His Sword

A Royal Romance

Holly Hart

Red Cape Romance

Contents

Stay in touch!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

60. EPILOGUE: AMANDA

The Chase

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

60. EPILOGUE: CASSIE

Faking It

1. Penny

2. Penny

3. Penny

4. Charlie

5. Penny

6. Charlie

7. Penny

8. Penny

9. Charlie

10. Penny

11. Charlie

12. Penny

13. Penny

14. Charlie

15. Penny

16. Charlie

17. Penny

18. Penny

19. Charlie

20. Penny

21. Charlie

22. Penny

23. Charlie

24. Penny

25. Charlie

26. Penny

27. Charlie

Epilogue - Penny

Faking It Extra Content!

1. Extended Epilogue

2. Deleted Kinky Scene

Climax

28. Skye

29. Skye

30. Harlan

31. Skye

32. Skye

33. Harlan

34. Skye

35. Skye

36. Skye

37. Harlan

38. Skye

39. Harlan

40. Skye

41. Skye

42. Skye

43. Harlan

44. Skye

45. Harlan

46. Skye

47. Harlan

48. Skye

49. Harlan

50. Skye

51. Harlan

52. Skye

53. Harlan

54. Harlan

55. Skye

56. Harlan

57. Skye

58. Skye

Epilogue – Skye

Stay in touch!

Copyright © 2017 by Holly Hart and Red Cape Romance

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Chapter One

1. DANTE

“You realize it’s technically within my rights as monarch to have your head chopped off for fucking with me like this?”

Carlo looks at me gravely with those basset-hound eyes, and my stomach drops to the floor. He can’t be serious. He has to be joking. Granted, he’s never done it before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Jesus Christ, he has got to be fucking with me.

“Your Highness,” he says. “In the twenty-nine years you’ve known me, have I ever – ahem – fucked with you?”

It’s just the two of us in my office, a spectacularly cavernous space in a castle on an island in Lake Orta in Northern Italy. It’s straight out of Game of Thrones. Just like my life.

And with the news he’s just brought, I feel even more isolated from the rest of humanity than I usually do. The least he can do is talk to me like I’m a normal human being.

“For the millionth time, Carlo, you can call me Dante when we’re alone.”

He flashes me a strained grin that highlights the deep creases in his aging face. Carlo Ferrare has been my chief counsel and lawyer since my sister died ten years ago, and he served my parents for twenty years before that. He’s as smart and as loyal as they come.

“And for the millionth time, no,” he says. “My family has served yours for five generations. I’m not about to be the one who gets familiar with my royal charges.”

I sigh and run my hands down my face. This is surreal. I feel like I’m on Punk’d or some other “gotcha” show. I pray that Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out from behind on of the suits of armor that line the window wall. But I know that’s not going to happen.

“I want to make sure I’ve got this completely straight,” I say, as if doing so will make the universe wake up to how crazy this is and somehow cancel if for me. “I have to be married by my 30th birthday, which means I have two weeks to find a woman, get engaged and plan a state wedding?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

This is ridiculous. It’s the 21st century, not the Middle Ages, or the Napoleonic Wars. I have 300-megabits-per-second wi-fi in this medieval tomb of an office, for fuck’s sake. And I’m being held hostage and my life turned upside-down because of some obscure decree that a grad student found hidden in the handle of my family sword.

“And it’s absolutely not fake?”

“It’s been verified – discreetly – by four royal historians, sir. It’s authentic, and if it was to end up in court, it’s my opinion that it would eventually prove legally binding. Napoleon himself created the decree specifically for Morova, because he understood the wealth and power inherent in its banking interests. It was incredibly powerful as a principality – far more so than Monaco, Malta or the others – and he wanted a loophole that would allow him to claim that wealth to fund his European conquest.

“By adding such an obscure decree, he could either control the monarchy, or he could get rid of it altogether. Fortunately, Napoleon died before he ever used it, at least as far as we’ve been able to discern. But since the law was never repealed, it could very well still be in effect.”

Why can’t I have a normal family history like everyone else? Grandpa was a farmer, Uncle Joe stormed the beach at Normandy. No, I have to have a three-thousand-word fucking Wikipedia entry for a family tree.

“Why didn’t you know about this?” I snap. “If this applies to all Morovan monarchs, it must have applied to my ancestors!”

“I can’t say what circumstances led to it being hidden in the sword’s handle, sir. But the fact remains it was, and we must follow the edict or face dire consequences.”

I snap my fingers. “We just hide it,” I say. “Bribe the grad student and go about our business as if no one found anything. I go back to being a playboy and we all get on with our lives.”

I know I’m clutching at straws, but I’ll do anything to make sure this doesn’t happen. I can’t be roped into this. I won’t be roped into this.

But what’s the alternative? Lose the monarchy? I can’t let that happen.

Carlo sighs deeply. His tall, lanky frame looks like a broken rake inside his tailored charcoal suit, his white hair swept back in a pompadour from another era.

“Sir, you’re already on rocky ground with the Crown Council,” he says. “They disapprove of your lifestyle, and Chancellor Huber would like nothing more than an opportunity to oust you and eliminate the monarchy.”

“And steal the family fortune,” I snarl. “Yes, I know.”

“In this day and age, secrets rarely remain secrets for long. If it were to become public that we deliberately hid the decree, it would undoubtedly lead to the fall of the house of Trentini.”

I jam my hands in the pockets of my suit pants and pace the exquisite Persian rug that covers the center of my office’s marble floor. I graduated from Oxford, I should be able to think my way out of this.

Granted, I partied away most of my time there…

But nothing is coming to mind. Carlo is right – tradition and protocol matter deeply to the Morovan people, even if there are fewer than fifty thousand of them. And Huber is a popular leader. It’s a hornet’s nest that we just can’t afford to kick.

Pacing is starting to get on my nerves, so I wander to the window on the south wall to the dappled surface of Lake Orta below us. Isola D’ora – the Island of Gold – has been my home for almost thirty years.

It’s also been my prison. And now, it looks like I’ll be getting a cellmate. Someone I don’t even know.

I sigh and turn to face Carlo. I feel bad for snapping at him – he’s doing everything he can to help. But it’s not every day you get told your life is pretty much over.

“If it’s any consolation, sir, I’m sure Maria is up to the task of making sure the wedding happens,” he says. “She’s already in the process of planning your birthday celebration. Turning it into a royal wedding should be simple enough.”

“Sure,” I say, trying to keep my anger in check. “I’m the one with the easy job. All I have to do is find a wife. In two weeks. How hard can it possibly be?”

Carlo levels a look at me that I suppose normal people would probably associate with a school principal. I was educated by private tutors, so I can only imagine.

“Your Highness,” he intones. “Now is the time to stop complaining and start planning. You do have a reputation as being somewhat irresponsible – a sudden marriage is not outside the realm of possibility. And as much as we would like to convince ourselves otherwise, most people are willing to suspend disbelief when it comes to royal marriages. As long as we maintain the illusion of the fairytale, the reality doesn’t really matter.”

He’s right. My parents fought all the time – they loved each other, sure, but they were definitely not the idyllic couple everyone saw at the public functions. In fact, I’m pretty sure their marriage was arranged, at least partially, to solidify the family banking interests against attack from the National Council.

Basically, Carlo is reminding me that I live by a set of rules that don’t apply to normal people. Reinforcing the fact that I live at arms’ length from the rest of the human race.

I sigh. That’s not news; why am I treating it like it is? Yet another bizarre twist in a life that’s been full of them, and I’m not even thirty yet. I need to accept it and move on. There isn’t time for anything else.

“So,” I say with a sardonic grin. “Anything else I need to know before I go out and find my princess bride in the next two weeks and try to pass her off as a legitimate love interest?”

Carlo looks down at his folded hands and clears his throat. Shit. That can’t be good.

“Carlo?”

“There is one more stipulation, sir,” he says, avoiding eye contact. “And I’m afraid it’s a bit of a, shall we say… unique challenge.”

“What could possibly be more of a challenge than finding a wife in two weeks?” I ask, goggling at him.

“Sir… she, uh. She has to be a…”

“A what? Blonde? Catholic? Taylor Swift fan? Spit it out, man.”

He lowers his voice to a whisper.

“She has to be a virgin, sir.”

I’m sure every single person in the entire 100,000-square-foot castle hears the words I say next, loud and clear.

Chapter Two

2. AMANDA

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

“Gah!”

Every nerve in my body ignites at the same time as the shout rings out from the prince’s office. It makes me drop my tea, dumping Orange Pekoe all over the blue satin blouse I bought specifically for meeting with him. Meanwhile, the cup and saucer tumble to the stone floor and shatter into a thousand jagged shards.

Awesome, I groan inwardly. Just fucking perfect. Way to make that first impression, Amanda.

I can’t believe this is happening – any of this, not just spilling my tea and making a fool of myself.

A month ago I was on a sabbatical in Malta, poring over old documents in a dusty library vault to research my dissertation. Now I’m in a palace on Isola D’ora, the most beautiful place on the face of the planet, and standing outside the office of Prince Dante of Morova, the hottest royal bachelor on the face of the planet.

And my new boss. Sort of, anyway.

Now, here I am soaked to the skin with tea and standing over two obliterated pieces of bone china that have probably been in the prince’s family since before the Renaissance. Thank God the tea went tepid while I was talking to my new friend Maria, or I’d have blisters forming on my chest right now, as well.

I must look a sight because Maria rushes over to see if I’m okay. She grabs a napkin off the silver service tray and starts dabbing at my blouse.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, looking me over like a protective mother. Not surprising, given her years as a de facto nanny to the prince’s niece and nephew, Oriana and Vito.

“Just what little pride I had when I came in,” I say with a half-grin. “I hope the prince wasn’t directing that at me.”

She takes my arms and looks me in the eye. Maria is a stunning woman, the epitome of Northern Italian beauty: burnished oak hair, honey skin, sea-blue eyes. Me, on the other hand? My mom’s Irish roots might as well be a neon sign on my head: red hair, a complexion like coconut milk, and pale blue eyes that look more like faded jeans than Maria’s startling sapphire ones.

“Dante can be a real ass sometimes,” she grumbles. “But trust me, he wasn’t talking to you.”

She calls the prince by his first name. I wonder if maybe they’re involved? Maria has been his secretary for years, although the title doesn’t do her job justice. She’s a hell of a lot more than a receptionist. I can’t help but wonder if she’s more than just a family friend, too.

I’m not going to ask her, though. That would be incredibly rude, especially since Maria is the one who plucked me out of obscurity and gave me a job that’s going to establish my career and probably guarantee my PhD. Not to mention pay me enough to give Dad some substantial help with the ranch’s finances.

Assuming I survive this meeting, of course.

“Although I am curious about what set him off,” she continues, trying to erase the tea with some seltzer, and soaking me even more in the process. “He can be volatile at times, but he rarely forgets his manners like that. He’s had a lifetime of programming on how to act, after all.”

I wish I had training on how to act. Talking to my professors is difficult enough for me, let alone someone like Prince Dante. He’s the full-meal deal: tall, rich, charming, a reputation as a bad boy. Sorry, but as far as I’m concerned, Harry is a distant second in the hot royal bachelor department.

Yeah, as if I have a shot with either one of them. How could Dante resist a charming compliment like “the full-meal deal”? Every last bit of my Montana cattle ranch upbringing shines through in that one.

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not you,” says Maria. Her efforts have left me sopping, but at least the stain is gone.

“Thank you so much,” I say, but my relief is short-lived: looking down, I see that my breasts are on full display against the satin. I might as well be in a wet tee-shirt contest.

What else could go wrong?

“Good afternoon, ladies,” says a male voice from behind me.

My heart hammers in my chest as I turn reflexively to see a gorgeous man enter the room through the arched doorway. It’s Dante’s cousin, Emilio – I recognize him from my studies, and, of course, the rolling news coverage of Dante’s social life. Emilio is usually somewhere in the background, all blond curls and dimples and Michael Phelps bod. He’s no Dante, but I wouldn’t kick him out of my bed for eating crackers.

Really sophisticated, Amanda. Witty lines like that will get you a managerial position at Chicken Shack in no time!

And how would I know what it’s like to kick a man out of my bed? I’ve never even had a man in my bed.

His dreamy eyes meet mine, then drop to my soaked chest, and I feel hot blood coursing into my cheeks. To his credit, he immediately looks over at Maria, giving me time to cross my arms. Thank God.

“Maria,” he says warmly, taking her hand. “Sounds like he’s in a mood?”

“Yes, we’re not sure what the problem is,” she says with a thin smile. I’m horrified when I realize that she’s going to introduce me to him, when all I really want to do is turn invisible and press myself against the wall until everyone leaves.

Maria waves a hand in my direction, obviously embarrassed by my situation but bound by protocol and good manners to go through with it. If anyone understands that, it’s me, unfortunately.

“Prince Emilio Steiger, this is Amanda Sparks, from America. I’ve hired her to oversee Dante’s 30th birthday celebration.”

My eyes go wide as I contemplate taking my arms away from my chest to shake his hand. Instead, he saves me the shame and gallantly bows from the waist in my direction.

“A great pleasure, Ms. Sparks,” he says with a radiant smile. “I’m sure you’re doing an excellent job. Maria has quite a reputation for discovering talent.”

“You’re only saying that because it’s true,” says Maria. “I actually came upon Amanda quite by accident – she was working with another graduate student who needed to meet with Carlo for some reason. Amanda and I got to talking, and it turns out she’s an expert in European royal protocol.”

I never did find out what was so important that my friend Peter had to talk to Prince Dante’s chief counsel. All I know is he was studying the Trentini family’s ceremonial sword, and suddenly he was wild-eyed, phoning around like crazy, trying to set up a meeting.

Of course, once Maria offered me the job of planning the prince’s royal birthday gala, I kind of stopped caring about Peter. In fact, I haven’t seen him since. Granted, the past several days have been a bit of a whirlwind.

Things have had to move quickly; Maria told me she didn’t know until last week whether Dante would even be in Morova for his birthday. She finally had to read him the riot act – well, as much as a chief of staff can with a prince – and tell him his adoring public expected him to be there.

“That sounds perfect,” Emilio says to me, making sure to keep his eyes on mine. “I’m sure you’re aware of how much Morovans love their protocol and traditions. Typical bankers, I suppose. And the Swiss influence, of course – precision is everything.”

I am aware of all that. I’ve read that Dante is actually seen by many of the principality’s citizens as being a bit too… Italian for their tastes. Passionate and intense, as opposed to reserved and polite, like his cousin. Emilio’s mother, Duchess Isabella, is the sister of Dante’s mother. She’s half-Swiss, and Isabella’s husband was full-Swiss, so Emilio ended up looking more Nordic than Mediterranean.

This is the kind of thing you learn in my field of study. It’s a party a minute, I tell ya. But hey, it got me this job – assuming my meeting with the prince goes well and I don’t do anything to blow it. My blouse drying up would be a step in the right direction at this point.

Of course, that doesn’t happen, because the very next moment, the office door comes flying open and Prince Dante crashes right into me, wet tits and all.

Chapter Three

3. DANTE

That’s what I get for losing my temper – I run headlong into some poor woman who happens to be standing in my way. I should have been looking where I was going, not glaring back at Carlo, as I walked through the door.

“Oh!” she yelps as we make contact. She’s solid enough that I don’t knock her straight to the floor, but I’m a pretty big guy, so I send her reeling backwards. But before she goes, my pecs get a very personal, very wet introduction to her breasts through the thin silk of my shirt.

As she recovers her footing, my eyes can’t help but wander over those breasts, perfectly delineated under the wet satin. But those blue globes quickly give way to the pale clarity of her sky-blue eyes. I’ve never seen such a shade, like the lagoon of a white sand beach under a blazing tropical sun.

Suddenly her face goes nearly as red as her stunning hair, and her arms quickly cross over her chest. I’ve embarrassed her.

Good work, Your Highness. How very princely of you.

“Amanda!”

Maria rushes to the woman – obviously named Amanda – and lays a concerned hand on her shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Maria asks.

“Yes,” says Amanda. “I’m so sorry, that was very clumsy of me.”

My stomach sinks as Maria’s fiery eyes turn to me.

“Don’t be silly,” she says with a glare. “It was entirely the prince’s fault. Isn’t that right, Your Highness?”

My manners finally kick in and I rush to fill the gap between us. I take Amanda’s hand, careful not to pull her folded arm away from her breasts. The breasts I suddenly want very much to see again…

Stop it! You’re a prince, for God’s sake!

“Of course it is,” I say, pressing my lips against the back of her hand. “Please forgive me. Are you all right? Should I call someone to attend to you?”

Amanda’s cheeks glow even redder in contrast to her porcelain skin.

“I’m fine,” she says with a forced smile. “They grow us tough down in Montana.”

Her eyes widen as if she’s shocked by her own words.

“Well,” I say, locking my eyes on her ethereal blue ones. “If there are more like you there, I very much look forward to visiting Montana one day.”

Smooth. The funny thing is, I didn’t even think about it before I said it. Either I’m so well trained at this that I do it automatically, or I actually meant it.

What does it say about my lifestyle that I don’t even know the difference between the two anymore? In any case, Maria seems to approve, so that much is all right with the world.

“Well, since you’ve already met, I suppose I should introduce you,” Maria says with a chuckle. “Prince Dante, this is Amanda Sparks. She’s the protocol expert in charge of planning your birthday celebration. We discussed her hiring last week.”

We did?

“Of course,” I say. “How could I possibly forget? I’m very pleased to have you at the helm of such an important event. Maria told me you’re extremely talented.”

I assume she did, anyway. I can’t be expected to remember every single thing Maria tells me. I do recall her saying I had to be there; if I wasn’t, she’d make sure they never found my body.

Of course, if I’d met with Amanda in person, the memory would be etched in my mind…

Her eyes continue to avoid mine, though. I’ve really spooked her. Dammit, sometimes I forget how intimidating it can be when people meet me. Especially Americans, for some reason. I guess because they’re unfamiliar with the idea of royalty. If they only knew how lucky they are.

“It’s an amazing opportunity,” Amanda says quietly. “I’m very grateful that Maria has so much confidence in me.”

“It’s well deserved, I’m sure.”

“Very much so,” says Maria. “And I’ll take that as your agreement that Ms. Sparks has the final say on the project. So much easier than going back and forth on every detail with you, wouldn’t you say?”

“Absolutely.”

The last thing I want is to be mired in the details of my birthday party. Especially since it’s about to turn into a royal wedding. I hope. If it doesn’t, I might as well kiss this castle good-bye.

Would that really be so bad?

“Can we assume you’re over your, ah, difficulties in there?” Emilio asks from the corner of the room. I didn’t even see him until now.

Now it’s my turn to go red. That outburst was beneath my dignity.

Actually, now that I think about it, screw that. If I hadn’t screamed the way I did, I might have dropped dead from sheer frustration. I mean, come on! What normal person has ever had to deal with shit like that in their life? Marry a virgin – publicly – or lose everything. Oh, and by the way, you have two weeks to take care of this.

Aaand I’m back in my black mood again. But, consummate actor that I am, I don’t let it show on my face.

“I’m absolutely mortified by my behavior,” I lie.

“I’ve apologized to Carlo.” Another lie.

“And I hope you will forgive me as well.” The truth. As far as Amanda is concerned, anyway. Maria and Emilio can suck it up – they live off my money.

Amanda smiles, and it’s like someone lit a lamp in a dark room.

“Nothing to forgive,” she says. “I’ve heard a lot worse from my dad at branding time.”

I look at her curiously, as do Maria and Emilio. Amanda returns our looks with a nervous one of her own.

“We, uh, own a cattle ranch,” she says, obviously self-conscious. “In Montana. We have to brand the cattle. With a branding iron.”

She pantomimes holding something in her hand and shoving it forwards.

“You know,” she says. “Pssssshhhh.”

She’s utterly adorable, but unfortunately, I’ve got other things on my mind.

“That sounds like something I’d like to see someday,” I say. “Now, I’m afraid my cousin and I have an urgent matter to attend to, so if you ladies will excuse us, we’ll leave you to your business.”

I turn to Maria, who’s giving me a look that says we’re going to talk about all this later. That’s fine with me – I need to talk with her. But not right now.

“Please give the children my best,” I say.

I’m sure that sounds cold to Amanda, but Maria knows it’s my code. I’m telling her to tuck in Oriana and Vito for me, kiss them goodnight and go through our nightly ritual with them. I try not to spend more nights away from them than I absolutely have to, but sometimes I just don’t have a choice. Like now.

“Of course,” Maria nods, but then halts me with a raised palm. “One thing before you go. You’re giving Ms. Sparks full authority over the celebration, yes?”

“Of course.”

“All right, then, on your way.”

I chew my tongue. If it was just the two of us, and if I didn’t love her like family, I’d be giving Maria a piece of my mind over that. As it is, we have to maintain our dignity. Plus, I don’t really give a fuck about the party and I really do want to get out of here.

Amanda looks unsure of what to do, so I reach for her hand again. This time she forgets all about her blouse and gives me another much-appreciated glance at her breasts.

“A great pleasure, Ms. Sparks,” I say, kissing her hand. “I hope to see you again very soon.”

She blushes and – I’m not kidding – curtsies. Her pale eyes are practically glowing.

“Thank you, Your Highness. The pleasure was all mine.”

I smile one more time and stride for the door, grabbing Emilio by the arm as I do. He turns and bids the women a quick goodbye as we disappear into the hallway beyond,

“What’s so urgent?” he asks as he double-times to keep up with me. “And what was that outburst all about?”

“We’re going to Monte Carlo,” I growl. “I’ll tell you the rest on the plane.”

Chapter Four

4. AMANDA

“I really appreciate your confidence in me,” I say.

Maria smiles as she places a glass of Orvieto on the glass table beside my exquisite wingback chair.

“It’s well placed,” she says, taking a similar chair opposite me. She crosses her dancer’s legs at the knee, exactly where the hem of her Versace skirt falls.

We’re in her apartment in the staff wing of the palace. It’s at least two thousand square feet, with twenty-foot ceilings and latticed windows that overlook Lake Orta and the splendor of Morova’s shoreline. If this were a VRBO, it would rent for a thousand dollars a night, easy.

“Do you mind if I make an observation?” she asks.

Uh-oh.

“Not at all,” I say, managing to smile somehow. I can’t imagine what she might have to say about me, especially after what happened earlier.

“You have a tendency to undersell yourself,” she says. “You shouldn’t.”

Okay, that’s not what I expected at all.

“Thank you,” I say, toasting her.

She returns the toast as I take a deep breath.

“And now can I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” she says, sipping her wine. She makes even the simplest movement look effortlessly elegant.

Here I go. Time to pull off the Band-aid.

“Did I make a complete and total ass of myself with the prince?”

Okay, there it is, I’m admitting it. I acted like a fool. I came face to face with the hottest man in the universe, and I blew it. But God, how was I supposed to help myself? He’s literally the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Photos don’t do him justice. Those grey eyes were like magnets that were pulling my soul right out of my body.

He moved like an animal on the prowl. And those perfect royal manners… it was like my childhood fantasy walked through the door and ran right into me. Literally.

So what did I do? I showed off my wet tits at him and acted like a hick.

Maria smiles and shakes her head. “Not at all, Amanda. In fact, Dante and I both owe you an apology. Him for startling you with his outburst, and me for soaking you to the skin with my effort to save your blouse. I should have found you something to wear over it instead.”

“Well, sure, I wish I hadn’t accidentally flashed two Morovan princes,” I say sheepishly. “But I mean with the way I acted. Did I seem like as much of a hayseed to you as I did to myself?”

“I’m not familiar with the term ‘hayseed.’”

“Unsophisticated, I mean.”

My mind flashes back to miming how to brand cattle and I cringe inwardly. It clunked like a skit in the last half-hour of a Saturday Night Live episode.

Maria gives me an appraising look. I can’t help but feel like I’m always under a microscope here in Morova. I know it’s all in my head, but it’s a real feeling nonetheless. It’s about as far from Montana as you can be and still be on the same planet.

“Further to my previous point,” she says. “Don’t undersell yourself, Amanda. Sophistication isn’t some sort of achievement, at least in most cases. It’s the byproduct of a certain lifestyle. Just because you grew up around cattle instead of in a royal court doesn’t make you less of a person. It just makes you different from the people with whom you currently find yourself. That can be daunting for anyone.

“For example, picture me standing in a field on your family ranch. How do you think that would turn out?”

I do picture it, and it’s a pretty funny image.

“Well,” I say with a grin. “You’d definitely have to change your shoes.”

A wide smile blooms across her face and she sweeps a hand in my direction.

“My point exactly,” she chuckles. “Believe me, Amanda, if I was put in the situation where I had to brand a calf, I’m sure I’d be reduced to a blubbering mess. I doubt I’d even be able to walk into the pen without breaking down.”

I laugh out loud.

“Somehow I think you’d make out okay,” I say. “You’d probably charm the cow into branding itself. But I get your point: your circumstances don’t define your character.”

“Especially when it comes to wealth and privilege,” she says with a stern look. “Some of the most unpleasant people I’ve ever met are chauffeured around in Bentleys and have never prepared a meal in their lives. I would take your company over theirs any day.”

“The kind of people who think food comes from the kitchen instead of a farm?”

“Darling, they don’t even know what a kitchen is, let alone where it is. They think their food magically appears under the silver cloche on their plate when it’s set in front of them.”

We giggle together for a few moments and finish our wine. Thank God for Maria. If not for her, I would have just ran to the airport the minute the princes left the room earlier and bought a ticket on the next flight back to the States. Assuming it didn’t push my credit card over the limit.

“I can’t thank you enough for all your help,” I say. “And I don’t just mean giving me the job of planning the prince’s celebration. You’ve done so much to make me feel welcome, and like I actually belong here.”

“You do belong here. You know as much or more about royal protocol as any of the palace staff, myself included. The plain and simple fact, Amanda, is that we need you.”

Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words from anyone other than my dad in my entire life. It feels really good.

“As you know, the 30th birthday of a male Morovan heir is an important milestone,” she continues. “It signals the time when they become an active member of the principality’s government, as opposed to just a wealthy figurehead who controls the banking interests. And given Dante’s unique circumstances, this birthday will be one of the most important in our history.”

Unique circumstances is an understatement. Dante’s parents were famously killed in a plane crash when he was only ten. His older sister, Princess Adriana, took over the royal duties as regent until Dante came of age at 21. But she and her husband, Albert, died in an avalanche in Switzerland the year before that. Not only did it leave the prince without family guidance, it also made him the guardian of Adriana and Albert’s twins, who were just a year old at the time.

It was also a year of turmoil for the government, because technically, the prince was too young to assume the throne. Dante’s aunt Isabella – Emilio’s mother – offered to fill in as regent until he came of age.

I can sort of empathize with him – my mom died when I was young, too. But geez, his life has been like Game of Thrones. It’s enough to make me tear up just thinking about it, especially now that I’ve met him in person.

I clear my throat and manage to swallow my emotions as Maria continues with her thought.

“That’s why I could kill him for fooling around so long and forcing me to rush the process,” she says with a scowl. “Thank God fate put you in my path when it did, Amanda. I can’t imagine doing this on my own.”

She’s right. We need to focus on the task at hand here, not the tragic prince. The tall, chiseled tragic prince with the black curls and the smoky eyes, who seemed to appreciate my wet breasts when he saw them…

What was I saying about focus? Oh yeah, the task at hand.

“Everyone on staff has been very accommodating so far,” I say. “They’ve helped me find what I need, put people in place. And I have to say, having an unlimited budget really helps things go smoothly.”

Maria smiles. “I thought you’d enjoy that part of it. And now that we have Dante’s sign-off, I want you to go ahead and implement everything. Don’t second guess yourself, just do what you need to do.”

I return her smile and nod.

“All right,” I say. “I’ve got my orders. My main priority right now is to get the family sword from Signore Ferrare. Apparently he’s had it since my friend Peter went to talk with him about whatever it was that got him so excited.”

“You really should ask him about it when you see him,” says Maria. “I’m curious to know myself what the big secret is.”

She leans forward in her chair and lowers her voice.

“Speaking of Peter and secrets,” she says with a lecherous grin. “Is there anything going on between you two? You were working very close to him in that small vault, and he’s quite handsome.”

Me and Peter? Uh, no. Should I tell her he’s gay? It’s not like he keeps it a secret or anything. But then again, it’s not my place to talk about someone else’s business. That was one of the lessons Dad drilled into me at a young age.

Besides, even if Peter wasn’t gay, I doubt he’d go for me.

“There’s nothing going on between me and anyone,” I sigh.

“Oh, I find that difficult to believe. A beautiful girl like you must have suitors around every corner.”

Beautiful? Me?

“That’s very kind of you,” I say quietly. “But bookworms usually aren’t on a guy’s list of turn-ons. I dated in high school, sure, but I haven’t seen anyone socially since I started university.”

Maria arches a delicately curved eyebrow.

“You’ve got your master’s degree,” she says. “You mean you haven’t been with a man for over six years?”

“I haven’t been with a man ever,” I hear someone mutter.

Wait, was that me?

Jesus, did I just tell my biggest secret to the most sophisticated person I’ve ever met? I never even told that to my friends in school! Now I’m outing myself to this wonderful woman who I’m trying so hard to impress!

Maria must see the color in my cheeks because she reaches out and puts a hand on top of mine.

“I honestly don’t know why I never have,” I blurt.

Why did I say that? Why didn’t I just let it go? God, why am I oversharing so much?

“I guess I’ve been too busy. And I try to be a good Catholic, you know. And my dad, he… well, he’s kind of intimidating, he’s really big and he’s a cowboy and he’s got this collection of shotguns…”

I’m rambling now, careening towards the edge of a cliff. Thank God Maria senses it and pulls me back from the brink.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she soothes. “You haven’t found the right man. I understand. In fact, I think it’s admirable.”

Every time she opens her mouth, she makes me feel better. If I could custom order an older sister, it would be her. I smile wanly and squeeze her hand.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t shut myself up when I get nervous.”

She smiles. “I’ve noticed. But there’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m so glad we met that day. I honestly don’t want to think about where I’d be if we hadn’t. Still holed up in that vault, reading dusty old parchments, probably. Living in an old convent room and eating wedding soup for supper every night.”

At that moment, as if to save me from the situation, the door to her suite swings open, and Maria’s face lights up as two children in school uniforms charge into the room.

“Ciao, piccoli terrori,” she says as Oriana and Vito throw themselves down on the 19th century Chesterfield sofa. Hello, you little terrors.

Oriana pulls out an iPhone and starts thumbing keys like mad. Vito throws his raven-haired head back and huffs at the ceiling.

“Quel teste era brutale – ” he begins before Maria cuts him off.

“English,” she says, pointing politely in my direction. “We have a guest.”

They both stop what they’re doing and stand. It’s so quick it’s like they’re being controlled remotely.

“Children, this is Ms. Amanda Sparks from America. She’s planning your uncle’s celebration.”

“A pleasure,” they say in unison. Vito takes my hand and pumps it twice, followed by Oriana. I can tell their response is automatic, the result of years of training.

“The pleasure is mine, Your Highnesses,” I reply, rising from my chair.

They’re both stunningly beautiful, with black hair and grey eyes, just like their uncle. It’s a Trentini family trait that goes back generations.

“I’m very sorry to hear your test was brutal,” I say primly. “However, I’m sure you both rose to the challenge.”

Vito seems surprised that I speak Italian. No doubt he’s now wondering why he has to speak English if that’s the case. But, being a prince, he says nothing, just smiles.

“I think we passed,” he says, turning to Oriana. “At least I did. I don’t know about my sister.”

She glares at him. “I was the one you were copying off of, remember?”

He sticks out his tongue at her. So does the same to him.

I wish I had a brother or sister.

“All right, you two,” says Maria. “Go change and Cook will make you a snack.”

“Will Uncle be at dinner?” Oriana asks, eyes hopeful.

“I’m sorry, bella. He has royal business to attend to.”

The girl sighs. Poor kid. From what I’ve read, the prince is a bit of an absentee parent. You always see him in the headlines, but you never see these two. It’s almost as if the media has forgotten they exist.

“All right,” she says, turning to me. “I hope we’ll see you again, Ms. Sparks.”

“I look forward to it, ma’am,” I say. “And please call me Amanda.”

Vito takes my hand again. “Good day to you, Amanda,” he says with a polite nod.

“And to you, sir.”

With that, they amble towards the door. As they reach the hallway beyond, I see Oriana shove her brother out of the way and take off at a run.

“Hey!” he shouts, bounding off after her.

Maria shakes her head and smiles.

“Well, that’s the future of the monarchy,” she sighs. “What do you think?”

“I think Morova is in very capable hands.”

“From your lips to God’s ear. I hate it when I have to tell them Dante is away.”

“Isn’t that pretty much all the time?” I ask.

She smiles knowingly. “One would think so, if all you ever saw was the media coverage of Dante’s life. But that’s all an act. The twins are his heart and soul.”

Really?

“You’re right,” I say. “I was totally under the impression he’s a playboy.”

“He pays his public relations manager a lot of money to make that happen. The more he’s in the spotlight, the more the children are out of it. Dante spent far too much of his life in the watchful glare of the public eye; he doesn’t want them to go through what he did.”

Wow. That’s… wow. Here I am thinking I know everything about the royal family, and now I find out it’s all an act? That’ll teach me to pull my nose out of the books once in awhile and take a look around.

And it makes me think about him in a whole new way. An even more intense way.

“Well, I suppose the two of us should get back to work,” Maria says, glancing at her Tiffany watch. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

“We sure do,” I say. My mind is elsewhere.

“Is there anything you need from me before you go?” she asks.

“Not that I can think of.”

Unless, of course, she happens to have a spare nude photo of Dante lying around that I can take into the tub with me.

Chapter Five

5. DANTE

There’s nowhere else on Earth like Monte Carlo. It’s like Las Vegas and a Disney kingdom fell in love and had a baby.

Like Morova, Monaco is a principality that sweats money. And like Vegas, it attracts the richest of the rich, with its casinos and the unspoken promise of luxury and adventure.

And, as usual, I’m bored of it already.

“Carte,” I say.

The dealer slides a card from the clear plastic dealing box, taking my discard away. Across the table from me is a pair of Australian mining heirs who somehow talked – or, more likely, bought – their way into the VIP room. Beside me, as always, is Emilio.

“Only one?” says the older of the Aussies, a chubby blond in his late 20s who just took three from the draw. He glances at his brother, who’s a little younger and in better shape. “Whaddya think, Robbo?”

Robbo fixes me with a stare that I suppose he thinks is intimidating.

“Yeah, I reckon he’s bluffin.’”

Normally this room is reserved for baccarat, but, not surprisingly, my new friends have never heard of the game. So we’ve opted for Texas Hold ‘Em instead. The dealer managed to accommodate us without rolling his eyes, but I’m betting it wasn’t easy for him.

“Right,” says the blond, pushing a pile of chips into the already hefty stack in the center of the table. “I raise seventy-five thousand.”

I turn my head to Emilio. He tilts his and shrugs, telling me it’s all up to me.

“Very well,” I say. I round up my remaining chips, most of which are rectangular $100,000 plates, and add them to the pile. “All in.”

The Aussies exchange panicked glances.

“You only took one card,” Robbo says to me. “That’s bloody suicide, mate. You must think we’re a couple o’ yobbos.”

“Gentlemen,” I say coldly. “My entire country is a bank. Do I look like someone who makes a habit of bluffing?”

Beside me, Emilio arches an eyebrow at them.

The two sweat a little longer, looking at the cards, then at the pot, then at each other.

“Fuckin’ fold, mate,” the blond mutters, tossing his hand towards the dealer.

I offer a thin smile and pull the chips towards me, including the hundred grand they just pissed away.

“Oi!” says Robbo. “What did y’have?”

The dealer, an unsmiling middle-aged Czech, glares at them as he draws the used cards away. “Players are under no obligation to show their cards,” he scolds.

I raise a hand towards him.

“It’s fine, Karel,” I say, flipping my cards face-up. “They’re just learning.”

The Aussies stare at them for a moment, then turn their eyes to me, mouths open.

“Ten high,” says the blond. It sounds like tin hoy.

“Correct.”

“You fucking wanker!” Robbo snaps. “You were bluffing!”

In the corner of the room, I see Marco, my head of security, standing with his hands clasped in front of him. He shifts his weight subtly from one foot to the other, preparing to step forward if he’s needed.

He won’t be. I never need him, and I know it drives him up the wall.

“Gentlemen,” I say with an easy smile. “Poker is a game of wits, not luck. The game is played in your head, not on the table. You saw a sophisticated, serious-looking European. Given your obvious rural nature, you assumed that I was somehow better than you.”

They both open their mouths, obviously ready to fight, but I cut them off. I hear Marco sigh in the corner. No action for him.

“Now you know that was the wrong assumption,” I say. “My country is, indeed, a bank. However, I only gamble with my personal fortune, and I can be a real bastard. I hope you take this as a lesson to trust your instincts next time, and to not be fooled by appearances. Otherwise, the people in Monte Carlo will eat you alive.”

With that, I toss a pair of $100,000 plates towards them, and a $10,000 chip to Karel. The Aussies stare at me blankly, mouths open.

“Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” I say, standing and buttoning my tux jacket. “Karel, please have my winnings added to my account.”

Emilio joins me and we head out of the VIP room into the main area, Marco following at a discreet distance. I imagine the combined wealth of the people in this building at the moment would be equal to the gross domestic product of a dozen emerging nations.

“Feel better?” Emilio asks, plucking a pair of champagne flutes off a passing tray.

I know him well enough to recognize the rebuke hidden inside the question. Luckily for me, Emilio is one of the few people I can actually be myself around.

“Kindly kiss my hairy ass,” I say. “I needed a distraction.”

Emilio raises an eyebrow. “A distraction from what? You still haven’t told me why we’re here. All you said on the plane was you needed to get away.”

Should I tell him? I’ve avoided it so far because it almost feels like, if I were to tell him, it would somehow make it real. As long as I keep it to myself, I can pretend it’s just some crazy nightmare that I can’t wake up from.

Stop it. That’s not how a prince is supposed to think.

Besides, Emilio is an intelligent man. He’s been to Oxford. He actually did a few peacekeeping tours during our time in the military, while I spent most of my time flying helicopters over nude beaches in Cyprus.

Maybe he has an idea. Any idea.

“Fine,” I say, leaning in close so as not to be overheard. “I need a distraction from the fact that I could very well lose the monarchy if I don’t marry a virgin in the next two weeks.”

I drain my champagne in a single gulp. It’s bland on my tongue. Everything in here is bland tonight. The women all seem plain and uninteresting. I’m sure it’s because of my mood.

One woman didn’t seem plain today, a voice in my mind whispers. She got your attention like no woman has in a very long time.

Amanda. Those pale blue eyes…

“Very funny,” says Emilio, snapping me back into the moment “I expect better jokes from you, Dante. Now really, what’s the problem?”

“I just told you,” I scowl. “What part didn’t you understand?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

I tell him what Carlo told me. His eyes grow wider with each passing moment.

“That’s… astounding,” he says when I finish.

“That’s one way to put it. I prefer the term ‘royally fucked up.’”

He snorts a laugh, then suddenly remembers the gravity of the situation.

“Sorry,” he says. “Couldn’t help it. That was actually funny.”

“Yes, my life is an absolute riot.”

We stand there in silence for several moments, taking in the room. For a moment my pulse quickens as I see a mane of red hair on a woman in a blue dress, who’s standing over a roulette table. Could it be…?

Then she turns and I can see she’s got a deep suntan, and that the hair color isn’t natural.

It’s not Amanda.

Don’t be stupid, Dante – how would she have gotten here?

“She could be a nun,” Emilio says.

“What?” I turn to look at him. He’s gripping his chin, deep in thought.

“Find a nun, sweep her off her feet and marry her,” he says. “Simple. Italy is rife with convents, how hard could it be?”

I glare at him until he starts to shrink under my gaze.

“What?” he snaps. “It’s a good idea!”

“Oh yes, brilliant,” I say. “Hello, Sister, I’m the local neighborhood prince. Would you mind divorcing the big guy and marrying me? I need to defile you so I can keep my family fortune.”

He frowns. “I don’t see you coming up with any better options.”

“Use your brain,” I say. “How would it look if I showed up at my birthday-cum-wedding with a nun on my arm? ‘Surprise, this is the woman I chose to be my royal bride, your new princess! Yes, I’ve recently decided to repent after my many years of wantonly bedding supermodels, and settle down with this little lady. Nothing suspicious to see here!’”

“It wouldn’t have to be that way. You could pull it off, I’m sure.”

“You know the Crown Council and National Council have the power to essentially end the monarchy. A stunt like that would be more than enough to trigger the chancellor to hold a referendum and boot me – and by extension you – out of the palace for good.”

“You really think the people would vote you out?”

“I’m not exactly in their good books as it is,” I sigh. “My reputation precedes me.”

Emilio puts a hand on my shoulder. “We both know that’s not the real you. Well, not completely the real you, anyway.”

I’m tired of thinking about this. I recognize a nearby server and signal her with a raised hand. She nods, meaning she’ll bring me my usual – a bottle of their finest Russian vodka and a sliced lime.

“Are we actually going to drink it this time?” Emilio asks.

He’s referring to my habit of ordering drinks and then leaving them sitting in various places around the party – behind potted plants, on leftover trays – so that it looks like I’m putting them away like a frat boy. It’s a trick I stole from Frank Sinatra.

“Yes,” I say. “I don’t want to think about anything else for the rest of this night.”

I turn to Marco. “I’ve finally got something interesting for you to do.”

He snaps to attention. “Sir.”

“Keep an eye on me and make sure I get back to my room tonight. Until then, I plan to get spectacularly drunk and make an ass of myself. Make sure nobody kills me during the process.”

He fetches a heavy sigh.

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter Six

6. AMANDA

“You have to hit the little camera thing.”

“The what?”

I sigh. “It’s at the bottom. It looks like a movie camera, it should have a red stripe through it.”

A pause. “Okay, yup.”

“Click on it.”

An instant later and I’m staring through my dad’s mustache at his nostrils.

“Dad, you have to hold the screen up to your face! I’m looking up your nose!”

“Oops, shit,” I hear him grumble. The room behind him – he’s in the kitchen of our old farmhouse – tilts and spins as he adjusts his iPad. Finally, we’re face to virtual face.

“There’s my pumpkin!” he beams as we look into each other’s eyes for the first time in months. As always, he’s three days past needing a shave, his push-broom mustache is probably a full inch over the top of his mouth, and his iron-grey hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat from the brim of his Stetson.

As far as I’m concerned, he’s the handsomest man in the world. Sam Elliot, except bigger and stronger.

“So,” he says. “You look great, sweetie. You’re pretty pale, though. You need to get outta that vault more. See some sights!”

I grin. Some things never change, thank God.

“I’ll have you know that I haven’t been in that vault for over two weeks,” I say.

“That’s right!” he says with a snap of his sausage fingers. “Your email said you got a job. What’re you doin’? You said you wanted to tell me in person, well here I am. Sorta.”

I’m so excited I might bust. Dad has spent a lot – I mean a lot – of money on my education, and this is the first real job I’ve had in my field. I’ve decided to take Maria’s advice and feel proud of myself for a change, instead of letting him do all of it for me.

“Well,” I say with a grin. “You’re looking at the official planner for the 30th birthday celebration of – wait for it – Prince Dante of Morova!”

His eyes go wide and his mouth drops open.

“You’re kidding!” he gasps. “Well, that’s fan-friggin-tastic, pumpkin!”

I allow him to stare at me like that for a full five seconds before letting him off the hook.

“Morova is a principality on the shores of Lake Orta, Dad. It’s near Malta, where the vault is.”

“I knew that,” he says. “Lake Orta. Sure. And for Prince Dante, y’say?”

“It’s okay, Dad,” I chuckle. “I know you’ve never heard of him.”

“What d’ya mean? I know about him! He’s at the checkout at the Bi-Rite in Shelby all the time.”

The prince of Morova is at the – ? Oh, I get it.

“In the tabloids, you mean.”

“Yeah. He’s quite the playboy, by the looks of things.”

Maybe not, according to Maria. But now that I officially work for the royal family, I guess I’d best be keeping their secrets. And what I wouldn’t give to have some secrets to keep with Dante.

“Yeah,” I sigh. “He’s always flying around chasing supermodels, just like you’d expect. He’s in Monte Carlo right now.”

“I used to have a ’72 Monte Carlo,” he says wistfully. “Had to sell it to buy the hay baler, though. That was back ’fore you were born.”

Dad gave up a lot for our family, and I know it’s been a hard go for him. My education wasn’t the only expense he had; Mom had cancer on and off for seven years before she finally passed away when I was in middle school. That was a big part of my growing up: taking care of the place while Dad took her to the hospital in Great Falls for radiation and chemo.

He’s never talked about how much that cost the family, and I’ve never asked.

It just makes me that much more excited to tell him about the money. But first a tour.

“Hey,” I say. “You’ll never believe where I am right now.”

“I’m guessin’ somewhere in, whatchacallit, Morova?”

I hop off the bed and carry my tablet over to the window of my apartment. It’s not as swanky as Maria’s, but it’s still huge and loaded with priceless antiques. I stand with my back to the window and sweep the room with my screen: the granite walls, the tapestries, the eight-foot paintings of people in fancy getups. If nothing else, I’m sure Dad will appreciate the polished walnut wardrobe and dresser.

“So this is my apartment,” I say, pretending to yawn. “No big deal, you know.”

“Ho-lee sheep shit!” blares from the tablet’s speaker.

“I know!” I squeal. “I’m living in the royal palace until the party!”

I have no idea where I’ll end up after that, but for now, let’s focus on the fun stuff.

“There’s a little something else,” I say, turning to face the window and the incredible view of Lake Orta beyond it. “That’s what I get to look at all day.”

Dad lets out a low whistle.

“Man, would I love to get my old two-stroke boat out on that baby,” he says. “I bet there’s some damn good fishin’ in there. Bass, maybe.”

God, it’s so good to hear his voice again. I didn’t realize just how much I missed him until right now. It’s always been too easy to lose touch with him when my head is stuck in a book. Suddenly weeks go by and I haven’t talked to him, then when I do, I get all emotional. Like now.

“So anyways, Dad, there’s something I want to tell you.”

“More good news? ‘Cause I don’t know if I can handle it. I’m gettin’ pretty fat, and my ticker’s not what it used to be.”

I cluck my tongue and shake my head. “You’re not fat, Dad. Now quit fishing for compliments and listen to the rest of my story.”

“Yes’m,” he says, grinning wide. “Sorry.”

“Okay, so anyway – ”

“One last thing.”

“What?” Grrrr.

“I’m just so damn proud of you, sweetheart,” he says. “I always knew you were gonna make it big some day, get out of this two-bit life and live with the classy people. And there y’are now, rubbin’ elbows with royalty.” I see pixelated tears shimmer in his eyes on the screen. “Your mom’s smilin’ down on you from heaven right now, that’s a fact.”

Great. Now here come my own tears. Dad always says he regrets how much he didn’t say to Mom before she passed. He’s been making up for it with me ever since.

“Thank you, Daddy.” I smile and bow my head. “That means a lot to me. Now stop interrupting!”

He sucks his lips into his mouth with a comical salute, prompting a giggle from me. I sometimes think he missed his calling by taking over the family ranch – he could have been an actor.

“That’s better,” I say. “All right, so the best part about this whole royal birthday gig is the pay. Guess how much?”

He shrugs. “How’m I supposed to know what royals pay for stuff?”

“Seventy-five thousand dollars to plan a party!” I squeal. I’ve been wanting to tell him this for so long now!

His eyes go round – well, as round as they can get, anyway. They’re pretty squinty, like Clint Eastwood’s.

“You’re shittin’ your old man,” he breathes. “You could buy a house in Shelby for that kinda money!”

“I shit you not.”

“Well if that just don’t beat all. Honey, that’s incredible. What’re you gonna do with it?”

I love him so much for not suggesting I come back home. Sure, the line about a house in Shelby was a not-so-subtle hint, but he’d never say it in so many words because, deep down, he knows my path doesn’t lead back to Montana.

“Well,” I say with a grin. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll give it all to you.”

His mouth literally drops open, the exact reaction I was hoping for. He’s done so much for me, and I’ve wanted to help him for so long. Now I finally can.

It lasts all of two seconds, then suddenly his brows knit and he’s shaking his head.

“The hell you will,” he says. “I won’t take it.”

I expected this, so I’m prepared. At least I got the initial surprise that I was looking for.

“Hear me out, Dad. I know how much my education cost you, and I know you’re upside-down on the cattle right now. I haven’t been home in awhile, but I’ve kept up on the drought and how it’s driving the cost of feed through the roof. And your profit margin is razor-thin at the best of times.”

“Honey –”

“Let me finish. You always taught me that a person should pay their debts in any way they can. You’ve paid bills with beef more times than I can count. You also taught me that if you can help someone, you should help them. How many of our neighbors have fences because you were out there with them all day in the hot sun, pounding in posts? How many times have you driven to one of their places in the middle of a snowstorm to help them when a cow is having a rough birth?”

“That’s not –”

“Shush,” I say with a raised finger. “The money is yours, and that’s that.”

I give him a look of mock triumph. I won!

Then I see those wide shoulders droop for the first time ever. He lets out the deepest sigh I’ve ever heard from him. The look on his face – I’ve never seen it before. It’s like he’s been deflated.

A sudden cramp of fear rises in my belly.

“You keep that money,” he says quietly. “It’s not gonna do me any good.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I was so excited to be finally able to help with the bills…”

“Pumpkin, my bills are beyond even with that kinda money.”

“But why? What’s wrong?”

He clears the emotions from his throat, but he won’t look me in the eye on the screen.

“It’s been comin’ for years now,” he says. “Your mom’s medical bills ate up all the equity we had in the land long ago, sweetie. The bank’s owned it since you were a girl. And with the shit-kickin’ the beef market has been takin’ the last ten years, then the drought, well… I figure I’ve got maybe six months before the bank takes everything for auction.”

My eyes go dry as I stare at the screen, forgetting to blink.

“I – I don’t understand,” I stammer. “How did you pay for school, then?”

Dad surprises me by smiling.

“That was your mom’s life insurance money,” he says. “We agreed before she passed that it was goin’ to your education, not the bank. That you weren’t gonna end up havin’ a ranch work you to death. Best investment we ever made.”

My heart feels like a wrung-out rag. I knew things were bad, but I never would have guessed that Dad was on the verge of losing the ranch. Suddenly my big surprise seems like a kid offering his Tonka truck to help pull the tractor out of the ditch.

“I don’t know what to say, Dad.” Tears are flowing freely now. “What are you going to do?”

He sees my tears and reacts to them the way he always has in the past: he turns into John Wayne, ready to saddle up and take care of the bad guys.

“Don’t you waste one second worryin’ about me,” he says. “I’ll be just fine. There’s worse things can happen to a man than goin’ bankrupt. There ain’t a rancher for a hundred miles around that wouldn’t hire me in a second. The name Ike Sparks still means somethin’ in Montana.”

I snuffle back a tear.

“It still means something in Morova, too,” I whisper. “It means everything.”

Chapter Seven

7. DANTE

Sometimes I want to kick myself.

Yesterday, I had a problem. Today, after getting colossally drunk last night, I still have the same problem. The only difference is now I get to deal with it and a hangover at the same time.

And ultimately, all I accomplished was not being home to tuck in the twins.

I’ve got some serious thinking to do, so I managed to ditch Marco and come down here to the south garden. It’s a labyrinth courtyard of shrubs, trees, flowers, fountains and enough statues to populate a small village.

I started talking to the statues as a lonely child, pretending they were friends who would listen sympathetically to my problems. They helped me through the loss of my parents, and later Adriana and Albert. I’ve bragged to them about the twins more times than I can count, and they know all my secret fears that I’ll never measure up as a parent.

None of this is out loud, of course. I don’t need another reason for people to think I’m different. I have plenty enough as it is.

Today I’m burdening them with a new dilemma: finding my virgin bride in the next thirteen days. Good thing they’re made of stone, or they’d probably be laughing their asses off at me. One thing is for sure: they’re not offering any solutions as I stand here, hands in my pockets, under the blaring noonday sun.

“What good are you, then?” I mutter to Neptune, poised with his trident over the pond that serves as the gardens’ central focal point. He doesn’t answer, so I turn to head into the labyrinth.

As I round a copse of emerald cedars, I stop. Or rather, for the second time in as many days, I’m stopped. By another person’s body.

“Oof!”

Suddenly, a huge old book flips into my field of vision as I see a red blur moving away from me and down. My reflexes kick in, snagging the book with my left hand, and the arm of the red blur with my right. I’m busy formulating my apology when I realize who it is I ran into.

I’m holding Amanda Sparks by her left arm.

Her hair is set aflame by the sun directly overhead, and those pale blue eyes blink owlishly at me under a pair of black-framed glasses. Her curves are highlighted against an ivory peasant blouse and an ankle-length navy blue skirt.

Suddenly, my hangover is gone.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” I hear her say as I pull her up and towards me so she can regain her balance. Her cheeks are glowing as red as her hair.

“The fault is mine,” I say with a smile. “I’m very pleased to see you again, Ms. Sparks, but we really need to start meeting under less jarring circumstances.”

She smiles in return, but I can tell it’s half-hearted. Distracted.

“Two left feet,” she mumbles. “I’m sorry, sir, I should’ve been paying attention.”

“Not at all,” I say. “I shouldn’t have taken that corner on the left. Morovans, like all civilized people, drive on the right. If I’d stayed in my lane, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Although it was extremely pleasant to collide with your body again, I don’t say.

She giggles. Thank goodness. I really am tired of us being embarrassed around each other.

“Not like those heathens in Malta,” she quips, smoothing her hair with her free hand.

“Absolutely. I’ve never been willing to actually go to war over it, but I maintain a stern glare at all times whenever I’m there.”

“Of course you do,” she says with mock gravity. “Can’t have those soundrels believing you actually approve of such nonsense.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. Her American candor and sense of humor are a breath of fresh air. So often I find myself surrounded by people who take their manners, and themselves, far too seriously.

Plus her dour look, combined with that outfit and those black-rimmed glasses, gives her an incredibly sexy schoolteacher vibe. It prompts an appreciative twitch under my slacks.

“It really was my fault,” she says after the laughter dies down. “I’m a little distracted today.”

So am I, I think. By you.

I glance at the rescued tome in my other hand: A Treatise On The Practices Of The Morovan Royal Court, by Henri Geiger. It’s just slightly smaller than one of the twins’ beds.

“Is your light summer reading to blame?” I ask.

Amanda smiles, but it seems half-hearted again.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says. “I can’t put it down. Literally, if I did, I wouldn’t be able to pick it up again. You Morovans sure love your pomp and ceremony. Sir.”

Hearing “sir” coming from Amanda makes me realize how ridiculous it sounds. I usually wait until I’ve been to bed with a woman before I ask this, but it just seems right with her now.

“Tell you what,” I say. “You call me Dante and I’ll call you Amanda when it’s just the two of us. Deal?”

Her eyes widen and she actually gasps a little.

“I couldn’t,” she says, as if I’d asked her to strip and accompany me into the bushes.

“I could order you,” I say with a grin. “I do have a little pull around here.”

