in the bedroom as she was outside it.
Isabella’s brows formed questioning arches at my prolonged silence.
Fuck. I tamped down my traitorous desire with an iron will cultivated
from years at Oxbridge and wrestled back control over my faculties.
“Thank you, but on my list of items I’d never borrow, adult toys rank at
the top,” I said, my placid tone a deceptive shield for the storm brewing
inside me.
She shifted to face me fully. Her skirt slid up, baring another inch of
perfect, bronzed skin.
My blood burned hotter, and a muscle flexed in my jaw before I caught
myself. Who wore skirts without tights in the middle of an unseasonably
cold October? Only Isabella.
“What else is on the list?” She sounded genuinely curious.
“Socks, underwear, razors, and cologne.” I rattled off the answers,
keeping my eyes planted firmly on her face.
Those expressive dark brows hiked higher. “Cologne?”
“Every gentleman has a signature cologne. Pilfering someone else’s
signature would be considered the height of rudeness.”
Isabella stared at me for a full five seconds before a burst of laughter
filled the car. “My God. I can’t believe you’re real.”
The throaty, unabashed sound of her mirth hit me somewhere in the chest
and spread like melting butter through my veins.
“If that were the case, fragrance brands would go out of business left and
right,” she said. “Imagine if every product only had one customer.”
“Ah, but you’re overlooking an important part of what I said.” The arch
of my brow matched hers. “I said every gentleman, not every person.”
She rolled her eyes. “You are such a snob.”
“Hardly. It’s a matter of comportment, not status. I meet plenty of CEOs
and aristocrats who are anything but gentlemen.”
“And you think you’re an exception?”
I couldn’t help it. A wicked smile touched my lips. “Only in certain
situations.”
I spotted the instant my meaning registered. Isabella’s high color
returned, washing her face in a lovely bloom of pink. Her lips parted in an
audible breath, and despite my better instincts, dark satisfaction curled
through my chest at her reaction.
I wasn’t the only one tortured by our attraction.
She opened her mouth right as the engine cut off, swallowing her words
and abruptly severing our link.
We’d arrived at Monarch.
I hid a twinge of disappointment when a valet hurried over to us and took
the keys from Dante. By the time I turned back to Isabella, she’d already
exited the car.
I released a controlled breath and tucked the wayward emotion into a
padlocked box before following her into the building.
It was better that I didn’t know what she’d been about to say. I shouldn’t
have slipped up and teased her in the first place, but there was a growing
civil war between my logic and my emotions where Isabella was concerned.
Luckily, Dante and Vivian were too deep in newlywed land to notice
anything amiss.
The elevator whisked us up to the top floor of the skyscraper, where
Monarch overlooked the sprawling expanse of Central Park.
Since we were early for our reservation, the maître d’ offered us
complimentary glasses of champagne while we waited in the wellappointed
entryway. I was the only one who declined. I wanted a clear head
tonight, and God knew Isabella’s presence was intoxicating enough.
My phone lit up with two new emails—a follow-up about DigiStream
and logistics for the upcoming executive leadership retreat. Things had been
suspiciously quiet since my mother announced the CEO vote, but I’d bet
my first edition set of Charles Dickens novels that at least one of the other
candidates would make their move at the retreat.
“Kai?”
I glanced up. A somewhat familiar-looking woman stood in front of me
with an expectant smile. Late twenties, long black hair, brown eyes, a
distinctive beauty mark at the corner of her mouth.
Recognition clicked into place with a breath of surprise.
Clarissa, my childhood neighbor and, judging by the number of articles
she’d forwarded me regarding Clarissa’s philanthropic efforts and
accomplishments, my mother’s first choice for daughter-in-law.
“Sorry, I realize it’s been a long time since we last saw each other.” She
laughed. “It’s Clarissa Teo. From London? You look almost exactly the
same—” Her eyes flicked over me in appreciation. “But I realize I’ve
changed quite a bit since the last time we saw each other.”
That was an understatement. Gone was the awkward, braces-wearing
teen I remembered. In her place was an elegant, polished woman with a
beauty pageant smile and an outfit straight out of a society magazine.
I declined to mention I’d googled her last week, though she looked
almost as different in person as she did from her teenage years. Softer,
smaller, less stiff.
“Clarissa. Of course, it’s so good to see you,” I said smoothly, masking
my surprise. According to my mother’s unsolicited updates, she wasn’t
supposed to arrive in New York until next week. “How are you?”
