mansion had forgotten to pay his power bill.
“Blackout,” he explained, tone grim, and her heart plummeted toward her stomach. “I wasn’t able to get a call out, but I was able to send and receive a couple of texts to a contact on the police force. It’s citywide. They’re advising people to remain where they are, which,” he continued, his full lips flattening for a brief second, “won’t be an issue with us. I overheard security speaking to the chef and his staff. The tech guru who owns this overcompensating monstrosity of a home installed a so-called cutting-edge security system. And with the blackout, it’s malfunctioned. We’re all locked in for the foreseeable future.”
She expelled a pent-up breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. Where was Trevor? Were he and Madison okay? What about Bridgette? Sick and in the dark? More than ever, Shay cursed leaving her phone in her car. Bridgette had warned her that her supervisor frowned on the staff having cells on them, so she’d stashed hers in her glove compartment, but now...
“We’re going to be fine, Camille,” Gideon said, his rough silk voice dragging her away from her worried thoughts. “Most likely, the blackout will only last several hours, and hopefully the boy genius will have his system worked out by them,” he finished drily.
In spite of the anxiety over her brother and friend that still inundated her, she snorted. “Boy genius?”
Gideon arched a black eyebrow. “Have you seen him? He can’t be more than twenty-three. I swear, I can still smell the milk on his breath.”
This time she snickered, belatedly palming her mouth to contain her amusement. “So you’re what? The ripe old age of thirty? Thirty-three? And if you’re here as a guest, then that means you must be at least wealthy or connected enough to have been invited. Which makes you what, Mr. Knight?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “An idle man living off his family name and money? Or a successful businessman in his own right?”
She didn’t know him, but he struck her as the latter. There was nothing about him that screamed idle. No, the sharklike intelligence that gleamed from his dark eyes belonged to a man who forged his own path, not one satisfied with walking the one others had paved for him.
He didn’t immediately reply, but treated her to another of his intense gazes. He seemed to peer beneath skin and bone to the soul. To her secrets. With effort, she didn’t shirk away from his scrutiny, instead notching her chin up and meeting his eyes without flinching.
Something glinted in his gaze, and the faint light from his phone tricked her into believing it might be admiration.
“I own and run a start-up that provides privately held companies with their equity needs. I suppose you can say we’ve been successful.”
The vague and carefully constructed answer didn’t stop recognition from rocking her. Start-up? As in KayCee Corp start-up? He couldn’t possibly be the Gideon Knight, founder of the corporation that had taken the financial world by storm five years ago? If so, he was either exceedingly modest or being cagey with information.
Because KayCee Corp had been more than “successful.” The electronic platform serviced major businesses, helping them track their shares with its top-of-the-line, unrivaled software. They’d recently announced their intentions to branch out and work with companies that were rolling out their initial public offerings. Though Trevor tried to keep Shay securely ensconced in the Social Development branch of RemingtonNeal Inc., their family business, she knew of KayCee Corp. Knew that Trevor desperately longed to acquire it.
Her wig, contacts and glasses concealed her true identity, but she still lifted her fingers to her cheek as if Gideon could see beneath the camouflage. Her throat tightened. Now would be a good time to come clean about who he sat with in the dark. But something held her back. Something, hell... She could identify it even without him searching her soul.
In that ballroom, Gideon Knight had gazed upon her with fascination, admiration...hunger. And he’d had no idea she was Shay Neal, heiress to a global financial empire. Not that she was an ugly duckling in a lake full of swans, but she bore no illusions. Her money, social status and connections were often just as much, if not more, of an allure than her appearance.
But not for him.
Even now, his dark stare roamed her face, lingering on her eyes before drifting over her cheekbones, her jaw, her mouth. Though it belied reason, she swore she could feel his gaze stroke over her skin. An illicit, mysterious, desire-stoking caress.
And here, in the isolated depths of this mansion, she wanted more.
Even if just for a little while.
The cloak of anonymity bestowed her with a gift of boldness—of freedom—she didn’t ordinarily possess.
“I wonder what’s going through your head right now?” he murmured, drawing her from her thoughts. “And would you honestly tell me?”
That would be a no. “Careful, Mr. Knight,” she drawled, tone dry. “You’re beginning to sound a little too Edward Cullen-ish for my comfort.”
“Last time I checked, I didn’t sparkle in the sunlight or age out at eighteen years old. Although I do admit to a little biting. And liking it.”
A blast of heat barreled through her, warring with surprise over his recognition of her Twilight reference. Curling her fingers into her palms, she willed the searing desire to abate, but it continued to burn a path along her veins.
“Still blunt, I see,” she said, and no way could he miss the hoarseness rasping her voice. “You weren’t lying when you claimed not to play games.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable, Camille?” he asked, his head cocking to the side. His eyes narrowed on her, as if searching out the answer for himself.
She should say yes. Should order him to keep his straight-no-chaser compliments and need-stirring comments to himself.
Instead, she matched his head tilt. “And if I said you were?”
“Then I’d go out there in that kitchen and drag one of those chefs in here so you wouldn’t be. Is that what you want?”
She shook her head, the denial almost immediate. “No,” she said, although wisdom argued she should have him invite the whole crew into this small room. Protect her from herself. The self that couldn’t help wondering if those stark angles softened with pleasure. Wondering if that hard-looking mouth became more pliable.
Wondering if that icy shield of control shattered under desire’s flame?
A shiver danced over her skin. Waltzed along her nerve endings.
She was the moth dancing too close to those flames.
“What do you want?” he pressed, the deep timbre of his voice dipping lower.
He didn’t move, didn’t inch closer to her on the couch. But God, all that intensity crowded her, rubbed over her, slipped inside her. He wasn’t a coy or playful man; he grasped the wealth of possibilities that question carried. And he offered her the choice of not addressing them...or taking all of them.
A lifetime of playing by the rules slowly unraveled beneath his heated stare. His question vibrated between them, a gauntlet thrown down. A red flag waved.
“Too many things
