Because you’re wild about me and you know it, Whitney Donahue . . .
He gave her a slow, disarming smile, knowing that she would expect him to approach her. But he didn’t.
He kept his distance, indulging her, but his eyes were trained on her every move. He was not crowding her, not threatening her. He was, in fact, letting her strut her stuff and do her thing, but his eyes caressed her. His eyes said, I’m here, and no matter what stunt you try to pull, I’m still not going anywhere.
Taking a glass of Chardonnay from the tray of a passing waiter, Andrew wound through the crowd and enjoyed his drink while Whitney continued to ignore him. An air of rebelliousness enveloped her as she mingled, seemingly hell-bent on talking to all of the men in attendance, flaunting herself in a sexy little number that made his cock as hard as titanium.
She was exquisite, in a short sequined silver dress that graduated to gold at the hem of her dress. Stunning couldn’t begin to cover the way she looked. Her legs, lean and curved and in silver heels, stretched endlessly. She wore her hair loose—something that had always driven Andrew wild with lust—and every time she tossed it over her shoulders, she seemed to glance at him, as though delighting in the way she was torturing his raring, overheated libido. She was baiting him. Punishing him for leaving her, for hurting her. Maybe even pushing him to a breaking point.
It was working.
Andrew watched her laugh over something a man told her with quickly fading amusement and quietly building rage.
“Fairchild,” a voice said beyond his shoulder.
He turned to find Graves Buchanan standing behind him, his old friend’s face breaking into a half-smile, which was rare for such a stoic man.
“Buchanan,” Andrew said, slapping his hard back, genuinely smiling at him. He was here with Daniel’s sister, Chloe, and they looked pretty cozy.
Tall and slender, Chloe was rendered particularly petite when standing next to the large, dark Graves, and they were so close to each other, Chloe was almost standing on top of Graves’s feet.
With a sharp pang, Andrew remembered a time when Whitney had been closer to him than a limb . . .
“Glad to see you’re back, Andy,” Chloe said merrily, hugging him. She was Whitney’s best friend, and without their friendship, Andrew loathed to think he might never have met the green-eyed redhead whose name he was wearing.
“Glad to be home,” Andrew agreed. He would’ve liked to enjoy talking to them, but he couldn’t help but return his attention to Whitney, his insides growing more tumultuous with every man she talked to.
“Andrew,” Chloe said softly, lightly touching his jacket sleeve, her eyes wide with concern. “Whitney had a rough time when you left. You should be patient with her if you still want to be together.”
The worry in Chloe’s gaze made his gut twist in knots. “Are you implying we’re not together anymore?” He glanced back in Whitney’s direction, and the knots in his gut doubled in size. “Is she here with another man?” he asked Chloe.
“No, of course not! The only man she sees is your father, lunch on Wednesdays. She actually stayed at your place the first two years, but when the letters stopped coming . . .” She trailed off, and her green eyes—like her brother’s—welled with sadness. “She won’t make it easy for you, you hurt her too much, Andy.”
Though his chest constricted, Andrew nodded his head in understanding, trying to be patient with Whitney, trying to understand what she must be feeling. He did. He really did. It was unfair of him to expect her to love him like before, trust him like before.
But it hurt.
Holy God, it hurt so bad. When all he wanted was for her to know he would brave the devil for her. Just tell her what you did, Fairchild, and get it over with. You don’t need to fucking do this all over again.
Maybe his father was right, and he should tell her.
How could he woo her as if they shared no past? As if his life didn’t already revolve around her? How was he expected to stand back, and give her the space she needed, when every pore in his body screamed to him that she was his?
Whitney was stronger now. Different in an amazing way that he was just soaking up like he’d soak up the healing heat of a blazing sun. Yeah, she might be strong enough to know the truth, but honestly, the mere thought of telling her would be like puking his insides out.
Whitney wouldn’t be satisfied with a meager recounting. He’d have to tell her where he slept, what he ate, how he’d coped. The memory made him angry and frustrated all over again, and the nausea continued building as he watched her laugh with other men. She smiled at them warmly, without restraint. Without anger or accusation.
He froze in sudden disbelief as she was asked to dance, and suddenly, she was dancing. With some . . . dude. Some motherfucking son of a motherless . . .
She glanced in Andrew’s direction, her green eyes shining in victory, and then she tossed her hair back and smiled at her new dance partner. Andrew took a sip of his drink. That haughty glare lured him like a red flag to a bull. He gritted his teeth and watched her toss her hair again, then she put her hand on the man’s arm as they finished dancing and headed outside to take some air. Anger whirled inside his stomach as they disappeared through the ballroom’s terrace doors.
He was trying to be patient, trying to understand her. He knew she was testing his limits, testing the strength of their bond. She felt hurt and wanted attention, and he knew that if he was patient, then Whitney would run out of stupid things to do, and stupid things to say, and in the end, she’d realize Andrew wasn’t going anywhere. He was still here and he was staying here. With her. She’d feel secure again, cherished again. He’d allowed her little game tonight, soothing her hurting pride, wanting her to feel safe. But stand here and watch? Watch her offer to another man what belonged to him?
He had been through hell, his only consolation had been the sight of her name on his wrists, the thought of finally coming back to her.
Quietly seething, he set his wine aside on a table and strode across the ballroom, then out the terrace doors, his every muscle tense with blood flow. He could hear her voice, talking animatedly to the man in a way Andrew ached for her to speak to him again. The man was touching her shoulder, bending his head as though to listen.
“. . . which is incredibly funny, once you think about it . . .”
With soul-consuming jealousy, he grabbed that man’s offending hand and, with a harsh yank, folded his arm behind him at an awkward angle. “Is your name Andrew?” he ground out.