We made small talk for a few minutes. Apparently, she’d moved to the
city earlier than planned to help with a big, upcoming exhibition at the
Saxon Gallery, where she was in charge of artist relations. She was staying
at the Carlyle until they finished renovations at her new brownstone, and
she was nervous about moving to a new city but lucky to have found a
mentor in Buffy Darlington, the well-respected grande dame of New York
society, whom she was meeting for dinner tonight. Buffy was running late
because of an emergency with her dog.
I’d had dozens of similar conversations over the years, but I feigned as
much interest as possible until Clarissa started comparing the pros and cons
of Malteses versus Pomeranians.
“Forgive me. I forgot to introduce you to my friends.” I cut her off neatly
when she paused for a breath. “Everyone, this is Clarissa Teo, a family
friend. She just moved to the city. Clarissa, this is Dante and Vivian Russo
and Isabella Valencia.”
They exchanged polite greetings. Full name introductions were common
in our circles, where a person’s family said more about them than their
occupation, clothes, or car.
More small talk, plus a hint of awkwardness when Clarissa slid a
quizzical glance at Isabella. She’d recognized Dante and Vivian, but she
clearly didn’t know what to make of Isabella, whose violet highlights and
leather skirt were the antithesis of her own classic neutrals and pearls.
“We should catch up over lunch soon,” Clarissa said when the maître d’
announced our table was ready, saving us from further stilted chatter. “It’s
been too long.” “Yes, I’ll give you a call.” I offered a polite smile. “Enjoy the rest of your
night.”
My mother had already given us each other’s number “just in case.” I
wasn’t looking forward to another round of small talk, but encounters with
old acquaintances after a long time were always strange. Perhaps I wasn’t
giving Clarissa enough credit. She could very well be a brilliant
conversationalist.
“Ex-girlfriend?” Isabella asked as we walked to our table.
“Childhood neighbor.”
“Future girlfriend then.”
A small arch of my brow. “That’s quite a leap to make.”
“But I’m not wrong. She seems like the type of woman you’d date.”
Isabella took her seat next to Vivian, directly across from me. Her words
contained no judgment, only a stark matter-of-factness that rankled more
than it should’ve.
“You seem quite interested in my love life.” I snapped my napkin open
and laid it across my lap. “Why is that?”
She snorted. “I’m not interested. I was just making an observation.”
“About my love life.”
“I’m not sure you have a love life,” Isabella said. “I’ve never heard you
talk about women or seen you at the club with a date.”
“I like to keep my private life private, but it’s nice to know you’ve been
keeping such close tabs on my alleged lack of female company.” My mouth
curved, an automatic response to her adorable sputter before I wrangled it
into a straight line.
No smiling. No thinking anything she does is adorable.
“You have an overinflated sense of your own importance.” Isabella
canted her chin higher. “And FYI, the private life excuse only works for
celebrities and politicians. I promise there are fewer people interested in
your paramours than you think.”
“Good to know.” This time, my smile broke free of its restraints at her
tangible indignation. “Congratulations on being one of those lucky few.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“But imagine how much more insufferable I’d be if I were a celebrity or
politician.”
A glint of amusement coasted through Isabella’s eyes. Her cheeks
dimpled for a millisecond before she pursed her lips and shook her head,
and I was struck with the overwhelming urge to coax those dimples out of
her again.
Beside us, Dante and Vivian’s heads swiveled back and forth like
spectators at a Wimbledon match. I’d almost forgotten they were there.
Dante’s brows knotted in confusion, but Vivian’s eyes sparkled suspiciously
with delight.
Before I could investigate further, our server approached, bread basket in
hand. The cloud of tension hovering over the table dissipated, and as dinner
progressed, our conversation eased into more neutral topics—the food, the
latest society scandal, our upcoming holiday plans.
Dante and Vivian were heading to St. Barth’s; I was undecided. I usually
returned to London for Christmas, but depending on how things went with
DigiStream, I might have to stay in New York.
Part of me relished the idea of a quiet season with only work, books, and
perhaps the occasional Broadway show to keep me company. Big holiday
gatherings were highly overrated, in my opinion.
“What about you, Isa?” Vivian asked. “Are you heading back to
California this year?”
“No, I’m not going home until February for my mother’s birthday,”
Isabella said. A brief shadow crossed her face before she smiled again. “It’s
so close to Christmas and Lunar New Year that we usually wrap all three
celebrations together into one giant weekend. My mom makes these
amazing turon rolls, and we go to the beach the morning after her party to
unwind…”
I brought my glass to my lips as she talked about her family traditions.
Part of me hungered for insights into her background the way a beggar
hungered for food. What had her childhood been like? How close was she
to her brothers? Were they similar to Isabella, or did their personalities
diverge as siblings’ so often did? I wanted to know everything—every
memory, every piece and detail that would help solve the puzzle of my
fascination with her.
