Badass in Disguise Chapter 135

Chase's hand tightened around my arm. He stood a little straighter, his spine stiffening like someone had replaced it with a metal rod. "We should go," he whispered, tugging me slightly. The nervousness in his voice was palpable, like a child who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I ignored him and looked directly at Ethan. "He made a bet with me," I said, nodding toward Chase. "He bet that I couldn't touch your face and still walk away in one piece."

Chase's grip on my arm loosened in shock. "What the—" he sputtered, his eyes wide with panic. A bead of sweat formed at his temple, and he swallowed hard enough that I could hear the click in his throat.

Ethan's eyebrow arched, his lips quirking up slightly at one corner. The subtle change transformed his face, bringing a warmth to his eyes that wasn't there before. "Is that so?" His voice was low and smooth, like expensive whiskey. "And what were the stakes of this bet?"

"We hadn't decided yet," I replied with a casual shrug, as if we were discussing the weather rather than potentially touching the face of one of New York's most intimidating businessmen.

"If I were to... cooperate," Ethan said, his eyes never leaving mine, "would that raise the stakes?" There was something almost playful in his tone now.

A murmur rippled through the crowd around us, the soft gasps and whispers creating a soundtrack to our little drama. Women in designer gowns leaned into each other, lips moving rapidly behind manicured hands. Men adjusted their bow ties and watches, trying to appear disinterested while straining to hear every word.

Chase had gone completely still beside me, like a rabbit caught in headlights. The color had drained from his face, leaving him pale against the rich burgundy of his suit.

Ethan leaned down, bringing his face inches from mine. The movement was smooth, deliberate, almost predatory. "Which side would you prefer to touch?" he asked, his voice dropping to a near whisper that seemed to caress my skin.

I looked up at him, studying the planes of his face. This close, I could see flecks of gold in his green eyes, smell the subtle notes of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex.

Connor shifted nervously behind Ethan, glancing around at the gathering crowd of onlookers. His perfectly pressed suit couldn't hide the tension in his shoulders as he tugged discreetly at Ethan's sleeve. "Boss," he murmured under his breath, "maybe tone it down? Everyone's watching."

The room had indeed fallen silent. The sudden change was jarring—moments ago, there had been the gentle hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, soft music. Now there was nothing but the collective held breath of dozens of Manhattan's elite, all eyes focused on our little tableau.

Chase had released my arm entirely, taking a small step back as if to distance himself from whatever was about to happen. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed again, eyes darting between Ethan and me like he was watching a tennis match where the ball might explode at any moment.

Across the room, I caught a glimpse of Henry Astor's face. He stood with Walter Morrison and Philip Thornton, all three men watching the scene unfold with varying degrees of surprise. Henry's expression was particularly interesting—a mixture of calculation and approval. His eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted in consideration.

Edward and Julian Sheldon had also noticed the silence spreading through the room. They turned from their conversation, eyes widening at the sight of Ethan Haxton—notorious for his aloofness—bent down so close to me it almost looked like he was about to kiss me. Julian elbowed his brother, whispering something that made Edward frown.

I met Ethan's gaze steadily. "That won't be necessary," I said, my voice carrying in the quiet room. "His stakes weren't interesting enough to bother." I gestured dismissively toward Chase, who looked both relieved and slightly offended.

A flash of what might have been disappointment crossed Ethan's face before he straightened, adjusting his perfectly tailored jacket with a practiced flick of his wrists. "A pity," he said. "I was willing to be quite generous."

"I should go say hello to President Thornton," Ethan said, his professional mask sliding back into place. "I'll return shortly." The promise in his voice was unmistakable.

As Ethan walked away, Connor following close behind like a well-trained shadow, Chase moved back to my side. "What the fuck was that?" he hissed, his eyes wide. "You and Haxton? How? When?" His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

"We're friends," I said simply, enjoying his confusion.

"Friends?" Chase repeated incredulously. "Ethan Haxton doesn't have friends. Especially not—" He caught himself, but I knew what he'd been about to say. *Especially not women.*

"Rumors of his celibacy are greatly exaggerated," I said dryly, watching with amusement as Chase's eyes bulged.

Chase's jaw worked silently, trying to process this information. His eyes darted to Ethan, who was now speaking with Philip and the others, his back straight, his gestures measured and precise. "I don't understand. How did you—"

"Look," I cut him off, "it's not complicated. We met, we talked, we found common ground."

Chase still looked like he'd been hit by a truck, but before he could ask more questions, Ethan was returning, this time with Connor carrying a long rectangular box made of polished wood with silver fittings.

"For you," Ethan said, as Connor opened the box to reveal a bottle of wine nestled in deep blue velvet. "Romanée-Conti, 1947."

Connor's hands trembled slightly as he handled the priceless bottle, his eyes widening as he realized what he was holding. A small gasp escaped him, quickly suppressed.

I accepted the glass Ethan offered after pouring a small amount. The ruby liquid caught the light, sending tiny reflections dancing across my hand. I took a sip, letting the complex flavors unfold on my tongue—berries, earth, a hint of spice, and something indefinable that spoke of decades in the cellar. "Not bad," I said. "You have good taste, Mr. Haxton."

Connor's jaw literally dropped. Not bad? The bottle was worth more than most people's houses.

Ethan moved to pour me another glass, but I placed my hand over the rim. "I'm driving," I explained, our fingers brushing briefly.

Edward approached us, his smile bright but his eyes curious. "They're about to bring out the cake. Won't you join us?" His invitation seemed genuine, but I could see the questions forming behind his eyes.

I shook my head. "I should be going," I said, feeling the weight of too many curious eyes on me. "I've had enough socializing for one night." I turned to Philip. "Thank you for the invitation, President Thornton. Happy birthday."

Philip looked disappointed but nodded graciously. "Of course, my dear. Thank you for coming."

Ethan checked his watch. "I should be going as well." He nodded to Philip and the others, all politeness and propriety once more.

Outside, Connor brought Ethan's car around—a sleek black Maybach that purred at the curb. Ethan paused before getting in, clearly waiting for someone.

Before he could leave, the purr of a high-performance engine cut through the night.

Connor's head poked out of Ethan's car window. "Holy shit..." he breathed, eyes wide with automotive lust.

"Need a ride?" I asked Ethan, my lips curving into a slight smile.