The gala had ended hours ago, but the echo of it lingered in Malia Martins’ body — in the ache of her feet from the heels, in the faint scent of champagne still clinging to her skin, in the taste of tension that hadn’t left her mouth since the first camera had flashed.
She had played her role perfectly. Polished. Unflappable. The kind of woman who looked like she belonged on Keith Williams’ arm.
But the act had cracks. And Keith had seen them.
She could feel his eyes on her even now, as they walked down the hushed corridor of the luxury hotel, her heels clicking against the marble, his longer strides easy and unhurried beside her. He didn’t touch her, not a hand at her back, not even the brush of his sleeve against hers — and somehow, that made the air between them even more charged.
W