She smiles and glances down at the ground, then back up at me, biting her bottom lip. The twitch under my pants threatens to turn into a tent.

“I wouldn’t want you to have to do that,” she says. “Dante.”

“Well, now you’ve done it,” I say, shaking my head gravely. “That was a test of royal protocol and you failed. My security people are on their way to eject you from the palace as we speak.”

“Then I guess I’d better take a good long look at the gardens before that happens.”

We both turn towards the central fountain. The sun plays on the water, sparking fireflies of reflected light as it flows from the mouth of a bronze fish into the pool below.

“The statue of Neptune is modeled after the one in the Boboli Gardens in Florence,” Amanda says.

“Mm,” I say, nodding. “Not surprising, given that this part of the gardens was also designed by Bartolomeo Ammananti. He was going through a Neptune phase at the time.”

Amanda looks at me with naked wonder.

“Very impressive,” she says. “Not a lot of people know that.”

I shrug. “It’s my home.”

That makes her blush again, which makes me angry with myself again.

“Of course,” she says, shaking her head. “Duh. That was a stupid thing to say.”

“Not at all. Sometimes I forget that not everyone grew up living in a piece of history. Sometimes I think the past is more important than the future to a lot of Morovans.”

I don’t want to head down this path right now. Time to change the subject.

“Tell me about Montana,” I say, motioning her to a marble bench near the fountain. “It sounds fascinating.”

We sit and I put the book on the ground, which is a relief. I keep myself in top physical condition, but it was starting to get a little heavy, even for me.

Her eyes light up at the mention of her home state.

“It’s beautiful,” she sighs. “I mean, nothing like this, obviously. But it’s got a natural beauty to it. Flat plains where you can see for a hundred miles in any direction. And mountains! The Rockies just kind of sprout up out of the earth like giants. Even now, at the hottest part of summer, you can go up to the summits and see six feet of snow.”

“I’ve never seen the Rockies,” I say. “But Emilio has. He says the Alps pale next to them.”

“It’s sort of an unfair comparison. Like putting David Beckham next to Tom Brady – they’re both beautiful, but Brady is tougher. More rugged.”

I nod. I have no idea who Tom Brady is, but I enjoy listening to her. She obviously loves her home.

“And the people are just salt of the earth,” she says wistfully. “Most of the folks I know would give you the shirt off their backs if you needed it. My dad would even give you his coat in a snowstorm. I mean literally, I saw him do it once when we were in downtown Great Falls. Just took his coat off and put it on a drunk who’d passed out in the street.”

I can see the beginning of tears in those beautiful eyes. Now I’m regretting asking her about her home.

“Your father sounds like an exceptional man,” I offer.

“He is,” she says, obviously fighting emotion. “Ike Sparks is a name that means something in Montana.”

“And he raises cattle?”

She nods.

“A noble profession. I should like to meet him someday.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. I suppose we both know that’s not likely to happen.

“And your mother?”

“She passed away when I was twelve,” she says. “Cancer.”

I nod. “I’m sorry. I was orphaned at a young age myself.”

She nods in return. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. Losing your parents and then your sister and brother-in-law.”

“Grief simply becomes your companion. I’m sure you understand that.”

Before I realize what I’m doing, my hand is on the back of hers. It’s warm and small under my own, her skin milky white against the copper of mine.

“Is everything all right, Amanda?” I don’t know why I’m asking this, but I have the sense that it’s not her mother’s memory that’s weighing on her right now.

She nods, but her eyes don’t meet mine.

“I’m fine,” she says. “It’s just… I’m a bit overwhelmed right now.”

“I can only imagine. I wouldn’t want the job of planning my birthday.”

Or my wedding. The memory of my dilemma jabs me like a thorn.

She looks me in the eye. “Have you ever felt like everything was going along perfectly, and then suddenly you look down and it’s like Wile E. Coyote running off a cliff, and you realize there’s nothing under your feet?”

Without even knowing she’s doing it, she’s just summed up my situation more eloquently than I ever could.

“I have,” I say. Her hand is still under mine, soft and warm. Warm blood starts to pool down there.

“You’re just saying that,” she breathes, those faded denim eyes still locked on mine. “I’m sure you never watched Road Runner cartoons.”

I lean in close, until our noses are almost touching.

“Meep meep,” I whisper.

My heart is suddenly racing in my chest. Her breath is warm against my lips. Neither of us blinks, as if doing so would somehow break the spell.

Chapter Eight

8. AMANDA

“Uncle! Uncle!”

The twins come running out of nowhere, knocking me back to reality. I look away quickly, smoothing my hands down my skirt and trying to will my heart to slow down. I hope I’m not blushing.

My God, what was that? I felt like a rabbit snared by a cobra’s hypnotic gaze. Was the prince actually going to kiss me? Could that be possible?

Dante moves back to his own side of the bench as Oriana and Vito race down the stone path in their school clothes. He looks as flustered as I feel for a moment, but as soon as he catches sight of the kids, his face changes. His smile is as radiant as the rising sun.

“Who let these street urchins into my palace?” he crows indignantly as they reach the fountain. “Marco! What do I pay you for?”

They giggle as they sprint the last few yards to the bench, then stop short when they see me.

“Ms. Sparks!” Oriana pants, the long run catching up in her breathing. “A pleasure to see you again.”

Dante looks at me, brows raised.

“You’ve met?”

“Yesterday,” I say with a wide grin and a bow of my head. “The pleasure is mine, Your Highnesses.”

Dante is probably as grateful for the distraction as I am. I can still feel the warmth of his hand on mine, his breath on my lips. My mouth is still dry from the encounter.

“Are you planning Uncle’s birthday party?” asks Vito, dropping to the seat of his shorts on the emerald grass next to the bench.

“Looks like maybe you were up to something else,” Oriana says with a gleeful grin that makes me want to crawl into the bushes and hide.

Vito looks up at her. “Like what?”

“Like nunya,” says Dante.

“What’s nunya?”

“Nunya business, you little brat. Now get up here.”

Dante spreads his arms over the back of the bench and the twins climb into his lap, each claiming one of his thighs for their seat. Up close, I can see a few battle scars on their bare knees. Looks like they get at least a little time away from their regimented royal life to just be kids.

“What kind of trouble have you been causing today?” he asks with a stern glare.

Oriana glowers at him. “Maestro Salvatore said my violin sounded like a cat on the rack, so I told him when I’m queen, he’ll be sweeping the streets.”

“First of all,” says Dante, “we don’t have queens in Morova. Second, he’s probably right. Have you been practicing?”

“No!” Vito barks. “Her violin goes right in the wardrobe and stays there until our next music lesson.”

I have to suppress a giggle as she pounds him one on the arm. “Snitch!”

“Besides,” Vito says, ignoring her. “I’m the one who’s going to be ruler. Right, Uncle?”

Oriana frowns deeply at that. Can’t say as I blame her – it doesn’t seem right that her brother is next in line just because he happens to have a penis. She’s a full two minutes older than him.

“Why is it that way?” she whines. “How come I can’t be ruler?”

Dante grips her with a one-armed hug. Then he turns his face to me and nods for Oriana to do the same.

“You should ask Ms. Sparks,” he says. “She’s an expert on these things.”

“Are you really?” she asks, clearly impressed.

“I guess I am. But I’m afraid you won’t like my answer to your question.”

She sighs, deflated. I get the feeling she’s run into walls like this before.

“It’s because of tradition,” she says. “Right?”

“Right,” I say with a sympathetic smile. “A bunch of people set the rules a long time ago, and they stayed the same because nobody wanted to change them.”

“But it’s not fair!” she cries with indignation only a preteen girl can muster.

Dante raises an eyebrow and grins. You can field that one, too, that look says.

“Well,” I say. “Think of it this way. Your uncle has to do a whole bunch of things like standing around and watching parades, and signing legislation, and attending dinners with dignitaries. You know, like the boring stuff you learn to do in your studies. Right?”

Oriana nods. To my surprise, so does Dante.

“Meanwhile, Emilio gets to do whatever he wants. He can go horseback riding, or he can go waterskiing on the lake, or he can just sit around and watch Netflix if he likes. Which one sounds better to you?”

She chews this over for a moment.

“Emilio!” she says, brightening. “Uncle’s job sounds boring.”

Dante’s smile widens, even as Vito’s face darkens.

“Hey!” says Vito. “No fair! I don’t want to do boring stuff! I thought being the ruler was going to be cool!”

“You thought wrong,” says Dante, gripping them both in a hug. “Now, you two run along. Ms. Sparks and I have things to do.”

Their faces droop in resignation. Suddenly, Oriana’s lights up again.

“First you have to tell us what our names mean,” she says. “Then we’ll go.”

Dante rolls his eyes in mock frustration.

“Ugh!” he moans. “All right, if that’s what it takes to get you to go away and have your lunch.”

He leans in close to Vito’s ear. “Your name means life, because your mama and papa’s lives began when you were born,” he murmurs.

Vito smiles faintly – it’s obvious he loves this, but it’s also obvious he’s not too comfortable with me being here to witness all this mushy stuff.

Dante pulls Oriana close. “Your name means golden sunrise, because the day cannot begin without you.”

She kisses his stubbled cheek, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed by the undeniable urge to grab him and kiss him myself. I’ve never wanted a man the way I want him right now. Never even understood that I was capable of wanting anyone like this.

The twins hop off his lap and bow formally before taking off at a trot up the path towards the palace. “Arrivederci!” they call in unison as they disappear around a hedge.

Dante turns to me with a sheepish grin.

“If you tell anyone what you saw, I’ll deny it,” he says. “Maria had you sign a non-disclosure agreement, yes? I have a reputation as a scoundrel to uphold.”

“Of course,” I say, nodding gravely. “Morova would fall under such a scandal.”

His grin suddenly looks more like a grimace. Did I say something wrong? Then he’s back to his old self just as quickly.

“Come,” he says, taking my hand. I swear I can feel tiny sparks as his skin touches mine again. “Let me show you my favorite part of the gardens.”

He leads me into a narrow lane protected by ten-foot-tall arborvitae shrubs standing sentinel next to the path. My heart races as we walk, hand in hand. Dante is the first man I’ve touched since I made out with Levi Hull under the bleachers at my prom almost a decade ago.

The lane opens into a small, sheltered courtyard with a statue of a woman reclining in the center. I don’t recognize it.

“It’s Minerva At Rest,” he says, as if reading my mind. “It’s an early work by Ammannati. He was fascinated by the pair of Neptune and Minerva for some reason. Very few people venture to this section of the garden, so it’s virtually unknown. I doubt you could even find it on Wikipedia.”

It’s a beautiful work; raw, but the passion behind it is undeniable.

“What an incredible find,” I say. “Thank you for showing it to me. May I ask why it’s your favorite?”

“Minerva is the goddess of wisdom. Whenever I have a dilemma I can’t solve, I come here and discuss it with her. It’s where I was headed when I ran into you.”

He looks at me wide-eyed, as if surprised at what he’s just said.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Non-disclosure, remember?”

It would be an unforgiveable breach of protocol to ask what problem had sent him here to bend Minerva’s ear.

“Does it have something to do with what you shouted yesterday?” some idiot asks.

Oh fuck, the idiot is me. Shit shit shit, what did I just do?!

Dante’s eyes narrow, and it’s as if the world disappears and only this tiny courtyard exists.

Please don’t fire me. Please don’t fire me.

“In fact, it does,” he says. “And just like today, my chance meeting with you yesterday managed to shake me out of my funk and change my thinking, if only for a short time.”

I’m staring at him blankly now, heart hammering in my chest. My mind is reeling, trying to figure out something, anything, to say.

“You’re… welcome?” I croak.

Oh, that was fucking brilliant, Amanda. If you hurry, you can still get a seat on the red-eye back to America tonight.

I’m beginning to believe in out-of-body experiences. I swear I can feel my soul trying to squeeze its way out of me through my eyeballs and run away. Maybe I should just crumple to the ground and fake a seizure.

Before I know what’s happening, Dante closes the gap between us and grabs me by my arms. Then his lips are pressing against mine, warm and wet and electric.

Suddenly he breaks the contact and steps back, holding me at arms length, looking at me with eyes like moons.

“I’m – I’m terribly sorry,” he breathes. “That was – that was –”

“Incredible,” I finish for him, yanking him back towards me and covering his mouth with mine.

Chapter Nine

9. DANTE

I know I’m doing the wrong thing, but I can’t stop myself.

Her full lips accept mine with an eagerness that matches my own. Our tongues meet, intensely probing and searching each other as my arms encircle her waist.

Amanda slides her arms under my shoulders and grips me even more tightly. Her breasts – those magnificent breasts that overpowered my senses when I glimpsed them full and wet yesterday – press against me, swelling through the top of her blouse.

Her response makes me throw royal manners to the wind and grip her ass through her skirt. All I want is to pull her as close to me as physically possible. She does her own part, shifting her hips to press her groin against the bulge of my erection.

“Dante,” she breathes in my ear. “Oh God…”

My mouth finds the skin of her neck as she twines her fingers through my hair, gripping me tightly. My cock strains with painful pleasure against my zipper as we find a rhythm with our hips, back and forth.

I gently push her backwards a few steps into the relative privacy of the sentinel shrubs. As we leave the path, she becomes more brazen, pulling down the loose shoulders of her peasant blouse and exposing the creamy skin of her cleavage to welcome my lips. It’s soft and warm under my tongue.

My hands have a will of their own. They slide under her blouse and practiced fingers instantly release the clasp of her bra. I cup her breasts as they come free of the fabric, squeezing lightly and prompting an appreciative groan in my ear.

Amanda’s fingers clamp onto my neck as she slides her tongue into the hollow beneath my left ear, sending a thrill of anticipation down my spine. My cock throbs in response, and she grinds her mound into me even harder.

“You’re so beautiful,” I sigh.

Suddenly her tongue is back in my mouth and her hand is gripping the bulge under my pants, urgently kneading my cock and sending waves of pleasure through me. My hands reflexively grip her ass in response.

Her fingers fumble with my zipper and I open my eyes to see her staring at me, biting her lower lip.

“Amanda,” I whisper, shocked.

Her eyes are locked on mine as she begins to unbutton her blouse.

Chapter Ten

10. AMANDA

What I’m feeling right now is the total opposite of an out-of-body experience. All I am aware of right now is my body. Rational thought is a distant memory.

If my rational brain was working, it would tell me that this can’t be real. And if it is real, this is utterly insane, that I don’t know what I’m doing, that I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.

But my body is telling me it needs to feel Dante’s skin against mine, and it won’t be denied.

I fumble frantically with the buttons on his shirt as his eyes roam over my body. I’ve never been naked in front of a man before – to have the sexiest man in the world be the first to see my body is so erotic I’m already on the verge of an orgasm.

Dante helps me unbutton with one hand and unzips his fly with the other. A moment later and I’m staring at his sculpted chest and washboard abs. He could be one of the statues in this garden, a masterpiece.

His torso is heaving in time with his breathing. So is mine. His smoldering grey eyes, like the embers of a campfire, lock onto mine for one intense moment. Then his hard cock flips free from his pants and my breath stops in my chest.

It’s the first one I’ve ever seen; so much bigger than I thought it would be. Studying hundreds of nude Renaissance statues didn’t prepare me for this.

I don’t have time to think about it because suddenly Dante’s mouth is on my nipple, his hot tongue almost burning against the delicate skin there. I have to hold onto his neck to keep from collapsing on the ground with pleasure. He scrapes his teeth along the nub, delicately but intensely, drawing an involuntary shudder from my very core.

His hands slide into the waistband of my skirt, pushing it down until it puddles around my ankles. There’s nothing left but my panties.

I couldn’t keep my hand away from his cock now if I wanted to. I reach out and snare it, gasping at the sheer heat of the skin, the unexpected contrast of softness and steel. It twitches in response to my touch and I hear Dante growl like a panther.

My God, this is really happening. I feel like I must be delirious, but there’s no mistaking the electricity coursing through me right now. Nothing has ever been so real before in my life.

Then Dante’s free hand leaves my breast and wanders down my belly. The skin there contracts into goosebumps at his touch, and my heart races in anticipation of what’s coming next.

My knees almost buckle as his fingers glide along the slick outer lips of my entrance. I have to grips his neck with my left hand for support while my right keeps a firm hold of his erection.

I’ve never been with a man in this way, but I know enough to figure out what I should be doing for him. I glide my hand up and down his shaft, stroking slowly but firmly, feeling the veins standing out against my palm.

Dante returns the favor, pressing his wet fingers against my swollen clit and sending jolts of pleasure all up my spine. My hips buck in time with his strokes, each motion increasing the pleasure, until he suddenly flattens his palm against my mound. The pressure against my clit is delicious, making me gasp in his ear

My strokes turn harder and faster, increasing the friction against his cock as our tongues find each other again. Before I realize what I’m doing, I pull him closer and stand on my tiptoes. I guide the head of his cock towards my slit and rub it against the hot wetness there.

I can’t help it; my orgasm takes over my body like a possessing spirit. When his tip finds my clit, it’s game over. The world explodes in a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations as Dante takes hold of my buttocks and supports me in place, letting me ride the waves.

“It’s so good,” I pant. “I never imagined…”

“You make me weak,” he breathes back. “I can’t hold back…”

All I want is to feel his cock deep inside me, all the way in, to feel it become one with me. I’ve waited so long for this, and this moment is so perfect…

“Dante!” a female voice cries from somewhere in the gardens. “Dante, are you here, darling?”

Chapter Eleven

11. DANTE

The sound of my aunt’s voice is more effective than a bucket of ice water, shocking me back to reality and surprising the blood right out of my throbbing cock.

Amanda gasps and nearly falls out of my arms. God, how could I have been so irresponsible?! We’re outdoors in the middle of the day! Thank God the twins happened on when they did instead of now.

That’s right, Dante, conveniently avoid the real reason this was such a ridiculous risk. Imagine trying to pass off another woman as your wife less than two weeks after fucking a virtual stranger in your garden! The media would have a field day, not to mention the chancellor.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper to Amanda as we scramble to get our clothes back on. “I shouldn’t have done this. It was reprehensible of me.”

“You weren’t doing it alone,” she breathes, clasping her bra and covering up her breasts. Her stunning, alabaster breasts.

Snap out of it!

Amanda manages to get her outfit back in place as I finish buttoning my shirt. Thank God I don’t have any royal functions today; otherwise, I’d be trying to tie a bowtie right now, too. At least my raging hard-on has finally gone all the way down.

She smooths her hair with her hands; luckily, she never wears make-up – it would be gilding the lily, as far as I’m concerned – so she needn’t worry about any smudges.

“How do I look?” she asks, eyes pleading.

Like I imagine an angel must look.

“Fine,” I say. “And me?”

She swallows hard.

“Same.”

“All right. Follow my lead.”

I check the lane to see if Isabella is near. We’re in luck; the coast is clear, so I take Amanda’s hand and we step into the courtyard mere seconds before my aunt rounds the corner and discovers us.

“There you are!” she cries. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

“Hmm?” I say, turning to face her. My elbow is in one hand, supporting my chin in the other. “Oh, hello, auntie.”

Amanda smiles, hands clasped in front of her.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” she says sheepishly. “The prince was indulging my curiosity about this particular statue of Minerva. I didn’t know it existed.”

Isabella is the embodiment of the term “handsome woman.” Still very attractive in late middle age, but her features are more angular than softly feminine. It gives her an air of power and sophistication. I imagine Amanda is somewhat intimidated, despite the excellent act she’s putting on.

Hell, I’m intimidated and I grew up with the woman.

Isabella smiles and waves a dismissive hand. “No matter,” she says. “And you are?”

“Where are my manners?” I say. Where, indeed. “Duchess Isabella Steiger, please meet Amanda Sparks, from America. She’s in charge of planning my birthday celebration. Amanda, Isabella is my maternal aunt, the former regent of Morova.”

They clasp hands. “I’m well aware of your contributions to Morova,” Amanda says. “There are many who say you held the kingdom together during its greatest challenge.”

Isabella bows humbly. It’s an act – my aunt is about as humble as a professional wrestler – but she’s very good at it.

“Maria has told me all about you, dear. I’m sure Dante’s fate is in capable hands.”

She turns to me. “Assuming my nephew is kind enough to show up, of course.”

I favor her with a wincing smile. Isabella has never been one to dance around the point.

“I’ve learned my lesson, auntie,” I say, dripping with contrition. “I will not leave the palace until after the ceremony. This I swear on my honor as the defender of the realm of Morova.”

“Mm-hmm.” I don’t have any tricks she doesn’t know. “Just be there on your birthday, defender of the realm.”

It dawns on me that she was searching for me earlier, and I use it as a way to distract her from wondering why Amanda and I were out here alone.

“What can I do for you?” I ask. “You were looking for me; I assume you needed me for something?”

“Yes,” she says, looking as if she just remembered that herself. “I’m trying to find the family sword.”

Ah, yes. That fucking sword.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” says Amanda. “Maria mentioned to me that Signore Ferrare has the sword. I actually need to keep track of it myself, as it plays a key role in the birthday ceremonies.”

“Well, then,” says Isabella, cocking an elbow. “Shall we track down Carlo together? It will give us some time to discuss Dante’s birthday.”

And it will give Amanda an opportunity to get away from the boss who just mauled her in a courtyard.

“By your leave?” Amanda asks, unspoken volumes in her eyes.

“Of course,” I say, bowing. “We’ll, uh, talk again soon.”

She takes Isabella’s arm and they amble their way out of the courtyard towards the main gardens.

And that’s all we’ll be doing – talking, I tell myself as they disappear from sight.

Chapter Twelve

12. AMANDA

Isabella’s voice is like Charlie Brown’s teacher in my ear: Wah wah, wah wah wah waaaahh.

I make out just enough of what’s she’s saying to know when to nod, but my mind is still in the arborvitae shrubs with Dante, his skin still hot against mine, our breath still mingling together.

How do I feel about it? I mean, the most eligible bachelor in the world just gave me the first orgasm outside of my own hand. We were this close to sealing the deal. I spent my prime sexual years moldering away in dusty old libraries, and then, out of the blue, my first time is almost with Prince Freaking Dante of Morova!

Where do we go from here? My heart knows what it wants – so does my body – but it’s all too much to wrap my brain around.

“What do you think, dear?”

Shit. The old bird asked me a question. What do I do?

“Oh,” I say, nodding. “I agree, a hundred percent.”

“Excellent.”

I hope I didn’t just commit myself to clipping her toenails or something equally horrendous. Pay attention, girl! This is no time for distractions.

Distractions like a prince’s hard cock bringing you to climax…

I manage to suppress the urge to slap myself, but just barely.

The halls of the palace are bustling as usual: people milling about, doing the seemingly infinite number of jobs that are required to maintain the palace, the monarchy and the illusion that it’s all easy.

“I don’t know how I managed to lose track of the sword,” Isabella says as we turn down the hallway that leads to Carlo Ferrare’s office. “It’s been in my charge since I was named regent. I love my nephew, but I swear, if it was left to him, the sword would have been gambled away in a card game long ago.”

I wonder. I probably would have agreed a few days ago, but after getting to know him – and seeing him with the twins – I’m inclined to believe Maria. The image is made up. Maybe he plays it so close to the vest that his aunt never figured it out.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s being played. That hadn’t occurred to me until right now.

“I’m sure the prince realizes how important the sword is to protocol,” I say. “After all, it turned the tide of the battle that ultimately led to Morova becoming a principality.”

There’s very little humor in Isabella’s smile.

“Yes,” she says. “At least as far as the popular history is concerned. Of course, the real weapon has always been the gold in the Trentini vaults. Or in their computers nowadays, I suppose.”

She has a point. The family banking interests go back to the Middle Ages, having survived countless wars through diplomacy, warfare, or a combination of the two. Some scholars believe Napoleon came close to stealing the fortune during his campaigns, but there’s never been any concrete proof of that.

“I made the mistake of leaving the sword in the care of the Trentini family’s chief historian a couple of years ago,” Isabella continues. “Now we need it for the ceremony, and here I am searching for it in a panic like I imagine a commoner would search for his missing car keys when he’s late for work.”

Commoner. Well, I guess I know where a Montana girl with shit-stained boots stands with the former regent. Actually, that’s unkind. It’s the proper term to describe those without titles. It just tends to stick in the craws of the people on the receiving end. Like me.

I open my mouth to tell her the story of Peter and me in the vault in Malta, but she walks straight into Carlo’s office without knocking. If he’s put out by such rudeness, I can’t see it in his face.

“Your Grace,” he intones, standing slowly. I imagine those big, knobby joints of his aren’t his friends at this age.

He turns to me and smiles. “Ms. Sparks. What a pleasure to see you again.”

“Signore Ferrare,” I smile back.

“Feel free to call him Carlo,” Isabella says absently as she takes a seat in front of his desk.

“I couldn’t,” I say shyly.

“Please do,” he says. “I’ve no title, outside of Chief Cook and Bottle Washer. In fact, I insist.”

“All right, then I’m Amanda.”

He nods his agreement.

Isabella sighs. “If we have that all straightened out, can we please discuss the sword?”

Carlo reaches into a huge teak cabinet behind his desk and emerges with the item that’s been at the center of all this fuss.

“I believe this is what you’ve both been looking for.”

He holds up the Trentini schiavona, a type of broadsword with a basket-style guard of polished silver that protects the user’s hand in battle. The gleaming steel blade ends in a handle sheathed in ironwood, which has been wrapped in the finest kid leather. It’s an absolute work of art.

You know – if you’re into post-Renaissance swords, which I totally am.

“Excellent,” Isabella beams. The look on her face makes me think of a mother admiring her child. She reaches out to Carlo, who returns the sword to its tooled leather scabbard and hands it to her.

“Where did you end up finding it?” she asks, running a hand along the scabbard to the handle.

“Actually, I was going to answer that before we came in,” I say. “A colleague of mine was studying it at a vault in the royal archives in Malta. I don’t know how it came to be there, but –”

“But find it he did,” says Carlo. “And he returned it to me. I, in turn, have given it back to you.”

There’s more to the story, but I guess Carlo’s not interested in discussing it with Isabella. I don’t blame him – I get the sense she can be a bit of a shrew under the right circumstances.

“Well, I’m just glad to have it back,” she says, then turns to me. “I’ll return it to our own archives, unless you need it right away?”

“Not until the prince’s birthday, ma’am. I just needed to know where I could find it.”

“Very good.” She turns to Carlo. “Again, many thanks. You’ve eased an old woman’s worries, signore.”

“I don’t know of whom you speak, Your Grace,” he says, bowing. “I see only beautiful young ladies in this room with me.”

Isabella clucks her tongue and sighs as she heads for the door with the sword.

“You’ve been hanging around Dante too long,” she says, but she’s smiling. “Amanda, it’s been a pleasure. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.”

“Ma’am.”

“And you,” she says to Carlo. “Take a day off once in awhile, will you?”

He nods and Isabella leaves. As soon as she’s down the hall and back onto the main concourse, Carlo carefully closes and locks the door to his office.

“I appreciate your discretion, Ms. Sparks,” he says.

“Amanda.”

“Of course. Amanda. I wasn’t eager for the duchess to be privy to how the sword came to return to Isola D’ora.”

“I kind of got that vibe from you,” I say. “I was beginning to wonder if maybe Peter wasn’t supposed to have it in the first place, and that was what his big panic was about.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Scott is deep in the Morovan court’s good graces for returning the sword here when he did. His timing was impeccable.”

“Whew,” I say, wiping pretend sweat from my brow. “I was worried for a second.”

Carlo props his butt on the edge of his enormous antique desk and folds his arms over his chest.

“Tell me, Amanda, have you had the opportunity to spend any time with the prince?”

My heart thuds paiinfully in my chest. Did Carlo see us? No, that’s stupid. Or maybe not – there could be cameras in the gardens!

The easy smile on his face erases my worries. I’m just being paranoid. Better get over that real quick.

“Yes,” I say. “In fact, we had some, uh, quality time in the gardens just a little while ago.”

“I trust he’s cooperating with you?”

He’s cooperating, all right.

“Absolutely. He’s shown me only the best royal manners.”

“Excellent. Then if you’ll excuse me, I have several matters that need attending. Thank you so much for stopping in to visit me.”

“The pleasure was entirely mine,” I say.

He drops a wink with one of those basset hound eyes.

“You’re learning quickly,” he says with a grin.

Yeah, I think. I’m learning a lot. And maybe a little too quickly.

Chapter Thirteen

13. DANTE

“Why on earth do you need a registry of Morova’s convents?” Maria asks.

She’s looking at me like a suspicious mother: arms crossed, head cocked to once side. I suppose I can’t blame her – it’s a strange request coming from any boss, let alone a monarch.

“I’m not looking for a new challenge,” I sigh. “Well, not in the way you’re thinking, anyway.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

Should I tell her? I’m beginning to believe I don’t have a choice. Maria’s probably the smartest person I know, outside of Carlo, and Emilio certainly hasn’t been any help. He’s the reason I’m here now, making a hare-brained last-ditch effort to find a nun.

Maria has been my rock since I lost Adriana, and she’s proved her loyalty to me countless times. And I trust her implicitly, ever since she had the nerve to rebuff my advances early in our relationship. She was probably the first person in my adult life, outside of Carlo and Isabella, to tell me no. And, unlike Carlo, she has no problem calling me by my first name.

“Sit down,” I say.

She glares at me. “This is my office, I tell you to sit down. So sit down and explain yourself.”

We take seats on opposite sides of her desk. As my chief of staff, she has the best office in the palace, with one of the best views of Orta in the entire building.

I’ve also got a view of her perfect legs as she crosses them. They send my mind immediately to my encounter with Amanda yesterday. I’m still trying to process it – I had to practically sprint to my chambers directly from the gardens and masturbate furiously. If I hadn’t, there would have been a tent under my slacks for the rest of the day.

And I wouldn’t have been able to focus on my dilemma at all.

“I need you to hear me out before you speak,” I say, trying to keep my mind on the here and now. “And I want you to keep in mind that none of this is my fault.”

Maria rolls her eyes. “When you say something like that, I automatically think it’s your fault.”

“Your not speaking lasted all of two seconds,” I grouse. “Shall we try again?”

Her glare could stop a clock, but she stays quiet.

I tell her what Carlo told me, and about Emilio’s boneheaded idea to find a virgin in a convent.

When I’m finished, the only indication that she’s even heard my story is a single arched eyebrow. She stares at me, unblinking, for several long moments.

“That’s utterly ridiculous,” she says finally.

“The decree has been verified,” I sigh. “By four different experts.”

“Not that. I’m talking about your plan to scour convents for a bride. That would be infinitely worse than not marrying anyone.”

“Worse than losing the monarchy?” I ask. “How do you figure that?”

“You’d be marrying someone you didn’t love, and you’d be taking a young woman away from her calling. I have no doubt you could do it; you’re the most eligible bachelor in the world, and you’re their prince. What woman, even a nun, is going to say no to you?”

You did, I don’t say.

“I’m no Catholic,” she continues. “But I do know it would be a grave sin to use an innocent, devout woman as a pawn just so you can keep your money.”

My eyes turn to the floor as shame flows into my cheeks. She’s right. I was only looking at this situation from a public relations perspective: could I convince the people that we were actually in love? I never gave a thought to how such a deception would affect the poor girl.

“You’re absolutely right,” I say, not meeting her gaze. “The only excuse I can offer is that I’m desperate.”

Maria crosses to where I sit and lays a hand on my shoulder.

“You’re forgiven,” she says. “Barely. You should have come to me sooner. There has to be a way out of this.”

“Not that Carlo can see. We could challenge the decree in the courts, or we could ignore it, or we could simply defy it. All of those options come with huge potential risks.”

“Having your fortune revert to the government wouldn’t be the end of the world, Dante. It’s not like you’d end up on the streets. And who’s to say that you would lose a referendum? Perhaps you need to trust more in your subjects.”

I’ve been able to think of little else since Carlo first told me about the decree in the sword. Would it truly be so bad to lose the monarchy? To leave this palace and this island behind? To throw off the duties and the burden of being the prince? It would leave me free to pursue Amanda in the way that I so desperately want to.

But it always comes back to the twins.

“There’s something you’re not taking into account,” I say. “There’s a very real possibility that the Crown Council wouldn’t call for an end to the monarchy itself. They could call a referendum to depose me and hand the kingdom to Vito. That way, I’m out of the picture, the monarchy stands…”

“And the government would become the unofficial regent,” Maria finishes for me, shaking her head. “The children would essentially be wards of the state.”

“I’d be pushed out of their lives,” I say. “We’d be able to visit occasionally, but Chancellor Huber would almost certainly use my carefully crafted playboy image to show me as an unfit guardian. In the end, all my work to keep them out of the public eye would utterly backfire on me.”

I look in Maria’s eyes with a nakedness that I can’t show to anyone else.

“Losing the monarchy wouldn’t kill me,” I say. “But losing the children would. And I will not stand by and watch the weight of the monarchy crush Vito the way it almost crushed me. This I swear to any god that may be listening.”

She takes my hand in hers and squeezes.

“I understand,” she says softly. “And as bad as all that is, you’re not even touching on the worst part.”

“The worst part? What the hell could be worse than that?”

“I would lose my job.”

I stare at her blankly for a full two seconds before the laughter starts. One of the many things I love about Maria is her ability to shine a light into the gloom, no matter how bad things get.

“How selfish of me not to think of that,” I chuckle.

“I had to do that,” she says with a grin. “You were starting to get morbid, so I had to lighten the mood. Especially since I think I may have an idea on how we might be able to solve this.”

“Better than seducing a nun?” I say with mock surprise. “Well, let’s hear it.”

“It’s crazy, I’ll admit, and I’m probably clutching at straws. But it just might work.”

“Will you get to the damn point?” I growl.

Maria gets up from her desk and crosses the office to the entrance. She closes the door and returns to sit next to me.

“I happen to know a woman who is still a virgin,” she says, keeping her voice low. “And there’s a chance that she might be willing to help you in this.”

My heart jumps. Any possibility, however slim, is welcome at this point.

“Let’s say she agrees,” I whisper. “What would be in it for her?”

“Whatever she wants. You’re a billionaire, Dante, you can make things happen.”

That’s true.

“But can I convince the Morovan citizens that it’s a real royal marriage? If Huber were to use the decree against me, our relationship would have to stand up to scrutiny.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that your friend would have to be attractive, and not just physically. She’d have to be someone the public would believe was my type, and who was suitable for a prince.”

Maria’s widening grin fills me with hope I never would have believed possible even half an hour ago.

“Your Highness,” she says. “I think I just may have found you a princess.”

Chapter Fourteen

14. AMANDA

“I’m sorry, I thought you asked me if I would marry Prince Dante,” I say, giggling and shaking my head. “My dad always says I’ve got beans in my ears.”

Maria isn’t smiling. Neither is Dante.

What the hell is going on here?

When Maria called me here to discuss the ceremonies, I was a little surprised to see Dante, especially since we hadn’t spoken a word since our… encounter in the gardens. Now he looks as confused as I feel.

Maria takes my hand in hers and looks deep into my eyes.

“I know that this is sudden and strange,” she soothes. “And I hope you can forgive us for that, because the last thing we want is for you to be feeling the way you’re probably feeling. But yes, that is exactly what we’re asking.”

Thoughts are whirring through my head like a swarm of locusts. I turn to look at Dante. Did he tell Maria about us? Is there some obscure Morovan law that says if a prince’s penis touches your vagina, you have to marry him? Sure, I came like an animal in heat, but it didn’t even go all the way in!

“You want me to marry you,” I say slowly and deliberately, trying to make sure I’m not on the receiving end of some colossal practical joke. “In less than two weeks. After knowing me for two days.”

The look in Dante’s eyes is unreadable as we stare at each other for a long moment.

“It would be a tremendous favor, not just to me, but to the monarchy itself,” he says finally.

Maria takes hold of my arms and turns me to face her. I trust her, but I feel like I’m adrift in the middle of the ocean here. Is she my life raft, or is she some kind of anchor that’s trying to drag down my sanity?

“This isn’t working,” she says, concern in her eyes. “We’ve driven the poor girl to the edge. I’m terribly sorry, Amanda, we approached this all wrong.”

“Ya think?” I snap.

I blink at her for a few moments, trying to gather as many of my chaotic thoughts as I can.

“Please believe me,” she says. “There is a method to this madness. If you ‘ll hear me out, I think I can make sense of everything for you. Or at least as much sense as the situation possibly can make, anyway.”

I shrug and nod; Dante looks away from me towards the window.

“It starts with your friend Peter,” she says. “The reason he was in such a state after studying the Trentini sword is because he discovered something. He accidentally turned the pommel and discovered the handle is actually hollow.”

I raise my eyebrows. That better not be it.

“That’s obviously not the key to the story,” she says. “Inside the handle was a rolled copy of a decree written by Napoleon himself. Essentially, it says the monarch of Morova must be married by his 30th birthday, or the entire legal framework of the principality can be rendered null and void.”

My brows knit as I process that for a moment. Principalities exist at the sufferance of their neighboring powers. Agreements like the one they’re talking about are basically what keep them from being invaded. For example, as long as Monaco keeps to itself and doesn’t make waves, France allows it to exist.

Morova is similar, but different in that it’s also a bank with a web of connections throughout Europe and beyond. Its wealth is immense, and it’s one of the world’s top tax havens. But that could change if Italy or Switzerland ever decided to alter the deal. It’s not likely, but it’s definitely possible.

“Do you really think anyone would take the decree seriously today?” I ask.

Maria sighs. “There’s a web of political intrigue attached to all of this. First off, Morovans are mired in their traditions, as you know. They revere their history. And Dante is on thin ice with the two councils as it is. If Dante were to violate the decree, Chancellor Huber could easily use it as an excuse to call for a referendum, which could result in the end of the monarchy.”

My head is spinning. How did I end up at the center of a political shit storm? I’m a cowgirl from Montana, for God’s sake! I’m nobody!

“All right,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “I get it. Not totally, but enough to understand why you need to do this. But you haven’t answered the biggest question: why me? There has to be someone far better suited to the role. Even on such short notice.”

Dante takes a deep breath, lets it out. I don’t understand where all this is coming from. Has he – has he actually fallen in love with me? Could that even be possible?

Would marrying Dante really be so crazy? I’m already infatuated with him – could that somehow turn to true love, given enough time?

“You have something special,” Maria says softly.

I still can’t figure out why she’s here. Who gets someone to join them when they propose?

“What?” I ask, truly baffled. “My red hair? Is that part of the deal, too?”

Dante fidgets while his eyes dart around the room. Did he tell Maria about our encounter?

Suddenly I want to scream the way Dante did right before we met.

“Will you get to the fucking point?!” I holler. Whoa. That felt good.

To her credit, Maria doesn’t seem fazed by taking a double-lung scream directly to the face.

“Dante has to marry a virgin,” she says matter-of-factly. “And, to be brutally frank, you’re the only one I know who isn’t underage.”

Her words hit me with an impact that’s almost physical. Any thoughts I might have had of a royal romance suddenly dry up like water in the desert.

I turn to Dante. He still won’t meet my eyes.

“You need a virgin,” I say. My calmness surprises me.

“I know how insane this all sounds,” says Maria. “And I honestly can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now –”

“Is this why you seduced me in the gardens?” I ask Dante, ignoring her. “Because you needed a wife in two weeks? Maria told you I was a virgin and you figured ‘hey, how hard could it be to win over some country bumpkin girl?’”

Dante finally looks me in the eye. His are wide with shock.

“No!” he protests. “It didn’t happen like that at all!”

Maria looks at the both of us.

“Seduced in the gardens? What are you talking about?”

“Never mind,” I say. Now that I know what this is all about, I’m filled with cold fury. How can I trust either of these two again?

“Obviously we’re not asking you to do this out of the goodness of your heart,” says Maria. You’ll be compensated. Handsomely.”

Compensated? A moment ago I was wondering if things could get any crazier. Well, there’s my answer.

“You’re going to pay me to marry him?” I ask.

“It would be a contract. Marry the prince, sleep with him once to fulfill the decree. Legally, marriages in Morova must last a full year to be considered binding, but you could easily lead separate lives; many royals do. After that, you’re released from your obligations and will receive your compensation.”

“And what would my compensation be?” I ask. I can’t believe I’m actually thinking about doing this.

“Anything within my power,” Dante says. “Money, a title, status in society. Whatever you want would be yours.”

Anything? How about love? You didn’t mention that.

“I have to think about this,” I say, shaking my head as if that could somehow get rid of the thoughts inside it.

“Of course,” he says, reaching out to take my hand. I pull it away before he can touch me.

Maria gives me a sheepish look. “I’m very sorry to have put all this on you, Amanda. And I’m even more sorry to tell you this: we need to know your answer by this time tomorrow. If you don’t agree to the arrangement, we’ll have to start pursuing other options immediately.”

Pursuing options. Just what every girl wants to hear when talking about her wedding.

“Fine,” I say, rising from my chair and heading for the door of Maria’s office. “If I say no, will I still have my job?”

“Of course,” says Maria. “When I said we need you, I meant it. Obviously, that’s even truer now. But before you go, I want you to consider something.”

“What’s that?” I ask wearily.

“If you agree, you would be planning your own royal wedding. How many women can say that?”

I walk out without answering.

I don’t know the answer to her question. How many women have ever been contracted to marry a prince simply because they’d never slept with a man?

If I ever run into one, I’ll have to ask her.

Chapter Fifteen

15. AMANDA

If it weren’t for all the huge windows in the palace, I wouldn’t even know that the sun had gone down. Time stopped right around the moment I left Maria’s office this afternoon. I’ve wandered in a fog through probably two-thirds of the place over the last however many hours, thinking harder than I ever have in my life.

There are places to hide everywhere in the palace. Suits of armor to squeeze behind, giant cabinets and wardrobes to disappear into. Alcoves under stairs and behind doors. Every one of them seemed to call out to me, telling me to come and hide away until the world starts making sense again.

If only I could.

A familiar painting greets me as I turn off the main concourse into a side hall, and I recognize it immediately. I was just here with Isabella yesterday; it leads to Carlo’s office. Did fate bring me here? I never thought of it until now, but Carlo might be exactly the person I need to talk to. He’s been around the block and then some. He actually reminds me a bit of my dad.

He and the ranch took up a large portion of my thoughts during my wanderings. What would Dad think of me marrying Dante? He’d be tickled pink at the lie, but the truth would make him furious if he ever found out. I’d honestly worry for Dante’s safety. I’m sure Marco is tough, but Dad is a big guy. And he has shotguns. Lots of them.

Unfortunately, shotguns don’t pay the bills.

Dante told me that whatever I wanted would be mine. So what do I want if I agree to this crazy scheme? Besides real love, of course?

I want my dad to never have to worry about debt ever again. I want him to have more money than he could ever spend. Of course, knowing him, that’s not a lot. He’s so used to pinching pennies that he could probably live the rest of his life on less than the palace’s annual budget for antique maintenance.

As far as I know, he’s never taken a vacation in his life. I don’t know if he’s even been out of the western U.S. It would be amazing to take him around the world, show him all the things about Europe that fascinate me so much. So he can see where all of Mom’s life insurance money went.

I hear voices as I reach the door to Carlo’s office. It’s slightly ajar, and the granite and marble act as amplifiers for the conversation inside.

“I don’t know what I’ll do if she says no.”

It’s Dante! I should really go. Dad always taught me it’s wrong to eavesdrop.

Of course, he probably would have taught me it’s wrong to fuck with a woman’s life just because she might help you keep your fortune, if he knew that was even a thing. I didn’t even know it was a thing until this afternoon.

So I hunker down and stay right where I am.

“I assume that you’ve abandoned Prince Emilio’s suggestion?” I hear Carlo say.

“Of course I have,” Dante sighs. “He meant well, but marrying a nun would have been a disaster.”

He was going to marry a nun? Just when I thought this couldn’t get any more fucked up. But it does make a crazy kind of sense – another one of Dad’s sayings is if you want to hunt ducks, you go where the ducks are. I guess it’s the same for virgins.

“Sir, perhaps if you told her about the children…”

Oriana and Vito? What about them? I lean closer to the door.

“Absolutely not,” Dante says crossly. “I will not use them as bargaining chips. They’ve been through that already. Luckily, they were still young enough that they won’t remember. I have no doubt she’d still like to get her hooks into them.”

She?

“Is Amanda aware of what could potentially happen to them, at least?”

“I told you, I’m not bringing them into the equation.”

“But perhaps if she understood that they might end up separated from you, that Vito might be placed on the throne…”

My heart skips a beat. Whatever faults Dante may have, he clearly adores those twins, and they love him. I once read an article in an archived issue of Time about Dante’s life after his parents were killed. He was only a boy, but he was suddenly thrust into the role of monarch. In the photo that ran with it, he seemed so… withdrawn, I guess.

My heart broke for the boy in that photo. I just think kids should be smiling and carefree, not crushed under the burden of authority.

“We’ll deal with whatever comes,” says Dante. “We have to. There’s no other choice.”

Yes, there is. And I’m the one who has to make it.

I slip from behind the door and tiptoe back down the hallway to the main concourse, and from there I head straight for my chambers.

* * *

“Twice in one week?” Dad says. “What’d I do to deserve this?”

He’s got Skype down now, looking at me head-on in the tablet’s screen. It’s early afternoon in Montana and there’s a sheen of midday sweat on his face.

“Well, it is a special occasion,” I say, trying to keep my voice upbeat. My heart is still stretched in a hundred directions, but I don’t want him to know that.

His face drops suddenly. “Aw, shit,” he says. “It’s not my birthday again, is it?”

He’s not joking: my dad has forgotten his own birthday every year for as long as I can remember.

“Not for another three months,” I say. “No, this is sort of a once-in-a-lifetime occasion.”

Sure it is. For a year, anyway.

“Well, now you got my ears pricked up, girlie. What’s the big secret?”

God, if you only knew.

“First, I want you to sit down,” I say. “You’re getting fat and your ticker isn’t what it used to be.”

“Hey! Get yer own jokes!”

“I’m serious, Dad. You really should sit down.”

His Clint Eastwood eyes narrow, but he does as I say.

“All right, I’m sittin’ down and I’m calm. But that’ll change real quick if you don’t hurry up and tell me what’s got you actin’ so mysterious.”

How do I tell him? No matter how I do it, he’s going to freak. Might as well just pull off the Band-aid and hope he doesn’t have a coronary.

“Dad,” I say, mustering my courage. “Prince Dante has asked me to marry him.”

His shaggy eyebrows go up and he fixes me with a look. For a full five seconds, neither of us says a word.

Then a grin creeps out from under his mustache.

“You almost had your old man goin’ there for a second, pumpkin!” he hoots. “Oop, sorry – I mean Princess Pumpkin.”

“It’s not a joke, Dad. He proposed this afternoon.”

Sort of. Not exactly get-down-on-one-knee. More like I’ll-have-my-lawyer-call-your-lawyer.

Dad frowns. He and I joke around all the time, but he knows when I’m being serious.

“Sweetie, he’s a prince. Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re the greatest catch in the world, but don’t these royal types go for their own kind?”

Yes, they do. But I guess the supply of noble virgins is low at this time of year.

“What can I say?” I shrug. “We hit it off right away and one thing led to another… next thing I know, he’s asking me to marry him.”

“What about all that stuff about him in the supermarket papers?”

“You know you can’t believe the tabloids, Dad. If you could, Elvis would have a show in Vegas right now.”

“But you haven’t had a boyfriend since high school, least not one that you’ve talked to me about. Suddenly you’re gettin’ engaged? To a man on the other side of the world that I’ve never met?”

I can see my smile in the little window in the bottom right corner of the screen. It’s so strained, I look like I’m in labor.

“I’ve never done anything the normal way, have I?”

He runs his catcher’s mitt of a hand down his ruddy face. Dad is a simple man – smart as a whip, but simple – and this is way too much for him to process.

Finally he looks me in the eye the way only a father can.

“Do you love him?” he asks.

That question is more complex than any of the ones I faced defending my thesis.

“Yes. But I know this is all pretty crazy. I won’t marry him if you don’t give me your blessing.”

He smiles, and for the second time in as many days, I see tears in his eyes.

“Well, then,” he says. “I guess I better give it to you.”

And there goes the last excuse I had not to do this. It breaks my heart to trick him like this, but what choice do I have? I can’t let him lose the ranch. And I can’t let Dante lose the twins. And hey, all I have to lose is my virginity and a year of my life to make that happen.

“Thank you, Daddy,” I say. There are tears in my own eyes now, for a thousand different reasons.

“So when do I get to meet this prince?” he asks. “Do I get to come to the wedding and give you away?”

My labored smile tightens even more.

“Your passport’s up to date, right?”

“Yup. I need it when I bring calves over the border from Canada.”

“Okay, good. And can you get one of the Ross boys up the road to keep an eye on the cattle for awhile?”

“Sure. They’re just out on pasture now. Won’t be sellin’ any till fall.”

“Perfect.”

He gives me a sidelong glance. “You make it sound like the wedding’s right around the corner.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath. “About that…”

Here we go. There’s no turning back now.

Chapter Sixteen

16. DANTE

“Your Highness, if you would be so kind?”

“Hm?”

Carlo’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, his knobby finger pointing at my hand. I look at it and realize my fingers are drumming noisily on the glass tabletop. My coffee cup vibrates in time with my tapping.

“Sorry,” I sigh.

“Quite all right, sir. I feel the same way myself.”

Maria messaged thirty minutes ago that she was bringing Amanda – and her answer – to my private chambers. They’re still not here. The coffee is my fourth one this morning. I didn’t even go to bed last night, let alone fall asleep.

“What if she says no?” I blurt. Not very princely of me.

“Then we deal with the situation some other way, as we always have. Morova shall endure.”

Morova shall endure. How many times have I heard that in the twenty years since Carlo broke the news to me that my parents had been killed? I sometimes wonder if he thinks I am Morova.

I hear a knock at the door and have to restrain myself from leaping out of my chair.

“Come in,” I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

Maria ushers Amanda into the room and my breath catches in my throat: she’s wearing an impeccable Donna Karan suit, white jacket with a high-waisted belt and a form-fitting black skirt that ends at her knee. It accentuates her curves and highlights those ice-blue eyes.

She’s breathtaking. Sexy, yet understated. Most important, she looks regal. Like a proper princess. My heart soars.

“You look stunning,” I breathe. “Does this mean…?”

Amanda fixes me with a look that says I should stop talking.

“Maria has explained all the details of the agreement to me,” she says. “And I accept the offer.”

I’ve never really given any thought to how a woman might react if I proposed; I certainly never imagined it would end with her saying “I accept the offer,” like she’s signing a business deal.

But that’s exactly what this is, isn’t it? Was I expecting her to jump into my arms and squeal, “Yes!” after the way I “proposed”?

Oh, come on, Dante. Royals have been forced into marriages of convenience for eons. Why should yours be any different?

“Thank you.” I can’t think of anything else to say.

I gaze into her eyes for a moment, but I don’t see any of the passion that was there in the gardens.

“Let’s talk about compensation,” she says. “You said I could name my price?”

“Anything within my power,” I say. “That was the deal.”

I motion for us all to sit. Amanda crosses her legs primly. She knows all the royal protocols already, probably better than I do.

Carlo reaches out and takes Amanda’s hand.

“Morova is in your debt, ma’am. Your actions will have long-ranging benefits for our entire nation, small as it is.”

Amanda smiles warmly. “I told you, Carlo, call me Amanda.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” he says. “As I’ve told the prince many times, I won’t use familiar language with the royal family.”

She looks at me. I smile and shrug.

“Better get used to it,” I say.

“Back to compensation,” Maria says, killing the mood instantly. “Amanda laid out her terms to me earlier. I found them to be more than fair. Maybe too fair, in fact.”

I raise my eyebrows to Amanda. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ll let Maria go over them,” she says, avoiding my gaze.

“I didn’t even need to write them down,” says Maria. “They’re quite simple. First, you offer Amanda’s father, Isaac, five million American dollars from your personal fortune in return for her hand.”

“The proper term is bride price,” Amanda says. “It’s traditionally been a symbolic gesture to show the groom’s debt to the bride’s family.”

Five million dollars? That’s less than a tenth of one percent of my wealth, in return for single-handedly saving my family from ruin.

“Done,” I say. “What else?”

“My father can’t know that it’s anything other than an unbreakable Trentini tradition,” she stresses. “I know that bride price is mostly an Asian and Middle Eastern tradition, but he doesn’t, and he never has to find out. It should seem like the most normal thing in the world that you’re giving him the money.”

Her father isn’t the only one who doesn’t know anything about bride price; I’ve never heard of it, either. Having Amanda by my side will be like having a walking Wikipedia of royal history next to me. Beauty, brains, heart – I’ve hit the mother lode with her.

To think I almost started scouring convents for a nun. I have to remember to smack Emilio the next time I see him.

“Of course,” I say. “Next?”

Maria chimes in. “This one doesn’t have to do with money. It’s personal.”

“Name it. As I said, anything within my power.”

Amanda looks at all of us in turn.

“I want to be the one who tells Oriana and Vito that we’re getting married,” she says.

Carlo and Maria both glance at me and then back to Amanda.

“May I ask why?” I say.

“Because I want them to know that they’re important to me. And that they’re part of the process. I want them to feel like this marriage is happening with them, not to them.”

I never would have thought of that, but now that she says it, I realize it’s absolutely the best way to handle this with them. The only way, in fact.

There are serious unplumbed depths to this Montana cowgirl.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Maria says, as if expecting me to balk at it.

“As do I,” says Carlo. “Sir.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say, prompting the first smile from Amanda since she came into the room. It’s like sunrise breaking through a morning fog.

“Thank you,” she says.

“Please, Amanda, it’s I who should thank you. Your sacrifice will save my family. What else do you desire?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

Nothing?

Carlo leans back in his chair and tents his long fingers under his chin.

“Ma’am,” he says. “You do realize that the prince is quite sincere when he says you are welcome to anything your heart desires? The Trentini fortune is vast, and the royal family’s influence reaches around the world.”

“I do realize that,” says Amanda. “But my father taught me to always do the right thing. He never said anything about attaching a price tag to it.”

It would appear Amanda’s depth was a gift from her father.

“I very much look forward to meeting him,” I say.

“I’ll warn you right now, he’s nothing like what you’re used to. He’s anything but sophisticated. He still can’t figure out the point of a salad fork.”

“What did I tell you about sophistication?” Maria says. “It’s no measure of character.”

Amanda chuckles. “Dad has character up to his eyeballs, and he’s pretty tall.”

“And he knows of your decision?” I ask.

“I told him last night. He’s confused, especially about how quickly everything’s happening. But he seems happy for me.”

Maria stands and smooths her skirt.

“Well, then,” she says. “I’ll arrange for the money to be sent to your father’s bank as soon as possible.”

“Not before the wedding,” Amanda says hastily. “I have to have time to tell him about it.”

“Of course.”

The next step is obvious, and the sooner we get it over with, the better.

“Are you prepared to speak with the twins right now?” I ask.

Amanda nods. “No time like the present. Or as Dad would say, git ‘er done.”

I smile. I think I’m going to like Isaac Sparks. The question, of course, is whether he’ll like me.

As we reach the door of my chambers, I stop and take Amanda by the arm.

“You’re sure you want to do this?”

