to cry in front of him, not after coming like that in his arms. It was heaping mortification on top of mortification. Because no matter how she regretted it now, there was no pretending she hadn’t wanted it. That she hadn’t been an equal partner, if not an instigator.
She had wanted it. That was the part that scared her most. Her body still ached, still hummed with the aftereffects of her recent release. And her frame was shaking with the effort of holding her tears at bay.
“I have to go,” she said.
“The show isn’t over,” Alik said tightly, his eyes burning in the darkness.
“Yes, Alik. It is over,” she said, not talking about the opera. “It’s over for me.”
She turned and swept the back curtain aside, walking out of the box and into the hall. There were people there, people milling around who could have easily walked in on them.
Her heart thundered, her legs shaking, her stomach nauseous as she made her way down the curved staircase and into the lobby, then out the front door. She ran along the line of cars idling at the curb until she found Alik’s driver.
She opened the back door and the man jumped, his head rising sharply. “Mrs. Vasin?”
She didn’t bother to correct him. “Yes. I need you to take me home.”
“Where is Mr. Vasin?”
“He is not ready to leave yet. Take me home.”
“But what about Mr….”
“If Alik bloody Vasin is as damned resourceful as he would have me believe, then he can find his own ride home and I won’t worry about him for a moment. Now take me back to the town house.” She leaned back against the seat, her heart thundering.
The driver put the car into Park and started to pull away from the front of the theater. Jada looked back and saw Alik burst through the front doors, his jacket gone, his tie still loose. Then she looked at the road ahead, at the streetlights and the light reflected in the rain-covered street, and said nothing.
CHAPTER NINE
ALIK CURSED JADA AT LEAST a hundred times on his way back to his town house in his ill-gotten limousine. He’d greased the palm of a waiting driver and snagged another opera at-tendee’s ride. He couldn’t be bothered to feel bad about it.
Actually, if Jada hadn’t run out on him there would be very little in the world he could be bothered to feel bad about. Not when his body was still burning with the aftereffects of his release.
Not when Jada had gone up like flame in his arms, flames that had consumed him. Damn the woman. He should have gone to a club and gotten drunk instead of following her. But for some reason he needed to be home. Needed to follow her.
Dimly, through the haze of his anger, he wondered if her kiss, her body, had transferred her passion to him. It was why he never should have touched her.
But it was too late for that. Much too late. The floodgates were open and they were both going to have to deal with the consequences.
The limo pulled up to his house and he got out, slamming the door behind him and stalking into the house. He could not recall the last time he was so angry. Anger required emotion, loss of control, and both of those things were rare for him.
But now, he was in the thick of both.
He prowled up the stairs, tugging his tie off and throwing it onto the floor, then continued down the hall, his heart pounding, his body aching for more. For another taste of the woman who had brought him to heaven and then looked at him like he was the devil.
He could have caught up to her at the theater, but he’d paused at the middle of the stairs and watched her instead, watched her run out of the theater, deep crimson against the pale marble surroundings. Like a rose in the middle of stone. Triumphant, alive.
Only Jada was also angry. The emotion coming from her in waves, undeniable and somewhat awe inspiring. And then it had been as if some of it had attached itself to him, coated his skin. And then he’d felt it, too. Only he wasn’t angry at himself. He was angry at her. How could she experience what they just had, the same damn thing, and then run off?
It wasn’t simply that she’d left, it was that she’d looked like she wanted to cry. As if he’d hurt her