Free Bound to You by Shawntelle Madison

always looking for new organizations to support through the Quinn Foundation. The work you do here for the traditional arts is astounding.”
    Watanabe briefly looked at me. I bowed and greeted him in Japanese. After that I remarked, in Japanese, how excited Xavier was to give to such an important cause and how Xavier wanted to be involved in future partnerships with a man as esteemed and experienced as him. Xavier’s company made a lot more money than Watanabe’s, but that didn’t matter right now. Respect did.
    Poor Xavier had no idea what I was saying, but he kept smiling—like I wanted him to do.
    Right behind us, Nakamura waited, but he heard every word.
    Watanabe nodded. Then he turned to his assistant, who extended a card.
Bingo!
I took it with both hands and a bowed head.
    “Mr. Nakamura.” Xavier nodded his way.
    I cringed on the inside, my plan for an offhand introduction crumbling after Nakamura heard us talking to Watanabe.
    Nakamura simply nodded and Watanabe turned to him. Our opportunity to have Watanabe casually introduce Xavier to him vanished. Damn.
    Now we had no choice but to say our thanks and head up the stairs to the theater.
    I sighed. Being disappointed would get in the way of coming up with a new plan. I had the whole evening to figure something out.
    We went up a well-lit stairwell to Xavier’s private box. I tried to focus on going up each step, but instead my mind wandered and I kept thinking about the man behind me. Could he see the way the dress fit my curves or the way my hips began to sway as if they had a mind of their own?
    By the time we reached the box and slipped into the red velvet seats, my whole body hummed. Ignoring the feeling was futile, even with my face forward and my gaze set on the stage. There were plenty of sights to drink in, from the ornate painted ceiling with intricate cherub carvings to the beautiful crystal chandeliers hung along the walls.
    The massive room dimmed and murmurs from the crowd floated up to us. The performance would begin soon and give me the distraction I wanted.
    A waiter arrived with more champagne, but I didn’t look over my shoulder. Finally, Xavier spoke to me.
    “Would you like some champagne?” he whispered. His breath was warm on my neck. I didn’t dare turn toward him. My imagination churned out vivid images I couldn’t push away: His lips trailing across my neck. His hand pressed against my thigh.
    Xavier handed me the glass and I gratefully downed the drink to sate my parched throat.
    His left arm was close enough to warm my right side and all I could do to keep myself in check was keep my hands in my lap. Even intertwining my fingers didn’t settle my senses.
    The orchestra’s music began, the horns softly playing as the first act of
Pelléas et Mélisande
started.
    “Have you seen this piece before?” he asked.
    His words broke through to me. I dared a quick peek and his dark, mesmerizing stare forced my lips to part and made my throat dry.
    “Yes. A year ago,” I managed.
    “Damn it, Miss Ashton,” he breathed. The side of his mouth turned slightly with a devilish grin. “You need to stop looking at me like that.”
    “Like what?” My gaze flicked to the man and woman singing on the stage. Her melodic voice further softened my already molten insides.
    “Like you’re begging me to touch you.”
    Was it that obvious?
He had yet to touch me again and I
was
close to begging. Even with the guilt of what I wanted nipping at me. Were my eyes betraying what my body felt? My body for damn sure didn’t care that he was a client and not a man who had similar interests to mine.
    Instead of waiting for a response from me, his left hand drifted to rest on his knee. His fingers flexed, the movement wonderfully hypnotic.
    Would one touch ruin everything?
    We sat like that for some time, sipping the champagne through the first two acts. Then the third act began with Mélisande sitting at a tower window singing as she combed her long