“Only when I have to.”

“The spa? I know you like a good foot pampering,” she teased.

He lowered his voice and whispered in her ear, “I thought we agreed never to talk about that again.”

“We did? I don’t remember that conversation.”

He quickly shifted her gaze to a sapphire necklace displayed on a black cushion. “What about this?”

“I didn’t know you liked women’s jewelry,” she said. “I never see you wearing any.”

He squeezed her waist and she squirmed away. “Someone is ticklish.”

She held his hand to her hip. “Stop,” she giggled.

Dameon filed away her funny bone for another, more private, time. “Seriously, the necklace would look fabulous on you.”

“You’re crazy,” she said.

He kissed her ear before whispering, “Wearing only the necklace.”

Dameon loved making her blush.

And to prove a point, he grabbed a pen and wrote his name, table number, and price he was willing to pay to make his fantasy come true.

Grace placed her hand over his. “What are you doing?”

He kept writing. “It’s for charity.”

“You’re nuts.”

He winked and pulled her along.

Halfway up the other side, Omar returned. Some of the playfulness from before was gone. “Max is here,” he said while nodding to the opposite side of the room.

Dameon felt the blissfulness of the night try to sour. Resisting the urge to turn to look at his onetime friend, he kept pace with the people moving through the silent auction line. “It’s an open venue.”

“He’s sitting at your table.”

Now that, Dameon wasn’t expecting. Although he probably should have. In years past, Max had been welcome and in fact would often fight to pay for the table.

“How did that happen?”

Omar shrugged.

“Is something wrong?” Grace asked.

This wasn’t the place to go into details.

“Dameon’s ex–business partner managed a slot at our table,” Omar said for him.

Grace’s eyes opened wide and her jaw dropped. “Banks . . . Maxwell Banks?” Grace asked.

Dameon focused on her. “You know about him?”

She made a strange face. “I may have looked you up when we first met.”

This woman never ceased to amaze him. “Is that right?”

“I only found what the papers talked about.”

“The details will have to wait,” Dameon told her.

“Do you want to leave?”

The fact she even asked made his night. “Do I look like a quitter?”

Omar laughed.

“Okay, then. Let the show begin.”

Dameon wrapped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. He was falling fast for this woman.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

To say she was blown away by the entire experience of walking into a red-carpet, star-studded New Year’s Eve event, having Dameon place an obscene bid down for a necklace he wanted to see her naked in, and finally landing in a full-blown soap opera drama with an ex–business partner was an understatement . . . Grace was on a rocket shooting to the moon.

Dameon walked her around the room, introduced her to more people than she would ever remember.

A few stuck out.

Chelsea, who worked with him . . . Omar, of course, and Tyler, who she had met before.

Everyone else was a blur.

At one point, someone took a microphone and told everyone the silent auction was closing and dinner was about to be served. She felt tension roll off Dameon in waves. Instead of pointing it out, she squeezed his hand and smiled anytime he looked at her.

They took their seats for dinner. Half the people there were all smiles, the others were reserved.

And when the cause of those half smiles walked up, Dameon’s hand reached for her knee under the table and squeezed.

She heard more than one person suck in a breath.

For the first time, Grace watched Dameon put on a political face. The kind one had to use when dealing with adversity while remaining polite. “Max? This is a surprise.” Dameon stood and reached out a hand.

Maxwell Banks had a very distinct look.

Privileged.

His skin was tan, his hair blond, and his suit screamed money.

He shook Dameon’s hand before looking around the table. “I see the team’s all here,” he said before unbuttoning his jacket and taking his seat.

“How have you been?” Dameon asked in an obvious attempt at small talk.

“Never better.” Maxwell’s eyes moved to Grace.

Instinctively, she smiled.

“And who is this?”

Dameon looked at her. “Grace Hudson, this is Max.”

Max reached across the table. She had no choice but to shake the man’s hand. “Max Banks,” the man corrected. And when he did, he squeezed Grace’s hand . . . twice.

She held in every possible comment on that move.

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

Grace settled next to Dameon, making sure it was clear she wasn’t available.

Max’s eyes flared.

“What brings you here tonight?” Dameon asked.

“Same as you. A little entertainment, a good cause. A happy New Year . . .”

Omar shook his head with a laugh.

Max turned his eyes on him. “Have something to say?”

“Nothing that wouldn’t make everyone at the table uncomfortable, so I’ll keep it to myself.” Omar lifted his glass filled with amber liquid and drank.

“I see nothing has changed.”

Chelsea leaned forward. “How’s your father, Max? I heard he isn’t well.”

For a brief moment, Grace saw Max’s armor crack. “He’s doing better than the news would lead you to believe.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

The staff at the hotel took that moment to arrive with their first course. Some kind of morsel on a plate that looked more like art than food.

The tables around them were idly chatting while theirs was filled with tension and silence.

“You’re a new addition, Miss Hudson. What do you do for Dameon?” Max asked.

“I’m not sure I understand your question.”

Dameon glared at Max. “Grace doesn’t work for me.”

“Is that right?” Max kept staring at her.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Banks?” Grace asked, changing the subject.

Before Max could answer, Omar spoke up. “Max spends his father’s money.”

Max shifted his gaze. “It’s called managing the family empire, Omar. Something you know nothing about.”

Two of the guests at the table were purposely looking away.

“I’ve seen firsthand how you manage Daddy’s cash—”

“Okay, guys. Let’s not do this here,” Dameon interrupted Omar.

Grace placed a hand on Dameon’s knee.

Omar leaned back, ignoring the food on his plate.

“Do you work, Grace?” Max continued.

“I’m a civil engineer.”

Max actually laughed.

“How is that funny?” Dameon asked.

“That’s not exactly your type.”