Claiming Madison

Mike

The chandelier light in the Palais Garnier was too bright. It caught every speck of dust floating above five hundred tuxedoes and tailored gowns, bouncing off gilded archways and marble pillars until my eyes burned. The air in the grand foyer tasted stale, thick with expensive perfume, warm champagne, and the sweat of men trying too hard to look like they owned the place.

I tugged at the starched collar of my shirt. It pinched my neck. I hated these functions. David loved them. He thrived on the fake laughs, the calculated handshakes, and the soft, polite lies traded over crystal flutes.

Then I saw her.

She was standing near the sweeping grand staircase, framed by gold leaf and red velvet. She stood out like a flame in a dark room. Midnight-black hair fell in heavy, gleaming waves all the way past her waist, shimmering every time she turned her head. It was thick, liquid dark, and totally unstyled compared to the stiff, sprayed updo styles on every other woman in the room.

My pulse kicked up a notch. Hard.

Her dress was cut from a dark, heavy silk that drank the light. The neck dropped low, exposing the smooth expanse of her collarbones and the tops of full, rounded breasts that pushed against the tight bodice with every breath she took. The fabric hugged her waist, pinching tight before spilling down over wide, soft hips and the sharp swell of her rear. Her skin had a warm, honeyed glow to it, sun-kissed in a way that screamed she did not belong in indoor Paris. She belonged somewhere bright. Somewhere hot.

She shifted her weight from one heel to the other. The thigh-high slit in her gown parted. A long, sculpted leg peeked out, golden and smooth, flexed in high black heels that strapped tight around her delicate ankles.

I stopped breathing for three seconds.

Her back was slightly arching as she laughed at something a waiter said. Her spine curved into a deep, sinful arch that drew my eyes right down to the swell of her backside. She was voluptuous. She was soft where it mattered and firm everywhere else. Real. No bone-skinny runway frame here. She had weight to her, meat on her bones, curves built for a man’s hands to grip until his knuckles turned white.

"Hey. Mike. You listening?"

David’s voice shattered my focus. I didn't look at him. My eyes stayed locked on the black hair spilling over her bare shoulder.

"No," I said.

David chuckled, a quick, dry sound. He reached out and knocked his shoulder against mine. "Yeah, I figured. You're staring."

"Who is that?"

"Which one? The blonde with the diamonds or the—"

"The hair," I snapped, my voice dropping an octave, raspy in the back of my throat. "The dark silk."

David paused. He took a slow sip from his champagne glass. "Ah. That’s Madison. Chloe’s friend."

Chloe was David’s new flame, a French fashion rep who spoke three languages and spent David’s money faster than he could make it.

"She’s Australian," David added, taking my elbow and tugging me forward across the marble floor. "Just got into town yesterday. Chloe’s been bouncing off the walls about showing her around. Come on. I'll introduce you."

My boots made no sound on the heavy oriental runner laid out over the floor, but my heart was pounding a rhythm into my ribs like a war drum. Every step closer brought the detail into focus.

She was tall. Even in heels, her head reached past my shoulder, but I had half a foot and eighty pounds of muscle on her. Up close, her skin smelled like vanilla, sun lotion, and something sharp, like crushed berries. It cut right through the heavy floral scent of the room.

Her mouth was full. A naturally plush bottom lip that didn't need paint, though she wore a deep berry tint that made it look slick and bitten.

"Maddie!" Chloe gasped, turning around as we stopped beside them. Chloe was tiny, fluttering her manicured hands around in the air. "You have to tell David about that terrible flight. The layover in Doha was an absolute disaster, David, you wouldn't believe—"

"He doesn't care about Doha, babe," David interrupted smoothly, sliding a hand onto Chloe’s waist. He looked at Madison. "Madison, this is Mike. My business partner from Chicago."

Madison turned her head.

Our eyes hit.

A shock wave hit my belly, cold and sudden, before turning straight into a deep, heavy heat that settled low. Her eyes were wide, framed by long, thick lashes, the irises a rich, dark brown that looked almost black under the low chandeliers. She didn't look away. Most women looked down or tilted their heads, playing the shy game. Not her. She took me in, starting at my boots, moving up the dark fabric of my suit, past my wide shoulders, right up to my jaw.

