Chapter 7 - The Waltz
The string quartet in the ballroom began to play a slow, sweeping Strauss waltz.
The heavy mahogany doors of the gallery closed silently behind them as Marco cleared the remaining guards, leaving the hallway empty, warm, and bathed in the amber glow of the wall sconces.
Adrian didn't move his hands from her face.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked quietly.
It was the first time she had ever heard uncertainty in his voice—a tiny, fragile fraction of doubt that made him seem human, real, and intensely vulnerable despite his broad shoulders and dark power.
Claire raised her chin, looking directly into his eyes.
"I was afraid of you the first time you walked into my shop," she confessed softly. "I thought you were going to break my table."
"And now?"
Claire smiled—a warm, radiant smile that seemed to light up the dark gallery.
"Now I know you're just a man who needs someone to teach him how to dance."
Adrian blinked. "I know how to dance."
"Prove it," Claire murmured, stepping closer, placing her gloved left hand on his broad shoulder, while holding out her right.
Adrian hesitated for a second. Then, his heavy hand rested at the small of her back—exactly where the emerald velvet met the curve of her waist.
He stepped forward.
They moved across the quiet marble gallery in perfect, effortless harmony.
Adrian didn't look at his feet. He didn't look at the doors. He looked only at her face—at her red lips, at her green eyes reflecting the wall lights, at the soft dark hair curling against her neck.
"You're very good at this, Mr. Moretti," Claire murmured, her head resting lightly against his chest, hearing the steady, powerful thud of his heart against his ribs.
"I had a good teacher," Adrian whispered into her hair.
"She must have been very expensive," Claire teased.
"She cost me a three-story brick building on Passyunk Avenue," Adrian said softly. "And every piece of peace I've had for the last six weeks."
Claire laughed—a light, musical sound that filled the gallery, echoing off the high arched windows.
Adrian stopped moving.
He held her tightly against his chest, looking down at her face with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat.
"That laugh," Adrian whispered, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register. "That is what I was trying to tell you six weeks ago."
"What?" Claire whispered, her heart racing like wild horses.
"It makes the room warmer," Adrian said simply. "It makes every dark room I've ever walked into feel like somewhere I want to stay."
Claire reached up, her fingers gently touching the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath his skin.
"Then stay, Adrian," she whispered.
Adrian didn't answer with words.
He leaned down, his lips meeting hers in a deep, slow, possessive kiss that tasted of rich wine, cedarwood, and absolute, unbroken promises.
Claire closed her eyes, her arms winding around his neck, pulling herself up into his warmth, feeling the dark power of the mafia boss melt into the gentle protection of the man who had bought her world just to keep her safe.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing softly in the quiet gallery.
"The gala is almost over," Claire whispered, her fingers playing with the dark hair at the nape of his neck.
"Good," Adrian murmured, his hands resting firmly on her hips. "I hate galas."
"Where are we going?"
Adrian’s gray eyes sparkled with a rare, dark humor.
"To your shop," Adrian said. "I have a tear in my jacket sleeve."
Claire laughed, shaking her head. "You don't have a tear in your sleeve, Adrian."
Adrian reached down with his right hand, grabbed the seam of his two-thousand-dollar bespoke jacket, and tore it three inches with a sharp rip.
Claire gasped, her mouth falling open in horror. "Adrian! That’s Italian wool!"
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Adrian smiled—a broad, breathtaking, devastating smile that transformed his entire face into something blindingly handsome.
"Thirty minutes, Ms. Bennett?" Adrian asked softly. "Or do I need to book another seventeen hours?"
