His Revenge by NeonChocolates

The borrowed Valentino gown felt like a vice around Cassidy Steele's ribcage, restricting oxygen just when she needed it most. She moved through the crowded ballroom of the Met, her eyes darting not at the priceless art, but at the exits.

She wasn't looking for a drink. She was looking for an escape route.

A flash of movement near the catering station made her stomach drop. Vargo. He had no business being here, yet he'd somehow managed it, likely by cashing in a favor from one of her father's less reputable contacts. He wasn't wearing a tuxedo. He was dressed as a server, holding a tray of empty flutes, but his eyes were fixed on her with the predatory focus of a wolf that had cornered a wounded rabbit. He stuck to the periphery, a shadow in her peripheral vision, and tapped his earpiece, his gaze never wavering from her face.

Cassidy's heart hammered against her ribs. He was going to make a scene. He was going to demand the money right here, in front of the donors, in front of the press. It would be the final nail in her career's coffin, and worse, it would leave her father defenseless in federal prison.

She turned sharply, her heels skidding slightly on the polished marble. The main exit was blocked by a wall of paparazzi, their flashbulbs popping like strobe lights in a nightmare. Too public. Service corridors were unpredictable, a potential trap. She needed a temporary sanctuary, a place to think.

Vargo eased past a woman in silk, dropping the pretense of service. He was coming.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. To her left, a heavy oak door stood slightly ajar, guarded by a velvet rope and a distracted security officer. The brass plaque read: Private Lounge. It was a calculated risk. One guard, easily distracted.

Cassidy didn't think. She didn't breathe. She ducked under the rope, flashing a dazzling, fake smile at the guard.

"My partner has my inhaler," she lied, her voice trembling just enough to be convincing. Before the guard could check a list, she slipped through the crack and pushed the heavy door shut behind her.

The silence was instant and jarring. The roar of the gala vanished, replaced by the hum of aggressive air conditioning and the scent of expensive leather. The room was dim, lit only by low amber sconces.

Cassidy leaned back against the door, her lungs burning. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop her hands from shaking. She was safe. Just for a minute.

Then the door handle turned against her spine.

Vargo. He was trying to force his way in.

Cassidy's eyes snapped open. She scanned the room frantically. It was empty, save for a figure sitting on a velvet sofa in the deepest shadow of the corner.

A man.

He was motionless, a silhouette of broad shoulders and stillness. An unlit cigar rested between his fingers. He radiated a terrifying kind of calm, the kind that exists in the eye of a hurricane.

The door cracked open an inch. "Miss Steele," Vargo's voice hissed through the gap, low and ugly.

Cassidy's brain short-circuited. If Vargo saw her alone, he would drag her out. She needed a shield. She needed a reason to be here. Her gaze locked on the silhouette again, and a jolt of recognition, cold and electric, shot through her. She knew that posture. She knew that stillness.

She pushed off the door and ran across the plush carpet. The man on the sofa didn't move, didn't even turn his head as she threw herself at him. This wasn't a plea to a stranger; it was a desperate gamble with the devil she knew.

She crashed into his lap, her knees hitting the cushions, her hands flying up to cup his face. His skin was cool, his jaw rigid as granite. She blocked his view of the door with her body, her desperate eyes locking onto his shadowed ones for a fraction of a second.

"Please," she whispered, the word barely air.

She pressed her lips to his.