Her eyes betray nothing. Our passion in the gardens was real – at least it was for me – but the outrageous circumstances that have brought us together would overwhelm anyone. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I forced her into something she didn’t want.

“I’m sure,” she says. “Like I told you before, it’s the right thing to do.”

The right thing to do.

How incredibly romantic. Sigh.

Chapter Seventeen

17. AMANDA

When I was a girl, I couldn’t wait to finish my chores on a hot summer afternoon and then head for the shores of the Marias River that flows past our place. There’s an oxbow about a half-mile directly south of our house that forms a swimming hole where my friends an I would while away as many hours as our parents would let us.

This is sort of like that, except it’s a lagoon formed by Lake Orta. And it’s about a hundred times the size. And it’s below a royal palace. And it’s the Alps in the distance instead of the Rockies.

Other than that, it’s identical.

“Shark!” Oriana cries, paddling furiously. “Look out!”

Vito, knee-deep and closer to shore, jumps back reflexively before realizing he’s been had.

“There’s no sharks in the lake,” he says. “Everyone knows that.”

“There could be sharks in here,” Oriana says. “Right, Amanda?”

She drops me the most comical wink I’ve ever seen. I work very hard to keep the smile from my face. I shade the blazing sun with my hand and gaze out at the lake.

“You never know,” I say. “Just because no one has ever seen a shark in the lake doesn’t’ mean there aren’t any.”

“Sharks only live in salt water,” Vito says in a tone that says everyone with a brain would agree with him.

“Actually, that’s not true. Bull sharks can live in both salt water and fresh water.”

Oriana sticks her tongue out at him. “See?”

Vito looks vexed, so I let him off the hook.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “We’re about 200 kilometers from the nearest ocean. That’s a long way for a bull shark to walk.”

Vito sneers at his sister. “See?” he mocks.

“Who cares?” says Oriana, jumping up and then splashing back down.

“Who cares about what?”

It’s Dante’s voice coming from behind me. Guess it’s time to get serious about things. I turn in my lounger to face him and almost fall over into the sand.

The man should come with a warning label: Do Not Look Directly At The Body. Seriously, there doesn’t appear to be an ounce of fat on that body. The shoulders like cannonballs, the chiseled chest, the eight-pack that ends in a vee pointing down to his –

Snap out of it! There are children here!

Thank goodness he’s wearing black mid-thigh swim trunks. It’s easier to hide his… gifts from eyes that don’t need to see them.

“Uh, sharks,” I say, looking quickly away.

“I’ve never seen a shark in the lake,” he says. “But I saw an octopus once. When I was a boy.”

He walks past me and wades into the water near the kids. The sun dapples on the surface of the water, sending balls of light dancing across the perfect globes of his butt cheeks…

I need to get myself under control before my nipples start poking through the fabric of my bikini top. Who’s idea was it to do this on the beach?

“You did not,” says Vito.

“Really?” asks Oriana, wide-eyed. “Where was it?”

Dante turns the twins to face out towards the area where the lagoon meets the lake. He points to an outcropping on the far shore.

“Do you see that rock there?” he asks.

“Yes,” they say in unison. For fraternal twins, they’re eerily in synch with each other.

“Well, one day I was on a boat near there, fishing with your mother, and suddenly I saw movement under the surface. Something long and black. It was moving verrry slowly, back and forth, back and forth.”

The kids are silent as Dante waves his arm slowly from side to side.

“Your mom didn’t see the creature, and before I could stop her, she had jumped into he water to swim. Next thing I knew, the creature was right underneath her. I could see it, as clearly as I see you two right now.”

Even from behind, I can tell the kids are hypnotized by the story, staring into the distance. Meanwhile, Dante positions his rippling arms behind the kids.

“’Adriana!’ I cried. ‘Watch out!’ But it was too late.”

“What happened?” Oriana whispers. I can just picture her face.

Dante bends over so that his mouth is aligned with their ears. His voice is low and menacing.

“Your mother disappeared into the depths. I called her name, over and over, but all I could see was bubbles rising to the surface. I ran to the side of the boat and climbed down the ladder, so that my nose was right next to the water. I looked down, down, down into the blackness.

“Suddenly, I saw something move.”

“And then what?” Vito breathes.

“And then the octopus got me!”

He grabs the kids from behind and hoists them effortlessly out of the water, kicking and shrieking. Then he falls backwards with them in tow, dragging them into the briny deep, just like the octopus in the story.

“That’s not true!” Vito shouts as he breaks the surface and wipes water from his eyes.

Oriana simply giggles and swims away. She seems to be the better sport of the two. Vito tends to be a little too serious for his own good.

And I wouldn’t have them any other way.

I watch the three of them scamper around in the water for a while. Dante really is wonderful with the kids, and it’s obvious they adore him. If only the rest of the world could see what I’m seeing here.

The question comes around again, the one I’ve been avoiding since I agreed to marry Dante: is what we’re doing fair to them? I have no idea where this marriage will lead. Will we still be together after this year is over and the time limit is up?

My more pressing worry is whether we’ll be able to pull it off for the cameras. Maria says we’re going to announce the engagement tomorrow. Tell the media that they’ve all been fooled, we’ve been together for awhile right under their noses. Can we convince them it’s true love with less than two weeks until the wedding?

And just in case that’s not enough stress, let’s not forget I have to plan the fucking thing myself!

Suddenly I’m covered in droplets of cool water as Vito shakes like a dog right next to me.

“Your Highness!” I gasp. “If you weren’t a prince, I’d paddle your royal butt!”

He waggles his royal butt at me and giggles like a loon. So do I.

Dante arrives carrying Oriana on his shoulders. The water glistens of his body like oil in the midday sun, outlining every curve, every angle, every vein.

As Dante plops her down on the sand, Oriana says: “Can Amanda come to the beach with us all the time?”

“Yes, please,” says Vito, sitting next to her. “I like this.”

Dante glances at me. It’s your show, that look says. I guess there’s no time like the present. Git ‘er done, as Dad would say. It occurs to me that I haven’t even told him about them yet – what will he think of suddenly being a sort-of grandpa?

I’ll just add it to the list of thoughts for another time.

“Actually, your uncle and I were hoping to talk to you about me being at the palace more often,” I say.

“Really?” Oriana’s eyes light up. “I’d like that very much!”

Their formal speech takes a bit of getting used to. I doubt I’ll ever hear “awesome!” from either of them.

“Does that mean you’ll keep working here after Uncle’s birthday?” ask Vito.

“Actually,” I say, “it means that I’ll be at the palace all the time. All day, every day.”

They look at each other, then at Dante, then at me.

“You’ll live here?” asks Oriana.

Dante slides a hand into mine and smiles. I could almost believe this was real.

I lean forward in my chair so that my face is close to theirs, more intimate. This is an important moment, and I want them to know that.

“Your uncle has asked me to marry him,” I say.

Again they look at each other, then at Dante, then at me. This is the point where it has to be just the three of us.

“Your Highness, can you go get us some ice cream?” I ask.

Dante gives me a sidelong glance, but agrees. “Chocolate for everyone?”

“Yes,” we answer as one.

We watch him retreat down the beach and up the stone stairs that lead to the palace.

“Now,” I say. “This has to be just between us, okay?”

They nod.

“I know this is very sudden and must come as a shock.”

“Not to me,” Oriana says triumphantly. “I knew it when I saw you together that first time.”

I grin. “You’re an exceedingly clever girl, Oriana.”

“What does it mean for us?” Vito asks. “Will we have to go to boarding school?”

I reach out and put a hand on his little bare shoulder.

“Never,” I say. “You’ll stay right where you are. The only thing that will change is that I’ll be here all the time. But only if you two are okay with that.”

Another of their twin looks passes between them. I sometimes think they can read each other’s minds.

As they do that, I slide out of the lounger and onto the sand, dropping down to one knee and looking up at their beautiful little faces. I never would have believed how raw my emotions would be at this moment.

“I guess what I’m saying is: will you marry me, too?”

My heart is galloping in my chest as I wait for the answer. I’m betting my entire future on a single word. Endless seconds tick past as they look into each other’s eyes. Finally, they nod and turn to face me.

“Yes,” they say in unison.

The dam breaks and my tears start to flow. I can see concern in their eyes – they’re probably not used to adults showing emotions, surrounded by nobles their entire lives – so I pull them into my arms and hug them fiercely.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “You’ve made me the happiest girl in the world.”

“Can I be your flower girl?” Oriana asks as we separate. Her eyes are wide with excitement.

“Of course!” I say. “Who else in the world could I possibly choose?”

“What’s my job, then?” Vito asks.

“You, my fine young prince, will be the ring bearer.”

He frowns. “I get to be a bear?”

Sometimes I forget English is their second language; they’re so good at it.

“A ring bear-er,” I say. “You’ll carry the wedding rings during the ceremony. It’s a very important job.”

He preens at his sister, who sticks her tongue out at him.

“Flower girl is more important.”

At that moment, Dante comes walking up with four waffle cones filled with rapidly melting chocolate ice cream.

“Well?” he asks, handing us each a cone. “Have you reached a verdict?”

“We said yes!” Oriana beams.

Dante closes his eyes and takes a deep, shaky breath. I never really thought of how hard this whole situation must be on him. I don’t have anything to lose but my virginity; he stood to lose everything if this didn’t work out.

His turns to me and we gaze into each other’s eyes for a moment. Unspoken emotions swirl behind his eyes. Mine too, I’m sure.

“Oooohhh…” Oriana coos as Vito makes kissing noises.

“That’s it,” says Dante. “Give me back the ice cream.”

“No!” they cry, running back into the water to escape him. Soon they’re splashing each other with their feet as they lick their cones.

Dante takes a seat in the sand next to me, and we sit watching them as the sun reflects off the surface of Lake Orta onto their perfect young skin.

“You’re truly amazing,” he says. “They already adore you.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Then I suppose all the pieces are in place. We can get married.”

“Easy for you to say,” I snark, tipping his cone up just as he takes a bite. It leaves him with a blob of chocolate on his nose. “I’m the one who has less than two weeks to plan a royal wedding.”

Chapter Eighteen

18. AMANDA

You’d think accepting a proposal of marriage from a devastatingly handsome and charming billionaire prince would be the beginning of a fairytale lifestyle. Glitz and glamor, beautiful people, exquisite parties.

And maybe it will be. But right now, I’m lying with my feet in the stirrups of a hospital bed, with an old lady’s cold hand rooting around in my cooch.

“I’m no gynecologist but that looks like an intact hymen to me,” she says, peering at my vagina through comically oversized glasses. “A perfect little half-moon.”

“Thank you, Dr. Sabine,” Maria says, still holding my hand. “We appreciate your efforts, and, of course, your discretion.”

She waves a dismissive hand before pulling off her rubber gloves.

“I was the Trentinis’ doctor for three generations,” she says. Her English is impeccable, but her Swiss accent is very noticeable. “Discretion is my middle name. I’ve been keeping royal secrets for almost fifty years.”

That means the old bird must be in her eighties. She still seems to have her faculties, though, even though her touch isn’t exactly delicate.

“I apologize for my cold hands,” she says to me, as if reading my mind. “My circulation isn’t what it used to be.”

Chapter Nineteen

I bring my legs down and sit up on the table. If someone had to confirm my virginity, I suppose I’m glad it was someone so understanding.

Maria hands me my clothes and I head behind a screen to change, thus ending one of the most surreal experiences of my life. And that’s saying something, given the past few days.

“I’m not sure how you would make a record of this,” Maria says to the doctor. “I suppose an affidavit of some sort will suffice.”

“I’ll come up with something,” she says, shrugging her bony shoulders. “As the Americans say, this isn’t my first rodeo. Things have changed since the ‘70s, but I’m sure a simple certificate with my seal will be enough.”

As I emerge from behind the screen, I see Maria’s brows knit.

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning,” she says.

“I did the same for Lia before she married Nero.”

Lia and Nero? They were Dante’s parents. What is she talking about?

“You had to certify that Dante’s mother was a virgin before her wedding?” Maria asks.

“Of course,” the doctor says. “Just as I’m doing now. What’s confusing you?”

“What about Adriana? Did you examine her before she married Albert?”

Dr. Sabine blinks at Maria through those huge glasses.

“Of course not,” she says. “The decree only applies to the betrothed of the prince. Any daughters of the royal family can apparently screw a whole battalion and still get married, if they choose. But, of course, they don’t inherit the monarchy.”

Maria looks at me. “So Dante’s parents knew about the decree,” she says. “But they died before they could pass it along to Dante. And there would have been no point telling Adriana, because it didn’t apply to her.”

I shake my head. This kind of thing is impossible to wrap my head around. Most normal people only have to worry about getting to the church on time.

Dr. Sabine holds up her hands in surrender.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “You’re saying Dante didn’t learn about the decree from his father? Then how did he find out?”

“By sheer good fortune,” says Maria. “A colleague of Amanda’s found it hidden inside the handle of the Trentini sword. How it got there no one seems to know.”

The doctor’s eyes go wide as a look of horror steals across her withered face.

“Lieber Gott,” she breathes. “It never occurred to me to tell the boy about the decree when his parents were killed. Oh my heavens, what have I done?”

I put a hand on hers. The skin is thin and papery.

“It’s not your fault,” I say. “You’re a doctor, you had more important things to think about.”

“But if the decree hadn’t turned up…”

“It did. There’s no reason to worry. The past is the past.”

“Amanda is right,” says Maria. “If anyone is to blame, it’s Carlo. He was the Trentini’s chief counsel and advisor. He should have known.”

Dr. Sabine shakes her head.

“No, no, Carlo is not responsible,” she says. “He was still in private practice when Lia and Nero got married. He didn’t assume his father’s post until the year Adriana was born.”

I shrug. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. My dad always says you never truly fail until you start blaming somebody else.”

Maria nods, but her face is still pulled into a frown.

“I agree,” she says. “But we still have the question of how the decree ended up in the sword.”

“Enough with the decree,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Dr. Sabine has confirmed that I’m a virgin, so we’re good. I’ve got ten days to plan a royal wedding, and the prince and I have to be ready for the paparazzi tomorrow. Let’s focus on the now, okay?”

Maria finally flashes a smile with just enough apology in it. “You’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry for pulling us away from the task at hand.”

She turns to Dr. Sabine.

“Doctor, the nation is in your debt, as always.”

The old gal smiles and shakes Maria’s hand. Then she turns to me and pulls me into a fragile embrace.

“Thank you for your understanding, my dear,” she says. “And my heartfelt congratulations to you both. I know you will make Dante very happy. God knows he deserves it.”

Awww. Tears well up and threaten to spill onto her shoulder. It seems like I’m always on the verge of crying lately. I suppose that’s just part of being a bride. Even a fake one.

“Well,” Maria says with a clap of her hands. “Now that this is out of the way, you get to have some fun. It’s time for you and Dante to make your public debut.”

“What do you have planned?” I ask warily.

Her grin is just mischievous enough to make me worry.

“Wait and see,” she says. “Let’s just say your passport is about to get some stamps.”

Chapter Twenty

19. DANTE

“Can you see?” I ask. “I’m afraid the crowd is a bit thick.”

Amanda stares silently ahead for several seconds – apparently she can see. I lean down and put my lips next to her ear.

“Darling, your mouth is open.”

“Huh?” she mumbles, turning to look at me as like I suddenly appeared beside her instead of being there all day.

“Nothing,” I grin. “So? What do you think?”

She gapes at me, wide eyed.

“It’s the freaking queen of England,” she hisses, as if somehow keeping a secret from the crowd around us. “Right over there.”

“Indeed it is.”

Watching her childlike enthusiasm is the most real fun I’ve had in ages. I’ve been to the Royal Ascot horseraces here in Berkshire every year since I was a boy, and the bloom fell of that rose a long time ago. But being here today, with Amanda, is like seeing it again for the first time.

Everyone’s been buzzing behind their hands as they see us walk by – Prince Dante and his flavor of the month. If only they knew.

The men’s heads are turning so quickly that I imagine some will need neck braces tomorrow. Others will likely be getting lectures from their wives when they get home.

I can’t blame them for staring. The gorgeous cowgirl with the fiery hair and the icy eyes is utterly stunning in her curve-hugging green sundress. And she’s on my arm. No international supermodel I’ve ever escorted has gotten this kind of reaction from the noble crowd.

“Are we going to meet her?” Amanda blurts.

The naked hope in her voice makes my answer much more difficult.

“Ah, no, unfortunately,” I say, wincing. “I’m… not exactly Her Majesty’s favorite person.”

She fixes me with a look.

“And why is that?” she asks. Her tone reminds me of Maria.

Might as well come clean.

“Do you remember that… unpleasantness with Prince Harry in Las Vegas a few years ago?”

“When he was partying naked with strippers?” she asks. I can tell by her look that she’s pieced it together.

“That’s the one,” I say. “It was… sort of my fault.”

“Really?” she says, folding her arms over her chest. “And how is that, exactly?”

“In my defense, it was PR man’s idea,” I say, shoving him squarely under the bus. “It was supposed to be me in the spotlight that night. Harry was just along for the ride. But one thing led to another, I got cold feet, Harry had a few too many…”

I shrug sheepishly as she clucks her tongue and shakes her head.

“Great,” she says. “There goes my fantasy that she might show up at our wedding.”

“I’m afraid that, given the short timeline, there likely won’t be many heads of state at the ceremony,” I say. “I’m sorry, Amanda.”

She softens a bit. “It’s not your fault,” she says, taking my arm. “We’re both victims of circumstance in this. Like my dad says, can’t complain, nobody’d listen if I did.”

“I took an entire course in Buddhist philosophy at Oxford that could be summed up by that saying. Your father could have saved me three months worth of reading.”

Amanda smiles. “I hope you tell him that when you meet him next week. He’ll get a real kick out of it.”

We amble towards the railing that circles the racetrack, taking in the hustle and bustle of jockeys and trainers and others milling about with their steeds. In the stands I can see Marco, keeping a watchful eye on us but maintaining a discreet distance.

“I grew up around horses,” Amanda says, marveling at the animals. “But none of them looked like these beauties. Ours are bred for barrel racing and rounding up cows.”

“Barrel racing?” I ask. “Do you… roll barrels side by side?”

Her giggles are like music in my ears.

“No, dummy. You race your horse into an arena, then you circle around three barrels in a triangle formation, then you race back out. It’s all over in about twenty seconds.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“You better believe it,” she says. “It’ll get your heart pumping.”

Everything about you gets my heart pumping.

“I would very much like to see that someday,” I say.

“Just come out to the ranch and I can show you all sorts of things.”

Suddenly a dark cloud crosses her face.

“That’s probably not going to happen, is it?” she asks. “I can’t imagine the prince of Morova heading to Montana on an official visit.”

“Why not?” I ask. “As you say, I’m the prince. I make the rules, and if I want to go to Montana and see barrel racing, then by God, we’re going to Montana to see barrel racing.”

She smiles. “What about the paparazzi?”

“A little shit on their boots would do them some good,” I scowl.

Her laugh is loud and harsh and real. It draws some critical glances from a few of the blue bloods near us, but they can all go fuck themselves, as far as I’m concerned.

“Careful,” Amanda says. “Those shutterbugs are the key to our plan for this afternoon.”

I glance at my Rolex.

“Speaking of that, I wish we had more time to explore the Berkshire countryside, but it’s time to get back to the jet. Cannes is waiting on us.”

“Are you saying we need to hit the can?” she says, exploding with laughter again.

My confusion must be obvious, because she lays a hand on my arm.

“The can,” she says. “That’s another word for bathroom. Y’know? Like, ‘I gotta go to the can’?”

I can’t help but laugh myself. She thinks it’s at her joke, but it’s really at how much her innocence delights me. How can someone so steeped in royal protocol be so down to earth? The people surrounding us right now could learn a great deal from her, though none of them would ever believe that.

I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun with someone other the twins.

Marco appears and escorts us to our limousine at the front gates, which whisks us to the local airstrip, where my private Dassault Falcon jet awaits to take us to southern France.

Amanda thrills to the sensation of takeoff, just as she did when we left Morova early this morning. Something that I never gave a moment’s thought to is enough to absolutely fascinate her.

“How am I ever supposed to travel in coach again after this?” she asks, leaning back into the plush sofa that takes up nearly one entire side of the jet.

I hand her a flute of Krug’s private reserve champagne as I take a seat opposite her in one of the buttery leather recliners.

“Darling,” I say. “You won’t have to fly coach ever again. Remember?”

She seems startled for a moment, and I can’t help but wonder how prepared she truly is for the lifestyle she’s about to start leading.

I can only imagine what it must be like for people who have never had money and then win millions in a lottery. That would be enough of a shock.

But entering royal society? I have a difficult enough time dealing with it myself, and I was born into it. If we’re not careful, Amanda may end up being swallowed whole by the situation. The last thing I want is for her to be changed by it.

I want her just the way she is: real.

“I guess you’re right,” she says, downing her champagne in a single gulp.

I do the same. A little booze will help brace us for what’s coming in Cannes.

* * *

Cannes has been described as a “film festival with a town attached.” The people who think of it that way are cynical Hollywood types who wouldn’t know true beauty if it showed up that their pool party and started snorting lines of coke off the table.

Do I sound bitter? I have a few stories of my interactions with these kinds of people, and none of them are good.

Watching Amanda’s face as we stroll through this gem on the French Riviera is enough to make me forget about those kinds of people. I’m seeing Cannes through her eyes now, and it’s utterly beautiful.

She’s utterly beautiful.

“I can’t even take this all in,” she says, clutching my arm as we stroll past a marina chock full of luxury yachts. The June sky is cloudless and brilliant blue, the streets bustling with life.

I point out a hundred-foot Sunseeker docked nearby.

“That one is mine,” I say. “Her name is Freedom.”

But that’s going to change soon.

Her jaw drops. “Are we going to go for a ride?”

“Not today, unfortunately. But I had an idea. Since you’re in charge of the royal wedding, I was thinking perhaps I should be in charge of the honeymoon.”

She puts the pieces together instantly.

“On that?” she squeals. “Are you kidding me? We’re going to cruise the Cote d’Azur on a private yacht?”

“Of course, if you absolutely hate the idea…”

She smacks my arm. “Don’t you dare! This is like I fell asleep watching a Disney movie and now I’m dreaming my life.”

“So you’re saying I should plan for it?”

“Yes, I’m saying you should plan for it.”

She squeezes my arm more tightly and leans on me as we walk. As always, Marco follows at a discreet distance. But out of the corner of my eye, I finally see what we’ve been waiting for.

“Don’t look now,” I whisper in her ear. “Ten o’clock. Near the copse of palm trees.”

Amanda casually lets go of my arm and moves away from me, reaching out to take my hand instead. As she does, her head tilts slightly to the left.

She sees what I see: a gang of paparazzi, waiting for us to get close enough that they can start taking photos with their powerful telephoto lenses.

“Exactly where Renaldo said they would be,” I whisper, smiling.

“I have to say, I’m a little unnerved by the fact that your public relations guy can manipulate the media so easily,” she says, doing an excellent job of acting like she doesn’t know they’re there.

Renaldo is an absolute genius. He has a network of people who are willing to act as my “close friends” and feed information to the tabloids. A simple phone call yesterday was enough to spark a flurry of “tips” that notorious playboy Dante Trentini had finally found “the one.” He’s head-over-heels for this American girl, and they’re all going to get the exclusive scoop this afternoon.

We amble along for a few more minutes until we’re in the spot where Renaldo told us to stop, directly under a wide, shady palm. In his expert opinion, this will give the photographers the perfect lighting at this time of day, and it’s close enough that they don’t have to worry about losing resolution.

I reach out and take Amanda by both hands, pulling her towards me. We face each other and gaze into each other’s eyes.

“Are you ready?” I ask.

“As I’ll ever be. Let’s do it.”

Before I can even think to move, she slips one arm around my waist and the other up my back to my shoulders, pulling me towards her waiting mouth.

Fifty yards away, I’m sure a dozen cameras are clicking furiously, but all I hear is the sound of the blood rushing through my ears as my heartbeat quickens. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around the small of her back and lift her so that our faces are level.

I hear a swift intake of breath from her as I do, but her lips never leave mine. Our tongues urgently explore each other’s mouths, taking me away from the world into one where Amanda and the brilliant sun overhead are the only things that exist.

Memories of our encounter in the gardens rush into my mind as blood rushes unexpectedly into my cock. Amanda obviously feels the pressure against her, because she grips my neck even more tightly. Her lips finally break with mine and she gasps a tiny “oh!” in my ear.

The feeling of her soft breasts pressing against my chest does nothing to help ease my rising erection.

“Down, boy,” she whispers in my ear. “We don’t want this turning into a porno movie.”

She’s right. I smile broadly as I set her back down on the grass beneath the palms. Her cheeks are as flushed as mine feel. She stands strategically in front of me so that the paparazzi won’t be able to snap any shots of the tent under my shorts.

“Do you think it worked?” she asks.

Good God, did it ever.

“I’m sure it did,” I say, glancing in the general direction of the gang of photogs. Their frantic movements confirm it.

“All right, then,” she says. “I guess we need to get ready for Part Two.”

Chapter Twenty-One

20. AMANDA

A friend of mine from college loves to tell the story of how her boyfriend asked the people who ran the “kiss cam” to catch him proposing to her at a Chicago Cubs game. She said it was even shown on an ESPN highlights reel.

If all goes well, my proposal will be splashed on the front page of hundreds of newspapers and websites around the world. Not that I’m keeping score or anything.

Of course, her proposal was real. I try not to think about that part.

It’s just another day in the crazy reality show that’s become my life over the past week or so. I mean, how many people get this close to the Queen of England at the Royal Ascot in the morning, then find out their honeymoon will consist of cruising the French Riviera in a hundred-foot yacht in the afternoon?

All on the arm of a prince?

“How is your bourguignon?” asks Dante, pointing his fork at my plate. We’re at a restaurant in a hotel that takes up an entire city block, surrounded by a lot of rich people, including some you’d probably recognize from last year’s Oscars.

A lot of the patrons have been casting not-so-subtle glances in our direction since we walked in. Which is what we expected.

“I’m trying to think of a word that means ‘delicious times infinity,’” I say. “I’ve had a lot of amazing meals in the last few days, but this is like something out of a dream. It can’t possibly be good for me.”

Dante has barely touched the big-headed fish on his plate. They like to serve it whole in these fancy places, so its dead eyes are staring up at me.

“How about yours?” I ask.

“What’s the word you Americans use? Meh?”

I giggle. “That about sums it up.”

My phone buzzes in my purse. Normally, I’m not one of those people who are tied to their mobiles, but it’s probably Dad.

Sure enough, the text next to his name reads: No phone calls yet.

I smile and show it to Dante, who smiles back. I told Dad to be ready for media calls, just in case. Renaldo had his tipsters feed the reporters with my life story, so I figured I’d better give him a heads up on the off chance they track him down for comments.

This whole thing is crazy enough; having Dad along for the ride is going to make it either bizarre or hilarious. Probably both.

His phone might start to light up soon, though. It’s time for Part Two of the plan.

Dante glances around the room, looking for people who’ve set their phones on their tables. Renaldo’s people have told him that a number of photographers are actually undercover in the restaurant, ready to capture something big for the Enquirer or TMZ.

Well, they’re going to get it.

Our eyes meet and Dante raises his brows. Are you ready? that looks says.

I smile and nod, taking a deep breath. Might as well start the show.

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and emerges with his hand closed around a small box. Inside is platinum band, topped by a ten-carat emerald-cut diamond surrounded by a dozen blue Ceylon sapphires. It belonged to Dante’s mother, Lia, and is one of the most famous engagement rings in the world.

As he gets up from his seat, my heart quickens, knowing I’m about to be wearing that ring on my finger. We didn’t even have to resize it – it’s a perfect fit.

Dante moves to the side of the table so he can kneel down in front me.

Before he can do that, everything goes to shit.

“Dante!”

I turn to see a tall woman in a dress that looks like it’s been stitched together from a dozen different quilts by a seamstress who was tripping on acid. Of course, around here, that means it probably cost upwards of fifty thousand dollars.

Her smile reveals a gap between her teeth and suddenly I recognize her: Giselle Ranette. She’s one of the top models in Europe.

And she used to go out with Dante.

“Giselle!” he says, putting on his princely smile. “Imagine seeing you here.”

She darts her head forward to give him the customary double cheek peck that we Americans find so strange.

“Where have you been hiding yourself?” she asks. “It’s like you dropped off the face of the earth in the last month!”

Dante ignores the questions and raises a hand towards me.

“Giselle Ranette, I’d like you to meet Amanda Sparks.”

She glances in my direction and gives me a brief glimpse of that gap in her teeth.

“Hello,” she says, then turns back to Dante. “You never told me you were getting rid of Maria. At least you know this one can’t possibly be any worse than her.”

Excuse me, bitch?

“Why don’t you join me for a drink after this?” she says, rummaging in her purse. “I’ll give you a key to my suite at the Continental. It’s been too long, lover.”

Right in front of me. I can’t believe this.

Dante holds up his free hand. The other one is still holding my ring.

“I’m afraid you misunderstand, Giselle. Amanda is…”

“Your assistant, yes, I know. As soon as she’s on her way, we can go have some fun.”

She takes Dante by the arm and tries to plant a kiss on his neck, but he pulls away.

That’s it. My dad always taught me that you should never start a fight. He never followed his own advice, though, and neither will I.

“Excuse me,” I say, smiling ever so sweetly. “Giselle, is it?”

She looks me up and down, obviously not used to being interrupted.

“Yes,” she sneers. “You should probably remember it if you’re going to keep working for Dante.”

Dante opens his mouth to speak but I cut him off.

“First of all,” I say. “I don’t work for His Highness. I’m his date.”

She gives me another critical once-over, then turns to Dante.

“Seriously, love? You’re slumming it with American girls now?”

“Secondly,” I say, grabbing her arm and spinning her so that she’s facing me again. “Maria is a dear friend of mine, so I’d ask you to keep your comments about her to yourself when you’re around me.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a half-dozen people with their phones up in front of them, holding them parallel with their eyes. I’m being recorded.

And I don’t care.

Giselle’s mouth is hanging open as she glares at me. If looks could kill, I’d be taking the big dirt nap right now. But they can’t, so I keep on going.

“Thirdly, and most importantly, where I come from, it’s considered incredibly rude to hit on another person’s boyfriend.”

I can’t help but feel an obscene satisfaction at the look of disbelief blooming in her eyes. She turns to Dante, who simply tilts his head to the side and lifts his eyebrows. All eyes in the place, and more than a few cameras, are now on us.

Suddenly I realize that this isn’t how I wanted our proposal to go. But I can’t stop myself.

Giselle’s face is twisted into an ugly mask now. She’s angry and humiliated, which can be a dangerous combination.

“Fine,” she spits. “Have fun with your American slut. When you want a real woman, call me. Maybe I’ll answer.”

“And you can call me if you ever decide you want a dentist to look at those teeth,” I say. “I’ll send you to the one who works on the horses at our ranch.”

I barely have time to register all the gasps among the crowd around us before I hear the cracking sound of her palm connecting with my cheek. My head turns with the force of the blow.

“Amanda!” I hear Dante call.

The smug satisfaction on Giselle’s face lasts for all of two seconds before my right fist plows into her thin nose.

Chapter Twenty-Two

21. DANTE

Marco’s weight shifts to his forward foot as he prepares to step out of the shadowy corner where he’s been standing, but I halt him with a raised hand. His face droops, but he stays where he is.

I push Giselle out of the way to get to Amanda.

“Are you hurt?” I ask. Her cheek is slightly pink where the slap landed.

“Pft,” she says, eyes blazing. “She couldn’t swat a fly with a swing like that.”

I kiss her cheek anyway. Our encounter has stirred up plenty of interest among the other patrons, and the paparazzi aren’t even trying to stay hidden now. Half a dozen of them are openly filming with their mobiles.

Giselle’s face is beet red, whether with anger or embarrassment I don’t know. Probably both.

“You little bitch,” she breathes, eyes wide. “I’ll have you arrested – ”

“Bring it!” Amanda barks.

I know this isn’t funny but it’s all I can do to keep from laughing like a maniac right now. How many times in my life have I wished that I could do what Amanda just did? I’m so proud of her I could burst.

Some of the patrons move closer to get a better view of the scene. Now I feel like we’re on one of those reality television shows that feed on childish behavior.

“I’m actually glad that you’re here, Giselle,” I say. “Since you seem to have a problem taking no for an answer, let me make things abundantly clear for you.”

I drop to one knee and take Amanda’s hand in my free one. The other is still holding my mother’s ring.

The gasp among the Riviera’s elite is audible.

“My love,” I say. “Even though we’ve only been together a short time, I find that I can’t imagine my life without you.”

The words flow out of me, though different from the ones I rehearsed on the flight from England. Amanda does her part by looking astonished.

“Your kindness, your grace, your incredible beauty have humbled me in a way I didn’t know was possible. You are the first thing on my mind when I wake, and the last before I sleep. When you walked into my life, it was as if someone had opened a window into a beautiful world that I didn’t even know existed.”

I let go of her hand and open the box to reveal the ring.

“Amanda Sparks,” I say. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

My heart hammers in my chest, even though we both know she’ll say yes. After all, she’s under contract.

As I gaze into those pale blue eyes, though, I can’t help but feel a moment of panic. What if she says no?

I don’t think of the monarchy, or my fortune, but of the twins. And myself. After only a handful of days, Amanda has become an indispensable part of our lives.

Then the tears squirt out of the corners of her eyes, and as she nods, my heart soars.

“Yes,” she says, snuffling back tears. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

I slip the ring onto her finger and rise to my feet. Somewhere around us, I’m vaguely aware of flashes going off and people cheering. But all I care about is her. When we’re this close, the world disappears again.

Amanda’s mouth meets mine for the second time today. Not probing this time, but familiar. Each long kiss ends with another short one, a signature at the end of the letter. After what seems like an eternity, we stop, letting our brows touch, feeling the closeness as we stare into each other’s eyes.

I’m suddenly aware of all the people clapping around us.

“I guess we can’t put it off any longer,” she says with a soft grin.

We both inhale deeply and turn to face the cameras.

* * *

“Holy shit!” cries Amanda. “We’re already on TMZ!”

I take a seat next to her on the Falcon’s sofa as we streak through the skies back to Morova. Marco is in the jump seat of the cockpit, chatting with our pilots and giving Amanda and me some privacy.

“That didn’t take long,” I say, handing her a bottle of Stella Artois.

“Thanks,” she says absently, still looking at the screen of her MacBook. “I really don’t like champagne.”

“Sorry, we don’t carry Budweiser on the jet. But I’ll have Maria bring some in as soon as possible.”

“You’ll be my dad’s best friend if you do.”

From your lips to God’s ear.

“The headline reads ‘Who’s that girl?’” she says, frowning. “They’re using the bio information Renaldo fed them and posting pics from my Facebook page. That’s kind of creepy.”

“I truly am sorry,” I say. “Privacy and royalty rarely go hand-in-hand. Are you sure you’re prepared for what’s to come?”

“I wouldn’t have said yes if I wasn’t. It’ll just take some getting used to. I never thought about social media, though. Dad’s probably not the only one I should have warned about this.”

As if to underscore what she just said, the screen fills with message notifications.

“Shit,” she mutters. “Now I’ve got about two dozen ‘OMG!’ posts from people. I’ll let Dad know that he can tell my family. The friends I’ll worry about later.”

She looks at me with an evil smile. “Let them stew in their jealousy for awhile.”

This woman continues to surprise me. I feared the attention might turn her into a shrinking violet; instead it’s unleashed a beast.

“Did any of the photographers catch your right cross on video?” I ask.

“At least one,” she says sheepishly. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was self-defense, and I have an army of lawyers. You’ll never see the inside of a courtroom.”

“That’s good. I’ve seen Orange Is The New Black. I know what goes on inside prisons.”

I can’t help but chuckle. What on earth did I ever see in a woman like Giselle? The only time she ever laughed was at someone else’s expense.

“Oh my God,” says Amanda, rolling her eyes at the screen. “Someone’s already created an ‘Amandante’ hashtag on Twitter.”

“Well, it’s good to know we’re trending.”

She cackles at my lame joke. “Yeah, who needs wedding invitations? We can invite everyone by social media.”

“But we’ll have to take all the formalities out of it if we want to stay under 140 characters.”

“How about ‘Hashtag Amandante wedding, be there! See our website for deets!’”

We chuckle together as I slide alongside her to read the screen. In truth, I’m not paying attention to the online chatter – it’s been part and parcel of my life for a decade. I just want to be closer to her.

“What is that intoxicating scent?” I ask. “I’ve been wondering all day.”

Her cheeks suddenly turn red.

“You’re going to laugh,” she says.

“I would never,” I say gravely.

“You promise?”

“On my princely honor. Whatever that is.”

“Okay. It’s Fantasy by Britney Spears.”

I do an admirable job of resisting the urge to laugh. Instead, I lean in closer.

“What is your fantasy, Amanda?” I ask, eyes locked on hers.

“I guess I’m living it,” she says quietly. “I mean, I just got engaged to the most handsome prince in the world.”

“You must have more fantasies than that.”

Our noses are almost touching. She bites her bottom lip.

“I do,” she breathes. “Lots more.”

The computer slides off her lap and makes a muted thump as it hits the carpeted floor below.

Chapter Twenty-Three

22. AMANDA

I’ve been fantasizing about this since our encounter in the gardens. I never dreamed I’d be fulfilling it on a private jet flying over the Mediterranean.

Dante takes my head in his hands and pulls me gently to his lips. His fingers wind through my hair as our tongues meet and say hello for the third time today.

Everything that’s happened today, from seeing the Queen to decking a supermodel, has got me revved up like a NASCAR engine. And now that we’re engaged, I’m not holding anything back.

Well, except that. But Dante knows that, and we’ve got a lot of practicing to do for our wedding night.

My hands pull his polo shirt over his head with one smooth motion, exposing his iron physique. His pecs become my playground as I glide my hands over them and my mouth moves down to his nipples.

I have no idea if I’m supposed to be licking them, but Dante’s moans suggest that it’s okay with him.

Suddenly I want him to be totally naked in front of me, the way I was in front of him in the gardens. I reach for his belt and fumble with the notches before pulling it free of his slacks. Dante kicks off his deck shoes to help with the next part as I open the fly and yank them free of his legs.

My heartbeat rushes in my ears as I look at him, sitting on the sofa in only a pair of silk boxers. His shorts are straining against his huge, hard cock.

“You certainly do have a family sword,” I purr, reaching in through the fly and pulling his member free. I have a much better view of it this time: long and thick, veins visible under the gleaming skin. It bobs at my touch.

“And it’s all yours,” he breathes.

Our eyes meet as I begin to stroke all the way up to the head, then all the way down to the base. I can almost fit both my hands along the length of his shaft.

Even without touching myself, my panties are already damp.

Dante reaches down between groans and slides my sundress off my shoulders. I let go of him for a moment to wiggle out of the straps, allowing my tits to pop free. He looks at them lovingly.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he sighs as I return to his cock.

It’s all so new, but I want to try everything. Each time I touch him, it sparks a wave of pleasure in me. It’s like I’ve been on a diet all my life and suddenly I’m standing in front of an all-you-can eat buffet.

Without thinking, I lean down and kiss the thick tip. His groan makes my clit tingle, and I squeeze my thighs together to get the most of the feeling.

My mouth slides down over the head as my tongue explores the underside of his cock. The salty taste from the sweat of the day makes me want to take even more in my mouth. With each swirl of my tongue, I can feel Dante throb in my mouth.

My first ever blow job, and it’s on the most eligible bachelor in the world. And in a few days, he’s going to be my husband. The excitement almost makes me come just on its own.

He leans forward and pulls me upwards so that our eyes meet.

“Soon,” he says. “But not too soon.”

With that, he reaches behind me and unzips my dress. I stand up, letting in fall to the floor. His hands are on my panties immediately, pulling them off with no finesse whatsoever.

And that’s fine with me.

He stands and slips off his shorts so that the two of us are finally completely naked with each other.

His eyes roam over my body as he strokes my arms. I’ve never been so self-conscious. I mean, his last girlfriend was a supermodel. I’m just a cowgirl.

“Am I all right?” I whisper, shocked at how eager I am for his approval.

He smiles softly. “You’re more than all right,” he says. “You’re absolutely perfect.”

He pulls me to him. Our mouths meet as the skin of his cock presses against my mound. His hands gently squeeze my breasts, sending shockwaves of pleasure all down my body. Finally his tongue leaves mine and finds my nipples.

My moans spur him on to more action. He slides his cock back towards my clit, obviously remembering what it did to me in the gardens. But now the urgency is so strong I can’t hold off for more than a few seconds. I grip his shoulders as my hips buck against the pressure of his cock, my orgasm hitting me like a jackhammer.

I lose myself in the moment, allowing the strength of his arms to carry me through the waves, trusting him to hold onto me and never let go. I plant my face on the nape of his neck, trying to slow my breathing as the wave subsides.

“You’ve done that to me twice,” I pant. “I want to do it to you.”

His eyes light up as I say it. His eagerness turns me on even more, if that’s possible.

“I have an idea,” he says. “We can both do it to each other.”

He hasn’t forgotten the one road we can’t go down, has he? Then he lies down on the sofa and grabs me by the hips, and I realize what he’s doing.

I follow his lead, straddling him as I prop myself on my elbows in front of his cock. Having him so close to my opening makes me suddenly nervous – and insanely excited.

“I’m sorry I’m so wet,” I say. “You’re just so good at this…”

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,” he growls, grabbing my ass with his hands and pulling my mound down to his mouth. I practically explode from the heat when his lips touch me down there.

I never imagined anything could feel so good, so right.

My legs quiver as he works his tongue in and out of my slit, back to front, up and down. As he does, I draw his hard shaft into my mouth again, going down as far as I can. I take care of the rest of him with my hand, gripping the base of his cock and pumping it slowly.

Dante pulls his mouth off my pussy long enough to gasp. My body is already begging for his touch again, and he doesn’t leave me wanting for long. He comes back with a vengeance, pressing his tongue hard against my clit as his thumbs open me ever wider.

Is it like this for everyone? I thought I knew my way around my own pussy, but Dante is showing me a whole new world. My God, why did I wait so long? I never knew what I was missing.

As I feel my second orgasm building, I grab hold of his cock for dear life. I want so much to make him feel the same way he makes me feel.

“Amanda,” he groans. “God, that feels sooo good…”

I take it even deeper in my mouth, until I can’t possibly take any more. He responds by sucking my clit into his mouth, and the ecstasy almost makes me fall off the couch. I have to leave his cock behind for a second as I catch my breath, but I return to it as quickly as I can.

Dante’s hips start to move up and down, slowly, in time with my strokes. At the same time, I start to press downwards with my own hips in a rhythm that builds as the pressure of his tongue increases. The urgency increases until we’re both hammering home into the other’s mouth, building the waves until they finally come crashing against the shore.

I pull my mouth off his cock at the moment of my orgasm, gasping for air. As I do, I hear him groan loudly, inspiring me to pump him as hard and as fast as I can.

“Oh, God, Dante,” I pant. “Dante…”

With one final buck of his hips and a groan that sounds more like an animal’s grunt, he explodes into climax, his shaft throbbing like a heart in my hand.

I collapse on top of him like a rag doll, but he still has enough strength to lift me and position me so that we’re facing each other. His perfect chest hitches and jumps as he catches his breath.

“That was… incredible,” he huffs.

“Was it really?” I ask. The need in my own voice is startling.

“Really incredible.”

I stroke his chest as it rises and falls, kissing his nipples. He runs one hand through my hair as the other strokes my breasts.

A squawk of static comes over the radio, making me jump.

“Your Highness, Ms. Sparks,” says the pilot, Antonio. “We’re about to begin our descent into Morova. Please buckle in for the remainder of the flight.”

“I think I needed to be buckled in a while ago,” I say, pulling my panties back up onto my hips. Dante helps me with my sundress. The feeling of him seeing my naked body even after the deed is done makes this seem even more intimate.

He gets dressed quickly, like all guys do. A quick cleanup later and it’s like nothing ever happened. Which is good, because Marco chooses that moment to walk into the cabin. I don’t want to think about what would have happened if he’d gotten bored of his conversation with the pilots a few minutes earlier.

“Everything good in here, sir?” he says.

“Absolutely fantastic,” Dante says, glancing at me. “Couldn’t be better.”

Actually, it will be better. Just wait until Amandante’s wedding night.

Chapter Twenty-Four

23. INTERLUDE

“Emilio!”

Shit, he thinks, dropping his spoon. I didn’t even get to take a sip of my coffee first.

Isabella sweeps into the parlor of his palace quarters with an iPad in one hand and a headful of steam. Her hair is standing up at odd angles, and the lines on her face are more pronounced without her usual makeup. She looks like she ran here straight out of bed, which doesn’t surprise him.

“Mother,” he says blandly. “Let me guess: you’ve been online.”

She ignores the gibe and drops her tablet onto the table. It’s open to the front page of the TMZ website.

“What. The hell. Is this?” she snarls.

“That appears to be a fourth generation iPad, Mother,” he says, blowing across the rim of his antique china cup. “Gold in color.”

“Don’t be smart with me,” she snaps. “Dante got engaged to the American woman last night!”

“So it would seem.”

“Why is he not scouring convents?”

“Because he’s not an idiot, Mother,” Emilio sighs. “I came up with that on the spur of the moment. Do you think I was expecting him to tell me he’d found the decree in the sword?”

She paces the room, her long dressing gown flowing behind her. Morning sun streams in through the crosshatched windows, though there’s no lake view beyond. The Steiger side of the family is relegated to the shoreline view, which needles Isabella to no end.

“How is this possible?” she asks. “Could the woman actually be a virgin?”

“I assume you’ll find out,” says Emilio. “If so, it would seem your plan has gone tits up, as the Americans say.”

She stops pacing and glares at him.

“This isn’t for me,” she says. “It’s for you. With Dante out of the way, you’re the obvious choice to take over the monarchy.”

“So you’ve said, many, many times since I was a boy.”

“I didn’t go through stealing the decree and hiding it just to have things blow up in our faces at the last minute!”

Emilio slams a hand on the tabletop hard enough to spill his coffee.

“What is wrong with you?” he barks. “It was a stupid idea and it didn’t work. That’s the end of it. Just be glad Dante never found out about it. I shudder to think what he’d do to us if he knew.”

She ignores his outburst, instead scanning the screen of her tablet.

“It’s not the end,” she says. “All we have to do to trigger the referendum is prove that the marriage is a sham. They couldn’t possibly have fallen in love in two weeks.”

Emilio rolls his eyes. “And how, exactly, do you plan to prove that two people aren’t in love?”

Isabella smiles and turns the tablet screen towards him.

“Look at this,” she says with a smile. “There are plenty of Morovans who are saying this is too quick, that Dante shouldn’t be marrying an American commoner. They already have a low opinion of him. I know we can exploit this.”

“You do realize that Dante is my best friend?”

“There are no true friends in royal courts, dear.”

“Then do whatever you feel you need to,” he says. “But leave me out of this.”

Isabella stands and snaps the tablet’s case shut.

“As much as you think you’re apart from all this, you’re not,” she says. “I’m afraid that your future relies on this plan just as much as mine does.”

Emilio stops mid-sip, leveling his eyes across the rim of the cup at his mother.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’d best pour yourself something stronger than coffee,” she says. “You’re about to learn some very unpleasant things.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

24. DANTE

“I have good news and I have bad news,” Maria says, pointing at the ninety-inch screen on the wall of her office.

Amanda and I sip coffee as we look over the Internet tabs open to various social media feeds, videos and news sites, all either showing or talking about what we did last night. Except for the flight back home, of course – that would have to be on a different kind of website.

I see Amanda biting her lower lip. I’ve been dealing with this kind of nonsense for so long that sometimes I forget it’s all new to her.

“What’s the bad news?” she asks.

“I’d rather start with the good news,” says Maria. “Amandante is trending like mad. It’s the top hashtag on Twitter and Facebook, and Renaldo’s sources inside TMZ tell him they’ve cleared the decks for non-stop coverage for the next two days.

Amanda’s lip biting intensifies. “That means they’ll definitely be calling my dad. I better text him and tell him not to show anyone his shotgun collection.”

That gives me an idea.

“Why don’t we bring him here now instead of waiting until the wedding?” I ask. “It would take him out of that environment, and it would give him an opportunity to get to know me and the twins.”

Her eyes brighten, making my heart smile.

“Could we? He said he could get a neighbor to look after the cattle for a while, but I’m not sure if he can do it on such short notice.”

“One phone call and we can have a crew of people there within a day,” I say, looking at Maria. “Right?”

Maria looks a bit confused, but nods. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“That’s fantastic!” Amanda say with a wide smile. “I haven’t seen him since last fall. And I can’t wait to show him around Morova! The only foreign country he’s ever been to is Canada.”

“Excellent,” I say. “I’ll dispatch the Falcon to pick him up as soon as he can be ready. He should be here within two days. And I’ll make sure it’s stocked with Budweiser.”

Amanda’s eyes are as wide as her grin now.

“Is this really happening?” she asks. “My dad’s never flown before, and his first time will be in a private luxury jet?”

“It’s really happening,” I chuckle. “I wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“Oh my God, he’s going to shit a brick when I tell him!”

Maria’s expression is enough to set me off laughing. I’m getting more familiar with American sayings, but she hasn’t had as much time around Amanda as I have.

“Now that we have that sorted,” Maria says, “we can move on. Amanda, your altercation with Giselle Ranette is what’s getting the most buzz. Millions of women are showing support for you.”

She clicks a button on a device in her hand and a particular tab quickly fills the screen. It shows a tweet from a young woman who calls herself @MuricanGurl95: Way to go, Amanda! Don’t take shit from haters! BTW, Dante is smoking hot! #Amandante

“There are hundreds of thousands more,” Maria says. “The daily news cycle has also had pundits on to analyze the incident to death.”

Another click and a video fills the screen. The dark-haired lady anchor from MSNBC is speaking.

“One thing’s for sure: Prince Dante’s fiancée is not your typical royal bride-to-be,” she says. “Amanda Sparks may have come out of nowhere, but she’s made her debut in a big way. Is the world ready for a rowdy royal with a right cross? Judging by the reaction online, I’d say the answer is yes.”

Amanda’s cheeks flush. “It feels like they’re talking about someone else,” she says.

“You get used to it,” I say, placing a hand on hers.

Maria clicks off the screen and calls up another. This one is a close-up of Chancellor Francesco Huber’s jowly old face.

“As I said before, the news isn’t all good,” she says. “Reaction here in Morova is a bit different than the rest of the world.”

She starts the video that shows Huber standing in front of the Crown Council Building with a microphone in his face.

“Obviously the government doesn’t condone violence of any sort,” he grumbles. “But we shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that the prince is marrying someone with no royal background – on a whim, mind you, let’s not forget there was no warning of this. And this incident is just one of many examples of the prince’s poor judgment.”

“Do you think it reflects poorly on the nation?” asks the reporter.

“Of course I do,” Huber says, scowling. “We are a highly sophisticated nation, with a world-renowned reputation for dignity and earnest behavior. This issue does not end here, I can tell you that.”

The screen goes blank just as Amanda mutters: “Way to get yourself uninvited from the wedding, asshole.”

She turns to see the expressions on our faces and blushes again.

“Did I say that out loud?”

I grin and shake my head. “We were all thinking it, Amanda. You just had the courage to say it.”

“Agreed,” says Maria. “Unfortunately, Huber will be at the wedding, and he’ll use it as a soapbox to push his anti-monarchy agenda. We need to be prepared for that.”

I turn to Amanda. “Does your father have a saying for situations like this?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Screw him and the horse he rode in on.”

Maria and I sit in stunned silence for a moment before cracking up. Amanda joins in and the three of us laugh loud and hard for a long while.

When we’ve calmed down, Maria resumes.

“Huber is only one of our problems,” she says. “You know Isabella will not be pleased with you marrying a commoner.” She turns to Amanda. “I’m sorry, dear, you know that the word has a different meaning for us.”

“Whatever, bitch,” Amanda says with a mock scowl, throwing up a dismissive hand.

And we’re all off giggling again. God, I think I’ve laughed more in the last week with Amanda than I did in the last year.

“Amanda, please,” Maria begs, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “This really is serious business.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.”

“I think you should tell Isabella about the proposal as soon as you leave here. She’s probably already angry that she didn’t know about it beforehand, so you’ll need to convince her it was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

I nod. Maria’s right about Isabella’s temperament – even though she herself isn’t a royal, she definitely acts like one. My mother’s family were simple barons, the bottom of the nobility. If Isabella hadn’t married into the Steiger family’s money, she would essentially be a drain on the Trentini fortune.

“If Isabella’s husband were still alive, he would have loved you,” I say to Amanda. “Uncle Hans was a lovely man. He was the one with the money, but he never acted like it. Isabella married into money, and the only reason she has a title is because her sister married into royalty. Yet to hear her talk, you’d think she was the monarch of Morova.”

Maria says: “That’s exactly why you need her on your side. She has the ear of the chancellor, and she’s an icon among Morova’s elite society.”

Amanda shakes her head, as if trying to understand something.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “It’s just that your family is so different from mine. I grew up in Little House on the Prairie.”

“And I grew up in Game of Thrones,” I say.

“I guess we shouldn’t put it off any longer,” she says, standing up and smoothing her dress. “Let’s go convince the evil witch that Cinderella will make a good queen.”

I join her and we walk to the door.

“Git ‘er done,” I say, dropping Maria a wink.

Chapter Twenty-Six

25. AMANDA

Dante takes my hand as we stroll through the breezeway that leads to the north end of the palace, where Isabella’s quarters are.

“We need to start keeping up appearances,” he says.

His palm is so warm in mine. I think back to the last boy’s hand I held back in high school – Greg Puckett’s, and it was sooo sweaty – and I have to bite down on my tongue to keepfrom giggling.

It’s another postcard-perfect summer morning. I could get used to this. In fact, I guess I better get used to it, because it’s going to be my life from now on.

Or at least for a year. But I don’t want to think about that right now.

“How are you feeling after all of that?” Dante asks, and for a moment I think he’s somehow read my mind. But I realize he’s talking about the meeting with Maria.

“I actually feel good,” I say. “I mean, crazy is becoming the new normal for me. What’s a little more, right?”

“I feel the same,” he says. “And as soon as the wedding is over, things can go back to normal. Or at least as normal as my life can ever be.”

As we pass the entrance to the palace’s north garden, I see a familiar shock of white hair sweep out from a nearby alcove. It seems Auntie Isabella has found us instead.

“Dante, darling!” she calls. “And Amanda! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

She greets Dante with a kiss on the cheek, then takes my hands in hers.

“There’s the bride to be!” She looks me up and down, smiling from ear to ear. “So beautiful. And the ring!”

She holds up my left hand to get a closer look at the magnificent piece of jewelry on my third finger. I’m still trying to get used to the weight of it.

“Your mother’s ring,” she says, glancing at Dante with tears in her eyes. “She would have been so happy.”

Dante smiles and takes my hand again.

“I take it you’ve seen the news this morning then,” he says. “It was a bit of a crazy evening, to be sure. Not exactly what I had planned.”

