Chapter 2 — Dangerous Chemistry
Over the next week, Rosemarie tried convincing herself that meeting Michael Vale meant nothing. It had been one conversation. One charming smile. One dangerously attractive man who probably flirted with women as naturally as breathing. Still, she couldn't stop thinking about him, which irritated her immensely.
Rosemarie sat inside her office overlooking the Marina, attempting to focus on contracts and invoices while Michael's voice continued replaying in her mind. The man was infuriating.
Her assistant knocked softly before entering. "You have another invitation from the Royal Orchid Lounge." Rosemarie frowned. "Another one?" "Yes. VIP seating." Rosemarie sighed heavily. Should I decline? She thought, yes, absolutely decline! Instead, her heart was asking, "what time does the show start?"
That evening, Michael stood backstage adjusting the cuffs of his black dress shirt while the lounge manager briefed him about sponsors and special guests. Michael barely listened, because the moment Rosemarie Paris entered the room again, he felt it immediately, that same electric pull.
Tonight she wore a black fitted satin dress, that exposed one shoulder and made several men nearly walk into tables while staring at her. Michael smirked slightly to himself. She was beautiful but guarded. He could see it in the way she carried herself carefully, never allowing anyone too close emotionally, now he wanted to know why.
During his performance, Michael found himself singing directly to her more than once. Rosemarie pretended not to notice, though her pulse told a different story. When the set ended, Michael ignored the crowd waiting for him backstage and walked straight toward her table.
"You came back."
Rosemarie sipped her wine calmly. "The music was good."
"Ouch."
A smile tugged at her lips.
Michael sat across from her uninvited, entirely too comfortable in her space.
"Are you always this difficult?"
"Yes" she replied,
"Good."
Rosemarie narrowed her eyes slightly. "Good?"
"I'd get bored otherwise." he said jokingly.
She laughed softly again, and Michael felt absurdly victorious over something so small.
Their conversation flowed effortlessly after that. Business turned into stories, stories turned into teasing, teasing became flirtation, this was so natural neither acknowledged it directly.
Rosemarie learned Michael had grown up modestly with a single mother who worked tirelessly to support his musical ambitions. He confessed he'd spent years playing tiny hotel lounges before becoming famous.
"You make fame sound exhausting," Rosemarie observed.
Michael leaned back in his chair slowly. "Because it is."
That answer surprised her. Most celebrities glorified attention instead he sounded tired of it.
"What about you?" he asked quietly. "What made you so guarded?"
Rosemarie's expression shifted instantly.
"There it is again," Michael murmured.
"There's what?"
"That wall."
Her fingers tightened slightly around her wine glass.
"Some walls exist for good reasons."
Michael studied her carefully. "Someone hurt you."
Rosemarie looked away toward the ocean beyond the balcony.
Years ago, she had been engaged to a wealthy businessman who cheated repeatedly while publicly pretending devotion. The humiliation nearly destroyed her trust in love entirely. But she refused to discuss that tonight. She then stood smoothly,
"I should leave."
Michael rose immediately.
"Already?"
"I have work in the morning."
"So do I."
Rosemarie smiled faintly. "Your work involves singing and women throwing themselves at you."
"You forgot the exhausting part."
He walked her toward the exit, with his hands casually tucked into his pockets.
Outside was warm, the Caribbean air wrapped around them while distant waves crashed softly nearby. Neither seemed eager to say goodbye, Michael stepped slowly towards her, close enough for Rosemarie to notice the faint scar near his jaw. Close enough to smell the musk of his cologne again.
Close enough to feel a dangerous heat building between them. "You know," Michael said softly, "you still haven't admitted you like me."
Rosemarie folded her arms. "Maybe I don't."
"Your eyes disagree."
"And your ego is unbelievable."
He laughed deeply.
God, that laugh was attractive.
Rosemarie hated how much she noticed everything about him. The strands of her hair lifted gently with the night's breeze, and Michael reached instinctively to brush them back from her face. His fingers lingered against her skin, it felt warm, tender, intimate.
Rosemarie's breath caught unexpectedly, which he noticed instantly. His gaze darkened and suddenly neither of them seemed capable of moving.
"Kiss me," he whispered. Not arrogant, not demanding but almost vulnerable.
Rosemarie stared at him in stunned silence. Every intelligent thought in her head warned her not to do this. Men like Michael Vale didn't belong to one woman. Men like Michael Vale left destruction behind them.
But standing this close to him felt intoxicating. Dangerous. Alive.
Rosemarie stepped backward first, that was a mistake, she thought, because Michael immediately followed as if dancing a two- step waltz in a Queen's Ballroom.
Now she stood lightly against her car door while he towered over her, eyes fixed on her mouth.
"You're trouble," she said quietly.
Michael smiled slowly.
"Probably."
Then he kissed her.
Softly at first. Carefully, like he was testing whether she'd push him away.
Her mind was saying, "push him away", instead her fingers curled into his shirt instinctively as heat exploded through her entire body.
The kiss deepened slowly. Sensually, Michael kissed like his music felt—smooth, emotional, addictive.
By the time they finally pulled apart, Rosemarie was breathless, Michael looked equally affected.
"Well," he murmured roughly, "that was definitely not professional."
Rosemarie stared at him for several stunned seconds before laughing softly despite herself. Michael realized in that moment he was already in serious trouble, one kiss with Rosemarie Paris would never be enough, he wanted more.