But another, larger part of me couldn’t forget the shadow. The brief
glimpse of darkness beneath the bright, bubbly exterior. It called to me like
the light at the end of a tunnel, heralding salvation or damnation.
A booming laugh from another table pulled me out of my spiral.
I gave my head a tiny shake and set my glass down, annoyed by how
many of my recent waking moments were occupied with thoughts of Isabella.
I reached for the salt in the middle of the table, determined to enjoy my
meal like it was a normal dinner. Isabella, who’d ceded the conversation to
Vivian’s recounting of her and Dante’s sailing adventures in Greece,
reached for the pepper. Our hands brushed again, a facsimile of our elevator
graze.
I stilled. Like the first time, an electric shiver ran up my arm, burning
away logic, rationality, reason.
The restaurant faded as our eyes locked with a near audible click, two
magnets drawn together by force rather than free will.
If it were up to free will, I would continue with dinner like nothing
happened because nothing had happened. It was simply a touch, as innocent
as an accidental bump on the sidewalk. It shouldn’t have the power to turn
my blood into liquid fire or reach inside my chest and twist my lungs into
knots.
Fuck.
“Excuse me.” I abruptly stood, ignoring Dante’s and Vivian’s startled
looks. Isabella dropped her hand and refocused on her food, her cheeks
pink. “I’ll be right back.”
A bead of sweat formed on my brow as I strode through the dining room.
I pushed my shirtsleeves to my elbows; I was burning up.
When I reached the bathroom, I removed my glasses and splashed icecold
water on my face until my pulse slowed to normal.
What the hell was happening to me?
For a year, I’d successfully kept Isabella at an arm’s length. She was the
opposite of everything I considered proper, a complication I didn’t need.
Her flamboyance, her chattiness, her incessant talk about sex in public
venues…
Her laugh, her scent, her smile. Her talent for piano and the way her
eyes light up when she’s excited. They were the most dangerous kind of
drug, and I feared I was already sliding down the slippery slope of
addiction.
I let out a soft groan and wiped my face dry with a paper towel.
I blamed that cursed Monday two weeks ago. If I hadn’t been so caught
off guard by the CEO vote’s announcement and timing, I wouldn’t have
sought out Isabella at Valhalla. If I hadn’t sought her out, I wouldn’t have
overheard her in the piano room. If I hadn’t overheard her in the piano room, I wouldn’t be taking refuge in a public restroom, trying to hold
myself together after a two-second touch.
I allowed myself another minute to cool down before I put on my
glasses, opened the door—and ran straight into the devil herself.
We collided with the force of a football tackle—my arm around her
waist, her hands braced against my forearms, the air vibrating with a
disturbing sense of déjà vu.
My heartrate surged even as I silently cursed the universe for constantly
throwing us at each other. Literally.
Isabella blinked up at me, her eyes like rich pools of chocolate in the dim
light. “I was right,” she said. Her playful voice contained a hint of
breathiness that wound its way through my chest in smoky tendrils. “You
are stalking me.”
Christ, this woman was something else.
“We happened to exit the restroom at the same time. It could hardly be
classified as stalking,” I said with infinite patience. “Might I remind you I
left the table first? If anything, I should ask if you’re stalking me.”
“Fine,” she acceded. “But what about when you followed me to the piano
room? Twice?”
A dull throb sprang up behind my temple. I suddenly wished I’d never
agreed to dinner. “How many times are you going to bring that up?”
“As many times as it takes for you to give me a straight answer.” Isabella
stood on tiptoes, bringing her face closer to mine. Every muscle in my body
tensed. “Kai Young, do you have a crush on me?”
Absolutely not. The mere idea was absurd, and I should’ve told her so
immediately. But the words wouldn’t come out, and I hesitated long enough
for Isabella’s eyes to widen. Their teasing glint dimmed, giving way to what
looked like alarm.
Irritation ignited in my chest. I wasn’t romantically interested in her—my
interest was intellectual, nothing else—but was the prospect that terrible?
“We’re not in high school,” I said, voice tight. “I don’t get crushes.”
“That’s still not a straight answer.”
My back teeth clenched. Before I could inform her that my response had,
in fact, been a straight answer if she read between the lines, a low buzz
filled the air, followed by an ominous flicker of lights. A low, collective
murmur swelled in the dining room.
Isabella stiffened, her fingers curling around my biceps. My pulse
thudded against my veins. “What is—”
She didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence before another buzz
traveled the hall, high-pitched and angry, like a saw tearing through wood.
Then, with a final, sputtering flicker, the lights died completely