“Oh, please,” she says, waving a hand. “I never cared for that Ranette woman. Too skinny. And her family is full of deadbeats. I won’t even mention the teeth.” She turns to me, beaming. “Not like my Amanda here. Such a natural beauty.”

I’m flattered by the attention, but it’s a bit overwhelming, too.

“You’re too kind, Your Grace,” I say.

“Let’s dispense with the formalities, darling. Isabella or Auntie will do.”

“Thank you, Auntie. I’m honored.”

This isn’t what I expected from her, but it’s just another crazy thing to add to the pile today. I suppose it’s not shocking to think she might actually have a heart and care about her nephew’s happiness.

Dante says: “Can I assume that we have your blessing then, Auntie?”

“A thousand times over,” she says. “I’m so happy you’re finally settling down, and with such a lovely girl. It’s wonderful news for Morova. Now, have you chosen a date yet?”

Dante and I exchange a glance. This might be where the other shoe drops.

“Actually,” I say timidly, “we decided to make Dante’s birthday into the wedding. We thought that, since everyone was coming anyway, why not kill two birds with one stone?”

Isabella’s eyes go wide. Is that a flash of anger in there? Here it comes. I see Dante wince slightly, bracing for impact.

“What an absolutely brilliant idea!” she caws. “Royal courtships are overrated. What’s the point in waiting, I say.”

“Git ‘er done” is out of my mouth before I realize it’s even open.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry,” I say. “Just a saying my father has. It means the sooner the better.”

“Ah,” she says. “Speaking of your father, Maria tells me he’s on his way here soon. And that he’s an honest-to-God American cowboy. Is it true?”

“It sure is,” I say.

“I can’t wait to meet him!”

The thought of Isabella interacting with Dad is almost enough to send me over the edge into laughter, but I manage to hold it in.

“We’ll introduce you as soon as we can,” I say.

“Please do. Now, is there anything I can do to help with the planning?”

Dante takes her hand.

“Maria and Amanda are already well into things,” he says. “All we need from you is to be there in the front row.”

“Thank you for your kind offer,” I say. “Dante doesn’t quite understand just how much work goes into a wedding. I’ll be sure to call on you soon. Your expertise will be invaluable.”

Isabella smiles and glances at Dante.

“This one is a keeper,” she says. “You’ve chosen well.”

“Can you join us for lunch?” I ask, prompting a glare from Dante.

“Alas, I have business in the city.” She places a hand on mine. “And while I’m there, I might as well start shopping for your wedding gift.”

With that, she bids says goodbye and sweeps off towards her apartments.

Dante and I look at each other, then at her receding back, then at each other again.

“Did that just happen?” I ask.

“I think it did,” he says. “I can’t believe it, but you’ve won over Isabella. You’re learning the game, Amanda. Well done.”

“Well,” I say, “I have a very good teacher.”

“Having her on our side should definitely help ease any tensions with the stodgier Morovans that Huber was talking about. We may just survive this yet.”

He takes my hand again and we continue our stroll, this time to meet Oriana and Vito at the beach.

It’s time to tell them about how their soon-to-be sort-of stepmother punched out a wicked witch last night and to show them my ring. And to prepare them to meet their soon-to-be sort-of grandpa, who’s a real-life American cowboy.

I swear to God, a screenwriter couldn’t make this shit up.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

26. DANTE

“And the children took the news well?” Emilio asks.

“Oriana was quite angry that Amanda got to punch someone when she can’t hit the girl who always pesters her at her equestrian lessons,” I say. “But other than that, they’re fine.”

“Well, then. I suppose all that’s left is for me to plan your bachelor party.”

Good old Emilio. There was never a situation so dire that he couldn’t make a celebration out of it. We’re sitting on one of the palace terraces overlooking the lake, enjoying the afternoon sunshine and drinking mojitos.

I know, I know, it’s tough to be a prince.

“There’s a little thing called a royal wedding that’s also going on,” I say. “Just something to keep in mind.”

Emilio drains his glass. He’s drinking more than usual today, which is saying something for him. His sunglasses keep me from seeing whether his eyes are red yet.

“Your bachelor party is more for me than it is for you,” he says. “Who’s going to fly around the world and chase girls with me when you’re married?”

“Well, Amanda’s father is single…”

He drops his glasses and peers over them at me. Sure enough, red eyes. He started early today.

“Yes, I can just picture me and John Wayne walking into the Clermont Club in London together. ‘I’ll have a brewski, y’all!’”

“I dare you to make that joke to his face,” I say. Emilio quails and slides his sunglasses back up.

“Is there something wrong, Emilio? You don’t seem yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he grouses. “Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“Well, maybe you should go back to it.”

“So,” he says, ignoring my suggestion. “Amanda. How lucky could you possibly be? And she’s confirmed as… you know?”

As much as I don’t like the subject matter, I suppose I owe him an explanation. I did burden him with my dilemma that night in Monte Carlo.

“Amanda suits the guidelines, if that’s what you’re saying.”

He raises his half-empty glass in a toast.

“Problem solved, then.”

“As to how lucky I am, you’re quite right. In fact, I’d almost go so far as to call it divine intervention.”

“Well, the gods have routinely favored monarchs,” he drawls. “At least when they tell the story.”

I’ve been trying to watch my language the past several days for the sake of Amanda and the twins, but that’s the last straw.

“What the fuck is your problem, Emilio?” I snap. “You sound almost disappointed that I didn’t go along with your idiotic convent suggestion. Can you not just be happy for me? Hell, even your mother gave us her blessing, which was about as likely as winning over Gordon Ramsay with a hot dog.”

That seems to get him. He drops the sunglasses onto the table and runs his hands over his face.

“You’re right, Dante,” he sighs, fixing me with those bleary eyes. “Please forgive me. I’m in a foul mood today, and I didn’t mean anything I said. Except the part about planning your bachelor party. Will you let me give you an epic sendoff?”

That’s better. That’s the cousin who’s always been by my side and had my back.

“Of course,” I say. “Who knows me better? I trust you to line up a night of debauchery that will go down in history. Or at least some cards and cigars.”

“I promise you, it will be a little more elaborate than that. I’ll invite the usual suspects – I hear Harry might be on the continent next week – and we’ll do this right. And, of course, I’ll charge it all to you.”

Only Emilio could take me from angry rant to laughing out loud in ten seconds flat.

“Why not?” I chuckle, raising my glass to him. “This should be one for the books. It’s not every day the Prince of Morova finds his princess.”

“It’ll be one for the books, all right,” he says, draining the last of his drink. “That much I can guarantee.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

27. AMANDA

“Sleeves, darling.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Sleeves, darling.”

I suppose I shouldn’t argue with the hottest dress designer in Italy, especially since he’s agreed to do a rush job just for me. But the idea just seems weird. Not exactly what I expected when I was dreaming about my Disney princess wedding as a little girl.

I look to Maria, who simply shrugs.

“It’s Andreas Fortuna,” she says, as if that’s explanation enough on its own.

It seems like Maria spends a lot of time standing next to me when I’m embarrassed. First with my legs up on Dr. Sabine’s examining table, now standing in my slip while two men with weird hairstyles measure me with long yellow tapes.

One of them measures out the length of my right arm, the other measures my left. Meanwhile, Andreas wanders around me, staring at my body and saying “Hmmmm” a lot.

“I don’t like sleeves,” says Oriana from her seat at the table in Maria’s office.

Andreas seems startled out of his calculations. He turns his bald head to Oriana and smiles, bowing low.

“Your Highness,” he says in his heavy Italian accent. “I’m simply following tradition. Grace Kelly, Princess Diana and Kate Middleton were all commoners, and they all wore sleeves.”

“Tradition is stupid.”

Maria opens her mouth to scold Oriana, but I cut her off.

“Honey, tradition is sort of my job,” I say. “I study all the traditions that are part of royal families like yours. It’s kind of like your uncle’s sword. Do you know why it’s so important?”

“No,” she says. I seem to have her attention, at least. “Why is it so important?”

“Well, your great-great-great-great grandpa carried that sword in a battle against invaders a long time ago. And ever since then, all princes have kept that sword as a tradition, because what your grandfather did was very important to the people of Morova. The sword is a symbol of Morova’s freedom. Do you know what a symbol is?”

“Yes.”

“So you see why it’s important.”

She mulls it over for a bit before nodding.

Maria smiles. “Now that we’ve got that settled – ”

“Why can’t we have new traditions?” Oriana asks.

Everyone in the room stops moving. Even Maria is quiet. I feel like laughing, but that wouldn’t be appropriate.

Andreas stares at Oriana, wide-eyed, and for a brief second I wonder if he’s going to yell at her. That wouldn’t be appropriate either, but who knows with these creative types?

“Your Highness,” he says finally. “That is brilliant.”

Oriana’s face lights up.

Andreas’s two minions exchange blank looks as their boss races to the table and starts rifling through a book of patterns. Maria and I exchange glances. It’s Andreas Fortuna, that look says.

“She’s absolutely right!” Andreas cries. “Tradition is for people without imagination. Andreas Fortuna has imagination!”

After several minutes, and what seems like hundreds of pages, he stabs a finger at one.

“This,” he says, almost reverently. “This is the one. A new tradition.”

He looks up at us as if just noticing that we’re in the room with him.

“It’s a design I came up with years ago, when I was still an apprentice,” he says. “No one would give it a second look back then. But now…”

He motions for us to come and see. On the page is a stylized sketch of a dress with neckline that plunges about halfway to the navel and leaves about half the shoulder bare. The sleeves are a sheer material, barely visible, circled with same tatted lace as the bodice, and ending at the elbow.

The lower half of the dress hugs the model’s body until the knee, where it flares out and pools on the floor. It’s all capped off with a veil that falls down the open back all the way to the floor.

“It’s… stunning,” I say. Much better than what I was envisioning.

“It’s sexy!” Oriana crows.

Look at her, alarmed. “Do you know what sexy means, honey?”

She grins and wraps her arms around herself. “It’s when people hug and kiss. Mmm-mmm-wa!”

“What do you think, Maria?”

The look on her face suggests she’s not a hundred percent on board with the idea.

“It’s gorgeous, don’t get me wrong,” she says to Andreas. “But Morovans tend to be on the conservative side. I don’t know if this is exactly what they’re looking for in a royal wedding dress.”

“It’s a good thing none of them are marrying Dante, then,” I say. “Look, we don’t have a lot of time for this, and Andreas already has the design done.”

“I can have this complete and ready for final fitting in three days,” he says. “We will work around the clock if we have to.”

His minions share a look, but keep quiet.

“All right,” Maria sighs. “Given everything else that’s non-traditional about this wedding, I don’t suppose this will really make a difference.”

I hold up a hand and Oriana high-fives me. “Yay!” she cries. “New tradition!”

I get dressed as Andreas and his crew pack up their work and head off on their assignment. Once they’re gone, Maria and I sit down next to Oriana at the table.

“Can I help with more of the wedding?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say. “What would you like to do?”

“I’m going to be the flower girl; can I help choose the flowers?”

Maria opens her mouth and I cut her off again.

“Absolutely,” I say. “Maria can send you to the florist we’ve hired, and you can have final say on what they decide.”

Oriana beams as Maria glares at me.

“I can’t wait! I’m going to go tell Vito!”

She jumps up to head for the door but I snag her arm.

“Just don’t go lording it over him that you have a job, all right?”

Her face droops a bit.

“All right,” she sighs and races off.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Maria asks, eyebrow cocked.

“I want to involve the children in the wedding as much as I can,” I say. “It’s important that they feel like they’re part of it, instead of just spectators. Do you know what I mean?”

Her expression softens. “Yes. And I shouldn’t have questioned you. Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, unless it’s you forgiving me.”

“Why do you say that?”

I lay a hand on her arm. “Maria, I know I’m a Johnny-come-lately here in the palace, and especially in the twins’ lives. You’ve been the only mother they’ve ever known, and now here I am out of nowhere, taking that role away from you. I want you to know you’ll always be in their lives.”

Ever since I first met Maria, I’ve wanted to be her. She’s the smartest, most capable woman I’ve ever met. She’s the kind of woman that women like me are supposed to look up to and emulate and post quotes from on Facebook.

So I’m shocked when I see two tears spill down her cheeks.

“You continue to surprise me, Amanda,” she says, pulling a handkerchief from her purse and dabbing at her eyes. “I’ve worked very hard to always appear professional around the children. But they’re a huge part of my world.”

I wrap an arm around her neck and pull her into a hug.

“Anyone with eyes can see how much you love them, and how much they love you,” I whisper. “It’s hard to grow up without a mother – believe me, I know – and you’ve helped fill that void for them.”

She sobs quietly in my ear. I wonder how long she’s been holding onto this, trying to always keep that stiff upper lip for the sake of the monarchy. Another reminder of how bizarre this royal lifestyle can be.

“Thank you,” she says. Her handkerchief is soaked and streaked with mascara now, but at least she stopped crying before I started myself.

She composes herself and takes a deep breath.

“The twins have certainly taken to you,” she says with a brave attempt at a smile. “I’ve never seen them become so attached to anyone so quickly. Or ever, really. You seem to have a natural way with them.”

“That’s because I still haven’t grown up myself,” I say. “I feel like an imposter in this palace, like everyone else can see how much I don’t belong here with the adults.”

Maria frowns. “On the contrary. You’re the most real person within these walls, present company and your fiancé included. I appreciate your candor very much.”

I bite my lip to keep my own tears from flowing. Maybe the craziest part of this whole crazy week has been finding such a wonderful new friend in the last place I expected.

“Well, if you ever want someone to just bring a bottle of wine to your room and binge watch Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix with you, just ask.”

She laughs, hopefully signaling the end of our little cryfest. We’ve still got a lot of work to do. And I need to dive into it to keep myself from something that I didn’t mention to Maria: what happens in a year?

As if things with Dante weren’t complicated enough, I’ve already fallen in love with Oriana and Vito. If things don’t work out, what happens? Will I lose them forever?

I can’t let my mind go down that road. It has to work out, because I can’t lose them. I just can’t.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

28. DANTE

It’s come down to this: the world-renowned Prince Dante, monarch of Morova and executor of the Trentini fortune, is bargaining with a pair of ten-year-olds. Over a Disney movie.

“You can watch it again tomorrow,” I say. “Once is enough for tonight.”

The sun has long since set outside the window of my television room, leaving us in the dark except for the glow of the hundred-inch screen on the wall. The twins are sitting between Amanda and me on the wide, low-backed sofa that serves as our theater seats.

“But Lion King is our favorite,” Oriana whines.

“I’m like Simba!” Vito shouts. “I can’t wait to be king!”

“Then you’re going to be sorely disappointed,” I say, plucking the remote control from his butter-soaked little hand. The popcorn was Amanda’s idea, and it was brilliant.

She’s brilliant.

As if to make my point for me, she grabs Vito around the torso and starts tickling him like mad.

“How many times do we have to tell you?” she hollers as Vito shrieks. “You’ve never going to be king, you little street urchin!”

“Tell me why!” cries Oriana, eager to get in on the fun.

“I told you a hundred times!” I say, gripping her sides and poking my fingers gently into the muscles along her little ribs. “Because I bought you both from the gypsies!”

The storm of giggles goes on and on, until they finally drop onto their backs, breathing heavily. Vito drops his head into Amanda’s lap and looks up at her.

“Are you going to move in here with Uncle after the wedding?” he asks.

“Why yes, I am. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes,” the twins say in unison.

“Which is why Amanda gets to stay while you two go off to your rooms to bed,” I say, dropping Oriana onto the sofa beside her brother.

Vito opens his mouth to complain but I silence him with a raised finger.

“The sun is down, the moon is high,” I say.

They both look at the floor.

“And off to my waiting bed go I,” they recite glumly. It’s a ritual I’ve been sending them to sleep with since they could talk.

“And in the morning, if you’re good,” Amanda chimes in.

The twins look to her with hopeful eyes.

“You can have some breakfast… uh, fud,” she finishes.

They stare at her, uncomprehending.

“Sorry,” Amanda says sheepishly. “Food doesn’t really rhyme with good…”

They roll their eyes comically as they march over to me, each planting a kiss on one cheek.

“Goodnight, Uncle,” they say.

To my surprise and her delight, they do the same to Amanda.

“Goodnight, Amanda.”

A shimmer of tears lights up her eyes in the glow of the television screen as the children head off to their own chambers on the other side of the hall.

I slide next to her on the sofa and wrap an arm around her shoulders. Sometimes I think this all has to be a dream, that it’s impossible for this crazy American cowgirl to have become such a key part of our lives in such a short time.

Then again, Emilio pointed out that the gods seem to be fond of monarchs.

“That was amazing,” Amanda says, swallowing hard.

“I know I’ve been saying this a lot lately, but get used to it. They adore you.”

“And I adore them. Times a million.”

She reaches up and clasps the hand wrapped around her shoulder, snuggling in closer.

“Are you excited to see your father in the morning?” I ask.

“You know I am,” she says with a wide grin. “We haven’t been in the same room together for months.”

“Any last-minute advice for me before I meet him?” I wince to show I’m properly concerned.

“He has guns. Lots of them.”

I nod. “Right. I’ll warn Marco.”

“He acts tough, but he’s a pussycat. Someone once said that having daughters softens a man. I think having to raise a daughter alone softened him even more.”

“Right,” I say. “Pussycat with guns.”

She elbows me softly.

“Keep in mind that this pussycat can carry a seventy-five-pound calf under each arm.”

“Good lord. I spend an hour a day in my private gymnasium and I’m not entirely sure I could pull off that feat.”

Amanda turns towards me and slides a hand under my shirt.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate that,” she says, stroking my abs. “But you’re built for looks. Dad is built for work.”

I feign shock. “Are you implying that I don’t work?”

“Hey, if the shoe fits,” she says. “Or in your case, the ceremonial sword.”

That sword. I never gave it a second thought until it suddenly reappeared and turned my life upside down. At first, I thought it was some ancient curse being revisited on the family.

Now I don’t want to think about what might have happened if it hadn’t turned up again. If I hadn’t met this incredible creature in front of me, running her fingernails along my torso.

“I’m not going to sit here and be insulted simply for having the good sense to be born into a royal family,” I say.

“Oh yeah?” she smiles. “Then what are you gonna sit there and do?”

I caress her ivory cheek with my palm and draw her face to mine, planting a slow, deep kiss on her delicious lips.

“That’ll work,” she sighs. “But I think maybe we should end it there. Is that okay?”

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

“Everything’s perfect,” she says, giving me another peck. “But with Dad coming tomorrow, I’ve got a lot on my mind. And to be honest… I’m worried that if we start, we won’t be able to stop. I won’t be able to stop.”

She glances down at the stiff bulge under my pants and bites her lower lip.

“I know I won’t be able to stop,” she says. “And that would violate the decree.”

“No one needs to know,” I offer. “You’ve already passed the test.”

“We would know. And if, for some crazy reason, we ever ended up having to take a polygraph, well… it’s not worth the risk. The stakes are too high.”

I sigh. “You’re right. The wedding is only a few days from now. Only an animal can’t control himself for a few days.”

“I don’t know,” she says with a lusty grin. “You were definitely an animal in the jet.”

I need to put the brakes on this now, before my cock snaps through my fly and takes on a life of its own.

“Let’s focus on something else to help cool things down,” I say, shifting in my seat to get my erection in a more comfortable position.

“Definitely,” she says, frowning. “Serious stuff. There’s a wedding going on. Lots to talk about.”

“My bachelor party, for instance.”

Here eyes narrow. “Is that so?”

“Emilio offered to organize it for a few nights from now. Knowing him, he’ll probably kidnap me and fly me to some unknown destination to meet our regular crowd of reprobates. In my jet, of course.”

Amanda’s look is suddenly serious.

“It won’t be anything… y’know, crazy, will it? I mean, you do have a reputation.”

“I won’t let it be,” I say, taking her hand in mine and kissing her delicate palm.

“You promise?”

How can I convince her? Even now, she has lingering doubts about who I was before we met. My tabloid image isn’t an easy thing to erase.

Then it hits me.

“What if I were to invite your father along?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Really? You would do that for me?”

“Of course. What better way to get to know each other than with some drinking, gambling and cigars?”

“Those are definitely three of his favorite things,” she says with a laugh. “He’s quite the shark on poker night down at the American Legion hall.”

It could actually be fun to show him some of the European games. I’d provide the stakes, of course. Ike Sparks won’t have to worry about paying for anything again in his life, if I have anything to say about it.

“There’s only one problem,” Amanda says. “His wardrobe is, let’s say, limited. As in a half-dozen plaid shirts and a few pairs of jeans.”

I snap my fingers. “He needs a tux for the wedding anyway, so we’ll use that as an excuse to get him some new clothes.”

Next thing I know, her arms are around my neck and her sweet lips are pressing against mine again. We explore each other for a few wonderful moments.

“Thank you,” she says. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I know it will be a pain in the butt dragging him around with you guys.”

“From what you’ve told me, I highly doubt that. I’m looking forward to it.”

She grins and pats my leg as she rises to leave.

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that after you meet him in the morning.”

Chapter Thirty

29. INTERLUDE

“Did he agree?”

Emilio sighs as he closes the door behind him and flops down on the sofa in his quarters. He closes his bloodshot eyes as his head drops back on the cushions.

“I’m fine, Mother, how are you? Oh, and thanks for letting yourself in. Saves me the effort.”

“You’re not fine, you’re drunk,” Isabella snipes from her seat near the fireplace. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, he agreed to let me plan his bachelor party.”

“Perfect,” she says. “And he’ll have no idea what’s waiting for him there?”

“I’m not an idiot. It shouldn’t be too hard to set up.”

“You act as if you’re being sent to prison. Why can’t you realize that this is all for you?”

Emilio opens his eyes and glares at her.

“Keep telling yourself that, Mother. Maybe someday you’ll believe it. I, however, won’t.”

She clucks her tongue.

“How I ever produced such an ungrateful child is beyond me. After all, how many people have the chance to become the head of a royal family?”

And all I have to do for it, Emilio thinks, is sell my soul.

Chapter Thirty-One

30. AMANDA

Watching my dad walk down the stairs of a private jet to the tarmac will go down as one of the strangest moments of my life.

My heart leaps at the sight of him, but I can’t hold back a giggle at seeing this giant in his Levi’s jeans and Wrangler shirt being seen off the plane by royal staff in formalwear. Even without his cowboy hat, he still sticks out like a sore thumb.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Dad!” I squeal, giving in to my urge to just run to him. It’s been far too long.

“Pumpkin!” he hollers, sweeping me up off the tarmac in those powerful arms. I grip my own around his bull neck and lay a wet kiss on his stubbly cheek.

“I missed you so much!” I say as he sets me back down. The tears are hot in my eyes.

“Not as much as I missed you. The cows have been askin’ about you.”

“Cows can’t talk,” I say, reciting my part of the ritual.

“But they sure can smell!” we shout together.

Yeah, I know, it’s lame as hell. But it’s ours.

I grip his hand and lead him to the limousine where Dante stands fidgeting. Marco, as always, stands ready in the background.

Dante is tall, but my dad is taller. And about fifty pounds heavier. The look on Dante’s face says he wasn’t quite ready for just how intimidating his father-in-law-to-be really is.

Dad offers him his best Clint Eastwood look as we reach the car.

“Isaac Sparks,” I say, “It’s my great pleasure to have you meet my fiancé, His Highness, Prince Dante, monarch of the principality of Morova.”

“Sir,” Dante says, reaching for Dad’s big, leathery hand. “It’s a privilege. I’ve been looking forward to this for some time.”

His smile turns into a grimace as Dad grips his hand and squeezes.

Dad turns to me, his face stone, his hand still clutching Dante’s.

“So am I supposed to bow to this clown, or what?” he drawls.

I look at him, then at Dante. Dante looks at me, and then at Dad. None of us says a word for three full seconds. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Marco take a tentative step forward.

Then the grin I knew was coming finally spreads across my father’s face, and Clint is immediately replaced by the goofy old cuss that is my dad. He claps a hand on Dante’s back, making him stumble just the tiniest bit.

“I’m just messin’ with you, kid!” Dad hoots. “But you stood your ground, I respect that. Call me Ike. I dunno why Amanda always introduces me by my given name. Only my ma ever called me Isaac, and even then it was only when she was givin’ me shit.”

Dante keeps the winning smile plastered to his face through it all, God bless him. My dad knows how to fill a room, even when the room is a private airstrip.

“Ike it is, then,” says Dante, surreptitiously stretching his hand in agony as Dad lets it go. “Did your flight go well?”

“Ho-lee sheepshit, did it ever,” Dad says. “That bird is nicer than the best hotel room I ever stayed in. There’s even cold Bud in the fridge!”

“Wait until you see the palace,” I say, laughing. “It’s going to blow your mind.”

* * *

The airstrip is only a handful of miles from the private hovercraft launch to Isola D’ora. Dad marvels at the scenery that flows past outside the limo’s windows: low, emerald green hills, thousand-year-old villas and cobblestone streets share the vista with gleaming modern buildings of granite and glass.

He lets out a low whistle. “This is really somethin.’ What do you folks grow around here? Oilseeds?”

Dante glances at me and I smile. It’s his show now.

“Actually, Ike, there is no agriculture in Morova,” he says. “Outside of a few vegetable growers, that is. The majority of food is imported from Italy.”

“Huh,” Dad grunts. “Then how’d you make your money?”

“The Trentini family’s banking interests go back centuries. The entirety of Morova is essentially a hub for the financial industry.”

I see Dad’s face darken. Shit, it should have occurred to me that this would be a sensitive subject.

“I ain’t exactly a fan of banks,” he grumbles.

“Neither am I,” Dante says earnestly. “That’s why I’ve invested so much of the family fortune in sustainable resources, international aid and leading-edge technology research.”

I smile. Dante’s a pro at this. I never should have doubted his ability to handle things.

“My father once told me that gold on its own means nothing,” he says. “You can’t eat it or drink it, and it can’t keep you warm. It’s our duty as Trentinis to turn that gold into something substantial that can have a real impact on people.”

Dad’s overgrown eyebrows go up.

“Sounds like a smart man,” he says. “Amanda tells me you lost your parents young. That’s rough.”

“You and she lost her mother at a young age, as well. I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been for you both.”

Turn the conversation back to make it about the other person. Machiavelli would be proud. I know I am.

“It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure,” Dad says. “But we made out okay. Didn’t we, pumpkin?”

I grab his big meaty mitt. “We sure did.”

“Ike, if I may,” Dante says. “Your daughter is a woman of singular character. Her honest and genuine nature has been a breath of fresh air in the palace, especially since so many of the people there seem to have inherited their ancestors’ ability keep their heads firmly up their own asses.”

Dad snorts a laugh.

“I have you to thank for that,” Dante continues. “Amanda has utterly captured my heart, and I deeply appreciate your blessing on our marriage. I also beg your forgiveness for speeding the wedding along so quickly.”

“He always talk like that?” Dad asks, looking at me.

“Most of the time,” I chuckle.

“Probably doesn’t cuss, either,” he says, laying a hand on Dante’s shoulder. “Look, son, I appreciate what you’re sayin.’ But you don’t have to use big words to convince me you’re good enough for my daughter. I trust her. If she says you’re the one, that’s all I need.”

Dante glances at me, then back at Dad.

“Well,” he shrugs. “Fuck the both of you, then.”

Dad’s eyes go wide. So do mine.

“Just messin’ with you,” Dante says with a grin.

The limo rings out with laughter as it pulls onto the deck of the hovercraft that will ferry us over to the shores of an island that doesn’t know what’s about to hit it.

Chapter Thirty-Two

31. DANTE

“So what d’you boys think of this stuff?” Ike asks, draining the remaining half of his Budweiser in a single pull.

“It’s quite good,” I say. “I’ve never had an American lager before.”

Emilio’s eyebrows go up. He’s been making a face since he downed his first swallow.

“It’s quite … unique,” he says with a pained smile.

“King of beers,” Ike says as he pulls another bottle from the Falcon’s fridge and pops the cap with the twist of two sausage fingers. “Should be good enough for a prince, hey?”

He’s got his bulk in the lounger next to mine while Emilio takes up the sofa. My cousin still hasn’t told us where we’re going for the bachelor party, and I couldn’t cajole it out of Marco or the pilots.

“I gotta say, this get-up is pretty comfortable,” Ike says, picking at the collar of his silk shirt. “Feels weird havin’ so many buttons open on m’shirt, though.”

Amanda and I managed to fill a whole new wardrobe for him at Renco, one of the top big-and-tall stores in Milan. The rest of today’s outfit consists of a stone-color jacket and khakis with a dark brown Zegna belt. He refused the scarf, and chose to stick with his custom-made cowboy boots, which I have to admit look remarkably stylish with the ensemble.

It’s probably for the best, since we couldn’t find any size twenty Gucci loafers anywhere.

“There will be plenty of ladies at the party tonight,” I say. “Once they find out you’re a real cowboy, you’ll have to beat them off with a stick.”

Ike chuckles but shakes his head.

“I got my eye on a gal back home,” he says. “We’re not really datin’ just yet, but we always talk awhile whenever we run into each other.”

“How long has this been going on?” I ask.

“Oh, couple years now, I guess.”

“Why don’t you make a move?” Emilio asks.

Ike takes another pull from his beer. “Can’t all be like Speedy Gonzalez here,” he says, tilting his bottle at me.

His acceptance of this whole crazy scheme still amazes me. The wedding is still on the front pages of every newspaper in Europe: we’re moving too fast, Amanda is pregnant, it’s irresponsible. And I don’t even want to think about the chatter behind closed doors in Morovan high society.

But Ike couldn’t care less. All he wants is for his daughter to be happy.

“What can I say?” I shrug. “I didn’t want her to slip through my fingers.”

He drops a wink. “Good answer, kid.”

The slight hissing sound of the cockpit radio fills the cabin as the captain informs us we’ll be starting our final descent in about fifteen minutes.

“Final descent into where?” I ask Emilio.

He’s already up and walking through the cabin, pulling down the shades in every window. This may be maddening, but it will certainly be a surprise. We’ve only been in the air less than two hours, so there are a limited number of places we could be.

“This is crazy,” Ike says with a grin. “I never flew anywhere before a few days ago and now I’m on a private jet headin’ someplace I don’t even know.”

“Welcome to the life of a prince,” I sigh. “The bloom falls off the rose very quickly.”

“I’ll bet,” he says, finishing his Budweiser. “I suppose this kinda stuff would start to wear on me after awhile, too.”

He reaches into the fridge and pulls out three more beers. He hands one to Emilio and me and pops his own.

“But for right now,” he says with a toast, “let’s git ‘er done!”

* * *

Turns out the secret destination was Ibiza. It’s not like I haven’t been here before, but as Ike is so fond of saying, he’s never been anywhere, so it’s cool.

Even now, after sundown, the beach is still hot, so we’ve taken the party into an air-conditioned beachside nightclub called Loco. As with all Ibiza clubs, it’s frenetic and over-full, but the music is good and the company is great.

“I can’t believe you got the old gang back together,” I say to Emilio. We’re in the largest of the VIP rooms, overlooking the dance floor, but shielded from the throbbing music, so we can still hear each other.

I won’t name names, but a lot of the people in this room routinely make the Forbes list, and several are on the list of the world’s most eligible royals. All of them grew up in the same circumstances as Emilio and I, under the burden of wealth and titles. It sounds like a first-world problem, but when your fate is tied to that of your nation, sometimes you just need to let off some steam.

There’s even a prime minister here. I won’t say which country, but I will say he likes to have his picture taken. And a certain Oscar winner who seems to think people can’t recognize him if he has a beard.

“It was the right time of the year,” says Emilio, downing his fifth shot of tequila in as many minutes. “After Royal Ascot but before the Art Basel show. A lot of people were nearby and had nothing better to do tonight.”

I salute him with my own shot. “As always, Cousin, I can rely on you to feed my ego.”

My head is starting to swim a bit with the booze. I’m surprised at how much Emilio is putting away; if I didn’t know better, I’d think he had developed a drinking problem in the last few weeks.

Maybe it’s the alcohol that’s making me feel so blasé about the night. It’s hard to believe that even a month ago, this kind of night was a regular part of my lifestyle. Talking with my so-called friends tonight has left me feeling like we no longer have anything in common.

Like Ike says, let’s git ‘er done so I can get back to Morova and my beautiful bride-to-be.

Speaking of Ike, he’s been holding court since we got here. Everyone in the room is enamored of the big man with the easy smile and the real cowboy boots.

“You’re a peckerhead,” he slurs to the inebriated son of a shipping tycoon.

“Why?” the kid asks snidely, weaving in his seat. “All I said was that eating meat is murder.”

“I don’t give a flyin’ fuck if you’re a vegan, that’s your choice. But don’t go pushin’ your beliefs on me, just like I don’t push mine on you, all right?”

“I still don’t see how that makes me a peckerhead.”

“Whaddaya think them Jell-O shots you’re sucking back are made out of?”

The shipping heir blinks his bloodshot eyes a few times. “Uh, Jell-O.”

“Gelatin,” Ike says. “Look it up on your fuckin’ phone thing there if you want to know what you been eatin.’”

The kid does, and as he reads the text on the screen, his face goes white.

“Oh my God…” he breathes.

Ike drapes a gorilla arm over the kid’s shoulders. “Ah, you’re all right, I’m just yankin’ your chain,” he says. “Hey, you need a beer?”

He holds up four fingers to the waitress, which I assume means three for him and one for Shipping Boy. As he does, I catch his eye.

“Dante!” he bellows. “Come hang out with your old man. Sort of. I mean after the wedding I’ll be your old man.”

I take the seat vacated by Shipping Boy, who wanders off like a lost puppy with his new knowledge of Jell-O. Not that long ago, I probably would have felt sorry for him. Now I kind of see him as an insufferable prick.

Suddenly a lot of the people in this room seem like insufferable pricks.

Ike drops a bottle of beer in front of me and pops it open.

“This shit’s not bad,” he says, taking a swig. “It ain’t Bud, but it’ll do.”

I do the same. It’s actually a German caramel malt beer aged in brandy casks that sells in the club for eighty-seven euros a bottle. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“So, are you havin’ fun?” he asks. For all the beer he’s drank since we left Morova, it’s actually quite amazing he’s still upright. In fact, he’s probably in better shape than half the people in this room.

“Sure,” I say. “I have good booze, I have friends, I have my new almost-old man by my side. Couldn’t ask for more.”

“Huh,” he grunts. “All right, if you say so.”

What’s he getting at? This is my bachelor party. Of course it’s a good time.

“I get the sense that you don’t share my opinion,” I say.

“Me? Don’t matter what I think.” He lets out a Herculean belch that draws giggles from some of the girls in the room. A couple of them come dancing over to where we’re sitting.

“My friend and I hear you’re a real cowboy,” one of them – a willowy blonde who I think might be a singer – asks Ike. “Is that true?”

He holds up his bottle in a toast.

“Born n’ bred in Montana cattle country,” he says.

“Oh my god, that is so hot,” says a brunette in her early thirties. “I want to just do you right here on the table.”

Ike’s eyes widen.

“’Scuse me?”

“It would absolutely kill my husband if he found out,” she slurs, red wine splashing from her glass on to the table.

“I’m flattered, miss, but I’m afraid I’m taken,” he says with an apologetic smile. “And even if I wasn’t, I ain’t the kind of man who runs with another man’s filly. Sorry.”

The women turn to me, instantly forgetting Ike.

“What about you, Your Highness?” the blonde coos in her best Marilyn Monroe voice. “Care to go out on a high note before you’re taken off the market?”

I don’t know if it’s my mood, the booze or being around Ike, but my practiced royal charm is eluding me right now.

“Ladies,” I say. “I’m already off the market. But if you’re hell-bent on giving it away, you should really head into the kitchen. I imagine the male staff in there have a much more difficult time getting laid than the billionaires in this room.”

I turn to the brunette. “In your case, perhaps you should give your husband a second chance instead of inflicting yourself on some poor, unsuspecting soul.”

Blood rushes into their faces and they scamper away, fuming. Within moments, they’re over on the other side of the room, telling everyone their side of the story.

And, as Ike would say, I don’t give a flying fuck.

I shake my head before noticing that Ike is staring at me. I hope I haven’t angered him. If you’d told me a month ago that, out of all the people in this room, the one whose opinion I cared about most was the American, I would have laughed at you.

Now it’s all I can think about.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I lost my temper. Please forgive me.”

“Son, losin’ your temper is when you brawl with someone out into the street,” he says. “That thing you just did was plain old puttin’ someone in their place. They deserved every bit of it.”

Have I mentioned how much I like this man?

We down another drink each before Emilio slides into the seat beside me.

“You’re ignoring the rest of the party,” he says. His eyes are glowing red now.

“The party’s right here, boy,” Ike says, cracking another beer. “Whether they got the sense to come over and join it is up to them.”

Emilio glowers at us and heads back to the other side of the room. None of them has actually congratulated me on my upcoming wedding.

“So listen, Your Highness,” Ike says blearily.

“Dante, please. We’re almost family.”

“A’right then, Dante. I’m not one to offer an opinion ‘less someone asks, but I gotta say, it seems to me that most of the people in here ain’t your friends.”

He takes what I’ve been feeling all night and compresses it into a single sentence.

“May I ask why you say that?”

“Look at ‘em,” he says. “They’re all here for them, not you. Where I come from, that’s not your friend.”

I nod, unable to think of anything to say.

“Son, lemme tell you a little story,” he says, leaning in close. “Couple summers ago, a farmer buddy of mine out by Three Forks drowned in the dugout behind his house. It was right at harvest time, an’ his widow didn’t have a hired man. So her sister got on the horn and put out the word to a few neighbors, and they called a few more, and within two hours, there were combines on her land harvesting her wheat. Buryin’ her husband was hard enough; she didn’t need to be worryin’ about her crops, too.

“Those folks don’t know a damn thing about high finance, or royal whatchamacallit, but they know what friends are supposed to do. And son, what those people are doing over there ain’t that. Far as I can tell, they’re all talkin’ about themselves.”

I can feel a lump rising in my throat. I tell myself it’s the booze. Amanda is going to kill me for what I’m about to do.

“First,” I say, raising my bottle, “let’s have a toast: to better friends and new family.”

“Hear, hear!” he hollers, kicking back the rest of his beer.

“Second, let’s change the subject. Has Amanda talked to you yet about the bride’s price?”

“The what’s what?”

“Bride’s price. It’s an ancient Morovan custom. The royal family offers a price to the father of the bride in exchange for her hand.”

“Whaddaya mean, a price?”

“Compensation for losing your daughter to a new family.”

“You mean like a dowry?”

“Yes, but in reverse.”

Ike leans back in his chair and drapes an arm over the back.

“So, what’re we talkin’ about here? Like a ceremonial chicken or something? Or a cow? I could use a good bull, if that’s on the menu.”

“Actually, it’s a sum of money in the form of annuity installments,” I say. “It’s the best way to minimize the tax burden.”

“Tax burden?” He peers at me. “What kind of a sum are you talkin’ about here? I don’t need any tax problems.”

“It’s twenty million euros. I believe that works out to about twenty-five million US dollars at current exchange rates.”

That’s the part Amanda’s going to kill me over. It was supposed to be five million. But she’s not here right now and I am.

Ike’s cheeks flush as his mouth drops open. His bleary eyes work heard to focus on me.

“Don’t shit an old fella like that,” he says. “I’m gettin’ fat and my ticker ain’t what it used to be.”

“I’m not shitting you,” I say. “And you’re not fat.”

“That’s just crazy. Why the hell would you do that?”

“Like I said before, my father taught me about worth and value. The Trentinis believe that the benefits we gain from having someone like Amanda join our family are invaluable, so we set a nominal price for the exchange.”

His eyes narrow. “Twenty-five million bucks is nominal?”

“When you have billions, yes. Imagine if I had ten thousand dollars and offered you twenty-five.”

Ike stares at the table for a full minute, swaying slightly. I can practically hear his thoughts, trying to figure out if this is real or some drunken dream.

Finally, he looks me in the eye.

“I dunno what to say, son.”

“Then don’t say anything. Just give your son-in-law-to-be a hug.”

We both stand and he wraps his tree-trunk arms around me in a bear hug that nearly stops my breathing.

“This is too much,” he mutters in my ear. “This whole thing is crazy.”

“It certainly is,” I say, blinking back tears. “And I’m very grateful to have you along for the ride.”

* * *

Hm? Whassat?

“Who…?”

“Shhh. It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Who’s giggling? Why is the bed moving? I think I’m going to throw up.

Whassat light? I just wanna sleep…

“All right, that’s enough.”

“Wha…?”

“Go back to sleep, Dante.”

Click.

Why are people coming in… my room…

Blackness again.

Chapter Thirty-Three

32. AMANDA

I can’t believe this. I mean, I literally can’t believe this. There has to be some kind of trick.

“Am I dreaming?” I ask. “You don’t have to pinch me, just tell me.”

Maria eyes me up and down with an appreciative smile.

“You’re not dreaming, love,” she says. “It’s just Andreas Fortuna.”

“It’s absolutely gorgeous!” Oriana beams.

The mirror is telling me that my cowgirl body looks somehow perfect in this custom designed dress, and that it fits me perfectly, right off the dressing dummy, after only a single round of measurements.

“This is un-fucking-believable,” I breathe as I marvel at my reflection.

“Ahem…” Maria clears her throat loudly.

Oh shit. Oriana.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I say. “Grownups aren’t supposed to use words like that, especially royals. It’s unseemly.”

“It’s okay,” Oriana says absently. “Uncle uses that word all the time. Well, he used to until you got here.”

He stopped swearing because of me? Maybe he was embarrassed after his little outburst right before we met.

Andreas pokes his head back into the room. “Everyone decent again?”

“As decent as we’re going to get,” I say. “Especially with a potty mouth like mine.”

He strides through the door, then stops in his tracks as he sees me. His eyes widen and his mouth rounds into an O.

“I’ve outdone myself,” he whispers. “It’s a masterpiece.”

The face in my reflection blushes, but the rest of me still looks the same: the dress accentuates my cleavage, hugs my hips and makes me look much taller. Andreas somehow found the perfect shade of ivory so that my ghostly pale skin doesn’t get lost in the dress.

For the first time in my life, the word “beautiful” comes to mind as I look at myself. Most of the time I brush off compliments – Dad tells me I’m beautiful all the time – but right here, right now, I am a princess.

And here come the waterworks again.

“Thank you so much, Andreas,” I say, sniffling. “This is beyond my wildest dreams.”

“Darling, when the artist has a canvas such as you, the work is easy.” He takes my hands. “If you’re Andreas Fortuna, of course.”

Maria and I both giggle. She takes a handkerchief from her purse and dabs at my eyes for me.

“Another item we can check off the list,” she says, making a swooping motion with her hand. “One perfect royal wedding gown.”

“The flowers are ready, too,” Oriana says proudly. “The florist sent me an email with photos of the flowers we chose and I said they looked perfect.”

Maria gives her an indulgent smile and makes another swoop.

“Flowers: check!” she says.

I take one last, longing look in the mirror and sigh before I head back behind the screen and shrug out of my dress.

“Do we have an update on the RSVPs?” I call as I pull my skirt back on.

“Staff reports this morning indicate we managed to get most of the Crown Council and some National Council executive members,” Maria says. “ Although several of them made sure to gripe about the fact they had to change plans to do so. We expected that, of course.

“A few heads of state will be there: Italy and Switzerland, obviously, a few from the Middle East, the Canadian prime minister.”

“Ooooh,” I say. “I’d like to shake his hand.”

“Among other things,” she says evenly, never taking her eyes from her clipboard. “Various cousins will be here, of course. All of European nobility is related somewhere down the line; they’re really quite an incestuous group.”

“What’s ‘incestuous’?” Oriana asks.

Maria doesn’t miss a beat. “It means not inviting other people to your party.”

“That’s not nice.”

“No,” I say, hugging her shoulder. “It’s not. But we’re nice, aren’t we? We’re going to invite everyone to our parties.”

She smiles. “It’s more fun that way! Vito and I hardly ever get to meet new people.”

Maria glances at her watch. “Amanda and I have many things to do,” she says. “Andreas, we truly cannot thank you enough.”

He bows at the waist, showing us the top of his bald head.

“The pleasure was all mine, ladies. Now I must prepare for the flood of phone calls I will receive the day after the wedding.”

“Oriana, will you please escort Signore Fortuna down to the east entrance? There’s a car waiting for him.”

She takes him by the arm. “Can you make me a dress?” she asks as they head for the door.

“You see?” he says, looking back over his shoulder. “The offers are coming in already.” He drops a wink. “Ciao, bella.”

Maria motions towards the antique settee in the room and we take a seat. I still can’t get used to how many rooms there are in the palace, and how much furniture. There are huge sections of the building I still haven’t seen.

This dressing room alone is probably three-quarters of the size of the house I grew up in.

“The staff is handling the details according to your instructions,” she says. “The forecast for Saturday looks perfect, there have been no problems with supplies, the Morovan media are working to get a film crew ready to broadcast the ceremony live… I think we may actually be ahead of the game.”

My wedding, broadcast live around the world. No big deal.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Of course,” she says. “Anything, you know that.”

“If you see me sprinting for the front door, can you tackle me and wrestle me back into the palace?”

Maria has one of the kindest smiles of anyone I know. She puts her clipboard on the coffee table and takes my hands in hers.

“I’m quite certain it won’t come to that,” she says. “It’s just pre-wedding jitters. Of course, in your case, I can only imagine that they’re heightened to an insane degree.”

“Believe it or not, I’m actually pretty okay with the wedding itself. I’m confident in my plans, and in your staff’s ability to pull it all off.”

“You’re saying it’s the marriage, not the wedding, that has you concerned?”

I sigh. So many things have been swirling in my head for the last two weeks: the proposal, the wedding plans, my dad. Dante. The children.

The future.

“What happens after a year?” I ask. “What if this whole thing is just a way for Dante to hold onto the monarchy? Do I have to walk away?”

She grips my hands tighter. “There’s never certainty in any marriage. And you really should give Dante more credit. Remember what he did with your ‘bride price.’”

How could I ever forget? He offered my dad five times what I’d asked for. I couldn’t believe it, but Dante acted like it was the most natural thing in the world. Dad was over the moon to know he’d be out from under the bank’s thumb by our wedding day.

“If it was just me, I’d be okay with taking the risk,” I say, even though I wouldn’t be. Not really. “But it’s not just me. Oriana and Vito are innocent bystanders in all this. How hard would it be on them if I were to just walk out after being an integral part of their lives for a year? How hard would it be on me? No amount of money is worth that kind of pain.”

Hot tears stream down my cheeks. I’ve been holding this in for days now.

Maria pulls my head onto her shoulder.

“As I said, no marriage is ever guaranteed to work. And I think the fact that you even asked that question means you’re ready to do whatever it takes to make sure you don’t go down that road.”

“But when royal marriages go wrong, they really go wrong,” I say. “Look at Charles and Diana.”

“Dante is not Charles,” she soothes. “And you’re not Diana.”

“Yeah, and he didn’t buy her virginity at the last minute to fulfill some insane decree, either.”

That came out meaner than I wanted it to. But the truth is the truth.

We sit there in silence for a few moments, Maria stroking my hair, me snuffling back the last of my tears.

“If it’s any consolation,” she says, “I’ve never seen Dante act around a woman the way he acts around you.”

“Really? Even skinny-legs Giselle?”

Maria rolls her eyes. “Especially her. The less said about her, the better. She was little more than window dressing for the tabloids.”

“Too bad she didn’t figure that out before she came over to our table.”

“Giselle Ranette is an ignorant, entitled sow who deserved what she got and more.”

“And yet she was his girlfriend,” I point out.

“Yes,” she says. “You have to understand the circles that Dante moves in. These people all have wealth, status and privilege, and they’re surrounded by people who never tell them ‘no.’ It doesn’t excuse their behavior, but perhaps it explains it.”

“I guess you’re right. I saw enough of it on the farm. Once we had a beaver wander up from the river near our place and right into a herd of heifers.”

“I’m sorry,” Maria says. “What’s a heifer?”

“It’s a female that hasn’t been bred yet.” I know what that’s like. “Anyway, the cows followed it everywhere, sniffing it and pestering it. Dozens of them, all following the leader. It’s just their nature.”

I look up at her and she cocks an eyebrow.

“Are you comparing Giselle to a heifer?” she asks.

“Hey, if the moo fits…”

She chuckles, which helps lift the mood of the moment.

“Neither of us has time for this kind of nonsense,” she says, giving me a peck on the forehead. “There’s a royal wedding happening in a couple of days, in case you haven’t heard.”

We both get up and gather our things to leave.

“Thank you, Maria,” I say. “I would literally be insane if I didn’t have you to get me through this stuff.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Your Highness,” she says with a curtsy. “But any more episodes like this and I’m going to demand Dante give me a raise.”

“You never know,” I say with an evil grin. “Maybe I’ll be your boss after the wedding.”

She rolls her eyes. “What is it you Americans say? Shoot me now?”

Our giggles echo through the huge granite hallway as we join arms and head out into the palace.

Chapter Thirty-Four

33. DANTE

“The first payment has been arranged, sir,” Carlo says. “The annuity will be deposited in Mr. Sparks’ account in the morning.”

The sun is warm on my face as I smell the herbs that grow in a special box channel near the main courtyard of the south garden. It’s one of the rare occasions when Carlo’s ever joined me outside of the palace. Our relationship over the past twenty years has taken place almost entirely in offices.

“What does it work out to with exchange?” I ask.

“Approximately $2.4 million US at today’s rate, though it’s expected to rise slightly by wedding day.”

Amanda wasn’t specific as to how much her father’s operation was in debt, but I’m sure a lump sum payment of this magnitude should go a long way to easing her and Ike’s minds.

Carlo sidles up to me, leaning his tall frame forward to get a whiff of the herbs himself. Basil, rosemary, sage, lavender: it all combines into a heady scent that I’ve loved since I was a child.

I wanted to get some private time in the gardens before they’re overrun with people tomorrow.

“What do you think of Amanda’s idea for the gardens tomorrow?” I ask. “Are we risking too much? Is it better just to play it safe?”

“I think your father would be very proud of you, sir,” Carlo says. “And he would have loved the idea. He valued people over possessions, more than any nobleman I’ve ever met before or since. Except for you.”

“Thank you, Carlo. Coming from you, that means a great deal.”

“If that’s all, sir, I’ll retire to my office. I’ve tarried in the gardens long enough.”

“You really need to get out of your office more, my friend.”

“Some day,” he says with a smile. “But not today. Ciao.”

He strides off down the path from the courtyard to the entrance to the palace. As I watch him go, it occurs to me yet again that Carlo has sacrificed a family of his own to help keep mine from flying off the rails. In many ways, he’s more my family than Isabella ever was.

“He’s got us! Help, he’s got us!”

I turn to see Ike ambling towards me, carrying a twin under each beefy arm. He’s back in his usual clothes today: a short-sleeved blue plaid shirt and jeans.

“You should keep better track of your calves,” he says, plopping the giggling duo on the grass next to us. “I caught these two tryin’ to jump the fence.”

Vito jumps into my lap. “Uncle! Mr. Sparks says he’s going to take us to his ranch in Montana! Can we go?”

Ike shades his eyes and scans the gardens. “Where’s that Mr. Sparks?” he says. “I don’t see ‘im anywhere.”

“We’re supposed to call him Ike,” says Oriana. “Pay attention, Vito.”

Vito sticks his tongue out at her, so, of course, she sticks hers out at him.

Ike looks down at them. “You two need a salt lick?”

“What’s a salt lick?” asks Vito.

Ike sighs. “You got a lot to learn if you’re gonna be cowboys.” He tilts his head towards Oriana. “Pardon me, ma’am, I meant cowpersons.”

I smile down at the twins. “And what are you going to see when you’re there?”

Oriana starts ticking off items on her fingers.

“Disneyland, the Statue of Liberty, the Grand Canyon, the Rocky Mountains…”

Ike holds up his hands in surrender.

“Whoa, there, girl, that’s a lot to see. America’s a big country.”

“How big?” asks Vito.

“California alone is over 100,000 times bigger than Morova,” I say.

Vito’s eyes pop. I never really gave much thought to how isolated they’ve been here. They’ve traveled on the continent a few times, but most of their lives have been spent right here on this island.

I always thought it was good enough for me, so it was good enough for them. Now I’m beginning to discover a whole new world.

“Heck, my ranch is almost as big as Morova,” Ike says.

“Speaking of Montana,” I say, “I wanted you to know the first annuity will be deposited in the account you provided us in the morning. Approximately midnight tonight Montana time, I believe.”

Ike’s reaction is more emotional than I expected. I see a shimmer of tears in his eyes as he reaches out a hand to shake mine.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Ike says, his voice cracking.

“Think nothing of it,” I say. “It’s just a formality.”

“It’s no formality to me, son. It’s life-changin’ is what it is. This whole thing – ” He waves a hand at the gardens, the palace, the children. “It’s like I walked into a storybook. A tiny brain like mine just can’t take it all in, y’know?”

Tiny brain, my ass. Ike Sparks is one of the smartest men I’ve ever met.

“Ike, I wouldn’t know the first thing about running a cattle ranch,” I say. “If you dropped me into the middle of yours all by myself, the cows would probably be dead from my incompetence within a week.”

Ike claps a hand on Vito’s shoulder, all but covering it with his palm.

“Best get these kids trained on ranch life soon, just in case that ever happens,” he says.

“Yesss!” Vito shouts, pumping his little fist.

“Well then,” I say. “I suppose we’d better arrange a visit to Montana after the wedding.”

“Really?” Oriana asks, eyes wide.

“Of course.”

“YAYYYY!” they cry. Ike joins in with a “Ya-HOO!”

The children head to a spot on the grass to discuss their impending voyage to America. As they do, Ike leans close to me.

“By the way,” he says with a chuckle. “You finally shake that bachelor party hangover?”

Ugh. I barely remember anything that happened after Ike and I talked that night. We got to our hotel suite and I passed out. Woke up still woozy and with the worst headache of my life. I vaguely remember someone coming into my room.

“I did,” I say. “But it took a couple of days. I swear I’m not normally that bad after I drink.”

“If I hadn’t seen you partyin’ on the cover of all those supermarket papers, I woulda worried that you were a lightweight, the way you were the next mornin.’” He grins. “’Course, I don’t get hangovers. Stick to beer, never fear.”

More sage advice from the Buddhist master.

Suddenly Ike snaps his fingers and reaches into the front pocket of his jeans.

“Almost forgot,” he says, rummaging around before emerging with a small box. “I got somethin’ for you.”

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Aw, it’s nothin,’ really. Just somethin’ I thought you might be able to use.”

He opens the box to reveal a pair of cufflinks. They’re sterling silver, engraved with a series of six intersecting lines that form a star-like shape.

“That’s our brand there,” he says, running his finger over the star. “It’s supposed to look like a spark, since we’re Sparks Land and Cattle, though there’s not as much land now as there was.”

He runs his thumb along the jewelry, as if lost in his memories.

“My grandpa had ‘em made up for his wedding back in 1935, and then my dad wore ‘em when he married my ma. I wore ‘em when I married Amanda’s mom. If I’d had a son, I woulda passed ‘em on to him, but I didn’t, so…”

I stare down at them, avoiding his eyes for fear that I might not be able to keep myself in check. People rarely give me things without expecting something in return.

