“Sit closer,” he murmured.

“So you can look down my dress?”

He laughed that whiskey-rough rasp she loved. “Yes.”

She scooted in, leaving a foot of space beside them. Can’t make it too easy. With a dutiful glance at her abundant cleavage, he gave a wolfish smile. “Do you like what you’re wearing?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“The woman makes it beautiful.” He dwarfed her hand in his and traced lazy, erotic circles on her wrist. “Is your family giving you a hard time about me?”

“They’re just protective. They tend to take their lead from Luke, and he’s not your biggest fan.”

“What about the men you work with?”

“It’s not a problem.” So a few guys had made snide comments about her “wartime collaboration.” She’d lived with nasty innuendo her whole career in CFD; a few extras she could handle. If it kept her family safe . . .

Only now she was beginning to think she didn’t mind being here with him, getting all dressed up in clothes he had chosen for her. There was a lot to like about how Eli wooed.

She felt her butt scoot over a smidgen. The intimate interior of the car pressed in on her.

“If anyone gives you a problem, you’ll come to me about it.” Not a question, but a command.

“I can take care of it, Eli.”

“Let me enjoy this rare moment of looking out for someone other than myself, Alexandra.”

She wondered who took care of him. When he went home to the house where his parents were murdered, did he sit alone in the dark with his expensive scotch and his dog at his feet imagining a world where men didn’t break into your home and execute the people you loved more than anything?

This was not what where her mind should be wandering. Back to the orgasms.

The car stopped and Eli curled a hand around her neck. “Just one thing.” He unclasped the French knot Darcy had spent an hour crafting.

“Eli! That took forever.”

“I like your hair down. Uncivilized, rebellious. Like you.” His fingers tangled in her locks, mussing them out of downtown sleekness and into the wild boonies. All the while, he stared at her with those ice-blue eyes. “I don’t think you should change for anyone, and especially not for me.” His thumb trailed to her bottom lip and hovered there.

“Don’t you dare smudge my makeup,” she hissed through quivering lips. “It’s perfect.”

Lights of challenge brightened his eyes. “Shouldn’t have said that, honey.” And then he was kissing her, making a mess of her makeup, of her panties, of everything. His fingers, those dominant instruments of pleasure, burrowed in her hair, while his tongue tangled with hers expertly.

Drawing back, he touched his lips, as though savoring his sensual assault. “I’m glad you’re here, Alexandra. Tonight, I really need . . .” He placed a hand on the door handle and drew a breath. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

Stunned by that admission, she tried to haul herself back to the reality she knew existed outside this car. “Eli, wait, I need a mirror. I can’t go out like this.” She had no idea what this was, but she was damn sure it was not worthy of the mayor’s arm candy.

“Yes, you can. You look like how every woman should when getting out of a limo.”

“Like a bedraggled hobo?”

“Like you’ve just gotten some action.” With his hand still wrapped around hers, he dragged her out of the car into the street.

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Crystal Ballroom at the Knickerbocker Hotel exuded all the grandeur and glamour of 1920s Chicago. A gilded domed ceiling shone above crystal chandeliers, each one dripping with opulence the likes of which Alex had only seen in magazines or on TV. This was not her scene at all.

But it was most definitely Eli’s. The room was filled with arrogant lawyers, top cops, city dignitaries, and Chicago’s glitterati. These were his people, he was their god made flesh, and while everyone looked great in a tux, no one looked as born to this dazzling world as the man at her side.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to move too much in her heels—everyone came to pay homage to the mayor. He made a point to include her in every introduction, and if someone barely acknowledged her or dismissed her with a cutting glance, that someone very quickly fell out of favor with Chicago’s most powerful man. The conversation would sputter and die, and the offender would shrink away in confusion, unsure of what he’d done to merit the mayor’s silent censure. Through all the bowing and scraping, Eli kept his hand glued to her waist, the heat of his palm a brand on her sensitized skin through the barely there silk. All these people vying for his attention, and Eli’s focus was singularly on Alex.

The woo was strong with this one.

After another forty-five minutes of “Mr. Mayor, I need thirty seconds of your time,” Alex’s eyes wandered to the beautifully set tables, willing the dinner gong to sound (or however these people announced the arrival of the real food). The tiny, albeit delicious, hors d’oeuvres of crab and avocado were not cutting it, and if she grabbed the third glass of champagne calling her name, she might start to get sloppy.

And then her stomach growled, because she was all class.

Eli turned away from a bouffanted woman who was complaining about dog poop problems in the Streeterville and squeezed Alex’s waist. “Hungry?”

“Oh, God, no, my stomach is always this chatty.”

The killer dimple popped in to say howdy. “Let’s get you something decent to eat.” With a polite smile, he abandoned the dog poop lady and headed toward the tables.

Everyone followed. Now that was power right there.

The seating was boy-girl-boy, so she found herself with Eli on her right and the police commissioner on her left. Over the appetizers of one measly prawn and an oyster mushroom sculpted to look like a flower—uh, really?—the commissioner’s wife voiced her fascination that Alex was “showing those men how it was done.” On her other side, the commish made conversation with Alex’s breasts before switching his attentions to the almost comparable rack of the woman to his left. Eli was busy schmoozing, so Alex took a moment to enjoy the relative peace of not having to make stilted conversation with anyone.

Her clutch, sitting on the table, started to dance. With a quick glance to ensure no one was looking, she pulled it to her lap and extracted her phone.

It was from TSN. Or The Sex Ninja, as she had rechristened Eli in her contacts.

Are we boring you?

She texted back: More like starving me.

He leaned in, his breath hot against her cheek, his scent like a drug. “You ate your first course too fast. I prefer when you linger over each juicy morsel.”

“As it was barely enough to satisfy a chicklet, lingering was never an option. And since when am I here for your entertainment?”

“Since I entertained you awhile back.” He smirked. “Twice, if I recall correctly.”

Heated remembrance flushed her body. “Nobody likes smug, Mr. Mayor.”

“I think you like me any way you can have me. You’re just too damn stubborn to admit it.” His words whispered across her skin and then his knuckles followed suit, glancing over Darcy’s tattoo of Logan’s name. Alex had noticed he took every opportunity to touch her since he’d picked her up at her house. Know what else she noticed? That she loved every second of it. The last few weeks without his attention had left her craving those magic digits of his in a seriously bad way.

“Fairly sure that like is a word I will never use when thinking about you, Eli.”

His wicked mouth moved closer to her ear. He breathed her in, and just that inhale, like he needed her scent to keep him sane through the madness of his life, was enough to set her body vibrating with need. “I’ve been subsisting on memories these last two weeks, Alexandra. The sounds you made when you came, the grip of your soft, wet flesh around my fingers. I’d say like is a rather tame word for what’s happening between us, don’t you think?”