The heavy oak door of the private dining room didn't just open. It splintered inward, slamming against the wall with a deafening crack.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light, was a figure that seemed to suck all the air and warmth from the room. Julian Vance.
His handsome face was a mask of glacial fury. His eyes, usually a cool, unreadable grey, were now the color of a storm-tossed sea, churning with a terrifying violence that was aimed directly at the scene before him: Natalie, dazed and helpless, with Mr. Davies forcing a glass to her lips.
The sleazy client, Mr. Zhao, froze mid-laugh, his face slackening with shock. Mr. Davies flinched, his hand tightening on Natalie’s shoulder.
“Who the hell are you?” Davies blustered, trying to regain some semblance of authority. “This is a private meeting! Get out!”
Julian didn’t spare him a glance. His entire universe had narrowed to Natalie. He saw the faint flush on her cheeks, the unfocused glaze in her beautiful eyes, the way her body was limp with a fight she was losing. A low, predatory growl rumbled in his chest, a sound so primal it made the hairs on Mr. Zhao’s arms stand on end.
He moved. It wasn’t a walk; it was a fluid, lethal glide. In two impossibly swift strides, he was there.
He didn’t shove Mr. Davies. He didn’t punch him.
He backhanded him.
The sound was like a whip-crack, sharp and final. Mr. Davies, a man twice Julian’s age and size, flew backward as if struck by lightning, crashing over a chair and landing in a heap of sprawling limbs and shattered dignity on the floor. A trickle of blood bloomed from his split lip.
Mr. Zhao scrambled backward, his chair screeching against the floor, his face ashen with terror.
Julian’s attention was already gone from the trash he’d just disposed of. With a tenderness that was a startling contrast to his violence, his long, elegant fingers closed around the wine glass, plucking it from the air just before it could touch Natalie's lips again. He placed it on the table with a soft, deliberate click.
“Julian?” Natalie murmured, her voice a faint, confused whisper. Her head lolled, and she swayed on her feet.
Instantly, a strong arm was around her waist, pulling her flush against a chest that felt as solid and safe as granite. He was shrugging out of his thousand-dollar suit jacket, wrapping it around her trembling shoulders, shielding her from the world. Her senses were swimming, but she registered his scent—sandalwood and clean, cold night air. It was the scent of safety. Of him.
“I’m here,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling murmur meant only for her. The chilling fury was gone, replaced by a deep, protective warmth that seeped into her bones.
He scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. Cradled against him, Natalie buried her face in the crook of his neck, a helpless sigh escaping her lips. The world was spinning, but here, in his arms, the spinning stopped.
As Julian turned to leave, his assistant, Mark, appeared in the doorway, his face pale but professional. Julian didn’t break his stride. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, but it carried the lethal weight of a death sentence.
“Ruin them,” he commanded, his gaze flicking over the pathetic forms of Davies and Zhao. “I want them blacklisted from every industry in this country. I want their assets frozen. I want them to spend the rest of their miserable lives regretting they were ever born.” He paused at the door. “And buy this restaurant. Fire everyone on shift tonight for allowing this to happen.”
He swept out, leaving behind a room thick with absolute terror.
The ride down the elevator was a silent, tense blur. Natalie felt hot, a strange, coiling heat deep in her belly. The drug was surging through her veins, dissolving her inhibitions, replacing her anxiety with a hazy, insistent need she couldn't name. Her body felt too warm, her dress too constricting.
Julian placed her gently in the plush leather backseat of his Maybach, the door closing with a soft, solid thud that sealed them in their own private world. He slid in beside her, the space suddenly feeling charged, intimate. The engine purred to life, and the city lights began to streak past the tinted windows.
His fury was a palpable thing next to her, a tightly controlled inferno. His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking violently. But his movements, as he adjusted his jacket around her, were infinitely gentle.
“Julian…” she whispered, her voice husky. The heat was becoming unbearable. She needed… something. She needed him.
Her fingers, acting of their own accord, reached for him. They found the silk of his tie, tugging at the knot. “It’s… hot,” she mumbled, her gaze fixed on his lips.
The simple, innocent act seemed to shatter his composure. A shudder wracked his powerful frame. He caught her hand, his grip firm but not painful.
“Natalie, don’t,” he ground out, his voice strained.
But she was beyond reason. She pulled her hand free and reached for him again, her fingers fumbling with the top button of his shirt. Her other hand came up to his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy beat of his heart beneath the fine cotton. It was beating as fast as hers. The discovery sent a jolt of something wild and powerful through her.
She leaned closer, pulling on his tie again, her breath ghosting across his skin. “Please, Julian…”
He let out a harsh, ragged breath, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second as if in pain. He was fighting a war with himself, and he was losing. He could smell the sweet, floral scent of her perfume, feel the feverish heat radiating from her skin. It was torture. It was everything.
He gripped her wrists, his control snapping. His storm-grey eyes locked onto hers, blazing with a desperate, raw emotion she had never seen before.
Julian forced his breathing under control and pressed her back into the leather seat. His voice was a low, desperate growl. “Natalie, do you have any idea you're setting yourself on fire?”
And then his mouth crashed down on hers. A scorching kiss erupted between them, fierce and possessive, a desperate claiming that stole the very air from her lungs.