“I understand if you don’t want ‘em,” he says. “They’re not worth anythin.’ I saw the rock you gave Amanda for her engagement ring, and I know these don’t come close to measurin’ up to that.”

“On the contrary,” I say, grinning stoically. “That ring was my mother’s before she died. It’s only fitting that I wear your father’s cufflinks for the ceremony. I’m sure Amanda has told you about the importance of tradition in the Trentini family. This and her ring are symbols of our two families joining together.”

“Well, all right, then,” he says with a wide grin. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Thank you, Ike.”

“You’re welcome, Your Highness,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “I’m glad to finally have a son to carry on the tradition.”

The twins choose that moment to come running back to us.

“I don’t suppose there are any children around here who would like to go to the lagoon?” I say, trying to head off any uncomfortable questions.

Their eyes light up. “Can Ike take us?” Oriana asks.

“Yes, please,” says Vito, ever the gentleman.

“You’ll have to ask him,” I say.

“Please, Ike,” they beg in unison, sounding like Oliver Twist asking for more gruel in the classic movie.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says, hoisting them up over his shoulders as if they weighed nothing at all. “You two need a good bath, anyway. You’re startin’ to smell like my cows.”

The children giggle as he turns to head back to the palace. Before he leaves, he glances back at me.

“Good talkin’ to you, son,” he says.

“The pleasure was all mine,” I say. Truer words were never spoken. “Now move along and get those cows down to the watering hole.”

The man who will be my father-in-law tomorrow retreats to the palace with the children, leaving me alone to contemplate whether I’m about to make a colossal mistake.

Chapter Thirty-Five

34. WEDDING BROADCAST, LIVE ON 4ROMA AND STREAMED WORLDWIDE

SERGIO: Valentina, I’m being told that we have cameras on Amanda right now. Let’s go to that feed from the hallway outside the nave of the cathedral.

VALENTINA: Oh, my, Sergio, look at that dress! It’s absolutely gorgeous! It’s Andreas Fortuna at his finest!

SERGIO: Rumor has it the gown cost over 200,000 euros.

VALENTINA: Well, it’s worth every cent and more. Look at her, she’s absolutely radiant. This American lady has come out of nowhere and stolen the hearts of continental Europe overnight.

SERGIO: Can we get a close-up? Yes, there we go. Stunning. Just stunning. Maybe a little too stunning for some of those stuffy Morovans. What do you think?

VALENTINA: If the prudes on the National Council have a problem with that dress, then they need to have their heads examined. Why can’t a royal bride be sexy? Where is it written?

SERGIO: Simmer down, you’re preaching to the choir.

VALENTINA: I can’t simmer down, Sergio, because we’re looking at Prince Dante now. Drink him in, ladies, because this is the last time you’ll see him as a single man.

SERGIO: His outfit, of course, is the traditional Morovan military uniform. It was originally worn by his father, Prince Nero, when he wed the commoner Lia. Obviously Dante had to have it altered to accommodate his frame and height…

VALENTINA (sighing): Ah, his frame. His height. So serious looking, like a commander on the battlefield. Even though he has to be nervous, you’d never know it from those steely gray eyes.

SERGIO: On his hip, of course, is the legendary Trentini sword, carried into battle by his ancestor, Prince Valerio the Bold.

VALENTINA: I think all of us ladies would like a closer look at the prince’s sword…

SERGIO: Ahem. Anyway, as you can see, the palace cathedral is one of the most intricate and ornate in Europe. The Trentini family were patrons of a number of Renaissance masters, who paid them back with some of the world’s finest masterpieces. The building itself was designed by none other than Leon Battista Alberti.

VALENTINA: Well, I personally think the bride and groom are the greatest works of art in this building right now. Such a beautiful couple. With genes like that, their children will be magnificent.

SERGIO: Speaking of children, there are Vito and Oriana, looking equally gorgeous in their formal wear. This is a rare glimpse at the royal twins, who spend most of their time far away from the public eye.

VALENTINA: Perhaps that will change now that the prince is finally settling down and leaving that playboy lifestyle behind, Sergio.

SERGIO: One can only hope. Excuse me, I’m being told the procession is about to begin. And yes, there it is, the opening strains of the traditional Morovan bridal march.

VALENTINA: Amanda’s showing just a touch of nerves as things start to proceed. I can’t imagine what’s going through her head. Less than a month ago, she was a simple graduate student studying Renaissance texts in Malta. Today, she’s about to become princess of the richest principality on Earth.

SEEGIO: Yes, and only a handful of days ago, she was punching out a supermodel in Cannes.

VALENTINA: Let it go, Sergio, that was self-defense.

SERGIO: Possibly taught to her by this man, Isaac Sparks of Montana, USA, standing by his daughter’s side, ready to walk her down the aisle. Signore Sparks is a true cowboy, running the family cattle ranch.

VALENTINA: Look at him, he could be a gunslinger in an old Sergio Leone Western movie.

SERGIO: He actually looks more nervous than any of them. And is he – Arturo, can we get a close-up of his feet? There. Yes, it’s true. He’s actually wearing cowboy boots under his formal wear.

VALENTINA: Grrrowwrr. He can ride my range any time.

SERGIO: There are children watching, Valentina.

VALENTINA: Shh! It’s starting!

Chapter Thirty-Six

35. AMANDA

Dad isn’t so much walking me down the aisle as he is holding me up so I don’t fall over. The pipe organ drones in my ears like white noise.

This is insane. I’m in one of the most famous cathedrals in the world, walking towards a handsome prince who’s waiting to take my hand in marriage. And the whole world is watching.

Don’t look at the kids or you’ll lose it. Shit! Too late. Their smiles are so sweet. Oriana waves at me. Should I wave back? Is that a serious breach of protocol?

I wave back anyway and return her smile. Dad does, too. I’m sure there are plenty of people clucking their tongues right now – if not for the wave then for the dress – and I don’t care. I may be in a golden cage from now on, but that doesn’t mean I have to jump through hoops.

Why are we stopping? Oh my God, we’re here already. Dante is so gorgeous close up. His uniform and that sword make him look so dignified. Suddenly my dress seems almost slutty in comparison.

Dad kisses my cheek and wipes away a tear as we lock eyes. I always expected him to walk me down the aisle, but I always just assumed it would be at St. William’s in Shelby. Not here.

I love you, pumpkin, he mouths as he turns and begins the walk back down to the family section at the front, where he’ll take a seat next to Emilio and Isabella.

Keep it together, Amanda. You can do this.

Dante’s wide eyes roam all over the dress. Judging by that look, he likes it – a lot – and that’s all that matters.

My heart gallops like a runaway bronco in my chest as we clasp hands and look into each other’s eyes.

It’s show time.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

36. DANTE

I want to rip that dress off and make love to her right here and now, in front of the world.

Instead, I take her hands and look into those soft eyes. Every doubt I’ve had over the past two weeks disappears. This is the right thing to do. I know it deep in my core.

The Archbishop of Morova, a man who has scolded me more times than I can remember over the past twenty years, begins to speak in measured, official tones. I’ve often wondered if he can in a manner that doesn’t sound like he’s giving a lecture.

He drones on about hallowed this and purest that, and that something was ordained for the mutual society. I don’t listen to any of it. I only want to hear my own heartbeat and see Amanda’s face.

He asks if there if anyone has any just cause, and an image of Chancellor Huber’s fat face suddenly flashes through my mind. As I do, I see Amanda bite her bottom lip. The media will have a field day over that, but I don’t care.

The vows are, thankfully, simple tradition: loving, honoring, and cherishing. To have and to hold, from this day forward. The longest part of the whole thing is listing off my endless stream of middle names. Amanda manages to get them all correct.

She says she will.

I say I will.

We exchange rings.

We’re now man and wife. And Amanda Sparks is now an honest-to-God princess.

The archbishop doesn’t tell me I may kiss the bride; royal protocol says we don’t kiss until we reach the balcony that overlooks the gardens and the crowd below.

Fuck royal protocol.

I pull Amanda close and press my lips against hers. I hear her sudden intake of breath, followed by a contented sigh. Behind us, a dozen gasps echo through the cathedral’s 300-foot ceilings. None of them matter.

Suddenly, the sound of Oriana’s giggles reach our ears, and our lips part so we can giggle ourselves.

This is our life now. For better or for worse.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

37. AMANDA

“Are we going to have enough food?” I wonder aloud.

“Who cares?” Dante says, sweeping me into his arms and kissing me deeply. It’s wonderful, but it would be better if there weren’t so many flashes going off.

I suppose that’s life as a princess. Better get used to it.

We disengage and sip a little more champagne as we wait for dinner to be served. The gardens are wall-to-wall people, just as we planned. I knew it was a huge risk inviting so many commoners to the reception, but it seems to be working out. The weather is perfect, everyone is having a good time, and the media coverage has been amazing.

Even Marco finally has something to do, leading a security team through the gardens. They’re dressed so inconspicuously, you’d never know there were more than a hundred highly trained men and women patrolling the grounds.

“Maria and her people have it well in hand, I’m sure,” says Dante. “The reason we pay so many people so much money is so we don’t have to worry about things like that. All you need to think about is looking beautiful for your new subjects. And that will be easy for you.”

“I wish Maria and Carlo were here,” I sigh. “They’re an important part of this.”

He shakes his head. “Believe me, they’re much happier working behind the scenes.”

Dante wraps an arm around my waist as we scan the gardens. There are approximately 15,000 people here – basically a good-sized outdoor concert. The major difference, of course, is that these people are all dressed to the nines, not in cut-off jeans and bikini tops.

And the fact they’re all getting free food and drinks, of course.

“I have to admit, I thought you were crazy at first,” he whispers in my ear. “Inviting half the population of Morova was a huge risk.”

“Mmm, but what better way to distract people from the fact their monarch is marrying an American commoner with less than two weeks’ notice?”

“That dress helps,” he says, scanning the area to see if anyone is looking, then grabbing my ass once more. It sends an electric jolt right between my legs.

Dante’s been risking a major scandal by grabbing my ass through the dress every time the cameras aren’t on us. He’s also risking the wrath of my dad.

Not that we have to worry too much about him. He’s been playing with the twins practically non-stop since the ceremony ended.

“It should be tight enough to squash any pregnancy rumors, anyway,” I say.

“I can’t imagine a shotgun wedding to the daughter of Ike Sparks.”

“You’d have his whole collection pointed at your back.”

In the distance, I see a crew setting up a piano and sound equipment on the stage near the entrance to the palace. A few taptaps ring out as someone tests the microphones.

“I still can’t believe Elton John is playing our wedding reception,” I say. “As if this whole thing could be any more like a dream.”

“He was good friends with my father,” he says. “And you know how he feels about princesses.”

We’ve had a break in the procession of well-wishers for a couple of minutes, but the next wave is coming in. After a while, it just turns into a sea of faces with automatic hand-shaking and smiles. It’s my own fault for inviting so many people.

A pair of well-dressed young women look at us sheepishly after introducing themselves.

“Would it be okay if we got a photo with you two?” one of them, a compact blonde, asks. The hope in her voice is sweet.

“Of course,” I say, positioning them between me and Dante. The girls blush furiously as they set up the shot with a telescoping selfie stick. We each wrap an arm around their shoulders and smile.

A moment later, they’re staring at their screen with their mouths open, starstruck. Over a photo of me. The girl who was buried in a vault in Malta less than a month ago.

“Thank you so much,” one of them breathes. “This is the greatest thing that ever happened to me.”

“Don’t forget hashtag Amandante,” I say.

“She’s so cool!” the other squeals as they scurry away with their prize.

“You’re going to regret that,” Dante says out of the corner of his mouth. “Now everyone will want one.”

“Bring it,” I say with a laugh. “I’m a star today, and I’m going to act like one.”

After what seems like thousands more well-wishers file past, we finally get a chance to steal away to where our family is seated. The twins are eating ice cream from crystal dishes while Isabella chats with a frumpy looking man in formal wear. Emilio’s eyes are the same shade of red they’ve been for the past week or so.

“Any sign of my father?” I ask him.

“He’s over there,” Emilio says, pointing to a small clearing. Dad’s holding court with a couple of people who have cameras on him and another holding a microphone.

I wince. “Has he been doing all right?”

“They love him.” He shrugs, knocking back the last of his drink. “What more could you ask for?”

“Is everything all right, Emilio?” I ask, taking a seat next to him. “You haven’t seemed yourself for a few days.”

He gives me an odd look that I can’t read: a mixture of surprise and… is it embarrassment?

His hand finds mine on the table. “I’m fine, princess,” he says. “Don’t worry about me, especially today, of all days. Go enjoy yourself.”

“Amanda, darling!”

Isabella’s voice cuts through the air from behind me, making me think of Cruella de Vil in 101 Dalmations, for some reason.

“Your Grace,” I say, standing to greet her. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

She gives me a European peck on both cheeks.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Auntie? We’re family now.”

Dante appears at my side and pulls me close.

“Who was that gentleman you were talking to, Auntie?” he asks.

“Him?” She shakes her head. “Some bore of an undersecretary for the National Council. But better that I take the brunt of the bureaucrats than you two, wouldn’t you say?”

I smile. “I appreciate your efforts, Auntie. Keep up the good work.”

At that moment I hear a groundswell of applause coming from the stage area. A few moments later, the opening keyboard refrain of Crocodile Rock blasts through the air and the crowd goes wild.

The bass line kicks in and suddenly I feel my dad’s big hands on my waist.

“C’mon, pumpkin,” he hoots. “Let’s go show these stiffs how it’s done!”

As the music begins, we find an opening in the crowd and dance to the bopping beat of the song. Despite his size, Dad’s a pretty good dancer, thanks to a few decades of Friday night get-togethers down at the legion hall. I’m not half-bad myself, especially when it’s the oldies.

We hop and step and swing around until the opening of the first chorus before I notice everyone is staring at us.

On the edge of the crowd watching us are the twins, nodding their heads in time to the music. Dad and I both have the idea at the same time, reaching out a hand towards them. They come running into our little circle to joins us, jumping around and shaking their little behinds.

If Dad notices any of the dozens of cameras recording our every move, he doesn’t show it. This is Ike Sparks in his element, cutting a rug with a couple of Buds in him. And if the people around us have a problem with it, they can go pound sand up their asses.

I don’t care what the circumstances were that led up to this: today is my day.

Apparently realizing that royals won’t spontaneously combust if they have fun, Dante joins us. I’m sure he can do the Viennese waltz with the best of them, but his rock ‘n’ roll dancing sucks. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

As the song ends and the crowd roars, I lean into his ear.

“If that doesn’t break the Internet, I don’t know what will. Eat your heart out, Kim Kardashian’s ass.”

The people around us start clapping, some of them still sporting shocked looks on their faces but most of them laughing. As Dad picks up the twins and heads back to the table, Dante reaches behind me and grabs my ass again. This time, he works a finger in there, sparking a live wire in my groin and making me weak in the knees.

“We need to get out of here as soon as we can,” he hisses in my ear as I try to keep my composure. “I’ve been waiting too long to fuck you. I can’t wait any more.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

38. DANTE

I’m almost ready to tear that Andrea Fortuna masterpiece right off of her as the heavy ironwood doors to my quarters slam shut behind us. But I don’t. As much as I don’t want to, I have to take this slow.

“Alone at last,” Amanda says almost shyly. “No one to get between, for as long as we want.”

I nod. “Nothing to stop us anymore.”

She looks around the room for the first time, noticing the line of tall, heavy candles that leads through the parlor into my – our – bedroom. The floor is strewn with rose petals that lead all the way to the bed.

“Oh,” she sighs. Candlelight reflects in the huge antique mirrors around the room. “It’s beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you,” I say, gliding my fingertips along the exquisite sleeves of her dress.

“Andreas is a genius,” she says.

“I like you better without it,” I say, pulling her to me and taking her face in my hands.

Her lips are as sweet and warm as mulled wine on my tongue. Her hair, so perfectly coiffed, comes loose from her wedding stylings with just a few strategic moves of my hands. Once free, it spills down to its natural place on her shoulders.

We take it slow and easy, despite the raging need inside me. I haven’t been able to stop fantasizing about this moment since we got of the plane from Cannes. I’ve dreamt about it every night since, except for the drunken night of my bachelor party.

Her hands undo the buttons of my uniform’s tunic, letting it slide open. I shrug out of it and drape it over the back of a chair.

“I apologize for the sweat,” I say. “That thing is hot as a brick oven.”

“Then we’d best get you some air,” she says.

She deftly opens my shirt and strips it off, leaving my naked torso gleaming in the candlelight. Her hands find my chest and stroke the hair there. My cock is already straining against the pants of my uniform, even though I’ve barely touched her.

We kiss again, more urgently this time. Even though it’s only been two weeks, it feels like I’ve been waiting an eternity for this.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she says. She keeps her eyes on mine as she slinks behind the antique changing screen just outside the bedroom door. The candles cast a shadow on the fabric of the screen, showing me a perfect silhouette of her body as she glides out of Fortuna’s dress.

My cock is throbbing in time with my heart.

She takes something else off a hanger and slides into it, zipping it up in the back. When she emerges from behind the screen, I swear I almost come on the spot.

An ivory-colored silk negligee hangs from her shoulders by a pair of spaghetti straps. The neckline drops just enough to give me a tempting look at her breasts, and the hemline comes just above her panties.

It’s enough to make a man pass out from desire.

“Do you like it?” she asks nervously. “I found it in a shop in Milan and I thought maybe – ”

The animal in me wants to rip it off and toss it into the candles, but the prince wins out.

“It’s exquisite,” I say. “Come here.”

Amanda does as she’s told and meets me for another lingering kiss. With this one, she undoes the buckle of my belt and lets my pants drop to the floor. I know, I know, the uniform is an heirloom. That’s what the royal dry cleaner is for.

After a few moments, I sweep her up off the floor.

“Oh!” she gasps.

I plant my lips on hers again as I carry her across the threshold of our bedroom. It’s a long way – the room is almost 1,000 square feet – so I enjoy a long, slow kiss.

When we reach the bed, I lay her down on the coverlet. As I kneel beside her, the head of my cock makes an appearance through the fly of my silk boxers.

“Why, hello,” she says, with all the decorum one would express from a princess. “I was wondering when I was going to see you.”

She reaches out and takes hold of it lightly, stroking down until her hand disappears into my boxers. It’s all I can do to keep from losing control.

I can’t let the animal take over. This has to be special. Gentle.

My hands caress the delicate fabric of her negligee, tracing circles around her breasts. I can feel her heartbeat under my fingers. I lean in to run my mouth along her neck.

“My queen,” I whisper. “I am your fool.”

She sighs and lies back, allowing my mouth to explore her ears, then her throat, and finally down the neckline laid bare by the lingerie. The taste of her skin is salty and sweet, her scent floral mixed with her own musk.

Her hands undo the laces under her neckline and the negligee falls open, revealing her belly and the inner sides of her breasts. Below that are a pair of silk panties that barely conceal the junction of her thighs.

I can’t take much more of this.

As if reading my mind, she brazenly grabs the waistband of my shorts and yanks them down, allowing my cock to bounce free.

“That’s much better,” she purrs as she turns on her side and rises onto all fours. I catch a teasing glimpse of her nipples just as she slides the head of my cock into her mouth.

“Mmmmm,” she moans. Or is it me? I can’t focus, the pleasure is too much.

She’s becoming bolder with each encounter, trying new ways to please me. Her tongue slides up and down the underside, making my knees tremble.

“Please,” I beg. “I have to see you. All of you.”

Her eyes widen and her cheeks flush as she lets go of my shaft and rises to her knees on the bed. She slides off the negligee’s top, finally giving me a full view of her milky skin and shapely breasts. Like my cock, her nipples are at full attention.

I drop my shorts all the way to the floor and kneel beside her on the bed. My hands find the waistline of her panties and my thumbs drag them down, exposing her entrance. She quickly drops onto her back and wriggles the rest of the way out of them.

“Finally,” I breathe, covering her body with mine and closing my mouth onto hers.

Chapter Forty

39. AMANDA

I shudder as the skin of Dante’s torso touches mine. His muscles are like stone underneath.

“I want you,” I breathe in his ear. “I’ve never wanted anything so much.”

Our hands explore each other for a few moments. He caresses my tits as I stroke his cock, both of us moving in time to the other’s motions. Finally, his fingers reach my outer lips.

The sensation of his skin on mine down there is primal, like something beyond thought, a basic bodily need. I can feel myself getting wetter at his touch, in preparation for what’s to come.

Finally.

After several glorious moments of this, Dante lifts me and lays me back down with my head on one of the dozen pillows on his huge bed.

On our huge bed.

I shiver as he starts kissing my neck, then down to my shoulders, then my belly, and finally to my mound. Ripples of ecstasy ride up from my groin into my core as his tongue makes contact with my clit.

My legs open wider to receive him. His motions are slow, deliberate, building my enjoyment with each pass. It’s not the urgent, driving passion of the plane. This is slower, more loving. He’s taking his time. And I’m glad, because I would feel this way every moment for the rest of my life, if it were possible.

“Dante,” I sigh, stroking his hair. “This is heaven.”

After an eon of easy pleasure, he starts to gain momentum, pressing harder. My hips respond of their own accord, listing in time with his movements, until suddenly all I can think of is feeling him inside me. My walls are already slick – I don’t want to wait any more.

“I’m ready,” I whisper.

I bite back a whimper as he gives my pussy one last, loving kiss before lifting himself back up towards me. My heart is doing triple duty – passion and fear mingled together – as I think about what comes next.

Dante positions himself between my legs, kneeling back on his haunches. I think of the time in the gardens, where just the tip of his cock against me was enough to send my in spasms. The thought of what the whole shaft can do makes me tremble.

Out of nowhere, he says: “I’ve never done this before. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry,” I soothe. “Just let it happen. I’m ready for it.”

He starts with the tip, and it feels like heaven, just like in the garden: the softness, the feel of his skin on mine, back and forth, front to back. I can feel myself getting wetter with each stroke.

Finally, a stroke becomes a gentle thrust inside my opening, and I gasp. The pain is more than I imagined. He’s so big… the sensation of tearing makes my gut hitch. I reach up and pull myself to his cannonball of a shoulder, biting down gently on the flesh there to keep from crying out.

Then he’s through. The pain is still there, but now it’s mixed with the pleasure, as his cock slides deeper and deeper inside me.

“It’s good,” I whisper in his ear. “Keep going.”

A whole new world of sensations opens up to me as he inches farther in. The feeling of having him inside me is so natural, so right. Like we’re becoming one.

Dante’s breathing is steady as he begins his first, slow withdrawal. With his next thrust, he adds a little more power, and pulls out a little faster. Each stroke is an explosion of sensations, a journey through heaven and hell.

“I’ve wanted to be inside you since the moment we met,” he breathes.

I grab his head in my hands and cover his mouth with mine, tasting myself on his lips and not caring. Dante times his thrusts with each kiss until I can’t breathe anymore and have to break contact.

“Oh God,” I gasp in his ear.

He keeps his strokes gentle as my walls stretch to accommodate his girth. But I want him to lose control. I want him to be the animal I know he really is.

“Fuck me,” I whisper. “Fuck me hard.”

He reacts like a tiger being let off of a chain. Suddenly his strokes become faster, more powerful. I wrap my legs around his waist, bucking upwards with each thrust, holding on for dear life.

His lips find mine again and we twine our tongues together as he gets closer to climax. I can hear his breathing rasp, feel the tension in his muscles as his moment of release nears.

“That’s it, baby,” I say. “That’s it. Let go.”

His passion doubles, then doubles again until he finally wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck. My legs cling to his hips as I feel the power of his explosion deep inside me, the feeling of his force in a place where, until tonight, I’d never felt anything before.

It seems to last forever, our bodies working as one, his muscles tensing like steel cables under his skin.

Finally, his grip softens and he exhales heavily in my ear. I breathe in the air from his lungs as if it could sustain me on its own.

“That was unbelievable,” I pant. “I never dreamed it would be like that.”

His eyes meet mine, and we simply stare into each other for several long moments. I’d give anything to know what was going on in his mind.

“I want it to be good for you,” he says.

“It was,” I say. “It really was incredible.”

“I want to make it even more incredible.”

He slides out of me, dropping to his side next to me. I take his head in my hands and place it on my shoulder, stroking it gently as his fingertip traces figure eights along my belly.

“There’s alcohol out in the parlor,” he says after a while. “Would you like some?”

“I would,” I say. “But that would mean you’d have to get up, and that would mean you wouldn’t be next to me. You can see the problem there.”

He grins. “What if you wrapped yourself around me and I carried you out there?”

My eyes widen at the idea. That could be interesting.

Dante planks himself over top of me and I wrap my arms and legs around him. With a powerful grunt, he straightens up and slides off the bed.

He’s actually carrying me like an oversized baby. I can’t help but giggle.

“What’s so funny about a man carrying his wife around?” he says. “There’s booze to be drunk. As your John Wayne once said, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

He lifts the silver bucket from its perch on the coffee table and brings it back into the bedroom with us. As he reaches the edge of the bed, I let go, dropping spread-eagle onto my back.

Dante pours us each a flute of champagne and hands me one.

“I’m really starting to get a taste for this,” I say after a long sip.

“You’ll never believe this,” he says. “But I’m beginning to develop a taste for Budweiser.”

We both giggle. The conversation is so easy now that we both know we’ll be spending the whole night together with nothing else to do but drink and make love.

“Is there a shower in this tomb?” I ask.

“You’re speaking of your bedroom, my lady. Show some respect.”

“I’ll show you some swatches, is what I’ll do. This cave needs a woman’s touch. It looks like Dracula’s castle.”

He shakes his head. “You make a woman a princess and this is what happens.”

“Answer the question,” I say. “Shower?”

“Yes. See that door there?”

I stand up and put my flute on the night table, then take his hand.

“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

“Are we going somewhere?” he asks, looking a bit uneasy.

“No,” I say with a leer. “But we’ve got a looonng night ahead of us, and I want to try everything before the sun comes up.”

Chapter Forty-One

40. INTERLUDE

The portable lanterns are still burning strong at midnight. Hundreds of people continue to mill around the gardens, unwilling to let go of the festivities, even though Sir Elton has long since landed back in London.

Emilio sits at the table with his head propped in his hand next to an empty bottle of tequila.

A hand reaches out and grabs the bottle, pitching it into a nearby garbage can.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Isabella snaps.

“I’m drunk, Mother,” he mutters, not opening his eyes. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

“You need to stop this right now. Did anyone important see you like this?”

“Anyone important left hours ago. The only people left here are commoners who can’t get enough free booze.”

She slaps his hand out from under his chin. He manages to catch himself before his head hits the table.

“Listen to me, Emilio,” she says, taking the seat across from him. “From this moment on, you need to straighten up. Remember, you’re the sensible alternative to Dante. When he goes down, you have to be the obvious choice to replace him. So start acting like it!”

Emilio sighs. “Fine. Whatever you want.”

“I mean it! Things are going to start happening quickly now that we have those photos. I told Huber’s underling tonight that I have what the chancellor has been looking for. He said he’d arrange a meeting as soon as possible.”

“The woman in that photo knows who I am,” he says. “You’d better hope she was as drunk as she seemed, because if she wasn’t, your whole plan will be sunk.”

“Her face has been blanked out,” says Isabella. “Even if she does remember what happened, she won’t actually be named in the scandal. And if she says anything, I’ll pay her to keep her mouth shut.”

He leans back in his chair and runs his hands down his face.

“I’ve got another idea,” he says. “What if we just let Dante and Amanda live their lives, and we can do the same, and everyone is happy? Would that be so terrible?”

Isabella levels a cool glare at her son.

“I haven’t worked this long, this hard, to have things fall apart just because you don’t have the stomach to do what needs to be done,” she says. “And never forget what happens if you decide to back out of this.”

“I can’t forget it, Mother!” he snarls. “You’ve made sure of that! Why the hell do you think I’ve been drinking the way I have?”

“Then just do as you’re told and you won’t have to worry about it any longer,” she says, standing up. “Now get some sleep. You need to be ready for the days ahead.”

Emilio scowls as she walks away from the table towards the path to the palace. When she’s out of sight, he pulls a flask from his jacket pocket and takes a long pull, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He sees his reflection staring back at him in the polished silver of the flask.

“Long live the new prince,” he says miserably.

Chapter Forty-Two

41. DANTE

“Does this happen every day?”

“Does what happen every day?” I ask through a mouthful of croissant.

“You get up in the morning and there’s breakfast waiting for you in the parlor?”

I smile. “Amanda, what have I been telling you for the past week and a half?”

“I know, I know – better get used to it,” she chuckles. “Sorry, it might take me awhile.”

The staff has laid out a selection of pastries, fresh fruit from the palace orchard, and, of course, coffee. It never occurred to me until then that Amanda might want to start her days with something else.

“If there’s anything else you’d like, you need only to let the kitchen staff know.”

“Even steak and eggs?”

I frown. “Steak? And eggs? For breakfast?”

“I know, you Morovan types think breakfast is a sugar bomb and a tiny cup of espresso,” she says with mock consternation. “But I’m from cattle country. Breakfast is supposed to tide us over until lunch. There aren’t any cafes to stop in for a bite at ten o’clock out in the fields.”

I pop the last bite of my croissant in my mouth. “How do you keep such an amazing figure eating like that?”

“Good genes and hard work. How do you keep your Jason Statham body when you load up on carbs in the morning?”

“There’s a magical potion that only princes know about that melts away fat with a single sip,” I say.

“Best not spill any on your head, then,” she says with a giggle.

I shoot back my espresso. “Alas, no such potion exists, meaning I must spend two hours a day in the gym.”

“Which you just happen to have time for.”

“What can I say? It’s good to be the prince.”

I stand behind her chair and slide my hands along her trapezius muscles, gently kneading the soft flesh.

“It’s good to be the princess, if I can expect this every day,” she moans.

“This and more,” I say, leaning down to kiss her neck. Underneath her thin robe, her nipples begin to stiffen.

“What if we had been… occupied with something when your staff brought in the breakfast?”

“Our staff,” I correct her, moving up to her earlobe. “I suppose we’ll just have to make sure we’re not occupied at that time of the morning.”

“Except what if I want to be occupied all day, every day?” she says. “After last night, I think I need to catch up on everything I’ve been missing.”

“Then perhaps we need to start as soon as possible.”

She turns her face to mine and we kiss. But just as things get interesting, she pulls away.

“Oh, no,” she breathes. “I can’t believe it.”

“What?” I ask, alarmed.

“Today is your birthday! In the craziness of the wedding, I totally forgot!”

She’s not the only one. My birthday has been the last thing on my mind the past two weeks. In fact, no one even mentioned it during the wedding yesterday.

“I did, too,” I say. “I imagine most of the country did. They were all focused on you, as it should be.”

“But I want you to have something special,” she says, biting her lip.

“Amanda, I have everything a man could ever possibly want or need, so there’s no need to give me a present.”

She stands to face me, breathtaking in her morning clothes.

“I feel like the little drummer boy,” she says. “I have no gift to bring that’s fit to give a king.”

With a few deft moves of her hands, her clothes fall to the floor, leaving her naked in the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

“All I have to offer is me,” she says. Her eyes are wide, angelic.

I sweep her off the floor and carry her towards the bedroom.

“That’s all I ever want,” I whisper in her ear.

Our lovemaking is slow and luxurious at first, savoring every stroke like a sip of fine wine. Then we both seem to reach a new level of urgency at the same time, kissing harder, plunging deeper, faster, until we reach the heights of pleasure at the same time and collapse, trembling, onto the bed in each other’s arms.

“See what I mean?” she sighs. “All day, every day.”

* * *

“The wedding is still plastered all over the TV and online,” Amanda calls from the parlor as I dress. “It’s insane.”

“Nothing about my birthday?” I joke as I emerge from the bedroom.

“Very funny,” she says, flipping through the various channels on my streaming box.

Headlines of videos scroll past: Party of the Century; Real-Life Fairy Tale; Amanda Is Europe’s Latest Obsession; Dante Finally Finds Happiness.

“We’re a hit,” she says with a shy smile as she continues to flip.

I hold up a hand as a familiar face appears on the screen.

“Stop here, please,” I say. “We should see this.”

Chancellor Huber is stuffed into an armchair on the set of Morova Morning, the early show on the country’s only national television station. Across from him is Lorenzo Ricci, the stodgy co-host and a staunch anti-monarchist.

“Would you call the wedding a spectacle, then?” he asks. “Or was it more of a travesty?”

I roll my eyes. Journalism at its finest.

“It was quite simply a slap in the face to the Morovan people,” Huber says.

“Half the Morovan people were there, you jackass!” Amanda barks. “You couldn’t be bothered to show up!”

Sometimes I see so much of Ike in her, it’s scary. But I love it.

“It was so far beneath the dignity of a monarch as to be laughable,” Huber continues. “But then, what else would we expect from Dante?”

“That’s Prince Dante to you, you toad! You talk about dignity and you don’t even follow royal etiquette!”

“Darling,” I say, putting a finger to my lips. “Please.”

She’s still fuming, but she does as I ask.

“He certainly has a reputation,” says host Ricci. “And really, two weeks’ notice? We’re expected to believe they met and fell in love in such a short period of time?”

“Baby rumor coming in three, two, one…” she mutters.

“Obviously, one has to wonder whether she’s pregnant,” Huber says. “But that’s beside the point. To have madding crowds at a royal wedding reception is unheard of. It’s a solemn event, not a Garth Brooks concert.”

“Garth Brooks would kick your lily-white ass…”

“Amanda.”

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.

“So what do we do now?” asks Ricci. “Are we stuck with the playboy prince and his American commoner bride? Is this what we pay our taxes for, so the two of them can live their lavish lifestyle on the backs of Morovans?”

“The national revenues and the Trentini fortune are inextricably linked,” I say. “My money supplements the economy of Morova!”

“Dante, please,” she says, finger to her lips.

I cock an eyebrow at her. She sticks her tongue out at me, making me laugh in spite of myself.

“There are ways to work around the monarchy,” Huber says cryptically. “The Crown Council and National Council have grave concerns about its future, and we’ll be discussing it at length in the days to come.”

Ricci looks into the camera. “There you have it,” he says. “Straight from the chancellor. Is the era of the Trentini family coming to a close? Only time will tell.”

I click off the screen. The glorious afterglow of our lovemaking is gone now.

Amanda comes to me and takes my hand.

“I thought our wedding closed the loophole for government to take control of your fortune,” she says.

“It did,” I say. “But the councils have the right, in theory, to call a referendum on the monarchy any time they choose. We may have blocked any legal challenge, but they still have the option of taking it to the people.”

She circles her arms around my neck. “Then we’re fine,” she says. “Because the people obviously love us.”

“Correction,” I say with a grin. “They love you. They tolerate me.”

She gives me a long, leisurely kiss that’s almost enough to take my mind of off Huber’s bullshit.

Almost.

Chapter Forty-Three

42. INTERLUDE

“What can I do for you today, Your Grace?” Huber asks, propping his elbows on his desk. “My assistant said this meeting was of the highest importance.”

“It’s actually what we can do for each other,” Isabella says with a smile. “As I told him, I agree fully with your take on the situation between Dante and his new wife.”

“So he said. My question is why you came to me. If you have a problem with your nephew, why not talk to him?”

She looks around the room. “Are there any recording devices in here?”

“No,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

“You’ll understand in a moment. My question to you, Chancellor, is how badly do you want to end the monarchy?”

“I don’t have a problem with the monarchy,” he says. “I have a problem with the monarch. Prince Dante is irresponsible, which he proved with his wedding the other day, and I don’t believe he should be in charge of the Trentini fortune.”

Isabella nods. “On that, we agree. The question is, do you plan to press the councils to call for a referendum?”

“I’ve made no secret of that. It’s an ongoing process. That’s why I chose not to attend the wedding. It would be unseemly to oppose the prince and then smile and shake his hand at his wedding.”

“Of course,” she says. “I have no choice, however. I have to live with him.”

“Now let me ask you the same question,” he says. “Are you in favor of a referendum? Or am I misunderstanding you? It seems unlikely that a member of the royal family would want to abolish the royal family.”

“That’s what I came here to discuss,” she says. “I absolutely agree that Dante and his wife are the wrong people to be guiding the ship of state for Morova. But I am, and always will be, a staunch believer in the monarchy. It’s an integral part of Morovan culture.”

“As you say. Which is why I’ve held off for so long on pushing for the referendum. It we bring this matter to the people for a vote, and it fails, the constitution says the option is null and void for as long as the current monarch is in power.”

“So it’s all or nothing. You need to be sure of victory.”

“Exactly.”

“What if I could guarantee that you would win?”

Huber leans forward on his desk, brows knit.

“You would obviously want something in return,” he says. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

“I like you, Chancellor,” Isabella says. “You understand the game. It’s all about give and take.”

“You’ve talked about giving. Now let’s discuss the taking. What is it you want?”

“Quite simple, actually. The referendum would be worded such that the government would have expanded powers in controlling the Trentini fortune, while keeping the monarchy in place.”

“But you’ve already said you want Dante gone. What are you proposing?”

She smiles. “My son, Emilio, has proven himself to be an excellent example to the people of Morova. He’s been Dante’s companion and conscience for many years. If it hadn’t been for his steadying influence, who knows what kind of ruin Dante might have brought down on Morova?”

Huber sits back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his large belly.

“Trade Dante for Emilio,” he muses. “And keep the monarchy.”

“The government has more control, and a prince that’s more agreeable. The people of Morova keep their beloved monarchy.”

“And your son takes the throne,” he finishes.

“It’s a necessary sacrifice,” she grins.

“I’m sure. Let’s say I agreed to this – what insurance are you offering that the referendum will pass?”

Isabella retrieves her bag from the floor, withdraws a manila envelope and lays it on the chancellor’s desk.

“That’s the unpleasant part,” she says. “But you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

Huber opens the flap and slides out a series of photos. His beady eyes widen as he examines them closely for a full thirty seconds.

“When were these taken?” he asks. “How do I know it’s not just something from his past?”

“I have the original digital files,” she says. “The time and date can be verified. They were taken four days before the wedding, at Dante’s bachelor party.”

He sits in thought for several moments.

“This will be explosive if it’s true,” he says. “How did you get them?”

“Unfortunately, Emilio was with Dante that night and saw everything,” she says. “Which is why I’ve come to you. Betraying his cousin will break his heart, but he realizes that Dante simply isn’t fit for the role of monarch.”

Huber leans back and contemplates some more.

“Where do we go from here?” he asks. “I agree with you completely, but I can’t be tied to a scandal.”

“Leave that to me,” Isabella says. “Just be prepared to move when the time is right.”

Chapter Forty-Four

43. AMANDA

I think Dante got the better part of the in-law deal. He got my dad.

I got Isabella.

“How’s your fish, darling?” she asks, pointing her fork at my plate.

“It’s amazing,” I say. “Chef Carina is a genius.”

“Mm,” she grunts. “Mine is dry. I told Maria not to hire her, but she doesn’t listen to me.”

I don’t know how to respond to that, so I just smile and nod. I wish Dante were here.

We’re on the main terrace that overlooks the lagoon and the beach. It’s a beautiful piece of architecture, but to be honest, I’d much rather be down at the lake with the children.

“Have you and Dante given any thought to children?” she asks

A moment of panic stabs through me – can she read my mind?

“I think we’re just going to focus on the twins for now,” I say. “It’s important that we have a solid relationship with them before we think about adding to the family.”

“Well, you don’t want to wait too long,” she says. “Looks don’t last forever, believe me. Best to take care of things when you’re young.”

“I don’t understand.”

She gives me a sympathetic smile.

“Darling, I know you have grand dreams for the future. And who knows? Maybe they’ll come true. But it never hurts to have insurance.”

“Insurance?”

“Children, Amanda. It’s how women who marry into royal families ensure their status. That way, when – I mean if – they get divorced, they still have those blood ties to the monarchy.”

What is she talking about?

“That’s a bit cynical, Auntie, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps you’re right,” she says. “I’ve always been a realist. Comes from losing my husband so young, I suppose. I can only judge by what I saw with my sister and Nero.”

“But… they had a storybook romance,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, if you believe the breathless coverage by the newspapers.”

“You’re saying that wasn’t a true portrait?”

“Darling, I know you’re not that naïve. Royal marriages aren’t like commoner marriages. Even when they marry for love, as I’m sure you and Dante did, the responsibilities that come with the title can drag you down. Not to mention the constant glaring eye of the media.”

Now that I think about it, three of Queen Elizabeth’s four children ended up divorced. It’s not an encouraging statistic.

“Lia and Nero were far from a perfect couple. It wasn’t uncommon for me to pass by their quarters and hear the sound of vases being smashed against the wall.”

My eyes widen. “Really?”

“My dear, if the walls of this old palace could talk. I’m amazed none of the staff ever wrote a tell-all book.”

“Does Dante know about this?”

“No,” she says, looking alarmed. “And you shouldn’t tell him. Poor child was only ten when they died, he shouldn’t be burdened with the knowledge that they weren’t happy. I don’t know what kind of ideas he has about marriage – he’s never really been around a proper one.”

“What about his sister and brother-in-law?” I ask. “Adriana and Albert looked after him for almost a decade.”

“Yes, and they sacrificed their own family because of it. Adriana didn’t become pregnant with the twins until she’d been married for over ten years.”

Isabella leans in and lowers her voice. “She never told me in so many words, but I’m almost positive they were unplanned.”

I feel like I’ve been kicked by a bull. Does Dante know all this? How could he not, when he grew up around all of it?

“I’m sure that’s why poor Dante grew into his playboy lifestyle,” she says, sipping her wine. “Without a strong male role model, he simply didn’t know how to treat a woman. I think it’s a curse we’ve seen many times among royals.”

She’s right. Tabloid covers have been plastered for decades with stories of royal men who’ve cheated on their princesses.

But Dante’s not like that. His image was crafted to protect the kids. Maria told me as much.

“I think he’s more resilient than you give him credit for,” I say. “He’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman with me, and I plan to be with him for a very long time.”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m sure Diana felt the same way about Charles. But good for you, darling. I admire your optimism.”

She talks more about something, but I don’t hear it. All I can focus on is Diana’s face. That sweet smile always seemed to be masking the hurt behind her eyes.

Is that what the future has in store for me?

“This cake is dreadful,” Isabella mumbles. “I really need to speak with Maria about the kitchen.”

“I’m sorry, Auntie, will you excuse me? I’m afraid I have to run.”

“Of course, darling. What’s so urgent, if I might ask?”

“Dante and I are taking my father and the children to Rome,” I smile. “We’re going to show them the ruins. My dad’s idea of historic is something that’s a hundred years old; I can’t wait to show him what a few thousand looks like.”

Isabella smiles. “He’s a unique man, your father. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

“Funny,” I say. “Dad said the same thing about you.” But not in a good way.

“Don’t let me keep you, then,” she says. “But do think about what we’ve discussed here. I don’t want to frighten you, not at all. But I want you to go into this with your eyes open. The life you lead now is not like life on the ranch back in Missouri.”

“Montana,” I say absently.

“Yes, of course. Arrivederci, darling.”

As she walks away, my eyes wander to the enormous diamond on my ring finger. He wouldn’t have given me his mother’s ring if he weren’t serious about our marriage. Right?

Or is that just another Trentini tradition that’s been drilled into him?

I hear a ding from my purse and take out my phone to see a text from Dante: Getting ready to leave. Hope you survived lunch. RU on UR way?

Just leaving I text back.

As I drop my phone back in my purse and head back towards the palace, I can’t help wondering how many other women have the number I just texted to.

Chapter Forty-Five

44. DANTE

“So this guy I know gets a call from his feed supplier one day,” Ike says. “They appreciate his business so much that they’re sendin’ him to one o’ them all-inclusive places in Mexico for a week.”

“Right,” I say.

“So he gets there and this place is top notch, I’m talkin’ five-star all the way. He’s there for a week, and he comes back home and he’s tellin’ us all about it. The food, the tequila, the resort, it’s all incredible. And he’s lordin’ it over us because he buys so much feed that this company sends him all the way to Mexico.”

“Sure,” I say.

“I can’t wait to get back home and tell him my son-in-law is the prince of friggin’ Morova,” he says with a grin so wide it threatens to cut his face in half. “And that I flew in a private jet to the family villa in Rome. He’ll bust.”

I chuckle and shake my head.

“I’m sure he’s heard already, Dad,” Amanda says from her spot on the larger of the living room’s sofas. “It was kind of all over the news.”

“What’s friggin’ Morova?” Vito asks. “Is that a district?”

Amanda flashes her father a sour look.

“Ike was just making up words, honey,” she says. “He thinks it’s funny.”

The villa is nestled in the hills of Rome, only a few blocks from the Coliseum. The family has owned it since the sixteenth century, but it goes back to ancient times. Legend has it the home once belonged to Brutus, of Caesar back-stabbing fame, but I think that’s just a tall tale.

Now that we’re down south and the mercury is above 100 degrees, Ike has finally replaced his blue jeans and boots with golf shorts and sandals.

We’ll make a native out of him yet,” I say to Amanda as Ike and the children head outside to the pool.

“Maybe,” she says.

She’s been giving me one- and two-word answers all afternoon. I wonder if she’s angry because we’ve brought her father and the children with us on our honeymoon.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, sitting next to her on the sofa.

“No,” she says in a voice that means anything but.

“Are you thinking we should have just come on our own?”

“What?” she asks. “No, not at all. I’m glad Dad and the kids are here.”

“So what is bothering you?”

“Nothing.”

I don’t pretend to understand women, but I do know that the word “nothing” rarely means nothing.

Then it dawns on me.

“You had lunch with Isabella. What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

“Amanda, I know neither of us were prepared for it, but we’re married now. We need to talk to each other.”

She sighs and looks at me. Finally.

“You’re right,” she says. “And yes, it was Isabella. She was talking about royal marriages.”

“What about them?”

“She pointed out that a lot of them can’t survive the constant scrutiny. And the weird lifestyle that royals lead.”

“Weird?” I ask. “It’s different, to be sure. But as your father pointed out, not many people can fly to Rome on a private jet.”

“You’re right,” she says. “Besides, it’s not like either of us knows where this thing is going, anyway.”

I shake my head. “Bloody Isabella,” I say. “I don’t understand why she feels the need to talk about things like that.”

“Don’t blame her,” Amanda says. “She didn’t invent the situation; she was just telling me the facts.”

“What other ‘facts’ did she tell you?”

“That your mother and father weren’t the perfect couple.”

“Who is?”

“Did you know that your mother had her virginity tested, too?”

Whoa.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s true, Dr. Sabine told me about it when she was testing me. Which, just for the record, wasn’t a hell of a lot of fun.”

“So what are you saying?”

“How do you know your parents’ marriage wasn’t arranged?” she asks. “Your dad obviously knew he needed to marry a virgin. Maybe your mom was the only one available. Just like me.”

This is starting to careen towards a cliff. I don’t want to get into a fight, but now I’m agitated.

“We don’t know that,” I say. “Besides, just because a marriage is arranged doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

“It sure seems like the odds are higher, though, wouldn’t you say? I mean, do you know of any that lasted?”

“Why are you so concerned?” I say. “You just told me neither of us knows where this is going. What difference does it make whether it lasts? You’re free in a year to get on with your life.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK. Why did I say that?

Amanda’s eyes fill with tears.

“Amanda, I didn’t mean…”

She turns and stalks off to the master suite. I wait a few beats. What should I do? In the past, whenever I’ve argued with a woman, I’ve just broken up with her. I rarely ever got to that stage in a relationship anyway.

But Amanda is different. I don’t care about being right with her, I only care about her being happy. I can’t just sit here and let this stew.

I knock on the door.

“Come in.”

I walk into the expansive suite. The walls are done in a historic fresco that a dozen universities have begged to study, but I’ve always said no. This villa is a private place that’s just for me.

Correction: for us.

Amanda is lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I lie down beside her and take her hand.

“You were right,” I say.

“About what?”

“That neither of us knows where this is going.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I want us to work. I want us to have the happily ever after that the fairytales promise.”

As she rolls over to look at me, I see tears shimmering just behind her eyes.

“You do?” she says in a small voice.

“More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.”

I clasp her hands in mine and kiss them.

“I want you to know something: ever since we ran into each other outside my office, you’re all I can think about. The moment I saw your eyes, I knew, deep down, that I was your puppet.”

Her eyes go wide. “You’re just saying that.”

I raise my hand. “Swear to God. With each passing moment I spent with you, I was hooked deeper. That time in the gardens – it was never like that with anyone else. And our wedding night was magic.”

She leans in and kisses me desperately. I grab her hair and press her even more tightly to me.

“I felt the same way,” she says when we finally part. “That’s why I acted like such a goof outside your office. I couldn’t believe I was standing in front of you.”

“Then do we agree that we both want this to work?”

“Yes,” she says. “Absolutely.”

“Good,” I say. “And as much as I want to pull off your clothes and have my way with you on this bed, your father and the children are right outside.”

We both rise and walk out of the bedroom hand in hand.

“Did you really experience all that just from looking in my eyes when we first met?” she asks, laying her head on my shoulder.

“Well,” I say. “Your wet tits had something to do with it, too.”

She giggles and punches my arm. “Good luck getting any for the rest of this trip.”

“Oh, please,” I say. “You won’t be able to make it to the end of the night, let alone the end of the trip.”

She sighs. “You’re right. I’m already thinking of a way to get Dad and the kids out of here so you can fuck me in that pool.”

“Ike! Children!” I call, my eyes lighting up. “How would you three like to go into town and get us some gelato?”

Chapter Forty-Six

45. AMANDA

“So what else did you talk about with my aunt?” Dante asks as his hands glide down my naked back on a slick coating of sunscreen.

“Nothing, really. She totally buys your playboy image, by the way.”

My mind isn’t really on the conversation. It’s on Dante’s powerful fingers, and all the places they’re going. He starts at my shoulders, kneading gently, then down my back, and finally to my ass. He lingers there, sliding his thumbs up and down, dangerously close to my slit.

“That figures,” he says. “She never spent any real time with me, even that year when she was regent before I turned twenty-one. All conversations with her are one-way.”

“I’ve noticed that,” I sigh as his hands head back up to my shoulders.

The feel of him against my skin is intoxicating, and the fact I’m lying naked outside on a lounger is making me wet already. My patience is wearing thin.

“She’s right about one thing, though,” he says.

“Yeah?” I say. “What’s that?”

“I have what you Americans call ‘mad skills’ in the playboy department.”

“We Americans also like to say ‘talk is cheap.’”

He stands up – I pout a bit as he takes his hands off me – and drops his swim shorts to the concrete pool deck. I turn my head to see his cock standing at full attention.

“I guess I’d better show you, then,” he says, kneeling beside me.

As he does, I raise myself up on all fours so that I’m eye-level with his manhood.

“Get to work,” I say.

He groans as I grab his shaft and draw it into my mouth. I do the same when his fingers finally find my pussy.

We’ve been working on this a lot over the past few days, and I’ve always been a quick learner. I work his sensitive head with my tongue as my free hand tugs at the base of his cock. He moans in appreciation.

Dante knows what I like, too: everything. He works his fingers in and out, stroking my clit while putting pressure on my G-spot with his thumb. I never knew I had one until he found it on our wedding night. Now, I want him to spend the rest of my life exploring it.

The ripples start building, getting stronger with each wave, as his fingers probe deeper inside me. Dante is such a generous lover – he wants me to get off as many times as possible before we get to the main event. He knows I’m trying to make up for lost time.

I push my groin towards his hand as my first orgasm starts. He increases the speed, adding extra fingers until I feel like I’m on fire. My breath catches in my throat as I buck my hips and ride the wave, over and over and over.

Dante said he was my puppet, but the truth is, I’m his. He can make me move and jump and squirm with the slightest touch.

I drop to my belly on the lounger, panting.

“God, you’re good,” I huff.

“See?” he says. “Skills.”

I roll over onto my back and spread my legs so that my feet are on the pool deck, opening myself wide to him. He stares at me, mouth open. I stare at him – it’s like looking at one of the statues in the palace gardens.

“What other skills do you have, baby?” I ask. “Show me.”

He leans forward and surprises me by lifting me off the lounger completely. His hands clasp my buttocks and pull me upwards until my face is level with his. As he does, I wrap my legs around his waist.

“Are you going to…?”

And then he does, lowering me onto his iron rod. I gasp at the sensation of fullness as I go lower and lower. Each time we fuck (God, I love saying fuck, it feels so good), I find myself able to take more and more of him in.

This time, I’m going for it all.

“More,” I whisper. “I want every inch of you inside me.”

He’s gentle about it, lifting me with those hydraulic arms of his as if I weighed nothing. Lift and drop, lift and drop. Each time going a bit deeper.

His hips move in time with each lift, making it a double whammy, up and down at the same time. Finally, I feel my opening brush against the hair of his groin.

“It feels like heaven,” he says.

My mouth opens for his and we wrestle our tongues, not moving down there for a while. I’m content for him just to be all the way inside me.

For a moment. But soon the need comes again, and I start to tilt my hips toward him, mashing my clit against his groin.

“Fuck me hard, Dante,” I whisper. “As hard as you can.”

Now that he has permission, he lets loose, gripping my ass and lifting me almost all the way off his cock, until only the head is left inside. Then he lowers me and raises his hips, thrusting himself all the way back in.

“Oh God,” I pant, gripping my arms around his neck for dear life.

With each thrust, he picks up speed, until I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. The pleasure is like a cloud that’s all around me, not just inside me.

As the momentum builds, I let go of my clutch around his neck and drop down until I’m at arm’s length, clasping my hands behind his neck. He tilts my ass up and towards him, so that now he’s pounding directly into my G-spot.

His speed is incredible, animalistic. Wave after wave flows over me and through me, filling me with a feeling of ecstasy. I finally manage to get my bearings after what seems like an eternity of frenetic motion.

My eyes open just in time to see Dante’s face flex into a mask of pure joy, right as I feel him go off inside me like a cannon.

We stand there, our heads against each other’s necks, breathing like the horses after a race at the Royal Ascot. My body shudders as aftershocks take over, but Dante holds me in place. We stand there a long time, him holding me tight, his cock deep inside me.

I can’t stop what comes next. I don’t want to stop, consequences be damned.

“Dante,” I whisper in his ear. “My prince. I love you.”

“Amanda,” he whispers back. “My princess. I love you, too.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

46. DANTE

It’s been three hours and it hasn’t gotten weird. That’s a good sign.

Ike and the children got back less than ten minutes after Amanda and I finished our… exercises. Barely enough time for a cooling naked swim in the pool. The five of us have been together since.

Amanda keeps sneaking glances at me and smiling. I smile back. It’s like we’re teenagers.

Was it too soon? We’ve known each other less than a month. But stranger things have happened, surely. Such as getting married to fulfill a ridiculous decree.

It was the only time I’ve ever said those words to a woman. I assume it was the first time for Amanda. We didn’t really talk about it after.

“Uncle,” Oriana calls from the pool. “Did you know that cowboys were tougher than Roman soldiers?”

“Is that right?” I say, cocking an eyebrow at Ike. He gives me a sheepish grin.

“Because they had guns,” says Vito. “Roman soldiers only had swords.”

“Well, that makes perfect sense,” I say.

Amanda giggles. “You need to stop taking history lessons from my father.”

