Million Dollar Devil

29.

My breath catches so suddenly that I miss the downbeat of the music. Alex's hand tightens slightly at my waist to steady me, but my eyes are fixed, unmoving, pinned to the tall frame now standing at the edge of the ballroom.

And beside him? She's stunning. Of course she is.

Her sleek blue gown glides down her curves cascading with her long blonde hair in that curated, magazine-cover way. She's all soft curves and high cheekbones. Her smile poised and her posture so perfectly practiced. She looks like she belongs here, belongs with him. Her hand rests lightly on his forearm, and he lets it. Just stands there like he's carved from something colder than stone.

Something splinters low in my chest.

To my surprise, Jackson stands on the other side of Leo's shoulder, looking sharp in a grey suit. He scans the room like it's a chessboard. His eyes glide past Alex and I. He leans in, whispering something quiet. Leo's jaw twitches in response.

I tear my eyes away from them with every ounce of power left in me.

"Careful there," Alex says quietly, as I stumble slightly. He's noticed. My pulse stutters under his hand, his palm flattens against my lower back, anchoring me.

"Sorry" I force a breath. I turn my head a fraction toward him and offer a useless smile, as if he didn't just feel the way the air left my body.

He adjusts our rhythm in response, drawing me in closer until there's barely an inch between us. His hand skims my lower back, slow, deliberate. He's looking past me now. His gaze is now set across room at Leo, his mouth stays close to my ear.

"Leah Geraldo," he murmurs, "Grahams daughter." His voice a soft thread only I can hear. "You didn't know?"

I don't react. Not visibly, at least. I keep my spine tall, my face placid despite the feeling of a bowling ball hitting my gut. Graham, the grey haired smooth talker from the bar. As in Geraldo Holdings. Old money. Leah Geraldo, her name rings out like a designer label. An heir, a legacy. The kind of woman who gets paired with a man like Leo Hayes on paper, maybe even at birth.

My pulse jumps, but I manage a steady tone. "Why would I?"

Alex's expression sharpens just a little, something like amusement flickering across it. "Because everyone else does."

His smile sharpens, but he doesn't gloat. Alex adjusts our rhythm, easing into a slower turn. His hand lingers low at the curve of my spine, his other guiding mine with more pressure now, more intent. 

"Now I do," I reply, feeling the heat of my own foolishness rise to my cheeks. I want to laugh it off, say something clever, but nothing comes. 

He exhales a soft laugh, "You're better off."

I press a little closer, let my hand trail along the edge of Alex's shoulder and down his bicep, feel the tension coil there beneath his suit. 

He dips his head, his lips brushing just close enough to the shell of my ear to make my spine arch.

I can feel Leo's presence across the ballroom like a hot brand on the back of my neck. I don't dare look again, but I feel him watching. I feel it in the way the air has shifted. In the burn that prickles across my exposed skin.

The song begins to fade, the strings trailing off like smoke. His hand doesn't fall away immediately. He holds my waist for a beat longer than necessary, maybe enough to make a point, if he was trying to.

Then, finally, he steps back just slightly, his eyes still locked on mine.

"Come get a drink with me."