Chapter 239
Graham pushed off the table, his decision made. If Isla thought she
could play with fire tonight, she was about to find out just how hot it
could burn.
“Wow!” A loud, raucous laugh boomed behind Graham, accompanied
by a hearty slap to his back. “I never thought I’d live to see the day,
but here we are. Graham Lancaster–pussy–whipped.”
The voice belonged to none other than Daneil Angelis, Graham’s oldest and most irritating friend. Daneil’s wolfish grin stretched wide as he leaned casually against the bar, his tailored suit barely masking the irreverence in his stance. Daneil, founder of the luxurious Jardin hotel chain and self–proclaimed playboy extraordinaire, thrived on
poking at Graham’s tightly wound composure.
Graham didn’t bother turning fully toward him, his gaze still glued to
the dance floor where Isla swayed in another man’s arms. His irritation flared as he muttered, “Shut up, Daneil. And tell me,
the hell invited you?”
who
“Oh, come on,” Daneil drawled, unbothered, as he signaled for a drink. “Do you really think I need an invitation? A Lancaster party is the hottest ticket in town. You know me–I’m like glitter at a rave.
Impossible to keep out.”
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Graham rolled his eyes, the quip barely registering as his attention
was drawn back to Isla. Her delicate figure moved effortlessly with
the music, and his blood boiled as he caught sight of her dance
partner–a Hollywood pretty boy with a smile too perfect to be real.
The actor’s hands grazed her bare thighs, and Graham’s grip on the
edge of the bar tightened, his knuckles whitening. Fury bubbled up,
his restraint hanging by a thread.
1
“Relax,” Daneil interrupted, dragging him back before Graham could
launch himself across the room. “They’re just dancing, not eloping.”
Graham’s glare could have cut steel. “His hands are on her thighs, Daneil,” he ground out, the words barely audible over the thrum of
the party.
Daneil smirked, sipping leisurely from his cocktail. “And you’ve been watching every second, haven’t you? Never seen you like this, man. What’s going on? You used to be the king of indifference. Women
threw themselves at you, and you barely blinked.”
Graham didn’t respond, his silence sharper than any retort. It wasn’t indifference burning in his chest now–it was a volatile cocktail of possessiveness, jealousy, and a maddening desire he couldn’t shake,
Daneil studied his old friend, his expression shifting from amusement to something approaching genuine curiosity. “So it’s real, then,” he said, his tone quieter now. “The great Graham Lancaster, hit by the
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love bug. What happened to all that talk about never getting married?
About how no woman would ever drag you to an altar?”
Graham tore his gaze from Isla long enough to shoot Daneil a look
that could melt iron. But Daneil, undeterred, continued, his smirk
returning as his eyes flicked to Isla. “And all it took was a young thing
in a skimpy little dress?”
Graham’s jaw clenched so tightly that he could feel his molars
grinding. The dress. That damned dress. If he lived to be a hundred,
he’d never forget the way it clung to her, the way it revealed just
enough to leave every man in the room imagining the rest. He
doubted there was a single hot–blooded male here who hadn’t
undressed her in their minds already.
“Trust me,” Graham growled, his voice low and dangerous, “that
skimpy little outfit is coming off the second I get her alone. And then
it’s going straight into the fire.”
Daneil laughed, shaking his head. “Good to know. Good to know.
You’re a possessive bastard, Lancaster,”
Graham didn’t reply, his mind too consumed with the image of Isla
and her dance partner. Just as he was about to down another drink,
Daneil chimed in again, his tone light and teasing. “Hey, just to
clarify–you’re not banging that hot blonde secretary of yours, are
you?”
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Chapter 239
The question hit Graham like a freight train. Mid–sip, he choked on his whisky, sputtering as the liquid burned down the wrong pipe. He
coughed violently, barely able to breathe as Daneil roared with
laughter beside him.
When Graham finally recovered, his glare was murderous. “What the
hell is wrong with you?”
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