“Can we call Ike something different?” Oriana asks. “Ike doesn’t sound right.”

Ike wags a finger at her. “Watch it, kid, that’s my name you’re talkin’ about.”

“What would you like to call him?” asks Amanda.

“I don’t know,” says Vito. “What do you think we should call you?”

“Don’t matter to me,” Ike says. “Just don’t call me late for supper.”

Amanda glances at him. “Doesn’t look like that’s been happening much, lately,” she says with a grin.

“Brat,” he grumbles. “Try’n raise a kid right, whaddaya get?”

“Can we call you nonno?” asks Oriana.

Amanda and I share a smile.

“No-no?” Ike says. “What kinda name is that?”

“Not no-no,” I say. “Nonno.”

Amanda places a hand on his.

“It’s Italian for grandfather, Dad.”

Ike looks around at us, stunned, as the children grin widely. This is where the marshmallow peeks out from under that leather exterior.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “I suppose that’d be all right.”

“Yay!” they cry in unison.

I move over to where Ike is sitting and place a hand on his shoulder.

“They’ve never had someone like you in their lives,” I say. “You and Amanda are always there for them, listening to them, playing with them. So many of the people around them tell them what to do, how to act. You simply want to be with them.”

Amanda and I exchange another look. Her eyes glimmer as they catch the setting sun.

I could look into them for the rest of my life and never get tired of it.

“Well, I do it ‘cause I love it, not ‘cause I have to,” he says. “And as long as they’ll have me around, I’ll be around for ‘em.”

He turns to the children. “’Cept when they rat me out to their uncle and Amanda about cowboys and Roman soldiers!”

He leaps into the air from the edge of the pool and drops into the water like a boulder, splashing water everywhere.

As they play, Amanda sidles up next to me and takes my hand.

“You may not realize it, but that’s one of the most important moments of my dad’s life,” she says.

“I do realize it. And it’s kind of fitting, don’t you think? After all, you and I had a pretty important moment earlier.”

She lays her head on my shoulder. “Yeah, we did.”

“Do you feel better about the future now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise to take everything Isabella says with – what did Ike call it? A salt lick? – from now on?”

She laughs. “Yes, I do.”

“Good.”

“Besides, we’ve got real things to worry about,” she says.

“Like what? Princesses don’t have to worry about things, especially not my princess. Haven’t you ever seen a Disney movie?”

“It’s funny you say that,” she says. “Because Chancellor Huber looks like the bad guy from one of those movies.”

I shake my head. “Huber is a paper tiger. You said it yourself, the people love us, and it’s the people who count.”

“I get the feeling that most of those people are younger, though,” she says. “I hate to say it, but historically, those are the people least likely to vote. I don’t think a referendum would be a slam dunk for us.”

“It would be a lot easier if someone would go on camera and tell the real reason why the councils want the monarchy gone,” I say. “They want to take over my family fortune. It’s essentially state-sanctioned embezzlement.”

She grabs my mouth between her fingers and squeezes, turning my face into a fish mouth.

“Look at that face,” she says in baby talk. “Who could steal from a face like that?”

“Somebody tryin’ to steal from you, son?” Ike asks, toweling himself off.

“It’s just politics, Dad,” Amanda smiles. “Nothing to be concerned about.”

“My neighbor Lloyd Thompson had to deal with some rustling a while back. We all knew who it was, so we got together and had a little chat with ‘im outside the bar in Shelby. Fist-to-face conversation, if you get what I mean. Them cows were back in Lloyd’s pasture two mornings later. Just showed up outta nowhere.”

I seriously consider sending Ike to talk to Huber for a full ten seconds before dismissing the idea.

“It really is nothing to worry about,” I say, pulling Amanda onto my lap. “I’d rather focus all my attention on making this lady happy.”

“What about us?” Vito asks as they arrive, dripping from the pool.

“You’re already happy,” I say. “Right?”

They grin.

“No,” says Oriana.

“No,” says Vito.

“Whassat?” Ike pipes up. “Someone callin’ me?”

He picks them up as they squeal in protest.

“No! No!”

“That’s me!” he cries, jumping back into the pool with the two of them. “Nonno!”

Amanda and I giggle uncontrollably as the three of them wreak holy havoc in the pool.

She leans close to my ear.

“Are we really going to make it?” she whispers.

“I think we are,” I say. “I really do.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

47. AMANDA

“Do we really have to do this?” I ask Maria, blowing my hair out of my eyes.

I’ve been staring at books of fabric swatches and paint colors and accessories for what seems like a month now, but in reality it’s been less than a week.

“It’s expected,” she says. “When royals begin to live together, it’s tradition for the new wife to leave her mark on their living quarters. And in your case, it’s one more step towards solidifying your relationship with Dante in the eyes of the people.”

I wince. “So it’s pretty much a given that Renaldo will have his people ‘leaking’ secrets about my decorating choices to the media?”

“It’s a reality of life for royals,” she says. “Everything you do is in the public eye.”

“Everything?” I say, arching an eyebrow.

She smiles. “In this day and age, I wouldn’t put it past them to have a hidden camera in your bedroom.”

“Don’t say that!” I giggle nervously. “I’m paranoid enough as it is.”

“Welcome to life at the Morovan palace,” she shrugs. “This is the reason the Trentinis pay their staff so well and tend to hire generations of the same families. Privacy is of the utmost importance.”

I sigh. Dante’s – our – apartments really are too masculine. Gothic, almost. I get the sense he had it decorated in the aftermath of his sister’s death and hasn’t changed anything in the ten years since. So I guess it’s time to turn a new page.

“Can we put this away for a little while and talk about something enjoyable for a change?” I ask.

“You’re the princess, Amanda. You tell me what to do, not the other way around.”

I grin. “Uh-huh. And then you give me that look that says ‘do you really think that’s a good idea?’ and we end up doing what you think we should do.”

“My secret is out,” she says with a laugh. “I always said you were sharp. I can only beg you not to tell Dante about my technique.”

She takes a seat next to me at the table, pushing the sample books away and folding her arms in the space she’s cleared.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“I’d really like to start planning a visit to Montana,” I say. “I haven’t been home in so long. And I can’t wait for Dante and the twins to see the ranch. I think they’re excited about it, too.”

“May I offer some advice first?”

“Of course.”

“Whenever you use the word ‘home’ now, you should make sure you’re referring only to Morova,” she says. “It’s a small distinction, but one the people will pick up on. In their eyes, you belong to them now. You are Morovan now, after all. Marrying Dante has made you a naturalized citizen.”

I’d never thought of that. Another thing to add to the pile of things I need to get used to. My romance with Dante has seemed so unreal at times, it’s easy to lose track of the very protocols that are my field of study.

When I’m in his arms and in our bed, it’s easy to lose track of everything.

“You’re right,” I say. “Okay, let’s talk about planning a trip to my family ranch. Better?”

“Perfect.”

“Dad got back a couple of days ago, and there are some things he has to take care of, but he should be ready for us in a week or so. Do you think that’s doable?”

Maria opens her ever-present iPad and pulls up a calendar. After a quick scan, she smiles.

“Luckily, the height of summer is low season for social events,” she says. “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Dante and I have talked about keeping the visit low-key. We want to make sure the kids have a chance just to enjoy themselves while we’re there.”

“Of course. Now, what metropolitan center is closest to your father’s home?”

Metropolitan center? In Montana?

“Well, there’s Billings,” I say. “And Missoula. They’re both about 100,000 population. Great Falls and Shelby are closer but smaller. Why do you ask?”

“For accommodations. That long a drive won’t be ideal, but I suppose we could rent a helicopter to speed things along.”

I tilt my head. “I’m not sure I understand – we’ll stay at the ranch. The house has three bedrooms. The kids can share one.”

Maria looks as if I’m speaking Chinese to her.

“I meant the staff,” she says. “They’ll need somewhere to stay.”

“Staff? What are you talking about?”

“The royal family travels with secretaries, valets, drivers, security. A dozen in all, at least.”

This is insane. Why on earth would we need a dozen people to fly somewhere for a visit?

“Okay,” I say, putting up my hands. “We need to talk about this stuff. I really don’t think – ”

At that moment, Carlo appears in the doorway of our chambers, agitated and huffing from exertion. I’ve never seen him any less than fully composed. What in the world is going on?

“Carlo, are you all right?” I ask, rising to take him by the arm and lead him to the sofa.

“I’m afraid not, Your Highness,” he pants. “I ran here from my office – neither of you were answering your phones.”

“We have them muted. What’s the emergency?” My stomach suddenly drops. “Is it the children? Dante? Has something happened?”

He runs a big hand through his hair. Seeing him in a state like this has goosebumps rising on my arms.

“Something has indeed happened,” he says. “But not what you think. Maria, please turn the television to 4Roma.”

She snaps up the remote and turns on the TV. After a few clicks, we’re looking at something on the screen that stops my heart cold.

It’s a still photo of a blonde with her face digitally blurred, lying in a bed, holding a camera in a selfie pose. She’s naked, her body blurred like her face.

Next to her in the bed is Dante, asleep, his arm under her head.

Maria looks at me, eyes wide. My shock must show on my face because she rushes to my side and wraps an arm around my shoulder.

“Steady,” she says. “Don’t panic. I’m sure this isn’t what it appears to be.”

“They’re saying the photos are from the prince’s bachelor party in Ibiza,” says Carlo. “I’ve been trying to track down Emilio to talk about this, but he’s nowhere to be found.”

On the TV, Lorenzo Ricci sits behind the anchor desk with a scowl. The photo of Dante and the woman shrinks to the screen behind him.

“For those just joining us, you’re looking at photos from Prince Dante’s bachelor party less than three weeks ago,” he says sternly. “Yes, you heard that right. The prince in bed with a woman who is most definitely not Amanda Sparks, just days before their so-called storybook wedding.”

My mouth is dry. I feel like I’ve been cruising down the highway at sixty miles an hour and accidentally shifted from fifth gear to reverse.

“We received these photos from an impeccable source and have independently confirmed that they are real and were taken the night of the twenty-sixth,” says Ricci. “The revelation comes as no shock to this reporter. I have said for years that Dante is not the man to lead the Morovan monarchy, and this simply adds to the mounting pile of evidence.

“It is absolutely clear that the royal marriage is simply hasty window dressing to keep the councils from taking direct control of the Trentini fortune for the good of the nation.”

Maria shakes a fist at the screen.

“Bastardo!” she barks. “He calls himself a journalist! He’s nothing but a rumor monger!”

“I don’t know,” I say through numb lips. “Looks pretty authentic to me.”

“Your Highness,” Carlo says, taking me by the shoulders. “I’ve known the prince his entire life. I don’t pretend to understand the circumstances of these photos, but I can say one thing with utter certainty: I’ve never seen him as happy as he’s been since you arrived at the palace.”

“Carlo is right,” says Maria, taking my hand. “Dante is a new man.”

I don’t know what to think. Carlo and Maria are my friends, but they’re also on Dante’s payroll. They claim to know him, but neither of them is disputing that the photos show him in the arms of another woman.

And do I have the right to be outraged? Or even surprised? Our marriage was laid out in black and white as a contract. Nowhere did it say that Dante had to be faithful to me.

My guts are twisting inside me. Was I blinded by naïve hope? I was a convenient virgin who happened to be in the right place at the right time – no one said I was anything more than that.

Except Dante told me he loved me. Why would he do that if he didn’t really feel that way?

“I can’t watch this anymore,” I say, wiping tears away with my palm. “I need to be alone. Leave, please.”

Maria and Carlo exchange a nervous glance.

“Please don’t worry, ma’am,” says Carlo. “I’ll be sure to send Dante here as soon as we manage to get in touch with him. There must be an explanation.”

“Fine,” I say absently, showing them the door. “I’ll wait for him here.”

They look at me uncomfortably as they file past. I close the door behind them and drop to the sofa.

Great, racking sobs shake my body to the core as I see my whole world falling apart.

Chapter Forty-Nine

48. DANTE

This can’t be happening. It can’t.

Maria’s glare is unmistakable as she clicks off the screen in her office.

“I’m trying very hard not to jump to conclusions,” she says, eyebrow arched. “So please tell me what’s going on here.”

“Has Amanda seen this?” I ask, panic creeping into my guts.

“Yes,” she says. “You could have watched it together, but no one could get in touch with you.”

God damn it. I turned my phone off while I was in the gym – when I came out, there were a dozen urgent messages from Maria and Carlo.

“She must be beside herself,” I say. “I have to talk to her.”

Maria holds up a hand to stop me.

“Talk to me first,” she says. “Tell me what’s happening in those photos.”

“I don’t know!” I shout. “We were drinking, I went to bed, and I woke up with a terrible hangover that lasted for days.”

Her face slumps. “So it could be real,” she says. “You were too drunk to remember.”

Bile rises in my throat at the accusation.

“You know me, Maria,” I say. “I wouldn’t do something like this, that would hurt Amanda. I’m not like that.”

“Your playboy image may have been exaggerated by Renaldo’s crew, but it’s still based in reality. Are you telling me that you’ve never woken up with a woman in your bed before? One that ended up there in the course of a night of drinking?”

My stomach sinks. I can’t honestly say that. I’ve done my share of partying, slept with more than my share of women. Giselle Ranette was one of many, many mistakes I’ve made in my life.

But none since Amanda walked into my life. Those eyes caught me like a fishing hook the moment we met, and they’ve held me fast ever since.

“I’m not going to justify my past to you, Maria,” I say, more angrily than I intended. “I don’t know what’s going on in these photos, but whatever it is, I know I wasn’t consciously aware of it.”

She rolls her eyes. “That will go over well with Lorenzo Ricci, I’m sure. ‘I wasn’t aware.’ How many sleazy politicians have we heard that from over the decades?”

“Look,” I snap. “I recognize the woman from earlier in the party. I said something… unflattering to her and a friend of hers at the party. Maybe this is some kind of revenge for her. With the hangover I suffered, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’d put a date rape drug in my drink.”

“Destroying a prince over an insult?” she says. “Really, Dante?”

“I don’t know!” I bark, striding to the door. “All I do know is I need to talk to Amanda.”

“I don’t think she’s in the mood,” Maria says. “As you can probably imagine.”

I storm out of her office and stalk towards the quarters I share with Amanda. She has to listen to me! We can’t have made it this far to have it fall apart now over something so stupid! I need her to listen.

My stomach is roiling with acid. I don’t know if I’ve ever been this upset as an adult, outside of learning of the deaths of Adriana and Albert, and discovering I was now the twins’ guardian. My life has been defined by tragedy, and the moment I find a glimmer of hope for happiness, this comes out of nowhere to blindside me.

I reach our quarters and gingerly open the door. Amanda is sitting on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, staring at the wall.

“Amanda?” I say softly. “May I come in?”

“It’s your palace,” she shrugs, not looking at me. “You can do what you want.”

I close the door behind me. “It’s our palace,” I say. “Yours and mine.”

“I don’t remember reading anything about that in the contract. It specifically said five million dollars for a year of marriage.”

The muscles in my neck and shoulders are stiff with tension as I sit next to her. This is a nightmare.

“It’s a mistake,” I say. “I don’t know what happened with that woman, but whatever it was, I wasn’t conscious when it was going on.”

That didn’t sound at all the way I wanted it to.

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” she says quietly. “All you owed me was enough money to help save my family ranch from foreclosure. You’ve fulfilled that part of the bargain, I’m going to fulfill mine.”

I reach out to take her hand, but she pulls away. She still hasn’t looked me in the eye.

“The night those photos were taken,” she says. “That was the same night you told my father that the ‘bride price’ was twenty-five million, not five million.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do that?”

I frown. “Because I didn’t believe five million dollars was enough to compensate you for what you would have to go through as my wife.”

“I never thought I’d have to go through something like this,” she says. It hits me like an arrow in the chest.

“Amanda – ”

“Tell me one thing,” she says. “Did you do it to make sure I wouldn’t talk? Is that why you upped the money? Because you knew what you’d be doing later in the evening?”

I reach out and take her by the shoulders, turning her to face me.

“Absolutely not,” I say gravely. “I did it for you. And because your father deserved it. He’s the most honorable man I know.”

“I doubt he feels the same way about you today. The story will be all over the morning news in Montana by now.”

Jesus, I never even thought of that. And the twins! This mess is snowballing out of control.

“Amanda, I swear to you: those photos are staged. Someone is trying to hurt me.”

“Who?” she asks. “What motive would they have?”

“The councils want me out! For all I know, Huber planted that woman at the party specifically to blackmail me.”

She sighs and looks down at her hands for a long time. The thought that anything I’ve done has made her feel this way makes my soul crack. I have to make it right. If I don’t, I fear I may go insane.

“I wasn’t there, and you can’t prove anything about that night, one way or the other,” she says. “My father raised me to take people at their word. I won’t ask you any more about it.”

That’s a far cry from saying she believes me and that she’ll stand beside me through this. But she’s right – I don’t have any evidence about anything that night. I have to make her understand that I’d never deliberately do anything to hurt her.

She raises those ghostly blue eyes to mine, and the sadness I see in them almost destroys me.

“What are you going to tell the children?” she asks.

“The truth: that someone is trying to blackmail me.”

“Do you think they’ll understand that?”

“I hope so. I need to talk to your father, too. He was there, I’m sure he’ll believe me.”

She bites her lip. “That’ll be cold comfort when he has to explain it to his buddies at the cattle auction.”

“That’s not up to him,” I say. “It’s up to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going on Morova Morning tomorrow to talk directly to Lorenzo Ricci This is a deliberate attack against us, and I’m not going to take it lying down.”

Chapter Fifty

49. AMANDA

“Ricci’s grin is so smug I just want to slap it right off his face,” I say as the show begins.

Maria, Carlo, Isabella and I are in Maria’s office to watch the broadcast. It didn’t take much to convince the show’s producers to run a live interview with Dante this morning. Now I have every finger and toe crossed that he can resolve this mess.

Somehow, though, I doubt it.

“Renaldo coached Dante about how to approach the interview,” Maria says from her desk. “He’s the best in the business. I’m sure Dante is ready for Ricci.”

I’m still in turmoil over this whole thing. The twins took the news fairly well, all things considered. I guess they’re used to seeing their uncle’s face in the headlines and having less-than-flattering things said about him.

We put up a good front for them, acting like nothing had changed between us. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I won’t let them see that.

“Dante has the moral high ground,” says Isabella, sipping her cappuccino. “I’m sure he has nothing to worry about. Assuming he’s telling us the truth, of course.”

Sometimes I wish she would get a permanent case of laryngitis. But she’s not wrong. I wish with everything in me that I could trust Dante. And for the sake of the kids, I have to at least act like I do. I have to do everything in my power to keep them from being hurt by any of this.

But deep down – I just don’t know.

The show comes back from the morning news anchor and the camera lands on Ricci.

“Welcome back,” he says through the screen. “Our guest this morning needs no introduction, of course. Prince Dante Trentini has been the monarch of our great nation for the past nine years, ever since taking the mantle at the age of twenty-one, following the deaths of both his parents and his sister, Princess Adriana, and her husband Albert, Duke of Stresa. He is also the guardian of Adriana and Albert’s twin children.”

He turns to face Dante. “Your Highness,” he says. “Good morning.”

Dante nods. “Lorenzo.”

“He looks angry,” I say, alarmed. “Should he be doing that?”

“It’s Renaldo’s idea,” says Carlo. “He said the prince shouldn’t try to put on an act this time. His genuine anger and outrage should be on display in order to get the Morovan people on his side. It’s risky, in my opinion, but it’s the path the prince has chosen.”

Ricci continues the interview.

“You’ve asked to be here to tell your side of the story,” he says. “And in the interests of journalistic fairness, here you are.”

“It’s interesting that you use the word ‘fairness,’” Dante says. His voice is ice. I’ve never seen him like this before.

“Why do you say that, sir?”

“No one on your staff bothered to get in touch with the palace to discuss these allegations before you went live with them yesterday.”

“You’re saying you would have denied your involvement with the woman in the photos during your bachelor party?” he asks. It’s more a statement than a question.

Dante’s lips curls.

“I would have told you the truth: I have no memory of anyone taking those photos, which means someone slipped a drug into my drink that night and set up the photos to blackmail me.”

Ricci looks at the camera, eyebrows raised. Smug little shit…

“You don’t think that’s a bit much for the Morovan people to believe?”

“I think it’s the truth, and I trust the people to believe the truth. And I can’t help but wonder why you haven’t named the person who gave you those photos.”

“A good reporter doesn’t name his sources,” Ricci says, tapping the legal pad in his lap with his pen. “Let’s talk more about the truth, since you bring it up. You want the public to believe that you and Amanda Sparks – an American commoner – met, fell in love and absolutely couldn’t wait to get married. All in the space of two weeks.”

What did Maria call this guy? Bastardo? I like that word. It suits him to a T.

“Again, I trust the people to believe the truth,” Dante says.

“And it’s not a ploy to fool the people into believing that you’ve changed your ways? An attempt, perhaps, to quell the many rumors that swirl around you? The ones that form the basis for Chancellor Huber’s campaign to call for a referendum on the monarchy?”

“Those rumors are exactly that: rumors. Amanda and I are in love, and we’re very happy. Or we were until this nonsense hit the airwaves yesterday.”

“And your marriage was totally spontaneous?”

Uh-oh. My stomach drops. Tread carefully, Dante.

“It was… unexpected, yes. I never thought I could fall in love with anyone, let alone someone I just met. But fate had other plans for me. I can’t help but believe there was divine intervention of some sort.”

Ricci’s fingers are tented under his chin in thought.

“Divine intervention,” he says. “Tell me, Your Highness: does this divine intervention extend to other members of the family? Say, to your new father-in-law?”

Oh, shit. No. Please, no.

Dante’s eyes narrow. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a money transfer in the sum of more than two million euros to the bank account of Isaac Sparks, Amanda’s father, the morning of the wedding.”

“Why, you little cocksucker,” Carlo mutters.

We all stop and gape at him, shocked.

“I’m sorry,” he grumbles. “I’m angry.”

“It was a gift,” Dante says hesitantly. “From my personal fortune.”

“And you just gave it to him out of the goodness of your heart?”

Dante leans forward in his chair and levels a finger at Ricci’s nose.

“I have every right to give my money to whomever I choose, for whatever reason I choose,” he says in a warning tone. “That money is to help my father-in-law with expenses and to enable him to live a lifestyle that more closely aligns with his daughter’s new life in Morova.”

“What is this about a payout?” Isabella asks. “That sounds awfully suspicious to me. No wonder they’re looking into him.”

“Your Highness, was Mr. Sparks in attendance at your bachelor party, the night these photos were taken?” Ricci asks.

“Renaldo, you dumb ass,” Maria breathes. “It’s starting to turn into a trial. This was a bad idea…”

“Yes,” Dante says. “Why?”

“According to my sources, you arranged to give him a cash payout – ten, in fact, over ten years, totaling more than twenty million euros – during that party.”

Dante is silent for several moments. “Yes,” he says finally.

“And it didn’t have anything to do with Mr. Sparks perhaps witnessing something he shouldn’t have during that party? A tryst with the woman in the photos, maybe?”

I put my face in my hands. This is a nightmare.

“That can’t possibly be good,” says Isabella.

Dante’s eyes are flashing with anger now.

“Listen to me, Lorenzo,” he says. “Ike Sparks has more integrity in his little finger than you do in your entire body. To suggest that he would accept money to stay quiet while his soon-to-be son-in-law cheats on his daughter is despicable.”

Ricci sits back in his chair with a smug grin.

“I’m just saying it’s very convenient, in light of these photographs.”

“And I’m saying that I’ve had enough of you drawing conclusions about my personal life based on scandalous rumors.”

“I just want answers for your subjects,” Ricci shrugs.

“No, you don’t,” Dante seethes. “You want ratings for your show. But I’ll give you the answer you’ve been looking for right now.”

Don’t do it, Dante. Please don’t do it.

He does it: he flips his middle finger to the host, yanks off his microphone and storms off the stage.

Ricci’s grin gets even wider. Meanwhile, gasps from the stage crew can be heard in the background.

“There you have it, Morova,” Ricci says to the camera. “Is this the man we want at the helm of our monarchy? The man we want in charge of the Trentini billions?”

He leans closer, as if confiding a secret to his viewers.

“I think we all know the answer to that, don’t you?”

Maria clicks off the television and pitches the remote into a corner, where it smashes against the stone wall.

Isabella glowers at us.

“I must say, this all looks very bad,” she says. “I don’t know what Dante is trying to hide, but acting like that was certainly not the way to deal with it. I wish he’d listened to Emilio more when he was growing up, I really do.”

None of us knows what to say. When Dante and I talked yesterday, I honestly didn’t know how things could get any worse. And yet here we are, exponentially farther into shit creek than we were twenty-four hours ago.

“This could be the fodder Chancellor Huber has been looking for to trigger a referendum.” Carlo says. “It’s hard to see the public reacting well to that display. Justified or not, the prince came off as irresponsible at best, and irrational at worst.”

Isabella gets up and straightens her outfit before heading to the door.

“I just hope you all can help Dante deal with this,” she says. “Before the rest of us pay the consequences for his actions.”

As she disappears into the hallway, Carlo turns to Maria and me.

“As much as I hate to agree with the duchess, I’m afraid I must. We have to prepare for the very real possibility of a referendum. If that happens, this entire plan may have been for nothing.”

Right now, I can’t even bring myself to think about that part of it. Right now, I’m trying to figure out why Dante seemed so defensive on the show. Could any of it be true? Could he be trying to hide something? He never did give me a proper answer about upping my father’s payment.

No. I can’t believe Dad would be involved in something like that. But does that mean something else is going on?

Carlo excuses himself to return to his office, leaving me alone with Maria.

“I need you to be completely honest with me,” I say to her.

“Of course.”

“Do you think Dante is telling the truth? That it’s all a frame-up to trigger the referendum?”

“It’s the only logical explanation,” she says.

“No,” I point out. “It’s not the only explanation. There’s one more.”

She looks down at the floor. “That he’s lying.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I don’t believe he is. After all these years, I believe I know his character. He’s not capable of hurting someone like that.”

“But you can’t prove it.”

“No, I can’t,” she says. “But I choose to believe him. The question is: do you?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t known him as long as you have.”

“But you do know him,” she says. “You know his heart. I think all he’s asking from you right now is for some faith.”

She’s right.

But I just don’t know if I have any to give.

Chapter Fifty-One

50. DANTE

“All right, you have to be fucking with me,” I say. At least I don’t yell it this time. “There’s no other explanation.”

“If only that were the case, sir,” Carlo says. “It would make more sense.”

“I don’t understand how this could happen,” Amanda says. “How can they possibly have a referendum in three weeks?”

“It’s actually fairly easy,” says Maria. “Since the population is so small and centrally located – Morova is essentially just a city, after all – it’s easy to have everyone come out to vote. Our elections are incredibly smooth.”

“I thought they would argue about the question for months,” I say. “They’re proposing a historic, fundamental change in the country’s government.”

“That’s just it, sir,” says Carlo. “It’s not that significant a change.”

“Dismantling the monarchy and stealing my fortune isn’t a significant change?”

“They will be asking the people to leave the monarchy in place,” he says. “I’ve had a chance to look at the question they’ve agreed upon.”

Amanda and I look at each other.

“That doesn’t make sense,” she says. “What’s the point of the referendum if not to abolish the monarchy?”

“The question is not about whether to have a monarch,” Carlo says. “But rather who that monarch should be.”

Wait a minute. I think I’m starting to see where this is going. And if I’m right, I may be sick to my stomach.

“They’re trying to replace me with someone else,” I say. “Someone they can control.”

Carlo nods. “So it would seem, sir.”

“But who would that be?” Amanda asks.

Maria’s eyes widen. “You’re not talking about…”

“Of course he is,” says a familiar voice from the doorway. “Emilio’s name will be the one on the referendum.”

We turn to see Isabella standing there, hands on her hips.

“I’ve had a discussion with the chancellor,” she says. “Neither of us wants to see the monarchy fall as a result of your mistakes, Dante. So he suggested that the people be allowed to choose their leader based on merit – so much more civilized than having to put up with someone who simply inherited the title.”

She’s had a discussion with Huber? She’s making suggestions about how to word a referendum designed to take my title and my family fortune away from me?

“Who the hell do you think you are?” I roar. “The monarchy is mine by right, Isabella. Not Emilio’s. Certainly not yours. I haven’t even seen Emilio in over a week!”

“He left to distance himself from your scandal,” she says with a cold glare. “He told me about the virgin decree, Dante. I know your marriage is nothing more than an arrangement so you can hold onto power.”

That bastard. I thought I could trust Emilio! He’s been like a brother to me!

“Although I really should have figured it out myself,” Isabella says. “Falling overnight for an American farm girl. I mean, really. The signs were all there. She was obviously the first virgin you could find.”

Amanda looks totally flummoxed. She opens her mouth to speak, but I cut her off.

“You’re insane,” I say. “There’s no such thing as a virgin decree. And leave Amanda out of this. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

Isabella shakes her head. “The Americans do have one wise saying, Dante: don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Now that I know about the virgin decree, I realize It’s the reason your father married my sister. It explains so much about their relationship.”

So my parents did know about the decree. But – that means they were an arranged marriage? I never knew. God, does any royal ever marry for love?

“It’s all just so sordid,” she says. “And ridiculous. It’s time the people of this principality took control over their destiny, instead of leaving it to the whims of spoiled people who don’t understand the burden of power.”

I open my mouth to speak, but this time it’s Amanda who cuts me off.

“About time they took control of the Trentini money, you mean. That’s what this is about – it has nothing to do with what Dante has or hasn’t done.”

“Darling, please don’t talk,” Isabella sighs. “We don’t need to hear the opinions of some ignorant American. This is Morovan business.”

That’s it. No more of this.

“You will not speak to the princess that way,” I growl. “And I want you out of the palace in twenty minutes, or I’ll have Marco and his staff arrest you for trespassing.”

Her eyes flash with cold fury.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses.

I lean forward and grin. “Try me, bitch.”

That’s enough to send her storming out of the room.

The adrenaline ebbs out of me now that the confrontation is over, but the anger remains.

“I can’t believe she’s done this,” I say. “It’s an outrage.”

“Yes,” says Carlo, who, along with Maria, has remained silent. “But it’s also a brilliant play. It takes full advantage of the Morovan people’s reluctance to abolish the monarchy, while allowing her to gain a foothold on power.”

Amanda folds her arms over her chest, frowning. “Not that long ago, they would have called this a coup. And Isabella’s head would have been in a guillotine.”

“Unfortunately,” Maria says, “we don’t have that option. The referendum is going to happen. All we can do is pray that the people believe in Dante enough to keep him. If not, we’re all going to have a lot of change to deal with. Carlo and I will be looking for jobs –”

“And Dante and I will be looking for new lives,” Amanda finishes.

We all stand silent for several moments as it sinks in. This could be a turning point in all our lives. What if they vote against me? What would it mean for me? For Amanda?

For the children?

Carlo says: “On the bright side, we have three weeks to try and win the popular vote. All is not lost.”

“Right,” says Maria. “You can count on us to pull out every trick we know, call in every favor to make this work.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I know that if there’s anyone who can pull it off, it’s you two. Don’t let it go to your heads, but you’re the smartest people I know.”

They say their goodbyes and head back to their respective offices.

“I guess I should go, too,” Amanda says.

“Wait, please,” I say, taking her hand. “Can we talk first?”

“What’s left to talk about?” she asks. “Seems like things are pretty much out of our hands now. Our future is in the hands of the voters.”

“No,” I say. “The future of the monarchy is in the hands of the voters. Our fate is entirely up to us.”

She looks me in the eye but says nothing.

“I miss being with you,” I say. “I know we still live in the same quarters, but things haven’t been the same since the photos surfaced.”

“I’ll stay with you as long as I need to if it means protecting the children,” she says.

“I know that, and I can’t thank you enough for it. But I want to get back to where we were before all this happened. Where we were in Rome.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Do you believe that I was set up with those photos?”

She sighs. “I do. I don’t know what happened, but I know that you wouldn’t have deliberately hurt me.”

“Then there’s hope for us,” I say, squeezing her hand.

“You heard Isabella,” she says, shaking her head. “Is there hope for any royal couple? Your parents got together the same way we did. Even if everything works out with the referendum, is Vito going to be doomed to marry a woman the same way?

“And what about Oriana? She’s going to be second fiddle to him for the rest of her life, just because the male is automatically the heir. Is that the kind of life you want for her?”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe I’m saying the best thing that could happen would be to have Emilio win and take your place. At least then, we might have a shot at a normal life.”

Is she right? I don’t know any other kind of life than this. Could I leave it all behind?

More importantly, could I leave this nation – my nation – in the hands of Isabella?

“I don’t think I can do that,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

She walks to the door and turns back to face me.

“I’m sorry, too, Dante. I really am.”

As I watch her walk out the door, I feel an emptiness in my core that threatens to swallow me whole.

Chapter Fifty-Two

51. DANTE

“Dante?” Ike blinks like an owl, as if he can’t believe I’m actually standing in his doorway. “What in the name of Sam Hill are you doin’ here?”

“I’m trying to stay upright,” I say, swaying on my feet. “I’m exhausted.”

Ike shakes off his confusion and brings me into the house. It’s a well-kept home, about the size of a sleeping cabin for my family hunting lodge in the Alps. Except there, you won’t hear cattle mooing softly in the distance.

You won’t smell them, either. Phew.

“How’d you get here?” he asks, pointing me to a chair in the quaint little living room. “I didn’t hear no helicopter landing.”

“That’s because I didn’t use one,” I say. The soft leather chair is a godsend after my journey.

“Then how’d you get here?”

“I took the Falcon to Amsterdam, then caught a coach flight on United Airways to Calgary. I rented a car there and drove south across the Canadian border until I got here.”

“Holy shit,” he says, eyes wide. “You flew coach? From Holland?”

“Yes,” I say. “It was… an experience. The food was… edible, I suppose. At least no one recognized me.”

“And then you drove all the way here from Calgary? That’s a four-hour drive!”

“I know,” I say. “I was there. I could drive three-quarters of the way through Italy in that time. But here, there were times when I wondered if I was actually moving, because the landscape never changed. I actually went for ten full minutes without seeing another vehicle on the road.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, that one’s not exactly a scenic drive. Gotta go west to the Rockies for that. Going south across the prairies, all you get to see is miles n’ miles of miles n’ miles.”

“But I made it,” I say. “Finally.”

“Which leads me to the question: boy, what in the fuck are you doin’ here?”

I wish I knew the answer to that. I only told Carlo that I was leaving (and Marco, but only to let him know that he couldn’t come with me), but I never told him why. He didn’t ask, God bless him, and said he’d tell the others that I was trying to clear my head and would be back in a couple of days.

“I wanted to see you face to face,” I say finally. “To tell you that I would never have done anything to hurt Amanda.”

“I know that, son.”

He does?

“You do?”

“’Course I do,” he says, pulling up a chair from the kitchen and taking a seat. “I was there with you that night at your bachelor party, remember? You were barely able to stand, let alone – you know, do anything else.”

I nod. “I’m almost positive that someone drugged me. Those photos were taken so that Chancellor Huber would have ammunition to call a referendum.”

“Amanda was tellin’ me all about it on Skype,” he says. “That’s messed up. But listen: I didn’t need to see you that night to know you ain’t that kind of man.”

“But how did you know?”

He shrugs. “I’m a good judge o’ character. You have to be when you live out in the boonies like I do. You need to know right away who you can count on and who you can’t. It’s how rural folks survive, ‘cause we all need a favor from each other at some point.”

He says it so simply, but the message is profound. The people here learn to trust each other because they have no choice. In my world, people learn to expect knives in their backs because that’s what they so often get.

Isabella was a perfect example of it. No one has seen her in the weeks since I sent her away from the palace, but I know we’ll see her at the referendum in two days.

“I don’t know what to do, Ike,” I say, dropping my head into my hands. “I worry that Amanda will never fully trust me, if only because of the ridiculous way we got together.”

“Whaddaya mean, ridiculous?”

I freeze for a moment, suddenly realizing what I’ve said. He doesn’t know. He spent so much time with us, I forgot he was never in on the joke.

Should I tell him? The longer this charade goes on, the sicker I get of keeping secrets.

“Ike,” I sigh. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

* * *

He stares at me for a full minute after I finish telling him the story. Long enough for me to wonder if he’s choosing which shotgun he’s going to pull down from the rack on the wall and use on me.

“Are you tellin’ me my daughter is in an arranged marriage?”

“No!” I say. “Well, sort of, but not really. It started out as a marriage of convenience, yes, but Ike, I love Amanda.”

“Well, that much I know,” he grumbles.

He does?

“How?” I ask.

“I can see it in the way you look at her, stupid. Trust me, if I hadn’t seen that the first time I met you, I woulda taken you aside and had some words with you, face to fist.”

Part of me wants to laugh out loud. The rest of me wonders if there are any bodies buried here on the ranch.

“I gotta say, son, that is one fucked up situation you’re bringin’ me.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“You’re askin’ me?” His eyes go wide – well, as wide as they can. “What the hell do I know about that kinda shit?”

“You’re possibly the wisest person I know,” I say.

“Well then, you need to meet more people,” he says.

He walks into the kitchen and returns with two open bottles of Budweiser.

“I always think better with a cold one,” he says. “All right, so when the rubber hits the road, what’re your options?”

“I can fight for a ‘no’ vote on the referendum and hope it goes my way.”

“And the other?”

“I can concede the monarchy to my cousin and avoid the referendum altogether.”

He takes a pull off his beer and scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“What happens with that? He takes over runnin’ things?”

“It’s complicated, but essentially, yes. The government will have more control over the Trentini billions, though, and can use the fortune as they see fit. All they need is Emilio’s signature, which I’m sure Isabella will be more than happy to provide.”

He scowls. “I know she’s your aunt ‘n’ all, but that bitch is a piece of work.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“So let’s say that happens – are you broke, then?”

“No, it’s virtually impossible for me to be broke. I have land, investments, art. I’ll always be wealthy, just not at the level I am now.”

“So why bust your hump? Who gives a shit if the people turf you? If they don’t like you, fuck ‘em.”

He makes a good point. I talk a good game about being the servant of the people of Morova, but in the end, if they vote to get rid of me, what do I really owe them? You get the government you deserve, and if they vote to bring in Emilio, it’s on them.

So why am I still so set on fighting? Because I’m finally forcing myself to acknowledge something that I refused to think about ever since the referendum was announced.

“It’s the children, Ike,” I say, swallowing hard.

Ike’s ears prick up. “The rugrats? What about ‘em?”

“There’s a chance that, if Emilio and Isabella win, she’ll petition for custody of them.”

“What?!” he barks. “You gotta be shittin’ me!”

“I shit you not,” I say, but there’s no humor in our running joke right now.

“How the hell would that work?”

“The same reason they’re calling for a referendum in the first place,” I say. “The councils think I’m not fit to be a parent. They see Isabella as more stable, especially in light of the bachelor party scandal.”

“All right, I get that. But why does your aunt want custody of the kids? She ain’t exactly mother material.”

“For the same reason she acted as my regent until I turned twenty-one: she wants control of the Trentini heir. In this case, once I’m out of the picture, that will be Vito.”

“Wait a minute,” he says. “I thought Emilio would take over?”

“He’s not actually a Trentini, he’s a Steiger. Isabella was my mother’s sister, so neither of them are technically royals.”

Ike shakes his head. “This shit makes my brain hurt.”

“I know how you and Amanda feel about the children.”

He straightens up. “Anyone who tries to hurt them is gonna get my boot so far up their ass they’ll be shining it with their tongue.”

I nod, trying swallow my emotions. I’ve never had many people on my side. I mean totally on my side, people I can trust with my life. Maria and Carlo, yes, but they work for me. Adriana and Albert, but they were gone far too soon.

To know that I can count on Ike to have my back, and take care of my children, after only knowing him a couple of months – it’s indescribable. Just like my feelings for his daughter. I’ve never been a religious man, but it’s hard not to make a case for God when you’ve been blessed the way I have.

I drain my beer and drop the empty on the table beside me.

“So we’re going to fight?” I ask.

“For Oriana and Vito? You’re goddamn right we are. Did you tell Amanda about this?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I didn’t want to scare her. And I didn’t want her to make a decision about me based solely on the children.”

Ike nods. “I can understand that. I love Amanda more ‘n’ anything in this world, but she can be a dog with a bone sometimes when it comes to kids and animals. If she knew the kids were at stake, she’d stay married to Hitler himself.”

“I hope that’s not a comparison,” I say with a wan smile.

He chucks me on the shoulder. “Nah,” he says. “I always figured you for more of a Mussolini type.”

I laugh. The man knows how to lighten a mood.

“Will you come back and fight with me, Ike?”

“’Course I will. My daughter and grandkids are in trouble. They need their nonno.”

“Yes, they do.”

“We’ll leave tomorrow. We can drive my truck back up to Calgary, and then you can charter a private jet back to Morova.”

I raise my eyebrows. “A private jet?” I ask.

“Duh,” he says. “You don’t expect me to fly on a commercial airline, do ya?”

He pops open another bottle of Budweiser and tilts it towards me in a salute.

“Or didn’t y’hear? My daughter married the friggin’ Prince of Morova.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

52. AMANDA

“I can’t believe he brought you into this!”

Dad looks at me the way he used to when I was in high school and I’d unleash my full teenage fury on him.

“Look here, Amanda,” he says sternly. “Nobody ‘brings me’ into anything. I came on my own, for my own reasons. That clear?”

Damned if he doesn’t make me feel like a kid again, too.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I just think it was irresponsible of him to take off at the last hour like he did.”

The two of us are in one of the palace’s hundred or so sitting rooms. Dante and I haven’t really spoken since he got back from the States. The children have been eager to see Dad since they heard he was coming back, but I needed to talk to him first.

“Honey, you gotta give the boy the benefit of the doubt. He’s got a lot goin’ on in his head right now.”

“And I don’t?” I snap. Teenage Amanda makes an appearance again.

“I didn’t say that. I know this has been hard on you. But you’re not on the verge of losin’ everything that ever defined who you are. Can’t blame the boy for bein’ distracted.”

He’s right. As usual. Dad has always had a way of cutting to the chase and making me see exactly what the real problem is.

I sigh. “Things have been… not good between us, Dad. We put on a face for the twins, but we’ve been sleeping in separate rooms since the photos came out.”

“I kinda figured that,” he says, wrapping an arm around me. “You got a raw deal, pumpkin, I know that.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, but I think I know the answer.

“Dante told me everything,” he says. “About your marriage, and the decree thing.”

For a moment, I’m furious with Dante for telling him, but just as quickly I’m overcome with relief. I’m so sick of keeping the secret. I feel hot tears in my eyes as I bury my face in Dad’s shoulder.

“It’s all so crazy,” I sob. “Why couldn’t I have found a nice boy back home? I could have stayed and helped you on the ranch and my life would have been normal.”

I feel his shoulder move up and down against my face. Is he – is he laughing?

“Dad!”

“I’m sorry, hon,” he chuckles. “I really am. I know you been through a lot. But sweetie, you were never gonna be normal.”

“Gee, thanks a lot!” I fume.

“I don’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that I always knew your future wasn’t gonna be on the ranch. You went through school on a rocket sled. And the way you used to pause your Disney DVDs to show me all the things the cartoon got wrong about medieval history and royal protocol… yeah, you weren’t gonna have a normal life.”

He’s right, dammit. He’s always right.

“Maybe,” I say. “But I didn’t deserve to end up in this mess.”

“No, you sure didn’t, sweetie. But neither did Dante. And neither did those kids.”

He wraps my hands in his big, warm ones.

“Speakin’ of them, there’s something that’s been weighin’ on Dante that he hasn’t told you about.”

There are probably a lot of things Dante hasn’t talked to me about. I haven’t exactly been receptive the past few weeks.

“What is it?”

“He’s worried that Isabella will get custody of the children if the vote goes against him.”

My heart drops. That never even occurred to me, but now that it does, it’s terrifying.

“I can’t let that happen,” I say. “I’m amazed at how normal Dante managed to be living with such a bizarre family. I don’t even want to think what it would be like for the twins in that kind of a life, especially if Dante isn’t around for them.”

As if on cue, Oriana and Vito come bounding into the room.

“Nonno!” they holler. “You’re back!”

They jump into his lap and he wraps his big bear arms around them, laughing.

“’Course I’m back,” he says. “Somebody has to keep you two brats in line, and I know Amanda here’s not up to it. You got her wrapped around your little fingers.”

“Oh, please,” I say, rolling my eyes and smiling at the kids. “If anyone’s wrapped up, it’s you, you old leather boot.”

Dad holds up Oriana’s hand and tugs at her pinky finger.

“I think she’s fibbin,’” he says. “I wouldn’t fit around that little thing.”

She giggles, but Vito’s face is serious.

“Are you here because of the refern – the fref – the vote tomorrow?” he asks.

“The vote? What vote?”

“Uncle and Amanda said there’s a government thing tomorrow where the people are going to vote.”

“Aw, that’s boring stuff. I was thinkin’ that the three of us should do somethin’ fun tomorrow and then the grown-ups can do that government thing on their own.”

Oriana’s eyes light up. She turns to me: “Can we, Amanda? Please? I don’t want to do government stuff.”

Dad’s always known how to fix things, God love him.

“Sure,” I say. “Then, when our stuff is over with, we’ll come find you and we can all have a late supper. How does that sound?”

“Perfect!” she says.

“Good. Now go find something to do, okay? I need to talk with nonno alone.”

They say their good-byes and scurry back out the way they always do. I marvel at how much energy they have. Then again, even though I’m only twenty-seven, I’ve been feeling a lot older lately.

“I can’t let them end up under Isabella’s thumb,” I say. “I won’t. There’s going to be a live debate tomorrow morning before the polls open. I’m going to tell Dante I want to be there with him for it.”

“That’s my girl,” he says. “But I want you to think about something before you do that.”

“Think about what?”

“I want you to ask yourself why you’re doin’ it.”

“What do you mean, why? I just told you.”

He nods. “For the kids, I heard you. But I want you to really think about that.”

“There’s nothing to think about.”

“Yeah, there is. Honey, do you remember that time when you were little and you tried to get that old cat in the barn to come be your pet?”

Old Duffy. I tried for months to get that smelly old bugger to be a house cat, but he refused. Mom was still alive then; she called Duffy “that damned cat.”

“Of course I do. But what does that have to do with this?”

“You didn’t even like that little bastard,” he says. “He was always hissin’ at you, he stunk to high heaven. Every time you tried to pick him up, he’d just wriggle out of your arms and run away.”

“I still don’t see your point.”

“My point is that you thought he should be an indoor cat because then he’d be safe and warm and always have food to eat. You didn’t even really like him. You didn’t want to pet him or have him sleep on your bed or anything like that. You just thought it was the right thing to do.”

“So?” I’m getting angry now. “It was the right thing to do. Are you comparing the twins to Duffy?”

“’Course not. I’m sayin’ that you were always thinkin’ about Duffy’s welfare, not your own.”

“And?”

“And you’re doin’ it again. Sacrificing what you want for the sake of doin’ the right thing. At some point, honey, you gotta put yourself first. This is the rest of your life you’re talkin’ about here. As much as we both care about those kids, they’re not a good enough reason to give up your life.”

I can’t think of anything to say to that.

“You think you’d be doin’ those kids a favor by stayin’ with a man just for their sake? Believe me, I seen enough couples who fought like cats in a sack but stayed together for the kids. You talk to those grown kids today, they’d tell you they wish their folks had split up instead.”

I want to yell at him that he’s wrong, that everything he just said is bullshit. But I can’t. He’s right; Dante took care of those kids for ten years before I showed up. He doesn’t need me to save them.

And if we were to turn into one of those couples that fights in front of the kids, or worse, plays manipulative games against each other with the kids as pawns, we’d be no better than the types of people Dante’s been fighting his whole life.

By trying to do the right thing, I could end up becoming Isabella myself.

I don’t want to play the Game of Thrones. I just want to live my life and be happy.

Dad lets out a huge yawn and rubs his eyes.

“I need to catch a nap,” he says. “Jet lag is a bitch. Heh, listen to me. Ike Sparks talkin’ about jet lag. Ever think you’d see the day?”

“No,” I say with a half-smile. “Then again, I never thought I’d see the day when I married Prince Charming, either.”

He kisses my cheek. “Think about what I said, honey.”

“I will, Dad,” I say as he heads off for his quarters.

I may not get any sleep tonight, because it’s all I can think about.

Chapter Fifty-Four

53. DANTE

“I’m not sure how the Crown Council building can be considered neutral ground,” I gripe.

Carlo leans in close. “Remember, sir,” he whispers. “There are cameras everywhere here, and you’re not exactly anyone’s favorite person right now.”

He’s right, of course, I’m just letting off steam. The foyer of the council building is large and open, perfect for the debate that’s about to happen. And I need to make sure I don’t come off as an asshole, the way I did with Lorenzo Ricci. Maria showed me the social media numbers after that – they weren’t pretty.

There are dozens of people milling around the foyer as the media set up to broadcast the debate live. Huber and I will spar, then we each get a closing statement. After that, the people of Morova go to the polls and decide my future.

“I hate giving speeches,” I say to Carlo.

“Then learn to like it,” he says. “And learn it very quickly. I have no desire to begin working for your aunt, in the unlikely event she would allow me to keep my job.”

Speaking of Isabella, she’s sucking up to a gang of council members on Huber’s side of the stage. She refuses to look in my direction. I have no idea where Emilio is.

In the distance, I see Amanda come through the main entrance, Maria and Ike by her side. She’s dressed in a dark dress with a suit jacket, her hair pulled up in a conservative style. She looks every bit the prim and proper lady. All she’s missing is a hat and she could be one of the British royals.

It’s a strategy, of course – make her appear dignified and serious, a perfect, proper princess of Morova. But it’s jarring how different she looks. Nothing like the wide-eyed young woman in the tight, soaking wet blouse who captured my heart that day outside my office.

Was it only a couple of months ago? God, it seems like forever.

She greets me with a chaste peck on the cheek.

“I think we may just pull this off,” Maria says, nodding her approval of the kiss. “Amanda in her finest, you in your uniform, sword by your side.”

“I figured it was the beginning of this whole thing,” I say. “Might as well have it beside me at the end.”

“Keep your pecker up,” Ike says, shaking my hand. He’s dressed in his typical mash-up of cowboy chic and Italian style. “We ain’t licked yet.”

I take Amanda’s arm and lead her to an alcove so we can speak away from prying eyes.

“How do I look?” she asks.

“Like someone else,” I say.

“That’s what we wanted, though, isn’t it?”

We did when the team discussed this, but now that I’ve seen her, I don’t know anymore.

“Amanda, I need you to know something before I step in front of that microphone.”

“What?”

I take her by the arms and look deep into her eyes.

“No matter what happens today, your future is up to you. Your contract is over – it was a stupid idea to begin with, I see that now. The payments will continue to your father, but you don’t owe me anything.”

“Dante – ”

“Please, hear me out. I don’t have much time. Amanda, I never expected you. You came into my life like a desert rain – I didn’t even know I needed you until you were there. But I didn’t have the brains to realize how important you were, or the courage to tell you.

“It’s been said that if you love something, you must set it free. I’m setting you free, Amanda. Your life is your own. I pray that it will be with me, but that’s not my decision to make. It’s yours.”

Before she can say anything, I pull her to me and kiss her. Not the chaste kiss for the cameras this time; this is the real thing, deep and long and passionate. Everything I am, summed up in a single expression of love.

I can’t read her the way I’ve been able to in the past. All I see is her heart-stopping eyes, wide open and blinking at me, as our lips part.

“I have to go,” I say, turning to head to the stage. “Wish me luck.”

As I stride away, every step echoing against the marble floors, I think I hear her whisper “good luck,” but I can’t be sure.

* * *

“People of Morova,” Lorenzo Ricci intones gravely to the camera. “Welcome to the future of your country.”

Of course Ricci is the moderator. Why not just blatantly stuff the ballot boxes and be done with it?

Shake it off. Focus.

“Today, we will decide the fate of the monarchy that has been part and parcel of Morova since its inception. The choice you face today is simple, yet profound: keep Prince Dante Trentini as your monarch, or choose a new future, and appoint his older cousin Emilio as the custodian of the Trentini fortune.”

It’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes.

“Before you make this most crucial of choices, 4Roma presents this debate between Prince Dante and Crown Council Chancellor Julian Huber. We are being broadcast live via television across Western Europe, and streaming live around the world via the Internet.”

As he drones on, I gather my thoughts. We went over the strategy last night: keep on point, hold my temper, appeal to the traditional morals of the Morovan people. Above all else, remain dignified and serious.

“Our opening remarks will begin with His Highness, Prince Dante Trentini.”

Ricci waves a hand at me and I see a red light flash on top of the camera facing me.

“My fellow Morovans,” I begin from my podium. My speech is measured and formal. It’s imperative that the audience sees me as someone who wants the job and understands the grave responsibility.

Yadda, yadda, yadda. It’s all the words they want to hear, not the ones I want to say.

The red light goes out as I wrap up, and Ricci points to Huber.

“Chancellor Huber will now bring his remarks on behalf of the National and Crown Councils.”

He clears his throat, sparking feedback from his lapel microphone, and sets his piggy little eyes on the camera. His speech is simply an expanded version of what he said on Ricci’s show, and what he’s been saying to every camera for over a month now: reputation, tradition, respect. How I’m an embarrassment to the monarchy.

He gets to the part about Emilio and his eyes light up. My cousin is made of the right stuff, a man of honor and breeding, who graduated from Oxford with honors and didn’t coast through on his name.

And a man who disappears on his cousin as soon as his mother starts scheming. I haven’t talked to Emilio since before the photos leaked. For that matter, even Huber and I have never spoken face-to face.

I think of Ike’s “face-to-fist” and have to bite back a laugh.

Huber finishes his remarks and Ricci tells the audience the format of the debate: Ricci himself will ask the questions, Huber and I will have a minute each to answer. As if a minute can sum up the fate of a nation.

Ricci takes his place at the table as the cameras move into position on myself and Huber. A minute later, the red lights come on.

I take a deep breath. It’s show time.

Chapter Fifty-Five

54. AMANDA

“We’re getting slaughtered.”

Maria’s voice is stoic, but her eyes are another story. For the first time ever, I can see the shimmer of tears in them.

Beside me, Carlo’s shoulders stoop in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s like someone has cut the strings off a marionette and it’s trying to stand on its own. On my other side, Dad’s eyes are boiling. He’s keeping his mouth shut, but I can feel the anger emanating from him in waves. His big fists clench and unclench, over and over.

Every question from Ricci is carefully designed to make Dante look like a fool, or a womanizer, or an asshole. It’s like the old joke about journalists asking the politician if he’s stopped beating his wife: if he says no, he’s still beating his wife. If he says yes, he’s admitting he beat his wife.

And, like the joke, this debate isn’t funny. It’s frustrating and infuriating. Worst of all, it’s heartbreaking.

I can practically see Dante’s fear of losing the children on his face as each question hits him like a boxer’s blow. I feel each one with him.

“I don’t know if there’s any coming back from this,” Maria says quietly.

“There is if I can get those two bastards alone in the alley,” Dad growls.

