Chapter 1: Flowers and Flesh
The Miami sun was a physical weight, a solid slab of heat pressing down on the rooftop. Dante Ross stepped out of the stairwell into the glare, the scent of chlorine and coconut oil hitting him like a wall. Below, the city shimmered, a grid of pastel and glass stretching to the hazy Atlantic.
The pool was a rectangle of liquid sapphire, its surface shattered by the occasional languid kick of a model’s leg. Lounge chairs fanned out like petals, each occupied by a masterpiece of genetics—golden skin, sculpted abs, the gleam of rhinestones on tiny bikinis. The air hummed with low conversation, the clink of ice in glasses, and the distant, ever-present thump of bass from South Beach.
He’d come straight from a site consultation, his white linen shirt rolled to the elbows, tailored trousers a stark contrast to the sea of bare skin. In his hand was a casual clutch of purple-spotted orchids, stems wrapped in brown paper. A peace offering for Lena, one of the owners, for crashing another shoot.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. And he brought flowers.”
The voice was smooth, edged with familiar mockery. Dante turned.
Brooke was arching up off a lounger, the movement slow and deliberate. Her bikini was engineering in its minimalism—thin strings of neon green against deeply tanned skin. It did a heroic job of containing the generous curve of her ass, and a decidedly less effective one with her chest. She settled back on her elbows, smirking. “Gala boy. You ever miss one of these things?”
“Lena would have my head.” He smiled, easy. “And I was in the neighborhood.”
“You’re always in the neighborhood.” Her eyes, hidden behind oversized sunglasses, didn’t meet his. They traveled down, taking in the fit of his clothes with a professional’s appraisal. They paused, unmistakably, at the front of his trousers. A slow, appreciative smile spread over her glossed lips. “Busy afternoon?”
He didn’t shift, didn’t adjust. He just let her look, the faintest amusement in his own green eyes. The tailored wool did little to disguise the substantial outline of him, a fact he was long past being self-conscious about. “Landscape architects lead thrilling lives, Brooke. Lots of soil samples. Very arousing.”
She snorted a laugh and finally looked up at his face, pushing the sunglasses onto her head. “Sure. That’s it.” She swung her legs off the lounger and stood, all five-eleven of her, glistening with oil. She plucked the orchids from his hand, her fingers brushing his. “These are for me, right?”
“They’re for Lena. To apologize for the intrusion.”
“Boring.” She brought the blooms to her nose anyway, then used them to point toward the bar area where a petite woman with a severe blonde bob was gesturing wildly at a photographer. “She’s in crisis. The light’s too harsh, the margaritas are too weak, and Zara’s new implants are reflecting the strobe. It’s a whole thing. Your timing is, as always, impeccable.”
He followed her gaze. “I’ll wait for a lull.”
“Suit yourself.” Brooke twirled the orchids. “So what’s the event tonight? Save the manatees? Opera under the stars?”
“Art Basel preview.”
“Of course it is.” She took a step closer. The scent of her, salt and expensive vanilla, mixed with the chlorine. Her eyes dropped again, that smirk returning. “You know, half the girls here have a theory about you.”
“Is that right?”
“Mmhm. They see you waltz in here, all calm and… put together. With your flowers and your charity galas. You’re polite, you never stare, you don’t hit on anyone. It’s unnerving.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “The consensus is you’re either gay, or you’re a serial killer. The polite ones are always the worst.”
Dante let out a genuine laugh, a low, warm sound. “And what’s your theory, Brooke?”
“Me?” She let her gaze do another slow, deliberate sweep of him, from his sun-streaked hair to his leather loafers. The inspection was brazen, calculated. “I think you’re just not hungry. You don’t scavenge with the seagulls because you’re a fucking panther. You eat when you want, where you want. And you’re never in a rush.”
The accuracy of it, delivered with such casual bluntness, momentarily stalled his usual calm. He held her challenging stare, the energy between them shifting from familiar banter to something more charged. The pulsing music from the street below seemed to sync with his heartbeat.
Before he could formulate a reply, a shriek of laughter erupted from the pool. One of the models had been pushed in, and the resulting splash and chaos broke the spell.
Brooke blinked, stepped back, and the smirk was back in place, a shield slammed down. “Anyway. Your fan club awaits.” She nodded toward Lena, who had spotted him and was now waving him over with a frantic, relieved expression.
“Duty calls,” he said, his voice even.
“Don’t be a stranger, gala boy.” She turned and walked back to her lounger, the swing of her hips a punctuation mark. She didn’t look back.
Dante took a steadying breath, the heat of the sun suddenly more intense. He made his way toward Lena, accepting a kiss on the cheek, handing over the flowers, offering calm solutions about reflectors and drink strength. He was charming, helpful, the perfect effortless guest.
But his awareness was split. A part of him was still back in that moment of stark recognition, the air thick with something more than humidity. Brooke was wrong about one thing. He was hungry. He was just very, very particular about his meals.
As he listened to Lena complain, his eyes tracked back across the deck. Brooke had reclaimed her lounger, her body a arc of perfect indifference. But as she lifted her sunglasses and slid them back on, he caught it—the briefest turn of her head in his direction before she looked away, a tiny, almost imperceptible adjustment of her hips on the towel.
The game, he realized with a quiet, inward thrill, had just changed. And for the first time in a long time, he felt the faint, familiar stir of the hunt.