Her plush lower lip parted slightly. A tiny, almost invisible intake of air caught in her throat.

"Mike," she said.

Her voice was liquid smoke. Smooth, low, with that soft, lazy Australian drawl that dragged out the vowels just enough to make a simple name sound like an invitation.

"Madison," I said. My voice was too rough. I cleared my throat, stepping an inch closer. Just one inch. The heat coming off her skin hit my bare hand hanging at my side. "Enjoying Paris?"

She snorted. It was a tiny, unladylike sound that vibrated in her chest. Her dark eyes sparkled. "It’s wet. And everyone speaks too fast."

"You'll get used to it," Chloe chimed in, waving her glass. "We are going to the club after this. Right, David? Tell her we're going to Le Bains."

"If we can get through the next hour of speeches," David grumbled, looking toward the small stage set up near the back arches.

I didn't care about speeches. I didn't care about the club.

Madison took a small step sideways, her elbow brushing against my forearm. Even through the heavy wool of my suit jacket, I felt the shock of it. She didn't pull back. Her shoulder rested right against my biceps. She was close enough that I could see the tiny pulse point fluttering at the base of her neck, right in the soft hollow between her collarbones.

"Is he always this quiet?" she murmured, looking up at me sideways through her dark lashes. She wasn't talking to Chloe. She was talking to me, but framing it like a secret.

"Only when I'm thinking," I said.

"Dangerous," she whispered. Her lips curved up at one corner. A dimple dented her left cheek, subtle and deep. "What are you thinking about?"

About tearing that silk off your hips.

About filling my hands with that black hair and pulling your head back until you beg.

"About getting out of here," I said instead.

Her eyes flicked down to my mouth. Her tongue darted out, wetting her lower lip, leaving it glistening. "The party just started, Chicago."

"It's a room full of dead men in suits, Madison."

She let out a low laugh. The sound did dirty things to my spine. Her chest rose, the heavy curves of her breasts spilling over the top of her dress, smooth skin stretching tight. I stared. I didn't even try to hide it. I let my eyes trace the slope of her front, down past her narrow waist, to the sharp line where the slit in her dress exposed her thigh.

She caught me looking. She didn't cover up. She shifted her leg, pushing the slit an inch wider, flexing her calf.

"You're not dead," she noted softly, her tone dropping so low Chloe and David couldn't hear over the string quartet playing in the corner. "You look pretty aggressive for a businessman."

"I don't do much sitting behind a desk."

"No?" Her hand moved. Her fingers, long and tipped with dark crimson polish, brushed the sleeve of my jacket, testing the thick muscle of my arm beneath the fabric. "What do you do?"

"Whatever needs doing."

David suddenly tapped my shoulder. "Mike, the guys from the investment group are near the bar. We need to do a quick pass."

I didn't move. My gaze stayed locked on Madison's face. She was watching me, her pupils dilated until the brown in her eyes was almost gone.

"Mike," David insisted, his voice sharp now. "Two minutes."

I took a slow breath, filling my lungs with her vanilla-and-berry scent. "Excuse me," I told her.

"Don't take too long," she said, her voice dropping down into that lazy, wicked drawl again. "I get bored easily."

I walked away with David, but my skin was burning where her fingers had touched my arm. I stood by the bar, holding a whiskey I didn't want, listening to two French bankers talk about real estate portfolios. I didn't hear a word. I kept my back to the bar, my eyes tracking her across the floor.

She was standing with Chloe, sipping champagne. Every time she moved, the heavy dark silk of her dress clung to her hips, outlining the lush, heavy shape of her body. She was breathtaking. She was trouble.

A sudden shift in the crowd near the entrance caught my eye. Two men in dark coats had stepped through the grand archway. They weren't wearing tuxedos. They didn't have glasses in their hands. They moved with quick, clipped steps, their eyes scanning the room, ignoring the art on the walls and the women in diamonds.

They were scanning the faces.

They stopped when their eyes landed on Madison.

I set my whiskey glass down on the marble bar with a heavy, hollow thud.