“Gentlemen,” Ricci says, holding up a hand. “We’ve come to the end of the question portion of this morning’s debate. I and the Morovan people thank you for your answers.”

Dante’s still keeping his cool, but I can see the emotion in his eyes. I can’t imagine what’s going through his head right now. Dad’s line about taking Ricci and Huber into the alley is right on the money – this wasn’t a fair fight.

“We will now wrap up the proceedings with a final statement from each of our participants,” Ricci says with a smug grin. “Chancellor Huber, you have the floor.”

Huber turns to face the camera directly. He looks like a school principal about to lecture a group of rowdy students.

“People of Morova,” he says. “The choice you must make today is clear. You all saw the photographs. You’ve read the scandals. You know the solution.”

He leaves his podium and walks towards the camera.

“The question before you is, I believe, simple: do you believe that the royal marriage is real? Or is it a lie created to block this council’s duty to remove a monarch for not fulfilling his duties?

“I believe it’s the height of arrogance for the prince to believe that we, the people, are foolish enough to believe that he could have fallen in love in the space of a few weeks. With an American commoner, no less.”

I feel Dad tense up beside me.

“We’ve already seen that money has changed hands. Are we expected to believe that Dante, a noble with centuries of royal breeding, and access to one of the world’s most vast fortunes, would marry such a woman?”

I put a pre-emptive hand on Dad’s arm to keep him from moving. Huber will never know it, but I just saved his life. I see similar flashes of anger on Maria and Carlo’s faces as well.

Then I hear Dante’s voice come across the sound system.

“Such a woman,” he says quietly.

Ricci frowns. “Your highness will refrain from speaking during the chancellor’s closing remarks.”

“Shut up, Lorenzo,” Dante says mildly. “You’re not talking to your wife. Or your mistress in Sorrento.”

Ricci’s face turns ghostly white as Dante ambles over to stand beside Huber. He obviously struck a nerve with everyone’s favorite host.

My heart is racing. What’s Dante doing? Whatever it is, Huber is sputtering like crazy.

“Such a woman,” Dante says again. “It’s funny that you say that, Julian, since you’ve never actually spoken to her face-to-face. You’ve made all sorts of accusations and innuendoes against her, but you don’t actually know her.”

All eyes are on Dante now. You could hear a pin drop.

“All the debate we just went through was smoke and mirrors. Sure, I could go on and on about how you’re trying to get your hands on the Trentini fortune, and that Emilio is just a puppet for your government. But that’s not what this is about. Not really.

“This is about Amanda Sparks. It’s about a prince who had the audacity to fall in love with an American cowgirl whose father spent his wife’s life insurance to send his daughter to community college instead of Oxford. A woman who grew up taking care of cattle with her own two hands and riding horses in barrel races, instead of hosting garden parties and betting on thoroughbreds at Royal Ascot.”

Dante finds me in the audience and locks his gaze on mine.

“A woman who had the nerve to invite common people to her wedding reception so they could share in our joy. Who welcomed my beloved Oriana and Vito into her heart with a generosity I’ve never seen in all my years in the royal court. Who showed me what it means to be honest and loyal and real.”

Tears spill onto my cheeks as all the doubt that’s been eating at me for so long finally fades. I don’t even care that we’re surrounded by strangers.

“So fire everything you’ve got at me, Julian,” he says, turning to face the chancellor with a look that could freeze lava. “I’m the one on trial here. But when you feel like talking about the woman I love, I advise you to shut your fat, arrogant mouth before I drive my fist into it.”

The foyer seems to hold its breath for a stunned moment. Then my father’s voice rings out.

“You tell that fucker, kid!” he bellows.

The outburst is met with shocked looks from the council members gathered to watch the debate. A few look like they might be on the edge of a coronary.

But all I can think about is how proud I am. How much I love Dante. I don’t care what happens from here on – this moment is everything I could have wanted.

Huber finally seems to come out of his coma and takes to his own microphone.

“That behavior right there!” he shouts, waving a chubby finger at Dad. “Threatening violence! Profanity from the prince’s own father-in-law! Do we really want the worst of America in the highest office of our land?”

That’s it. I’ve had just about enough. I save Huber’s life one more time by grabbing Dad’s arm before he can move.

“This one’s mine,” I say, stalking towards the stage.

Chapter Fifty-Six

55. DANTE

Amanda plucks Ricci’s handheld microphone before he even realizes she’s on stage.

“Hello, Chancellor,” she says to Huber. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but my father – that beautiful man you just pointed at – taught me to never tell a lie. He also taught me it’s rude to point at people.”

I can’t help but grin. Letting both barrels go on Huber has me feeling better than I have in weeks. Whatever the outcome today, I know I’ve said my piece and my conscience is clear.

Judging by her behavior, I think Amanda feels the same way.

“Dad taught me a lot of things,” she says. “About being humble, and not talking behind people’s backs, and being honest and straightforward. But I’m not here to talk about him.”

She turns towards me and smiles. It feels like cool water on a hot day.

“I want to talk about this man right here. The one you’ve been throwing insults at for the past forty minutes. And for three weeks before that, thanks to Mr. Ricci here.”

Lorenzo’s white face has started to turn green.

“You were right about a few things, Chancellor,” she says. “Those photos did come from Dante’s bachelor party. But they were taken by someone who had drugged his drink, specifically to give your office fodder for this referendum.”

“That’s a scandalous accusation!” he sputters, prompting more feedback from his lapel mike.

“But even that doesn’t matter,” she says, ignoring him. “If I remember right, you asked the Morovan people if they were foolish enough to believe that two people could fall in love in just a few weeks.”

Now it’s Huber’s turn to go white. The way his mouth is working, you’d think he was a fish on dry land. A big, ugly bass, to be specific.

“Apparently, I have a lot more faith in love than you do, sir, because I do believe that people can fall in love in a few weeks. Even quicker, really.”

She slides an arm around mine. “I’ll admit it wasn’t love at first sight for Dante and me. Lust, sure – I mean, look at him. But attraction alone isn’t love.

“That came later, after I saw him with his niece and nephew. How gentle he was, and understanding and protective.”

She turns to Huber. “If you really knew the prince the way you claim to, Chancellor, you’d know that Oriana and Vito are his heart and soul. Ask any member of the palace staff, they’ll tell you the same. I’m surprised Duchess Isabella didn’t mention it during any of your long meetings with her.”

I have to bite down on my lips to keep from horse-laughing as Isabella’s face twists into a mask of pure outrage. The council members all avoid eye contact with her as the cameras turn in her direction.

“I’ve met a lot of people with money and status over the last little while,” Amanda says. “Some of them, like Giselle Ranette – I’m sure you remember her, Chancellor – weren’t what I would call nice people.

“But this guy,” she says, squeezing my arm. “What you see is what you get. He treats everyone the same, from other royals to the people who empty the trash at the palace.

“I should point out that you were right about one thing, Chancellor – Dante did give my father money. Do you know why? Because my father needed it, and because Dante is the most generous man I’ve ever known.”

Now she’s looking directly into the camera’s red light.

“I guess if you believe those qualities are character flaws, you should vote to get rid of him,” she says. “I personally fell head-over-heels in love with those character flaws, but hey, that’s just me.”

With that, she puts down the microphone and wraps her arms around my neck.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she grins. “Somebody had to say it. Now get over here. We’ve got some catching up to do.”

My pulse quickens as her lips touch mine. She’s right – it’s been far too long since we touched.

If there was any justice in the world, there would be some kind of sweeping movie theme playing in the background. As it is, there’s only silence, and the shocked gasps of the council members.

After several long, delicious moments, I hear Ike clear his throat loudly.

“Father in the room,” he says.

Next to him, Maria and Carlo start to chuckle. The chuckles turn into full-blown belly laughs as Ike joins in.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

56. AMANDA

Lorenzo Ricci finally gets enough composure back to retrieve his microphone and find a camera.

“Obviously, this has not followed proper procedure,” he says. “But such is the nature of live television.”

He glares at Dante and me.

“And given that the prince and princess have broken the rules of the debate, I shall offer Chancellor Huber another opportunity for rebuttal.”

Huber clears his throat.

“I’ll need a few minutes to organize my thoughts,” he says.

Ricci touches his earpiece and nods.

“Our producers are going to a live analysis of the debate with our panel of experts,” he says. “We will return with the chancellor in just a few minutes.”

The red lights on the cameras all go out at once. The camera operators sling off their headphones and group together on the stage, no doubt talking about what’s happening in the next segment.

Ricci drops his microphone on the table and storms off, muttering something in Italian. Huber heads behind the large black curtain that’s been serving as the backdrop to the stage.

I feel Dante’s arm wrap around my waist and I lean into him.

“My father always says, if I can’t fix it, I’ll bugger it up so that nobody else can,” I say. “Looks like we took that to a whole new level.”

He smiles. “It’s over now. Whatever the outcome, at least we know we were honest with ourselves. And each other.”

“What about the children?” I ask.

“I think your shot at Isabella over colluding with Huber will hurt her in the eyes of the people. We can only hope she’s smart enough to realize she should leave well enough alone.”

I scan the foyer and catch Maria, Carlo and Dad looking at an iPad and talking with their hands.

“Something interesting’s going on over there,” I say, nodding in their direction. “I wonder what they’re watching.”

Suddenly from behind the curtain we hear Isabella’s voice, sharp and hissing: “Emilio, that’s enough! You’re drunk!”

We glance at each other and duck through the slit in the curtain to the back of the stage. There in front of us is Emilio, unshaven with his hair standing up. I’m pretty sure he slept in his clothes.

“Emilio!” Dante calls as we hurry towards him. “Good lord, man, are you all right?”

“Leave him be!” Isabella snaps. “This is none of your concern.”

“He’s my friend and my cousin,” Dante says, brushing past her to put an arm around Emilio.

“’I’m so sorry, Dante,” Emilio slurs. “S’all my fault.”

“What’s your fault?” I ask. “Emilio, where have you been? We’ve been worried about you!”

Isabella’s eyes flash and she levels a warning finger at her son.

“Don’t say a word,” she says coldly.

Meanwhile, Huber looks like he’s swallowed a bug.

“This – this is government business,” he stammers. “Private business between me and the duchess.”

Dante ignores them. “We’ll get you some help,” he says to Emilio.

“I don’t deserve it,” Emilio moans. “It was me. I set you up.”

Oh my God. Dante and I exchange a look – that explains it. It explains everything.

“But why, Emilio?” I ask.

“Not one word!” Isabella cries, panic written across her face.

“She made me,” he mumbles.

Dante rounds on his aunt. Her eyes go wide.

“He’s drunk, obviously – ”

“Shut up,” Dante growls. “I should have known it was you.”

“How did she make you?” I ask. “Did she threaten you?”

“So sorry,” he says. “I screwed up so bad…”

“It’s nothing we can’t get past,” I say. “We’ll figure it out.”

“S’all gone…”

Dante puts a hand on his shoulder. “What’s all gone?”

“Steiger money… pissed it all away…”

Tears are streaming down Emilio’s grubby face, leaving streaks in his skin. Isabella’s eyes are wide with horror – not at the state he’s in, but the fact he’s confessing. What kind of a monster is she?

“This, uh, obviously, uh, comes as a shock,” Huber says.

“Cut the shit, Julian!” Dante barks. “I know you were the one who leaked the photos to Lorenzo. It had to be you, Isabella doesn’t know anyone in the media.”

Dante turns to Isabella. “I’ve wondered for years whether there was anything left of your money. Emilio’s always been a high roller, but I never knew it was that bad.”

“This is sick,” I say. “Instead of getting him help, you blackmail him into hatching a scheme to replace Dante as monarch? And steal the Trentini fortune for yourself?”

Isabella’s face turns to stone, but her eyes are still blazing.

“I’m not saying another word,” she says.

“What about you?” I say to Huber. “Got anything else to say?”

He doesn’t. His eyes dart around the room as if looking for an exit.

“Darling,” I say.

“Yes, my love?”

“Where I come from in America, conspiring to overthrow the government is considered treason. What’s the deal here in Morova?”

“Mmm,” he says. “Unfortunately, I’m not the government. But I don’t imagine the good people of my homeland would take kindly to learning Julian here colluded with Isabella to replace the rightful heir.”

That gets a rise out of the old bastard. He steels his fleshy jowls and looks us in the eye.

“You can’t prove anything,” he says. “And the referendum starts in an hour.”

I look over to see Isabella grinning smugly. Emilio is weeping openly now.

“We need to get Emilio to a hospital,” Dante says. “But as soon as he’s taken care of, I swear I’ll do everything in my power to see you two in court over this. I don’t care if it takes every penny of my personal fortune, you’re not going to get away with this.”

“We’ll see,” says Huber. “I’ll be sure to discuss it with the chief justice while he’s at my home for dinner on Sunday.”

Dante gives them one last round of dirty looks before picking Emilio up under the arm and helping him back to the opening in the curtain.

“This is why we need to fight,” he says as we emerge onto the stage. “I won’t leave my homeland in the hands of these parasites.”

“Uh, Dante,” I say.

“We can’t allow corruption like this to drag down Morova!” he says, more to Emilio than me.

“Dante.” I say again.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, darling, what is it?”

I point towards the edge of the stage. He turns his head to see what I see: dozens of people, staring at us with their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open.

At the front of the pack is Lorenzo Ricci, now a whole new shade of green.

“What’s going on?” I ask, looking for our friends.

“Ho-lee sheep shit!” my father hoots as he bounds up the stairs and onto the stage. Maria is close behind, with Carlo bringing up the rear a bit more slowly. Their eyes are dancing.

“What’s going on?” Dante asks, eyes darting around the room.

Dad looks over to Ricci.

“Why don’t you tell ‘em, you little peckerhead?”

“The, uh. The lapel microphones,” Ricci says, staring blankly ahead. “They were. Uh. They were. Live.”

Dante and I look at each other, eyes wide, as it sinks in.

“We heard every word,” Maria says through a triumphant smile. “So did viewers all around the world. Every. Single. Word.”

“That’s what you all were looking at before we went backstage!” I say.

Carlo nods. “The talking heads were doing their analysis – you two were on the receiving end of some very unflattering words, I must say – but the audio kept cutting to your microphones.”

Dante looks at Emilio, then back to Carlo.

“You heard… everything, then?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

Dante helps Emilio into a chair. His cousin is almost on the verge of passing out.

“Maria – ”

“I’ll have an ambulance here as soon as possible.”

Dante smiles. “What would I do without you?”

“Let’s hope you never have to find out.”

There are dozens of people milling around now, trying to make sense of what’s going on. As they do, Dad emerges from behind the stage curtain.

“I was gonna go pay my respects to Isabella,” he says. “By which I mean laugh in her face. But she’s gone. So’s Huber.”

“I doubt they’ll get far,” I say.

“It’s like you’re psychic,” Maria says, turning her iPad screen towards me. On it is an image of the duchess and the chancellor, ambushed by media in the alley behind the building.

Dante looks at me and smiles.

“Remember how not that long ago, all we could talk about was how crazy our lives were?” he asks.

“Yup,” I say. “Apparently the universe took that as a sign to roll up its sleeves and say ‘here, hold my beer while I screw with them a little more.’”

I feel a weight on my shoulders as Dad wraps an arm around each of us.

“You two really need to start bein’ normal,” he says.

“We were just talking about that,” says Dante. “But before we do, we’re going to have to sit around for a few hours while the entire population decides what it’s going to do about us.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

57. AMANDA

“Careful,” Dante says to Carlo. “I’ve told you before that it’s within my powers to have your head chopped off.”

“I swear on my honor, sir,” Carlo replies, hand raised as if taking an oath. “I am not fucking with you.”

It seems like a dream, especially considering the nightmare of the past few weeks.

“That has to be a first,” I say, looking at the iPad Carlo brought into Maria’s office. He has a direct pipeline to the Office of the Elector, and got the results hot off the press.

“I mean, have any of you ever heard of a referendum getting one hundred percent agreement on anything? It’s hard enough to get a dozen jurors to agree unanimously, let alone 30,000 Morovans.”

“Social media exploded after the hot microphone incident,” says Maria, pointing to the screen on the wall. “Hashtag ‘hubergate’ started trending within seconds of him and Isabella being ambushed in the alley.”

“And my sources inside the council say many of them have been waiting for an opportunity to get rid of the chancellor and his cronies,” says Carlo.

I look at Dante. “Apparently, being honest was the right thing to do.”

“Who would have imagined?” he says with a grin. “A royal being rewarded for being straightforward with his people. It boggles the mind.”

Dad finishes his bottle of Budweiser and puts the empty on the table beside him.

“So what the hell is a hashtag, anyway?” he asks. “Where I come from, hash is somethin’ you eat with your eggs, and a tag goes in a cow’s ear.”

As Maria attempts to explain social media to Ike, I take Dante’s hand and lead him out into the hallway. He pulls me close until our foreheads touch.

“This has been quite a day,” he says. “I keep expecting to wake up and discover it was all a dream.”

“So do I.”

He kisses me, prompting a flutter of butterflies in my belly.

“That felt pretty real to me,” he says.

I tilt my head so my lips are at his ear.

“If that felt real, imagine how real this will feel.”

I reach out and squeeze his cock through his pants, and it jumps at my touch.

“Don’t tease me,” he breathes. “It’s been too long.”

“So who’s teasing?” I whisper back.

* * *

One of the many, many benefits of living in a palace is that there’s always a room around when you need one.

My back is against the stone wall of a sitting room a couple of hallways away from Maria’s office. The furniture is mid-seventeenth century, with a mirror motif on the walls. That means I can see us making out from half a dozen different angles. And it’s making me horny as hell.

Dante’s hands explore under my blouse as his lips probe my neck. My hand manages to free his cock through his zipper, putting it on display in all the different mirrors. There’s something incredibly hot about seeing your husband’s throbbing shaft from so many different angles at once.

“I missed you so much,” I breathe in his ear. “All those nights in separate beds.”

“It was torture,” he says. “Being so close but not able to touch you.”

His hands tug my blouse free and open the buttons. I use my own hand to unhook my bra and slide out of it. Suddenly two dozen tits are on display in the mirrors.

Dante’s mouth closes over my nipple instantly, licking and sucking greedily. My heart rate seems to double as I feel the familiar pooling of sensations between my legs. God, how could I have gone so long without knowing this pure joy? I have so much time to make up for.

His steel shaft throbs in time with each stroke of my hand, his skin hot to the touch. With each tug, he moans more loudly against my breasts. His tongue seems to gain urgency from his cock, because soon I’m holding onto his neck as my first orgasm sweeps over me.

“How can you do that so easily?” I pant as the aftershocks finally subside. “You didn’t even touch me down there…”

“I’ll take that as an invitation,” he says, grabbing my ass and lifting me onto a flat settee that probably dates to the time of Louis XXIV. With another swift move, he’s pulled off my skirt and panties, leaving my slick opening exposed to him.

“Oh, Dante,” I breathe. “My prince.”

He’s just as deft with his own clothes; a few quick moves and he’s naked. I admire his chiseled body from every angle in the mirrors. It’s like looking at a photographic study of an ancient Roman statue.

It also drives my desire to the point of no return.

“Hurry,” I whisper urgently, pulling him down to me. “I need you inside me now.”

He obliges, dropping to his knees on top of me. I grab his cock once more and guide it towards my opening. I slide the tip back and forth inside my lips, getting us both ready for the plunge.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he moans as he pushes all the way inside.

It’s as if a live electrical circuit has been turned on deep inside my body. His first thrust is enough to bring on the delicious heat that emanates from my center all the way through my body.

Dante starts out slow, deliberate, ending each stroke with a kiss on my eager lips. But we both know that neither of us can last much longer.

“God, I love you,” I whisper as he doubles the speed of his thrusts. “I want it to be like this every time.”

He props himself on his hands as I wrap my legs around his waist. He doubles his speed again, until he’s thrusting so fast I can barely keep up with my hips. I bite my bottom lip, waiting for the tsunami of pleasure that’s about to hit.

“Amanda,” he pants. “Oh, my love. Everything I have is yours.”

“Give it to me,” I say, feeling my body on the point of release. “Give it all to me.”

One last lift of his hips and we both begin to tremble. I feel his muscles tense against my skin as his eruption fills me with warmth. I ride my own wave by burying my face in his shoulder, whimpering in ecstasy.

We lie there, skin to skin, sweat to sweat, breathing in each other’s exhaled breaths, until our hearts finally slow and resume their normal pace.

“God, I just want to do that all the time,” I say.

“Be careful what you wish for,” he says. “There are over 200 rooms in this palace.”

I giggle as he gently kisses my throat.

“Did we really win?” I ask. “When we walk out of here, are we really free to just live our lives?”

“Yes,” he says. “At least as free as we can be while ‘Amandante’ is still a thing.”

“I love that word. It’s the two of us coming together. Just like now.”

He looks at me with feigned shock. “Your Highness,” he says. “That’s no way for a princess to talk.”

“Stick around, Prince Charming,” I say, pulling him to me again. “I’ll teach you all sorts of words you’ll never hear in a Disney movie.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

58. DANTE

The palace’s south terrace is a great spot to eat lunch: it has the best view of the lake, and the stone helps catch the sun’s heat and radiate it back, which is perfect for cooler days like today.

Emilio sips his coffee, silently staring out at the lake and the Morovan shoreline beyond.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Amanda says.

He turns toward us with a half-smile. He’s looking much better these days.

“One of the things they tell us to do in the program is to make amends with the people we’ve hurt along the way,” he says. “I was thinking about how I would broach that subject with you two. An apology just doesn’t seem like enough.”

“It’s enough,” I say.

“I suppose it has to be. There’s nothing I could possibly do to balance the scales. I almost ruined your life.” He looks to Amanda. “Both your lives.”

“You already balanced them,” I say. “The day of the referendum. If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I don’t know what might have happened.”

“Showed up drunk out of my mind,” he says ruefully.

“You weren’t yourself,” says Amanda. “If it wasn’t for your mother, none of it would have happened.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But if it weren’t for me losing all our money and falling into the bottle, she might not have felt the need to do it.”

“You don’t honestly believe that,” I say.

He sighs. “I suppose not. But she is my mother; I have to try to be kind.”

“Have you heard from her?” Amanda asks.

“She’s staying with a cousin in Lichtenstein. Even though she’s technically not in exile, I doubt we’ll ever see her set foot in Morova again. She’s too embarrassed.”

The three of us look out at the lake for several moments, just soaking up the late summer sun. It won’t be long before it will be too cold to eat outside.

“Can I tell you two something?” Emilio asks.

“Of course,” says Amanda. “Anything.”

“I had a feeling about you two,” he says with a smile. “That day when Dante came crashing into you outside his office.”

I give him a sidelong look. “You did not.”

“I did,” he says, nodding. “There was something there. I could see it in your eyes. Both of you.”

Amanda takes my hand.

“I knew it. You couldn’t resist my cowgirl charms.”

“I admit it,” I say. “I looked at you and said to myself, she’s the one – ”

Amanda smiles shyly.

“ – to clean out the palace stables. They were filthy.”

Emilio chuckles as Amanda wallops me on the shoulder.

“I knew I was right,” he says. “That’s a win for me, and God knows I can use as many as I can get right now.”

“You were right,” says Amanda, toasting him with her coffee. “To Emilio being right.”

“To being right,” I say, lifting my own cup.

“You shouldn’t bother them,” I hear Oriana say behind us.

“I just have a question,” says Vito. “They’re not even talking anymore.”

Emilio smiles as the twins approach the table. Amanda and I turn to greet them.

“What are you two on about now?” Amanda asks, pulling Oriana into her lap.

“I just want to know if I can ask Nonno for a belt buckle like his when we go,” says Vito.

“I told him he can’t,” says Oriana.

“For any particular reason?” I ask. “Or just because you always have to say the opposite of what he says?”

Amanda giggles as Oriana shakes her little fist at me.

“I’m afraid she’s right, honey,” Amanda says to Vito. “You have to win a buckle like his in the rodeo.”

His eyes light up. “Can I rodeo when we visit?”

“I think we can get you started, at least,” she says with a grin.

“When do you leave?” Emilio asks.

“In four days!” the twins answer together.

“You’re more than welcome to join us,” says Amanda. “Dad’s got a pull-out couch.”

The image of Emilio sleeping on a sofa is enough to make me have to stifle a laugh.

“I appreciate the invitation, but I don’t think that would be a good idea,” he says. “I’m not exactly in your father’s good books, I think.”

“I guarantee you’d be welcome,” I say. “Ike isn’t one to hold a grudge. He’s not that kind of man.”

“Still,” he says, finishing his coffee. “Best not to tempt fate.”

* * *

“Do you believe in magic?”

I’m rinsing the last of the shampoo from Amanda’s hair in the giant tub in our quarters. Her bare back feels smooth and soft against my chest, and my cock very much appreciates its spot in the cleft of her buttocks.

“That’s an odd question,” I say. “What makes you ask that?”

“It would explain a lot. I mean, the last few months have been like a fairy tale – the prince and the commoner girl meet and fall in love, they get torn apart by circumstance, but in the end they live happily ever after.”

“First,” I say, kissing the back of her neck, “we have a long way to go before we qualify for happily ever after. Second, I don’t remember any virgin decrees in the fairy tales I read as a child.”

“Still. You have to wonder, don’t you?”

I do have to wonder. What did I ever do to deserve a woman like her? A life like this? A family like ours?

“I do believe in magic,” I say. “I’ve just decided.”

“Good,” she says, turning to face me. Her breasts bob on the surface of the water, prompting an involuntary throb in my cock. “Because I believe in it, too. And it has to be both of us, or the magic won’t work.”

“Then let’s get together and make some magic,” I say, pulling her to me.

“Don’t I have to try on a glass slipper or something?” she giggles.

“Trust me,” I say as she gasps at my hard shaft slipping inside of her. “I already know that everything fits perfectly.”

Chapter Sixty

EPILOGUE: AMANDA

Three Years Later

“Sir, I don’t believe this is a prudent course of action,” Carlo says. I’ve never seen him fret like this before.

Dante smiles. “I’m not asking for your opinion, Carlo. You wanted to see this.”

“Yes, sir. But I want it on the record that your father would not have approved of this.”

“Maybe not,” I say. “But my father’s busting at the seams with pride.”

I point across the dirt field to Dad as he helps tie Vito onto his bull, an ornery little cuss named Spitfire. They’re safely behind the gate right now, but in a couple of minutes, it’ll open and Spitfire will come charging out, twisting and bucking until he sends Vito flying into the dirt.

“I still don’t understand why he can’t do something sensible,” says Carlo. “Perhaps barrel racing, like the princess.”

Oriana rolls her eyes in the way only a thirteen-year-old girl can.

“Barrel racing is for girls, Carlo,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe.

“Hey,” Maria snaps from beside her, beating me to the punch. “Respect.”

Oriana flashes her a sheepish look and turns to Carlo.

“I beg your pardon, Carlo,” she says.

He smiles, sending up fans of laugh lines at the corner of his eyes.

“There’s nothing to pardon, Your Highness.”

From the stands behind me, I hear a young boy say: “Mom, that old guy called that girl ‘your highness.’ What does that mean?”

“He’s probably drunk,” Mom says absently. “Just stay away from him.”

Dante squeezes my hand as the announcer comes over the public address system: “Up next is Vito Trentini on Spitfire!”

“Here we go,” Dante says.

He’s trying to hide it, but I see the tension in his face.

“Sure,” I whisper. “Big tough guy when Carlo shows concern, but you’re really just as nervous as he is.”

His eyes widen. “That bull is about to trample my kid!” he hisses.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Carlo make the sign of the cross over himself.

“AND THEY’RE OFF!”

Dad lets go of Vito as the gate opens. Spitfire’s having none of this shit and starts kicking the second his front hooves hit the dirt. Vito holds on like a champ, moving his body back and forth in time with the bull’s kicks so that he can absorb some of the momentum.

I watch the clock on the electronic scoreboard count off the seconds: four, five…

Come on, sweetie, you can do it…

His hand is still in the rope, but now Spitfire is spinning. Vito slides to the side but keeps his grip tight.

Six, seven… EIGHT! Vito lets go and tumbles to the ground, rolling with the impact and jogging back towards the gate.

I leap to my feet, spilling my soda on the floor of the old grandstand.

“Woo-hoo!” I wail. The crowd behind us claps, but their lack of enthusiasm is pissing me off. That’s my boy out there! Didn’t they see that incredible ride?

When things calm down, Maria climbs out of her seat and into the empty stand behind me, leaning in towards me.

“So Vito wins, correct?” she says. “He stayed on for eight seconds.”

“You have to stay on for eight to qualify,” I say. “His score is based on the ride. He gets points for technique and for how hard the bull fought.”

“That sounds needlessly complicated.”

I turn to face her. “Hey, at least he had a reason to fall on the ground. Not like a European soccer flopper who drops because someone looks at him wrong.”

She grins and flicks my earlobe with her finger. For some reason it makes me think of the first time I met her: how poised she was, how professional and sophisticated. Goes to show we’re all a lot more complex than we let on.

The hissing static of the microphone comes on again.

“Our judges have their score: it’s a 78 for Vito Trentini!”

There’s an appreciative smattering of applause behind us, but all of us Morovans are on our feet cheering.

“The heir to the Morovan monarchy just rode a bull in a Montana junior rodeo,” Dante says, shaking his head. “You couldn’t make this stuff up.”

I plant a kiss on his cheek.

“Just another page in our storybook,” I say.

* * *

“Who wants theirs well-done?” Dad hollers from the grill.

“I would, please,” Maria calls from her seat at the table on the patio.

“All right, then,” he says. “There’s a Sizzler ‘bout forty miles south of here. Go tell them you want ‘em to ruin your steak. Medium’s as high as we go at Chateau Sparks, and even then I’m gonna give you a dirty look.”

Maria grins at me and shakes her head. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do, I suppose.”

That draws a belly laugh out of me. When Dad comes to Rome, he’s constantly telling the chefs how to prepare the beef.

“By the way, how are your shoes?” I ask.

She crosses her legs to get a look at them.

“Still remarkably shit-free,” she says with a grin.

It’s a beautiful afternoon to be out in the sun. Living in a palace on an island is incredible, of course, but there’s something about wide-open spaces and the sound of cattle in the distance that just feeds my soul in a way nothing else can.

Dad’s only used a tiny portion of the money he gets from the Trentini fortune on the ranch itself. Most of it has gone into a stability fund for other ranchers in Montana who’ve been hard hit by drought and low prices. They can borrow against it at zero interest to help them through the hard times.

But a little of it has gone into the house. It’s still the place I grew up in, just a bit bigger, with a half-dozen new bedrooms to accommodate the kids, and guests like Carlo and Maria. Marco, of course, has his own permanent room on the main floor, even though he’s still never had to lift a finger to protect any of us.

“Sometimes I think we should set up an attack on you,” I whisper to Dante.

“What?!”

I nod towards Marco, who’s standing in the big door of the hayloft on top of the barn, surveying the situation.

“I mean hire a stuntman to take a swing at you sometime. It would make Marco so happy.”

“So I get to take a punch just to make sure my security chief feels like he has a purpose in life?” He sighs. “Fine. I live to serve, and all that nonsense.”

As if reading our minds, Dad calls up to Marco in the hayloft.

“Hey Terminator, you want your rib-eye smoked?”

“Yes, sir!” he calls back.

“He may not have a purpose,” Dante chuckles, “but at least he’s well-fed.”

“Are we late for supper?” Vito calls from the gate.

He and Oriana amble into the yard on the backs of their horses, with Carlo riding pillion behind Vito. The old fellow refused to wear the cowboy clothes we bought him for the trip, but he’s at least wearing a short-sleeved shirt and no jacket or tie. That’s a step in the right direction.

“Just puttin’ the steaks on now,” Dad hollers. “Did you close the gate behind you?”

“No,” Oriana says.

“Well then get back there’n do it, Your Highness. This ain’t Morova; I don’t got a staff to cater to your every whim.”

Oriana rolls her eyes again – the girl could teach a class in it, I swear – but she does as she’s told. At times like this, I can see the woman she’s on the verge of becoming – passionate and willful, but tempered with respect.

After they’ve taken care of their horses, the twins go supervise Dad at the grill. Oriana climbs on his back so that she can look over his shoulder.

“I think that one’s ready to turn,” she says, pointing at a steak.

“You do, you ya? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s not smoking anymore.”

“Good girl,” he says, handing her the tongs. “Git ‘er done.”

“Is Spitfire going to end up as a steak someday?” Vito asks.

“Nah.”

“That’s good,” Vito says, clearly relieved.

“Bulls are tougher’n boiled owl shit,” Dad says. “They’re only good for hamburger.”

I put a hand over my mouth to cover my giggles. This is my crazy family, ladies and gentlemen: royals, cowboys, and the Terminator in the hayloft, keeping a watchful eye over all of us.

Dante takes my other hand in his.

“What’s so funny?” he whispers.

“Life,” I say. “Especially ours.”

* * *

With supper over and dishes done, all that’s left is the cake. Dad carries it out from the kitchen, lit up by thirteen sparklers instead of candles – his idea of a joke, since it’s a play on words with the family name.

“Happy birthday to you,” he croons in his bass-baritone. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, you spoiled rotten little royal beggars. Happy birthday to you.”

He kisses Oriana on the cheek as he sets the cake down in front of them (she rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her face) and takes Vito’s hand, pumping it twice.

Dante looks at me and raises his eyebrows. I nod and smile.

“Okay, everyone,” he says. “I know we have a no-gift policy in this family, for obvious reasons. But Amanda and I thought, since thirteen is a major milestone, we’d do something special for the two of you”

They give us matching skeptical looks. After all, what do you get the kids who have literally everything? Meanwhile, Dad takes his seat at the table beside Maria and Carlo, all of them sporting wide grins. We told them about this beforehand.

But we didn’t tell them everything.

“Are you going to let us drink wine?” Oriana says hopefully.

“I don’t want wine,” Vito says, making a face. “I’ll have a Budweiser.”

“You’ll have a glass of milk,” Dante says. “Now stop talking about drinking. This is serious.”

They glance at each other and giggle, their telepathy obviously sharing some private joke.

I reach into my purse and retrieve a manila envelope. Dante takes it and slides it across the table towards them.

“Open it,” he says.

They look at each other again, then at the envelope. Vito finally picks it up and opens the flap. He pulls out a sheaf of papers and the two of them look at the cover page.

Oriana looks up at Dante.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “These are adoption papers. I thought you were already our guardian?”

Dante wraps an arm around my shoulder and smiles.

“I am,” he says. “But these papers would make you my legal children. And they add Amanda to the mix. Basically, in the law’s eyes, we would be considered your mother and father.”

Vito frowns. “So it’s just, like, a formality? I mean, we already think of you that way.”

“Sort of,” says Dante. “But it’s also a little more important than that.”

“What do you mean?” asks Oriana.

“Well,” I say. “Technically, the legal children of the monarch are considered the official heirs to the Trentini fourtune. This would make it so that you’re officially first in what they call the line of succession. Basically, you’d inherit everything.”

Their eyes widen. Oriana’s look quickly sours, though.

“Well, Vito would, anyway,” she scowls. “I wouldn’t, because I’m a girl.”

I reach across the table and take her hand in mine.

“Actually, your uncle is talking to the councils about changing the constitution.”

“What does that mean?” she asks.

Dante smiles. “It means royal girls are equal to royal boys.

“Yesss!” She turns to Vito and sticks out her tongue.

He ignores her. “This is great,” he says. “Thank you. But I always just assumed we’d be the heirs anyway. How come you’re doing this now?”

Dante and I exchange a look and a smile. I look around to the others and see the curiosity in their eyes. I think Maria may suspect, but I’m sure Carlo and Dad are in the dark.

“You’re a smart kid, Vito,” I say, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “There is a reason we’re doing this now.”

Dante pulls a small plastic stick from his pocket and hands it to my father. Dad peers at the pair of thin lines that cross the center of the stick for a long time before it finally dawns on him.

He looks at me with wide eyes.

“Is this…?” he asks in a hoarse voice.

“A stick I peed on?” I say, grinning widely despite the tears forming in my eyes. “It sure is. Dante and I are having a baby.”

I expect Dad to let loose with a “yahoo!” but instead he’s quiet. He comes over to me and folds me in his big arms.

“Well that’s just about the greatest thing I ever heard,” he whispers. “Your mama would be so happy for you.”

I hug him fiercely. “I love you, you old coot,” I whisper.

“Love you too, pumpkin.”

After a few moments, he stands up and looks Dante in the eye.

“Took you long enough,” Dad says, pulling him into an embrace.

“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Dante says.

Dad slaps him on the back of the head.

“That’s my daughter you’re talkin’ about, Charming.”

I turn to the twins. They look a bit confused, which we expected. I hope they’re happy for us.

“What do you think?” I ask.

“It’s brilliant!” Oriana grins. “We’re going to have a new cousin.”

“Sister,” I say. “Or brother. Remember, you’re our children now. Or you will be, if you agree to it.”

Vito looks on the verge of crying. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so emotional.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, snuffling back a tear. “Adopt us, I mean. It’s okay if you want your baby to be the heir.”

“It’s not okay with us,” says Dante, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “You are our children. It’s time we made it official. If that’s what you want.”

They glance at each other.

“It’s what we want,” they say in unison.

“Well, hot damn!” Dad barks. “Three grandkids in one day!”

Maria gives us a hug, followed by Carlo. They cut the cake and hand out pieces on paper plates instead of antique china. No one seems to notice the difference.

* * *

Later, in our bedroom, Dante holds me tight as our sweaty skin cools in the night breeze blowing in through the window. We kept our lovemaking quiet so as not to bring down the wrath of Dad.

“I can’t believe Carlo hugged us,” Dante says. “If I hadn’t experienced it, I never would have believed it.”

“There’s hope for him yet,” I say, stroking his chest.

“Did you see your dad sneaking Vito a sip of his beer?”

I giggle. “It’s funny because he thinks we don’t know. Dad knew all my tricks when I was a kid. Now I know all of his.”

We lie in silence for a while, listening to the frogs croaking far away on the banks of the Marias river.

“I’m so glad they agreed to the adoption,” Dante says.

“Me, too. I suppose we should let Renaldo know. Have him put out a news release. And about the baby; we’re past the ten-week point now.”

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Dismiss what you did like it’s not important. You’re the one who insisted that we adopt them. By doing so, you essentially gave up your own child’s right to be the royal heir.”

“So what?”

He rolls over to face me. “So what? Do you have any idea how extraordinary that is? To give another’s child the birthright of the monarch?”

“See, that’s what you don’t get,” I say. “Oriana and Vito are my children. That stupid paperwork just confirms what I’ve known all along. I’m not just saying that, it’s the truth.”

He shakes his head. “If only I’d known what was behind those pale blue eyes when we first met,” he says.

“What?” I say. “What would you have done, Mr. Prince?”

“I would have proposed to you on the spot, royal tradition be damned.”

“Yes, you made me wait a whole two days for it.”

We break out in quiet giggles.

“Nothing about our life together has been normal,” I say. “Maybe this will be a first step towards something a little more ordinary.”

“God, I hope not,” he says. “Why on earth would I want normal when I can have what we have?”

I snuggle into his shoulder and kiss his neck.

“You’re right,” I whisper. “Normal is boring.”

As we drift off to sleep, I see a flash in the clear night sky outside the window. It’s a falling star.

I don’t make a wish.

What would be the point?

Part One

The Chase

One virgin. 

Two weeks. 

Twenty billionaires.

She can run, but she can't hide...

The Chase. It takes place every year. If you're not invited, you'll never even know it exists.

It's a game - a Chase - entered only by the world's richest and most powerful men. 

And one, lone, solitary woman. 

A virgin. 

Winner takes all. Literally.

But our prey isn't as innocent as she seems - she's CIA trained, and kick-ass strong.

And she gets paid $250,000 for every day she evades capture.

Sounds simple, right?

If only it was.

When I entered, it was because I was bored of easy lays and easier women.

But suddenly Cassie is back.

She's the girl who stood me up at prom - who I've spent my entire life proving wrong.

And the girl I never heard from again.

But Cassie's not a girl anymore. She's most definitely a woman.

And maybe she's not just the one who got away...

Chapter One

1. CARSON

I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at the 1,500-foot drop just beyond my toes and thinking very hard about jumping off.

Under other circumstances, it would be breathtaking: the Italian Alps positioned against a clear azure sky, the dappled surface of Lake Garda in the distance, the red tile roofs of the villas in the town. If I had binoculars, I’d be able to make out the jagged fingers of granite pointing up from the valley floor below me. As it is, I have to imagine them. I’ll be seeing them up close soon enough.

It’s not a situation your average thirty-year-old billionaire playboy finds himself in, I’ll admit. One might well ask why a guy with more money than he could ever spend, more women than he could ever sleep with, and less body fat than most men could ever hope for, is standing here, of all places, contemplating what I’m contemplating.

The answer is simple: I’m bored out of my fucking mind.

The wind caresses my cheeks and I turn my face up to the diamond-hard summer sun. I’m starting to sweat under this outfit, which is kind of gross. No point in putting this off any longer.

I fill my lungs with clear mountain air and leap off the cliff. I have to make sure I clear the outcropping right below me—wouldn’t want to clip it and end up going ass-over-teakettle all the way down. That would make for an incredibly ugly corpse.

As I fall, my body naturally tilts forward into a dive position. I travel about forty feet in an instant, then I spread my arms and legs wide. Time to embrace the inevitable.

The motion allows the billowing fabric under my arms and between my legs to catch the ambient air, slowing my descent velocity by about eighty percent and pushing me forward, away from the mountainside and toward the lake. The so-called “wingsuit” carries me on natural air currents at a 2.5:1 angle of descent. That means that for every meter I drop, I gain two and a half meters moving forward. That’s important math, because I’m going to attempt something ridiculously dangerous, and I’d really prefer to live through it.

As I glide over the rooftops of Sirmione, the town on the south shore of Garda, I lower my arms several inches to reduce my angle. Easy? Hell no – it’s tougher than it sounds when you have several thousand pounds of air rushing up at you.

In the distance I can see Isola del Garda, the island where St. Francis of Assisi founded a monastery in the thirteenth century. I doubt old Frankie would approve of my current lifestyle, but I’ve got more important things to worry about.

The surface of the lake is rapidly filling my field of vision, but my goggles are polarized to keep the reflected light from blinding me. I need every sense on high alert right now to make sure that I don’t come in at the wrong angle. Too steep and I risk smashing head-first into the immense stopping power of the water. Too shallow and I’ll come in too hot, which means I might not be able to slow myself down before I hit the side of the boat like a bug on a windshield.

Timing here is everything.

Still, it would be a hell of a way to go, wouldn’t it?

The coolness of the water kisses my face as I draw parallel with the surface of the lake. Raising my arms again lowers me closer to the skin of the lake. If it wouldn’t completely fuck up my trajectory, I’d reach down and run my fingers through the cool wetness.

I feel like Superman.

In the distance, my target comes into view: a catamaran anchored about a mile off shore. As I draw closer, and lower to the lake, I finally make out silhouettes of people on the deck – still tiny, like ants.

According to the incredibly detailed math that went into my computer simulation, that’s my cue to drop one last time. I silently thank every crunch and sit-up as my abs strafe the surface of the water, providing the friction I need to slow my forward momentum and begin my long stop.

After several seconds, I lower my legs and arms, and the water pulling against the fabric yanks me backwards, hard.

My teeth grind as the bow of the catamaran fills my field of vision, growing until I can see Maksim Orlov grab his head in his hands and hear him shout “Look out, you idiot!”

The stress on my joints is painful, but I can handle it.

Just.

I don’t spend hours a day in my gym with a giant Swedish personal trainer just to rock a tank top and dance to Europop. That’s just a side benefit. No, I’m all about functional strength. And really, what could be more functional than wingsuiting off a thousand-foot cliff?

I come to a full stop no more than ten feet from the boat. I release the handles on my arm wings to keep them from dragging me down into the depths and pull my goggles up onto my helmet.

My breathing is already starting to slow and I can feel the adrenaline ebbing out of me, leaving me faintly cold, even in the Italian summer heat. I grasp the rungs of the ladder and pull myself up, knowing that within minutes, the thrill of the experience will be all but gone. As usual.

It seems the further I push myself, the more I have to keep pushing to maintain the excitement.

“You are the crazy son of my bitch!” Maksim hoots as he clasps my hand and pulls me onto the deck. As always, his comical Russian accent and mangled English make me grin. And, as always, he’s surrounded by girls.

The latest additions to his posse are bikini-clad British tourists we met at a club last night, looking to act decidedly un-British for a couple of weeks. They swarm me, wide-eyed, passing me around in a hug train.

“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” says Joanna, a statuesque blonde who’s straining the confines of her bathing suit. She’s a little unsteady on her feet, thanks to the cosmopolitan in her hand and the baking afternoon heat.

“The most incredible thing so far,” I correct her as I shrug out of the wingsuit. Underneath is a Speedo and nothing else. “Wait until later tonight.”

Her eyes run down my body and widen as they reach the bulge under my suit. She smiles.

On to the next thrill.

Sigh.

Chapter Two

2. CASSANDRA

Every instinct in me is screaming out not to do this.

I spent years training in the bowels of a faceless building in Langley to resist exactly this kind of situation. I’ve kept my wits through sleep deprivation, pharmaceutical interrogation, physical torture. Every time, I’ve come out the other side, wiped the sweat off my brow and said: “Is that all you’ve got?”

But this is something else, something much more insidious. It comes to you as a friend, lulling you into a false sense of security. I’m here for you. I won’t hurt you. You love me.

It doesn’t love me, though.

Sure, it wants me to give in, to feel the brief surge of pleasure. It doesn’t talk about the crushing shame that follows, the hours of torment as you realize what you’ve done. That you can’t undo it, no matter how hard you try.

Do I have what it takes to resist this time? They just keep coming at me. I’ve given in every time – does it even matter any more? At this point, do I even want to resist?

That’s just it: I don’t. God help me, I don’t want to resist.

Fuck it, I tell myself, plucking the little spoon from the paper cup and sliding it into my eager mouth.

“Jesus Christ, that’s the best one so far,” I mutter through a mouthful of ginger-spiced carrot-cake ice cream. As I do, flecks of cream fly onto the lace napkin I’m holding under the treat.

Tricia Clarke folds her arms across her ample chest. “That’s the last of them,” she says. Her strangely masculine voice always sounds odd coming out of her mouth, all full lips and cherry lipstick. You might actually mistake her for a guy if you couldn’t see her Meghan Trainor body.

“Finally,” I say, placing the napkin on the counter. “I’m going to have to run a marathon to work off all of those, you crazy bitch.”

Tricia rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you should probably call the cops, the way I held that gun to your head. You know I need another set of taste buds when I’m working on new recipes. And if you want to be a partner in this thing, those taste buds, for better or worse, are going to be yours.” She sweeps her hands down her body like a game show hostess showing off a new car. “Besides, this doesn’t just happen, you know.”

We look sternly into each other’s eyes for a full second before we both lose it.

God, this feels good. Tricia and I laugh so easily together that it’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other a few months. I’ll never forget it the first time we met at yoga class: she was on the mat in front of me, doing downward dog, and our eyes met through her legs.

It was just so utterly absurd that we both burst out laughing, like we’re doing now. After class we met up for a glass of wine, and she had me in stitches.

“What if I’d farted at that exact moment?” she’d asked, wide-eyed. She was totally serious. The look on her face made me howl so hard I actually started to worry that I might wet myself.

We finally settle down and I take a deep breath to clear my head from the laughter and the sugar overload. Tricia pours us both a coffee and we sit down at a table. It’s early afternoon, just after lunch, so the shop is deserted. Business will pick up in a couple of hours as people drop in for their afternoon fixes of banana splits and root beer floats, but for now, we have Patty’s to ourselves.

“Why Patty’s?” I ask, savoring the bitterness of the coffee after the sweetness of the ice cream samples. “I mean, I get your name is Patricia, but I’ve never heard you call yourself Patty.”

“Irony,” she says. “My whole life I wanted to be called Tricia, but everyone – teachers, relatives, strangers – always called me Patty. I finally stopped answering to anything but Tricia when I was a teen. They finally got the message.”

I can relate. My given name is Cassandra, but I’ve always been Sandra. My father always told me it sounded more dignified and serious than Cassie, and he’s all about being serious.

Only one person ever called me Cassie, and I doubt I’ll ever see him again.

“I’ll tell you what: I’m going to put your preferred name on the line of ice cream,” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “How do you feel about Tricialicious?”

“I like it,” she says. “Then again, if you’re willing to drop millions into this pipe dream, you can call it Sandra’s Snatchtastic Sherbet, for all I care.”

Another laugh ambush. That’s why I love Tricia so much: she helps me decompress. Around her, it’s easy to forget about what I used to do for a living, if only just for a little while.

“That might be a little too New Yawk for the masses,” I chuckle. “Remember, we’re going to be shipping ice cream all over the country.”

“Have you got any details yet?” she asks. “I mean, if anyone can pull it off, it’s you. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever known.”

I nod, ignoring the compliment. I’ve been hearing it all my life, to the point where I don’t even hear it when people point it out. Like my red hair.

“I’ve got my eye on a factory in the Bronx,” I say. “It’s cheap and can easily be retrofitted. It’ll be tight, but it’ll work. Then we’ll have to figure out supply chain, delivery, yadda yadda.”

“And all you have to do is come up with a few million dollars in venture capital,” she says, sipping her coffee. “Piece of cake.”

“That’s going to be the easy part,” I say. “You just worry about the production side of things. We’ll have to make thousands of those little pint containers if we want to take on Ben and Jerry.”

“Pft!” she sneers. “Ben and Jerry can bite me.”

As we descend into laughter again, the money is foremost in my mind. Tricia probably thinks this is just a pipe dream, but it will be easy to get.

Easy money always comes with a price, though. And in this case, it’s about as steep as you can get. The question is, am I willing to pay it?

I have to be. I’ve come too far to back out now.

Chapter Three

3. CARSON

I’m always amazed at how hard some Europeans have to work to have a good time. I mean, three-quarters of the people on the dance floor look like they’re in the middle of a physics exam instead of gyrating to a thumping techno beat.

You’re in Milan, for crying out loud. Relax.

I suppose that’s easy for me to say as I tip the third empty bottle of ’88 Dom Perignon into the silver bucket next to our table, signaling our waitress to bring another. I never see the bills that accumulate on my platinum American Express – they go straight to accountants I’ve never met.

I’ve burned money like it’s firewood ever since I sold my company three years ago and I still haven’t even made a dent in the principal from the sale.

I did the math once: assuming I live to the age of ninety – so another sixty years – I’ll have to spend upwards of a hundred grand a day to go through all of it. Of course, the money isn’t just sitting in the bank; it’s invested all over the place, bringing in very respectable returns, so you can probably up that number to $250,000. Sure, it’s easy to spend a quarter-million dollars in one day. Anyone could do it.

But spending that much every single day for the rest of my natural life? That’s a whole other ball game.

Our server sashays over with two more bottles of champagne and places them on the table in front of Maks and me. The British girls are busy giggling and watching people on the dance floor.

The server, a black-haired woman with chestnut eyes and a neck like a swan’s, leans in close to my ear, filling my nose with some exotic floral scent. I assume that’s how she spent some of the $5,000 tip I left for her last night. Her lips tickle the skin of my earlobe.

“Compliments of the house,” she says, raising her voice despite the closeness. It’s the only way to be heard over the driving thump of the music. I smile ruefully. I’ve just been comped about $4,000 worth of booze.

Even when I try to spend it all, I can’t.

Maksim pours the contents of his bottle into the ladies’ glasses. “You pour your own, big payer,” he says to me.

“Big spender,” I correct, shaking my head.

“What is difference?” he says, consternation on his face. “All it means is same thing.”

I chuckle.

Sometimes it irks me that he never picks up a check – it’s not like he can’t afford it, his father is a billionaire – but I never actually get mad at the guy.

One thing about Maksim Orlov: if he’s around, it’s a party. He attracts people like moths to a flame. He’s always got a grin on that swarthy, stubbly face, and he’s always up for a drink, or a concert, or a swim in the ocean, or jumping out of a plane. He probably could have joined me on my wingsuit escapade this afternoon, but he’s also incredibly lazy.

He’s also got a knack for finding the most beautiful women on the planet. Case in point, our current companions. Joanna is seated to my right, wearing a stunning black evening dress I bought for her this afternoon. At least I think I did. She accepted my credit card happily enough.

To my left is Georgia, a petite brunette with huge doe eyes, in a tank top and an ivory miniskirt. Emily, another blonde, is all over Maks.

Joanna leans across me to talk to Georgia. “Pinch me!” she cries.

“No, you pinch me!” comes the reply. The two giggle like fiends.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Joanna lays a hand on my thigh, dangerously close to my crotch. “What do you think, silly? We planned this holiday thinking we’d be staying in hostels and eating at tourist traps! Then we met you two and – well, this happened!”

Georgia leans in to flank me and claims my other thigh. “It’s like a dream!”

“Well,” I say, “if we’re all dreaming, why aren’t we in bed?”

Their eyes light up. “We thought you’d never ask!” says Joanna.

The two of them grab their purses and stand up. Emily and Maks, who are practically sitting on top of each other, look at us with matching grins.

“Have fun,” Emily coos. “We’re going to stick around a bit.”

The girls pull me up from my seat as I wave to our companions. We amble toward the door, their arms around my waist, my arms around their shoulders. My head is a little fuzzy from the champagne, but I’m well aware of where tonight is heading.

The sultry night air hits me as we emerge from the front door into the streets. The girls continue to giggle as we meander our way toward the hotel where Maks and I – and, I suppose, our three new friends – are staying. People mill past in various stages of drunkenness. All of them are young and impossibly beautiful.

This is Milan, after all.

“How did you make your money?” Joanna asks as we walk. Her face suddenly turns beet red. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize how crass that would sound! You don’t have to tell us.”

“Not at all,” I say. “Elevator pitch: I invented a type of software that some people found very valuable, so they paid me a lot of money for it. The end.”

“You must be really smart,” says Georgia. I think the champagne affected her tiny body a bit more than the rest of us, judging by the way she’s weaving. “I can barely turn a computer on.”

I lean in close and whisper, “Well, you’re both doing an excellent job of turning me on.”

They flash each other a look that promises me I’m in for a night of delight.

Chapter Four

4. CARSON

“I am thinking I need to go to England,” Maksim muses as he stirs his Bloody Mary. He takes a long swallow and lays back down on the Gulfstream’s leather sofa.

“Yeah?” I say from my seat. Unlike Maks, I like something a little more substantial than vodka for breakfast, so I’m tucking into a platter from the jet’s pantry. “Why is that?”

“They know how to drink like Russians,” he sighs. “Emily drank me over the table last night. Even at hotel.”

I resist the urge to correct him and focus on my eggs instead. Coincidentally, they’re done in the English style, creamy and loaded with butter, so even reheated they’re delicious. The sausage on the side is greasy and savory and exactly what I need to kill last night’s hangover.

Matthias will probably kick my ass in the gym when he finds out about it, but it’s worth it. I wash it down with fresh-brewed black coffee and look out the window at the summer sky. We’re flying into the past: New York is six hours behind Milan, so even though the flight is eight hours long, we’ll arrive only two hours after we left.

Not that time has a lot of meaning for people like Maks and me. It’s one of the many perks of not having to work for a living. It’s also what’s responsible – I think – for the sense of disconnection that’s dogged me over the past several months. The feeling that I’m untethered from the rest of the world.

Maks gives me a quizzical look. “Something wrong, tovarishch?” he asks, using the Russian word for friend.

I put down my cutlery on my empty plate and push the tray aside. What could possibly be wrong? I think. I’ve got everything anyone could ever want.

Don’t I?

“I’m fine,” I lie. “I just—Maks, don’t you ever get… I don’t know. Bored?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Let go of my leg you are pulling on, Carson. Did you not take those two beautiful women to your bed last night?”

“Yes.”

“And do we not right now fly from Milan on your own jet back to New York City, the greatest city on the world?”

I run a hand through my hair and sigh. What am I talking about? When he puts it that way, how the hell can I believe I’m bored? Millions of men would trade places with me in a second. I can literally do anything I want, whenever I want, and, in a lot of cases, to whomever I want.

Maks finishes his drink and gets up to make another. I swear, the man has the constitution of a horse. He tilts the bottle in my direction and raises his eyebrows. I wave it off.

“Is it work you are looking for?” he asks. “Maybe you want to be boss again. Yes?”

“Hell, no,” I say. “I never miss the work. Software development wasn’t a career for me, it was just the means to an end.”

“What is this means, your end?”

I smile. Even when he doesn’t try, he’s hilarious.

“Sorry, I meant that I got into that field for the money. I didn’t enjoy it. After my father died, I realized that I didn’t want to be like him, to have my fate decided by other people.”

“Your papa was soldier, yes?”

“Yeah. We moved around all the time when I was a kid, from one base to another, as ordered. I didn’t want that kind of life. I always knew I was smart, and I wasn’t learning anything in college that I didn’t already know, so I dropped out and started Black Sword.”

“I have told you before, that is the awesomest name, my friend.”

“I know, I know. I went with a hacking defense system because I knew there was a huge gap in the market for it, not because it was particularly interesting. It took about six years to get it fully functional, but the second it was up and running, buyers were breaking down my door. And I guess three billion and change isn’t bad for a few years work. Plus stock options.”

“And so why you are bored here?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m searching for a new challenge. Building my company was probably the last time I really used my mind properly, you know. After I got rich, I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish, and none of them had anything to do with my brain. First off was getting that six-pack I always wanted.”

Maks spreads his arms wide. “Mission is accomplished,” he says. “If I was the gay man, I would be up on you, like Snoopy Dog sings.”

“Snoop Dogg. And yes, thanks to Matthias and a lot of hard work. Once I had the new physique in place, all I could think of was making up for lost time with the ladies. I guess I’ve gone a little overboard in that department.”

That’s the understatement of the century.

When I discovered that women were starting to notice me, I made it my mission to seduce everyone I met who would have ignored me in high school. All the former cheerleaders, all the society types. What amazed me was how easy it all was. It’s like someone handed me the cheat codes to life and women.

“After awhile,” I continue, “I got so used to women falling for me that I started flirting without even thinking, and they started throwing themselves at me. Last night was a perfect example. They were lovely girls, but it was a foregone conclusion that I was taking at least one of them to bed. And, let’s be blunt, it’s not like I was going to be discussing chaos theory or the Fibonacci integer sequence with them afterwards.”

There was only one girl I ever really talked with, and I haven’t seen her in twelve years. I try not to think about her.

I don’t succeed, but I try.

Maks sits back in the sofa and stares out the window beside my head for several long moments. He seems to be debating something with himself, and I wonder if I’m going crazy. Looking to Maksim Orlov for life advice is like looking to a monk for sex advice.

He’s totally unequipped to answer.

“So if I am listening right,” he says, “you want something that will make you use your head and your khuy.” He uses the Russian word for – well, little head. As usual, he has absolutely no subtlety, but he’s hit the nail on the khuy.

“I guess you could say that,” I chuckle. “Don’t ask me how to put those two things together, because I don’t know.”

Maksim nods, and his expression is as serious as I’ve ever seen it, which is not at all what I expected.

“My friend,” he says. “I think I may know of something that might be what you are looking about.”

He leans close and lowers his voice to a whisper, as if we weren’t the only two people in the jet’s cabin. Antonio and Patrick, the pilots, are behind the cockpit’s soundproof door.

“You must promise that you will not talk about this to anyone. It is very important that you understand that.”

What’s this cloak and dagger bullshit?

“Fine,” I say, making the sign of the cross with a mocking grin. “I’ll take your secret to the grave… now what the hell are you talking about?”

“What I am talking about,” he says, “is the Chase.”

Chapter Five

5. CASSANDRA

I’m not sure exactly how I expected this meeting to go, but it certainly wasn’t like this.

The rich leather of my chair feels like butter against the luxurious fabric of my best dress. This office is unlike anything I’ve ever seen: rich mahogany paneling on the walls, a filigreed walnut desk, a Turkish rug that must have cost upwards of $20,000.

And across from me, behind the desk, sits a middle-aged lady in a Stella McCartney pantsuit who had every reason to laugh me out of the room, and yet is nodding in agreement.

“I think you’re really on to something,” says Miranda Winthrop, vice president of Tate Capital and the daughter of the firm’s founder, the legendary Oscar Tate. “Your business plan is sound, but what really inspires me is your passion for the product.”

I nod, working hard to keep the excitement out of my face. I’ve been trained to keep my emotions in check, but it’s not easy. Part of me wants to jump up and down and shriek like a teenage girl at a Justin Bieber concert.

“I appreciate that,” I say, trying to sound professional. “I think our approach would be unique in the frozen treat industry, since Ms. Clarke and I both want to keep the recipes original.”

“That’s so important,” she says. “A lot of companies have cut corners to maximize profits over the years and it shows. I don’t know if you’ve eaten any store-brand ice cream recently…”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to tell me,” I say. “It’s nothing like we used to eat when I was a kid.”

“You’re preaching to the choir. Honestly, I’m already a big fan of Patty’s. If you and Tricia can manage mass production and still hold onto what makes that ice cream so special, I have every confidence that this will be a going concern.”

This is really happening. I’m so close. Now comes the hard part.

“So,” I say. “Do you have a number in mind?”

She flips through a stack of papers with a beautifully manicured hand for several moments as my heart rate doubles. I’ve been in plenty of life-or-death situations in the last several years, but this has them all beat.

“Based on what I see here, the money you’re offering to put up would constitute a thirty percent stake of the total deal.”

I do the math instantly in my head: three and a half million is thirty percent of eleven million and change. Tate Capital puts up the other seven and a half and we’ll get our factory up and running. And then, after we – naturally – become a wild success, the initial public offering will take the company public and I’ll sell out for easily ten times my investment and retire to a Greek island before I’m thirty-five.

Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a day for fourteen days. I can’t keep the smile off my face. I’ve had years of training, years of field operations, years of pushing myself to my limits, mentally and physically. If I can’t avoid a group of rich old geezers for two weeks, I better hand in my CIA special operative card.

Well, I suppose I already did that. But you get what I mean.

“That sounds eminently doable,” I say, wincing inwardly at the lame buzzwords. But my resume says I’ve been a business consultant for the last six years, so I need to be able to talk the talk. “With your assurances, I’ll move forward with due diligence and I’ll get to gathering my capital.”

Buzzword. Buzzword. Buzzword.

“Excellent,” says Miranda, returning my smile. She reaches a hand across the desk and I take it in mine. “Let’s set another appointment for three weeks from now and we can expand on the details. I’m looking forward to working together, Sandra.”

“As am I. And I’m sure Tricia will be over the moon when I let her know.”

Miranda puts on an expression of mock gravity. “Tell her as a partner, I expect to be added to the sampling team.”

I return the look. “Of course,” I say. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, this is serious business.”

We both laugh as she shows me out onto the streets of Manhattan. Well, the elevator bank, anyway. Another handshake and she walks back to her office, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The initial excitement is still there, but something below the surface is threatening to throw cold water on my celebration.

Don’t focus on that, I scold myself. Focus on the money. Two weeks, that’s all. Maybe I can add in a few days for good measure, build up my own finances as well. An extra four days would mean a million dollars for myself, tax-free in an offshore account. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

Do as many days as you want, it’s going to end the same way no matter what: you in bed with a stranger.

I shake my head and raise my hand to hail a cab, trying to get into the right headspace. I was an expert in pragmatism for years, I tell myself. I know the end justifies the means, and the means aren’t always pretty.

In this case, the end is a one-third stake in a multi-million-dollar company that will eventually go public and leave me financially independent for the rest of my life.

The means are simple: they call it the Chase.

Chapter Six

6. CARSON

“The Chase?” I say. “You mean that British quiz show?”

Maksim looks at me like I’m an idiot. “What? No, not TV show. I am talking about something very secret.”

He puts a finger to his lips. Like I don’t what the word means.

I raise my hands, palms up, inviting him to tell me more. I also sit back in my chair, because he’s still leaning close and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper, and his breath reeks of vodka.

Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, except for the fact my head is still pounding from last night.

“My uncle has said some things that I overlistened,” he says. “He and my father have many wealthy colleagues, as you know.”

I do know. I also know they and a lot of their colleagues are on FBI watch lists. I’m sure Maks suspects as much, but he never talks about it.

“Some of them are like you, very smart. And bored. I can see it on their faces when we are at church and at gatherings of family. One day, I hear uncle talking about a woman who was in US Army intelligence, and how she was ‘the prize.’ His friend says to him, ‘I’m in. I will get you money tomorrow.’”

I tent my fingers under my chin, an old habit that helps me focus.

This sounds crazy. Like something out of a low-budget movie. In my experience, at least, being a billionaire isn’t that different from my old life. I just fly on fancier jets and drink better booze. And the women, of course.

But this – this sounds like it’s come off Hollywood’s rejected script pile.

“So,” I say. “You’re telling me this is a hunt of some kind? Maks, you know me, I’m not into – ”

“No, no, no, not a hunt.” He frowns at me. “What kind of family do you think I have?”

I leave that one well alone.

“No, the Chase is not about killing anyone. Not animal, not person. I don’t know details, but it is about finding someone. A woman.”

“Why would someone pay money to find a woman? They’re all over the place, in case you hadn’t noticed. Especially when you’re like us. You know me, Maks. I don’t pay for women.”

“Not Army intelligence officer women. They are not all over the place. And uncle said this one was… special.”

“Special how?”

He leans in even closer. “I think she was virgin.”

Now I’m the one frowning.

“Are you talking about rape?” I demand. “Because if you are, this conversation is over.”

Maksim’s expression droops into a wounded puppy look, and I realize I’ve crossed a line.

“Carson,” he says. “I would never – ”

“I know, I know,” I soothe. “I’m sorry, you’re a man of honor. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. But if not that, then what? What’s the purpose of the Chase? Why would any woman, especially one who’s smart and capable, allow herself to be chased and give up her virginity to someone she doesn’t even know?”

His eyebrows go up. “Money, of course. What else is there?”

He’s got me there. I recently read an article about a Romanian teen who auctioned off her virginity online for over €2 million. Her reasoning was actually pretty sound: she asked how many women would have taken advantage of the deal if they’d had the opportunity to revisit their first time? A night of sex for a lifetime of financial security.

“So there’s more than one pursuer involved, obviously?”

“Yes,” says Maks. “Like I say, I don’t know details but I know it is competition. Losers lose money, winner wins money and the woman.”

“And your uncle takes a commission.”

It makes sense, and technically I guess it’s not illegal. I’m sure the handling of the money isn’t above board, but it never is in something like this. All offshore accounts and anonymous transfers. The prize money could never show up on the books anywhere. I can just picture telling an IRS audit about the money I won popping a woman’s cherry.

As far as I know, I’ve never slept with a virgin.

All my conquests have been experienced. Some more than others – some much more than others – but never a first-timer. It would certainly be a new experience for me, and I’m all about new experiences.

But what really has me intrigued is matching wits with someone who’s trained in evading capture. That’s the kind of real challenge I’m looking for. Suddenly, jumping off a cliff into a lake seems like a juvenile stunt by comparison.

Maksim finally leans back on the sofa and takes a pull directly from the vodka bottle this time, a smile creeping across his swarthy face.

“I can see there are wheels rolling in your head,” he says. “You are interested, yes? I have caught you like hook on fish.”

“I am interested maybe,” I say.

“I will talk to uncle about it. Maybe he will pay me commission, eh?”

I grin back at him. “And maybe then you’ll pick up a check once in awhile.”

He laughs and takes another swig of vodka.

“And take away your chance to show everyone how generous you are?” he says. “Why would I do that to you, tovarishch?”

Maks kicks off his Givenchy loafers and stretches out on the full length of the sofa. From the breast pocket of his sportcoat, he produces a small fabric sleep mask that he slips over his eyes. Finally he clasps his hands behind his head and is snoring softly in less than a minute.

I chuckle and turn to look out the porthole at the cloudless sky. Of all the people I’ve ever met, precisely one carries a sleep mask on his person at all times.

I half consider a nap myself – it’ll be a long day in New York, especially with the time difference – but I know sleep will elude me. The Chase keeps tugging at my mind, like an exposed wound, taunting me.

Surely it can’t really be a thing? Perhaps Maks – half-drunk – completely misunderstood an overheard conversation. Surely that’s a far more plausible scenario?

Sleep eventually creeps around the edges of my consciousness as I ponder the Chase, until it finally overtakes me and drags me down into its depths.

I dream of a redheaded girl who’s smarter than me and makes my heart soar.

Chapter Seven

7. CARSON

The scent of her shampoo is strong in my nostrils as I run my tongue around her earlobe. It’s a special kind, made specifically for kinky-haired redheads, she always tells me. I tell her it’s actually for women who dye their hair red, not for real redheads, and she just sticks her tongue out at me.

That’s circular reasoning, she says, but only because she’s distracted by my attention to her ear.

It’s a logical fallacy, yes, but not circular reasoning. I can’t be bothered to point it out right now.

I know this is a dream, even as it unfolds. This never actually happened. Cassie and I made out, yes, and we had Socratic arguments, but never at the same time. I hold onto the feeling of being close to her as long as I can, burying my face in her neck, hearing her hot breath against my ear.

But it doesn’t last.

It never does. I always end up back here, in this empty living room, with this stupid corsage in my hand. I look around the room at the emptiness there. In the dream there’s dust on the wood moldings and the windowsills, cobwebs in the corners. That’s not what really happened, either. It’s just my mind painting a portrait of the loneliness I felt when I walked into that deserted house.

When I discovered she was gone.

And, just like always, I’m back in the gym at good old Oak Grove High, surrounded by kids in their best suits and the prom dresses that their parents can’t really afford. They’re all laughing at me, laughing at the brainiac kid who got stood up by his brainiac girlfriend. Couldn’t even get the geekiest girl in school to come with you, huh?

Now, just like always, I come to the realization that all my success, my money and my body and everything that came after high school, was just a dream. I’m going to sign up for the army and be just like Dad, marching to orders and moving to every fucking Podunk town in America. This is my life, forever and ever.

And Cassie wasn’t even real, she never existed, I just made her up. That’s why she disappeared that night. There was never a girl who understood me, who stretched me in every advanced placement class, who shared books with me and told me I was handsome and held me so tight that I actually believed that maybe, someday, everything would turn out okay.

Nothing but an empty living room on prom night, and a corsage that I bought for someone who wasn’t there.

My stomach drops suddenly and I’m back in the Gulfstream, clutching the arms of my leather seat.

“Sorry about that, sirs,” Patrick says over the intercom. “Just a little turbulence from a squall off Nova Scotia. That should be the worst of it.”

I breathe deeply, taking in as much recycled air as I can fit into my lungs before letting it out slowly. I’m shaken, and not from the bumpy ride.

The dream again. The one where everything I have today is just a teenage fantasy and I’m trapped in the life my father lived. It always takes me several minutes to shake off the effects and remind myself that yes, I am Carson Drake, billionaire playboy.

I’m not that kid that everyone laughed at on prom night. Nor the boy who was abandoned by the girl he loved.

I’m different now. Better. And everything will be all right.

I sigh and run my hands down my face, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.

“Whuh?” Maks grunts from the sofa. He sits up and pulls off the ridiculous sleep mask. “Are we home?”

“Close, but not quite,” I say.

He lets out a huge yawn and reaches for the vodka. “I dreamed that I was the king of England,” he says.

“Maksim.”

“Yeah?”

“I want to find out more about what we talked about.”

He brightens. “You are sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say.

Let the Chase begin.

Chapter Eight

8. CASSANDRA

“What are the three greatest words in the English language?”

It’s not exactly the greeting I’m expecting when Tricia opens the door to her apartment, but I can play along.

“I don’t know,” I say as she ushers me in. “I love you?”

“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Wine. Sweatpants. Popcorn.” She counts out each one on a separate finger.

“Let me guess: you have all of them?”

“In spades.”

She leads me into the living room. Her place is a lot like her: bold and funky. The furniture is an eclectic mix of antiques and garage sale chic. A Matisse print and a portrait of dogs playing poker share space on the wall of the dining area.

In another place, in another time, it would look tacky. But not with Tricia.

Here, now, it fits.

I take a seat on an ancient sofa that sinks almost to the floor as it accepts my weight, leaving my knees almost under my chin. Tricia flops down in an overstuffed armchair that’s covered in a material that resembles fur, assuming there are pink-haired mammals somewhere in the world.

“I hope you’re okay with pinot grigio,” she says, pouring us each a glass of the straw-colored liquid. “I’m a sucker for a sale.”

“If it’s cold and it has alcohol in it, I’m okay with it,” I say, offering up my wine glass in an ironic cheer. “Besides, our days of buying wine on sale are rapidly coming to an end.”

Tricia pulls her oversized plastic bowl of popcorn into her lap with childlike glee.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” she asks, eyes glowing.

“It does indeed. Miranda Winthrop said if we can put up $3.5 million, Tate Capital will put up the rest for a two-thirds stake.”

She lets out a long breath and shakes her head. “It just seems like so much. I mean, all I have is a little equity in the building and what I have in retirement savings. That’s not even, what, two hundred thousand.”

“I told you to leave it to me.” I tilt my glass back and feel the chill glide down my throat, taste the fruity tartness on the back of my tongue. That’s the stuff.

“It’s easy to say that. It’s something else to do it.”

“I also told you I have someone on the hook who’s looking to buy the goodwill in my consulting business. My client list is worth $3 million on its own.”

That’s a flat-out lie, but Tricia never needs to know. I’ve been telling lies for a living for almost eight years now; I’m an expert in it.

But I am – partly – telling the truth. I will have the money soon; it just won’t be coming from the sale of my business.

After all, how could it? The business doesn’t exist. It never did, outside of a PO box address and a phone number that goes straight to voicemail.

“Besides,” I say, lifting my glass in a toast. “Miranda is absolutely gaga about your shop.”

“She said that?”

“Well, not those exact words, but the sentiment was there.”

She grins and drains her glass. I follow suit and pour us two more. We both stuff a handful of popcorn into our mouths and chew noisily, then giggle like girls.

“So,” I say. “Are you ready to be a big shot?”

“I honestly don’t know. I mean, I come from a working class family. My parents freaked out when I told them I wanted to open an ice cream shop. To this day they think I should drop it all and try to find a government job.”

Government job. My stomach cramps a bit at that. I’m currently in the process of leaving a government job, even though my name isn’t officially on any government records. Anywhere. No 401K, no benefits package.

“My dad works for the government,” I say. That much is true.

“There’s something to be said for a steady paycheck and job security.”

Job security only works when you know you’ll be home safe at the end of the workday. I never knew from one day to the next whether I’d even be alive, let alone still have a job.

I munch on some more popcorn and wash it down with more pinot. “I think there’s something limiting in that, though. You give up something in exchange for that security.”

“What do you mean, give up?”

“Jobs are about conforming to standards and following rules, especially with government. You give up your creativity, your individuality.”

She nods. “I see what you’re saying. I can’t picture you ever working for government. You’re way too smart to make a damn fool move like that.”

I’m terrible at taking compliments, always have been. And, like always, I’m still blushing. But Tricia’s right: a government job that wasn’t in the CIA probably would have driven me around the bend. Using my wits is what makes me happy, gives me purpose. Makes me feel like I’m doing something important.

The problem with the job, of course, is all the horrors that are part and parcel of trying to keep America safe for democracy.

Tricia gives me an appraising look. “I wonder what you were like in high school,” she says. “I bet that gorgeous red mop and your big brain made you the most popular girl in school. Am I right?”

I smile ruefully. “You couldn’t be more wrong. We moved around a lot, so I was always the new girl. And despite what you may think, the other kids tend to hate you when you blow the grading curve with your scores. And this?” I take a handful of my curls. “It was a lot redder and a lot frizzier in those days. And I was built like an artist’s model.”

“You mean curvy?”

“No, I mean like one of those featureless wooden figures that they pose into different positions. Calling my breasts mosquito bites would be overselling them.”

Tricia giggles and takes another sip. I down the rest of mine in a gulp. Thinking about those days always makes me feel uncomfortable.

“Did you have a boyfriend?” she asks, leaning forward and putting her elbows on her knees. “Give me the dirty details!”

I break eye contact and look away. Suddenly my heart hurts.

“For awhile,” I say. “But there wasn’t anything dirty. And it didn’t last.”

“So you two didn’t…?”

I blush again. “No. I’ve never actually… you know.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I just never had the time for a relationship,” I blurt. “And I never found the right guy again.”

How the hell did we end up in this discussion? This is the absolute last thing I want to be talking about right now, given my circumstances.

“Again? So you’re saying High School Boy was the right guy?”

“Look, can we talk about something else, please?” Anything else.

Tricia gets out of her chair and sits next to me on the sofa. She takes my hands in hers.

“Honey, the ‘losing it’ part is no great shakes,” she says. “But once you get that out of the way, it’s amazing what can happen. I mean, ah-may-zing.”

Once you get that out of the way. I won’t be in suspense much longer in that department. I guess that means I’ll be able to move on to the ah-may-zing part sooner. That’s a positive thing.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I’ll start to believe it.

Chapter Nine

9. CASSANDRA

My apartment is a study in contrast with Tricia’s. Where hers is all kitsch and kook, mine is all wood and glass.

Functional. Modern. Sleek. Efficient.

It’s funny how a home can be a reflection of its occupant.

The clock said midnight the last time I looked, and the buzz of the wine has long since worn off. I’m pretty sure Tricia had two glasses to each of mine, judging by how dozy she was when I left. The train ride home was enough to sober me up and get me in the right mindset for what I have to do.

I chose this apartment – or, I should say, it was chosen for me by my father – because it has a so-called panic room. It’s a secure space that’s not noticeable from the outside, designed for paranoid people who are worried about home invasion.

In my case, it’s my office. Read into that what you will. At least my office until I decided to leave work behind two months ago.

I reach into my bedroom closet and tap the back wall, activating a spring-loaded switch that causes the false back to slide into the wall. Anyone watching me from the outside would see me disappear into a wardrobe that shouldn’t be big enough for me to fit.

The office itself is purely functional, without a hint of style. It’s about eight feet square, with a simple metal desk, an office chair, my CIA laptop and a thirty-six-inch monitor affixed to the wall. The walls themselves are covered in soundproof panels made of foam wrapped in dark gray fabric.

It won’t make the cover of Style At Home, but it serves its purpose. Hopefully it’s not as much a reflection of me as the rest of the apartment.

I boot up my computer and open a Tor browser – a special program designed to access the “dark web,” a part of the Internet that even Google can’t find. Usually for good reason – they’re often used to sell drugs, weapons and… well, other things you don’t need to know about.

I call up a text-based site I discovered through a dark web search a couple of months ago, and open a file marked “Chase.”

I’ve read it half a dozen times already: there’s nothing new. General information, rules, contact names. I tried to trace it back to its source a few weeks ago in an attempt to find out who was behind it, but I just got bounced from one ISP address to another. Whoever set up the site had serious online security credentials.

There’s no point going through it all again; I won’t learn anything new, and I wouldn’t change my mind if I did. So instead I call up the message board I’ve been instructed to use. I hit enter and green letters appear on a black screen: Your answer?

This is the point of no return.

Yes, I type.

My finger hovers over the enter key for a full minute before I finally take a deep breath and press it.

A green circle comes on the screen and spins for about thirty seconds. When it stops, another prompt: Enter account information. I type in the number of a bank account I set up in Grand Cayman, a haven for money that people don’t want to be found. Another green circle appears when I hit enter, another thirty seconds pass.

More text on the screen: Account will be credited $250,000.00 USD per day until Chase is complete. Maximum term: 14 days.

Now what?

As if in answer to my question, a video file suddenly appears on the screen and auto starts. The camera is focused on a stunning blonde with long, satiny curls and bright red lipstick, sitting in a well-appointed parlor. Her dress probably cost more than I make in six months.

“Hello,” she purrs. She’s worked very hard to erase her Russian accent, but it can’t escape my trained ear. “If you’re seeing this, it means you’ve completed your registration for the Chase. Congratulations.”

Thanks, sweetheart, I appreciate your sincerity.

“This year’s Chase will begin at precisely 12:01 a.m. on July 30. You’ve already read the rules and obligations, so I won’t go over them here. You are required to submit the information requested within twenty-four hours. Please note that your registration is considered a binding contract by the administrators of the Chase.”

She cocks her head slightly and leans closer to the camera.

“Failure to meet your obligations will be considered breach of contract and will be dealt with accordingly.”

Of course it will.

People who offer you large sums of money, deposited into offshore bank accounts via the dark web aren’t exactly known for their laid-back attitudes over breaches of contract. I understand the consequences.

“The Chase will end at midnight on August 13. If you avoid capture until then, the prize will be auctioned among the contestants. The proceeds of the sale will, naturally, be credited to your account.”

The prize.

For better or worse, that’s what my virginity is now: a prize to be won by someone with more money than common sense.

The thought makes my stomach sink just a little bit. But I knew what I was getting into when I pressed that button.

As for prizes, I’ve got my eye on my own, and I’ll win it with the help of the Chase.

The blonde leans back in her chair and folds her hands on her lap.

“You will be contacted on July 27 with more information.”

She smiles, and as she does, I grab my phone off the desk and snap a photo of her on the screen. I don’t know why; instinct, I guess.

“On behalf of my associates, I wish you luck.”

The screen goes black.

That’s all I’ll get until the twenty-seventh.

Three days from now.

The deadline somehow makes what I’ve agreed to seem more real in my mind, and I realize my confidence has been an act.

The Chase itself will be easy, I know that much. But that talk about an auction? It makes me think of the scene in Taken, where women are sold like cattle to the highest bidder. Of course, I’ve seen worse in my time working in the shadowy corners of the world.

I never expected to experience it myself. And certainly not voluntarily.

I leave the office and close the secret door behind me. Wine isn’t going to cut it this time, so I pull a bottle of Jack Daniels from the sideboard in the living room. I pour myself two fingers and knock it back in a single shot.

There’s no turning back now.

Chapter Ten

10. CARSON

The Regent is a boutique hotel on the Upper East Side that never advertises, has no listing online, and is always full.

Basically, if you don’t know someone who knows someone, you’re better off not even knowing it exists, because you’ll never get in. And if you do get in, you won’t see a price anywhere, because the kind of people who hang out here never see their own bills.

I take a sip from my glass and savor the smooth, rich smokiness of the 1926 Macallan single-malt scotch. The décor in the Regent’s bar looks like it hasn’t changed since the 1920s; it’s just been maintained like new. It’s all ebony and leather, with white highlights like lace tablecloths and giant ostrich feathers in gold vases.

I’m wearing a tailored Tom Ford tuxedo and I still feel underdressed.

The second my appointment walks in, I know exactly who she is, because she looks right at home. A full-length red dress hugs her curves and the room’s discreet lighting turns her long blonde curls into spun gold. She sashays straight to my table and sits down before I have a chance to fully stand up.

“We can dispense with the formalities,” she says with a smile. Her voice betrays just the slightest hint of an accent. “No need to be out in the open any longer than absolutely necessary, given the nature of our discussion. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I would,” I say. I feel like I’m in a scene from some old noir movie with Humphrey Bogart.

The waitress arrives and silently places a double martini with three olives in front of my companion. She’s obviously a regular here.

“Maksim – ”

She arches an eyebrow and raises a red-tipped finger.

“No names,” she says. “If you say another, I’m afraid our time here is done.”

I nod in apology. I’m not used to being chided, not anymore. It’s almost… tantalizing. “Of course. Forgive me.”

“Our mutual acquaintance says you are looking to become part of our friendly little game.”

Friendly little game. That description makes the whole thing seem even more lewd, if that’s even possible.

“I am,” I say.

“The buy-in is twenty, due in full before the twenty-seventh of this month. You will be given instructions on the transaction.”

I assume that means untraceable Internet transfer, possibly Bitcoin. I can do that. I have a couple hundred million in a slush fund that I use for purposes that might not meet the approval of my accountants. Twenty million would be a full ten percent of my rainy day fund, gone in an instant.

“That’s a serious amount of money,” I say.

Her smile widens and she places her hands on the arms of the chair to stand.

“It was very nice to meet you,” she says sweetly, and suddenly I see everything falling apart.

“Wait,” I say. “That was incredibly crass of me. I apologize.”

She returns to her seat as if nothing happened, but I definitely know where I stand now. A tingle runs down my spine. The way my body’s reacting is confirming what I already knew – this “friendly little game” is going to be exactly what I needed to recharge myself.

“Upon acceptance, you will be given a dossier with information on your quarry. No names, obviously, or physical characteristics. Just enough about the quarry’s habits, environment, and background for you to create a profile.”

Quarry. That’s even more lewd. Enough so that I actually feel a twitch under my tailored slacks.

“The Chase will begin at midnight on July 30 and continue until midnight on August 13, or until the quarry is caught. Capture automatically ends the Chase for all competitors. No second place; winner takes all.”

“How many others am I competing against?”

She smiles and takes a sip of her martini. I guess that answers that question.

“Each competitor will be given the key to a room in this hotel,” she says. “If and when you believe you’ve located the quarry, you will give her your key. If she is, indeed, the one, she will accompany you to the room to complete the game. If she is not, the Chase is over for you.”

Wow, that really is winner take all. I mull it over as I finish my scotch.

“What’s in it for her?” I ask.

“Money,” she says with the look of a mother indulging a toddler.

“A small fraction of what your associates will net, I’m sure.”

Another smile. “Wealth is relative.”

“So what stops her from just holing up somewhere for two weeks?”

“She – and the competitors – will be closely monitored. Any deviation from the rules will be dealt with immediately and decisively. My associates pride themselves on the integrity of the Chase.”

Jesus. Suddenly this is becoming real. Do I really want to be that involved with a Russian mobster? And drop twenty million in the process? Am I really that bored?

The answer, absolutely, is yes. This isn’t so much about completing the game, as she puts it, but the game itself.

“What can you tell me about the, uh, quarry?”

She tilts her head and brings her palms together, clasping them like a chef describing a particularly rare feast.

“I’m delighted to say that, just last night, we secured our most challenging lady yet. Her curriculum vitae includes one of the South’s top military colleges as her alma mater – graduating top of her class after only three years – and almost a decade of counter-intelligence and black ops fieldwork for off-the-books agency branches.”

Hello.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is why I’m willing to put up a small fortune.

“One more thing,” my companion says with a leer that inspires a little blood flow in my nether region. “I’ve seen her, and she is truly stunning.”

“As stunning as you?” I say automatically. Apparently, I just can’t turn it off anymore.

She flashes me a sweet smile as she stands up. “You flatter me. But I’m afraid fraternization is strictly against the rules. You understand.”

I understand that I can’t remember the last time I was turned down by a woman. It feels oddly exhilarating. At once a challenge and a warning.

“You will be contacted shortly with more information,” she says, draining her martini and gathering up her purse. “Please be prepared.”

I stand to see her off. “I will,” I say. “It’s been a great pleasure meeting you.”

“And you. Good luck.”

With that, she’s gone.

I sit back down and wave to the waitress for another scotch. She anticipated my order and already has a new glass, which she sets in front of me. I slip her a crisp portrait of Benjamin Franklin – a tip, you never actually see the bill at the Regent – and she leaves me to my thoughts.

Next thing I know, my fingers are tented under my chin and I’m in full analysis mode. Let’s recap, shall we? I need to track down a stunning needle in the haystack of New York City before an unknown number of fellow billionaires with equal, or perhaps ever greater, resources beat me to the punch.

How hard can it possibly be?

Chapter Eleven

11. CARSON

Normally, the Boom Boom Room is enough of a distraction to make it worth my time. On any given night, you’ll see billionaires – or at least their heirs, like Maksim here – and a handful of A-list celebrities wandering around in the red neon glow. At the very least, you’ll see a Kardashian or two.

But tonight, I’m not paying attention. All I can think about is the Chase.

Maks is dressed in his usual club outfit: black slacks and a charcoal satin shirt, open practically to his solar plexus, three gold chains dangling against the curly pelt of his chest. I love the guy, but if you looked up “Eurotrash” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of him.

I’m a little more subtle: light gray seersucker suit for the summer heat. Tailored, naturally, for my physique. Even top-of-the-line suits off the rack invariably fit too tightly in the chest, shoulders and arms.

Our companions, as usual, are friends of Maks. As I said, people tend to flock to him. Especially when I’m paying, which is always.

Tonight, it’s a buxom brunette with stunning blue eyes, and a willowy blonde who looks a little like Taylor Swift after a boob job. They do have two things in common: they’re both lawyers, and I’ve barely said a word to either all night.

I’m not trying to be a dick, but right now, if they’re not former intelligence operatives, then I’m simply not interested. My mind is consumed by the Chase, alive with excitement and possibility.

Maksim leaves the girls talking with each other and slides down the bench to greet me with an arm around the shoulder.

“Tovarishch,” he says with a grin. “Your mind is not here this evening. I think I know where it is being, though. Yes?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper. “And you better hope your uncle doesn’t know, either. He may have eyes on us right now.”

His eyes go wide and the blood drains from his face. Just as quickly, the old Maks is back and he’s laughing theatrically.

“Oh, my friend!” he hoots. “You are making the best jokes! ‘Santa only comes once a year!’ I get it!”

I can’t help but admire the guy – he’s nothing if not adaptable. He goes back to the girls, who send disapproving looks in my direction. I’d like to tell them the old Seinfeld line – it’s not you, it’s me – but how would I follow that up? “Sorry, I just paid twenty million bucks to chase an anonymous woman and take her virginity”?

I’m guessing that would be a conversation stopper.

I glance at my Rolex. It’s been almost forty-eight hours since my meeting with Red Dress at the Regent. She said I’d be contacted with information on how to make my payment. I scan the Boom Boom Room for potential underworld types, wondering if one of them will approach me.

Most of the people in the club are in their twenties, probably spending a month’s pay for a single night of dancing and rubbing elbows with the beautiful people. I see an aging Real Housewives “star” in the middle of a group of young people, acting like she’s their age instead of her actual forty-seven years.

All of it combines to make me suddenly tired of the whole thing. I pull my billfold from my jacket and drop a stack of hundreds on the table.

Maksim frowns. “You are not leaving already?” he says. “The party is just yet beginning!”

Another disappointed look from his companions, so I amble to their side of the booth and lean in close. I take one hand from each in my own and place a kiss on both.

“Ladies,” I say with a smile. “Please don’t take this as having anything to do with you. You’re both absolutely charming, but I’m afraid I have a pressing… business matter that needs my immediate attention. I hope we can do this again soon, when I have more time to get to know you.”

They both sigh as I let go of their hands. Behind them, Maks is shaking his head and applauding silently. Slick, that look says. Or, in Maks-speak, Sliding.

I make my way through the crowd as the lights strobe and the bass thumps, taking in more of tonight’s clientele. As I approach the VIP section, I recognize a handful of gentlemen from the upper rungs of the socioeconomic ladder. Some of them are close to my spot, if Forbes’ rankings are to be believed.

But are any of them my competitors?

The thought sparks a little pang of cockiness in me. So what if they are? They may have my kind of money, but none of them have my kind of brain. All of them inherited their standing; I earned every penny in my bank account, just like I earned the muscles under this suit.

As I emerge from the club, the night air on Washington Street is filled with the smells of street vendors and exhaust, the sounds of sirens and laughter and music. I wave at the street in an attempt to get one of the yellow cabs to pull over and take me back to my penthouse.

One of them slows down and pulls alongside a Porsche parked at the curb. As I move to take a step toward it, I see a huge shadow out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head to catch one of the largest humans I’ve ever seen – easily a head taller than me and a hundred pounds heavier – stride past me on the sidewalk. The material of his suit could upholster a small sofa.

As he passes, he leans down slightly and places something on the concrete before moving on. I look down and see it’s a black leather valise.

Stenciled into the opening flap at the top are the words Chase & Regent.

My heart skips a beat. This is it.

The cabbie toots at me to remind me how valuable his time is. I look up to see the giant has somehow blended into the crowd already. What level of skill must it take to hide that kind of bulk in a matter of seconds?

I recall what Red Dress said about us being monitored and I wonder if I even want to know.

I snatch up the case and hurry to the cab. As I slide into the back seat, I have to resist the urge to just yank it open and go through its contents right here and now.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

I give him the address of my Park Avenue penthouse. “There’s a $1,000 tip in it if you get me there in under thirty minutes.”

I have to grab the case to keep it from toppling off the seat as the cab screeches off into the night.

Chapter Twelve

12. CASSANDRA

I check my phone for the umpteenth time today to see if I’ve somehow missed the ding that indicates a new message. Nope. Just like all the other times I’ve looked at it so far today. Outside the living room window, I see the night sky of Manhattan lit up like the world’s most expensive Christmas tree.

The little Netflix logo appears on the screen of my Macbook with the message: “Are you still watching Scandal?” Obviously I haven’t been paying attention – I can’t even tell you what season has been playing, let alone what the current episode is about.

Of course, Scandal isn’t the easiest show to follow at the best of times, and this is far from the best of times.

I exit the program and am greeted by the desktop photo: a beautiful beach in Bora Bora. I traveled all over the world in my job, but I never got to see a place like Bora Bora. The only sand I ever got to see was in the desert.

Sigh.

I check the phone again without thinking. My work computer is rigged to alert my phone whenever a new message comes in from the Chase’s website, but still nothing. And it’s almost midnight.

My nerves are starting to fray. I’ve been more confident hunkered down in a rathole in the Middle East than I am right now, waiting for this message. What if it’s all fallen apart somehow? I don’t think I could take that. To come so far with this, only to see it disappear like smoke in the wind…

I need a distraction.

Before I can stop it, my thumb slides around the track pad and clicks on a file folder called “Sandra’s Stuff.” Inside is a folder of videos.

I know where my subconscious is going and I’m helpless to do anything about it. Suddenly the screen is filled with the image of two awkward teens mugging for the camera. In the lower right corner is a date stamp from thirteen years ago.

This isn’t going to help me at all. This is just wallowing. But I don’t stop it. Can’t stop it.

The girl is all red curls and freckles, the boy skinny with hair that looks like it was shorn by a military barber. They’re standing beside a roll-up banner welcoming all students to the seventeenth annual high school science fair. Behind them, a contraption covers most of the white plastic table on which it sits.

The girl holds up a large gold medal to the camera. The boy nabs it from her and bites down on it like an Olympian on the podium. She giggles with delight.

So do I. Just like I did back then.

“Tell everyone what you made,” my dad’s voice says from behind the camera.

“It’s just a scale model of a nuclear reactor,” the boy says blandly, like he’s describing a mildly interesting rock he found at the beach. Meanwhile, the girl looks at the boy the way teens gaze adoringly at posters of Justin Bieber these days.

He glances over at her and catches her staring. She blushes, flustered. Behind the camera, Dad clears his throat.

“All right, that’s enough filming. Mom’s waiting for us at the restaurant.”

The boy swoops in and kisses the girl on her freckled cheek an instant before the screen becomes filled with white static and the video file ends.

Smart, my brain tells me. I’m waiting on information about the stranger who’s going to be the first man to take me to bed, so what do I do? Watch a video of the first and only boy I’ve ever kissed. The only one I’ve ever cared about.

Sometimes I wonder if all my intelligence somehow pushed the common sense out of my brain.

The sharp rap at my front door sets the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Who the hell is here at this time of night? And why tonight, of all nights?

I place the Macbook on the sofa and take a calming breath, running my hands down my blouse to smooth out the wrinkles before striding to the door. Cool and calm. Olivia Pope, that’s me.

There’s no one there.

On the hallway carpet is a slim leather travel case with the words Chase & Regent stenciled on the top.

My pulse quickens as I snatch it into the room and quickly close the door. I just assumed they’d contact me electronically, not physically. That kind of risk shows a level of confidence I wouldn’t have expected from these people. I guess I underestimated them. That’s my first lesson.

I open the case and tip its contents gently out onto the sofa: a no-name electronic tablet, a sheaf of papers, and a gold ring. Nothing else.

I hit the power button on the tablet first. It comes to life with a video of the blonde woman again.

“Hello, Cassandra,” she says. “I hope this finds you well. I trust you now have in your possession a printed file of information on your pursuers. You should also have a ring. Please place the ring on your finger now.”

She pauses for a moment, so I do as she says. It’s a perfect fit.

“Excellent,” she smiles. I get the sensation that she can see me, even though I know that’s impossible.

Right?

“The ring contains a device that will allow us to track your movements during the Chase. Please make sure you wear it throughout; a sensor in the band is sensitive to your body heat and will alert us if you remove it at any point.”

“I’m sure that would be dealt with accordingly,” I say.

“One final rule of the Chase,” she says, holding an old-style skeleton key up to the camera. “Each pursuer will carry a key identical to this one. It opens a room in the Regent Hotel. If and when you are presented with this key, it means the Chase is concluded and the presenter has won.

“You will accompany him to the Regent and complete the transaction.”

So now I know. It’s like they’re all carrying a key to my soul. And losing my innocence will be a transaction.

An image of the redheaded girl in the video flashes in my mind and I feel the hot sting of tears behind my eyes.

Chapter Thirteen

13. CARSON

I almost never use the blinds on the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around my penthouse, but now I hit the button to activate them as soon as I walk in the door. Someone would need a telescope to spy on me at this height, but I’m not going to take any chances.

I take a seat in the center of the twelve-seat sectional couch that sits right in the center of the living room, and spread the contents of the case onto the low, wide block of solid walnut that serves as the coffee table. Even with the blinds down, I make sure the only light in the apartment is the soft LED glow from the post-modern lamp next to the sofa.

The contents are less than I would have expected: a tablet, a few papers and an old-fashioned brass skeleton key.

The papers are a dossier on my quarry. She’s thirty, the same age as me. The military college she graduated from is somewhere on the southeastern seaboard. That narrows it down.

Red Dress said the quarry graduated at the top of her class. A year early, to boot. Much better than my two years at Harvard before I dropped out.

That should narrow it down even more.

My heart is racing. This woman is turning me on more than any has in recent memory, and I don’t even know what she looks like, let alone her name.

Her file says she’s worked with two distinct government agencies – it doesn’t specify which, but I assume it’s some exotic combination of Army Intelligence, the NSA and/or the CIA. She’s been an analyst and an active field agent.

I don’t know much about this kind of stuff but I do know those two jobs rarely align. They take a totally separate set of skills: one is a thinker, the other is a doer.

This lady is both. Brains and brawn. Just like me.

An involuntary grin creeps across my face.

There’s precious little other information: a list of places she frequents, her neighborhood (Midtown), a few more background details. She’s from a military family, like me. Hopefully that will help me get inside her head.

I pick up the tablet and hit the power button. The screen remains black but suddenly a line of green text appears across it, a hallmark of dark web sites. It’s like being in The Matrix.

Enter account details.

This is it. I use the browser to call up my slush fund and watch as the sum of $20 million disappears into the ether.

As soon as that’s done, a new line appears.

Transfer verified.

The screen goes black again and suddenly it’s filled with a video of Red Dress smiling at me. She looks exactly the same as she did the night we met at the Regent. Did she meet all the competitors wearing the same outfit? Or did she film a different video for each of us?

I don’t know, and I can’t figure out which I’d find more strange.

“Congratulations on joining the Chase,” she says, ignoring my dilemma. “I trust you currently have in your possession a case containing both a dossier on your quarry and your key.”

She holds up a key that’s identical to the one sitting on my table. I wonder again how many of these are now floating around New York.

“Allow me to reiterate the rules of the Chase,” she says. “You are not to speak of it to anyone. Your pursuit of the quarry cannot draw attention to you in any way. Any attempt to circumvent this rule will be dealt with accordingly.”

I assume that means I can’t take out an ad in The Times saying “Hey, quarry, I’ll pay you a bonus if you come to my apartment and let me give you my key.”

The thought of being dealt with accordingly gives me pause, though. How much power do these guys have that they can make veiled threats to a gang of billionaires?

I think about the giant that disappeared on the street outside the Boom Boom Room and realize I probably don’t want to find out.

“As you know, the quarry will be monitored by us at all times,” she continues. “Any actions deemed inappropriate will be dealt with accordingly.”

No cheating. Gotcha.

“Finally, the Chase will end when the quarry is caught by a contestant. All remaining contestants will be informed by an untraceable text message that simply says ‘over.’”

You won’t be on that damn recipient list, I tell myself.

“In the event the quarry avoids capture for the full term of the Chase, the prize will be auctioned off among the remaining contestants.”

Wait, what? Red Dress never said anything about that at the Regent. So no matter what the quarry does, she’s giving up her virginity to one of the competitors.

I lean into the low back of the sofa and run a hand over my chin. I don’t think I like this development. I just assumed I was going to win – I still do – so it didn’t really matter that she was losing her cherry. Her first time would be with a guy who, all false modesty aside, is built like a statue and has spent the last ten years learning every bedroom trick in the book.

It’s disturbing to think that she might end up underneath some bloated old toad, or worse, an entitled bastard who thinks it’s perfectly fine to hit women, just because they were the highest bidder.

Red Dress smiles at me from the tablet screen one last time.

“I wish you luck. Let the Chase begin.”

The screen goes blank, and as soon as it does, more text flashes across the screen: Rewriting hard drive.

Might as well say erasing all evidence.

Ten seconds later it powers down, now a blank slate, and I have to resist the urge not to smash it against the table. I don’t like being duped like this, but I’m already in. I can’t turn back now, and not because of the money. That doesn’t matter.

What does matter is the quarry. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let someone else get their hands on her. The stakes of the Chase have suddenly gone up exponentially.

“I’m coming for you,” I whisper to the room. “I hope you’re ready.”

Chapter Fourteen

14. CASSANDRA

I’ve walked through the front door of Patty’s more times than I can remember over the past few months, but it’s never felt like this before.

My senses are on high alert, as if I’m walking into a den of arms dealers in Libya instead of a Midtown treat shop. I brace for the scent of sweat and distrust and catch a sultry whiff of freshly baked brownies for the fudge delight platters.

Tricia is behind the till, chatting with an elderly lady who’s picking up a red velvet ice cream cake. Suddenly I envy Tricia’s simple life: her biggest challenge today will be making sure the single-serving cups she’s catering for a kid’s birthday party don’t melt.

I, on the other hand, have to keep someone from handing me a brass key. And keep my virginity intact for as long as possible, of course.

When I say it that way, it sounds ridiculous. If only it was. I checked my Cayman account at midnight last night and the balance was $250,000 USD.

Shit, as they say, just got real.

I take a seat at my usual table, managing to return Tricia’s welcoming smile and wave. She disengages from the cake lady and brings me my usual double espresso.

“Howdy, partner,” she says, plopping down across the table from me. As always, her blonde curls are constrained in a hair net and her face is dotted with patches of powdery white flour.

“Thank you for bringing me the water of life,” I say, raising my cup in salute. The concentrated coffee stings the back of my tongue with bitter goodness, as it always does.

In almost every respect, this is exactly like every other day that I’ve come into Patty’s since Tricia and I first met. Except, of course, for the fact that I’m now being stalked by a bunch of billionaires who want to crawl on top of me, and if I don’t fend them off for two weeks, my dreams are going to go up in smoke.

Other than that, everything’s just fucking peachy.

“Guess who came in just before you did,” Tricia says, eyes shining. Her smug grin says she’s got a secret she’s dying to share. “Go ahead, you’ll never guess in a million years.”

I can’t help but smile back. Trust Tricia to distract me when I need it the most.

“Let me think,” I say, rubbing my chin. “Was it that UPS guy whose butt you always stare at?”

“Like I’m the only one,” she says. “We both know that thing is hypnotic, like a cobra’s stare. No, I’ll give you a hint: it was somebody famous.”

“Man or woman?”

“Woman.”

“Young or old?”

“Young.”

Hmm. Nothing on the menu at Patty’s is less than three hundred calories, so that rules out supermodels.

“Singer or actress?”

Tricia frowns for a second. “Sort of both. Mostly actress.”

That rules out Miley Cyrus; she’s “mostly singer.” Who else is on the list of dual threats these days? Selena Gomez? Singer. Hailee Steinfeld is mostly actress. Jennifer Lawrence sang in that Hunger Games movie. None of those are pinging on me, though.

Tricia looks at me triumphantly.

“You’ll never guess,” she says. “Want me to tell you?”

“What did she buy?” I ask.

Her eyes narrow. “A gallon of Fudge Fantasy. Why?”

A face flashes in my mind. It’s only going to be an educated guess, but I’ve learned to trust my instincts over the years. They’ve kept me alive more than once.

“Anna Kendrick,” I say, taking another sip of my espresso.

Tricia’s face drops for a second, then contorts into a mask of frustration.

“How do you do that?” she yelps. “I never get one over on you!”

“It’s obvious,” I grin, pretending I was way more confident than I truly had been. “I happened to read once that her favorite food is Taco Bell. Any woman who eats at Taco Bell on a regular basis isn’t going to be afraid of Fudge Fantasy. Did you get any selfies with her? Pics or it didn’t happen...”

Tricia brightens again and comes over to my side of the table with her phone out. She flips through a half-dozen shots of her with her arm around Anna Kendrick’s neck. To Anna’s credit, her smile seems genuine.

The bell over the front door jingles, signaling the entrance of a new customer. I don’t jump and spin to see who it is, because that would be a dead giveaway that I’m paranoid. I’ll check out the new arrival with a casual glance in a few moments.

“She said Elizabeth Banks told her about us,” says Tricia. “I’ve talked to Elizabeth lots.”

Her eyes light up suddenly and I can practically see the light bulb over her head.

“What if we could get them to do a commercial for us when we go national with Tricialicious? That would be amazing!”

I chuckle. “Slow down, Turbo. Let’s make sure Anna doesn’t get sick from all that fudge first.”

She drops into a pouting pose and sticks out her tongue. “Killjoy.”

Now I’m full-on laughing. “Okay, okay,” I say. “It’s actually not a bad idea. We’ll have a pretty substantial marketing budget when we’re ready to launch next year. I’ll see if I can track down their agents and see if they might be amenable.”

“See?” Tricia says. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re the smartest person I know. That would never have occurred to me.”

“Of course it would have.”

She gathers up my empty cup and stands. Just before she goes back behind the counter, she leans down beside me and nods her head toward the window, where I heard the new arrival sit down a couple of minutes earlier.

“Whoa,” she whispers. “If you think UPS guy is hot, check that out.”

I grin and turn to my right to see who could possibly have taken the place of the man in the brown shorts in Tricia’s eyes. The first thing I notice is the chiseled torso under his white tee-shirt and the sleek, powerful legs protruding from his tight gym shorts under the table. I can’t see his butt, but I’m quite sure it would put our delivery driver’s to shame.

The summer glare through the storefront window is strong, dimming the features of his profile a bit a bit. As if to rectify the situation, he turns and looks in my direction.

Our eyes meet and suddenly my world turns inside out. It’s a face I know as well as my own. The chin is a little wider than the last time I saw it in the video two nights earlier, the hair a bit longer and a shade darker.

But there’s no mistaking those smoky gray eyes.

I’m looking at Carson Drake. And he’s looking at me.

Chapter Fifteen

15. CARSON

Welcome to Patty’s ice cream and treats. Here’s your coffee. Would you like a side of teenaged heartache to go with that?

I came in here because I love their brownie sundaes, even though Matthias always makes me do a dozen extra burpees whenever he finds out where I’ve been. Plus, it’s on the list of places “the quarry” has been known to frequent on occasion, so I thought I’d scope it out and see if anyone set off any alarms in my brain. Like a dozen other places on the list, I planned to set up a baseline that I can compare against over the coming fortnight.

Now, out of nowhere, I’m staring into Cassie Vincent’s pale sapphire eyes.

I feel like I’ve been caught in the gravity well of a black hole – I can’t look away. I’m trapped. It’s a vision of the life I always wanted, but one I’d given up on.

Cassie has changed a bit since the last time I saw her. Her hair has gone a shade lighter, almost strawberry blonde but not quite, and straightened somewhat. The freckles that I used to count during our make-out sessions have faded a bit, but the skin is still the same milky pale it always was.

Her body, though. Wow.

She was always reedy, almost to the point of being gangly, back in high school – we both were. Not that I could have cared less. She was still a goddess in my eyes.

But now there are wicked curves under her yellow sundress. Shapely legs that have seen more than their share of exercise. And the cleavage peeking out to say hello to the world was definitely not there the last time we were together.

The last time we were together before she stood me up for the prom and disappeared from my life for a dozen years.

Her eyes are as wide as I imagine mine must be. We’ve been staring at each other for what seems like a week, but is probably only twenty seconds. In the real world. Which couldn’t be further from how I feel right now.

“Uh, do you guys know each other?” the blonde to Cassie’s left asks. I’ve seen her here before; she’s the owner, I think.

Cassie finally blinks and seems to come back to herself. Thank God. I don’t know if I would have been able to break the spell on my own.

“Yes,” she says with a smile that looks about as genuine as a $3 bill. “We, uh, we were … friends. In school.”

Friends. All right, then. I guess I know where I stand, at least now.

My charm autopilot kicks in and I stand up. The blonde gasps slightly as I do. I lean forward and extend my hand to her.

“Carson Drake,” I say. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m so sorry,” Cassie says, obviously flustered. “Carson, this is Tricia Clarke. She owns Patty’s.”

“Not for long,” Tricia says as she takes hold of my hand. She holds onto it for longer than most would consider polite, but eventually lets go. “Pretty soon Sandra and I are going to be partners. Why don’t you have a seat with us?”

Cassie flashes her a look as I sit.

“So,” I say. “Still going by Sandra?”

She looks like she swallowed a bug. “Yeah,” she says. “It’s, uh, it’s my name.”

This obviously confuses Tricia.

“What else would you call her?” she asks.

“She was always Cassie to me,” I say. “But her dad thought Sandra sounded more serious.”

“You were the only one who ever called me Cassie,” she says.

I knew that. How could I forget?

I’d whisper it in her ear during the nights we spent exploring each other’s mouths with our tongues. It made her feel special, something only the two of us shared. And that meant more to me than any night spent with a supermodel in the last few years.

Tricia looks Cassie up and down, appraising her like she’s a used car.

“You know what,” she says. “I think you look like a Cassie. It suits you. Suits your personality, too. I like it. I’m going to call you Cassie from now on, too.”

Cassie flushes. I shouldn’t be enjoying this, but I am. Sometimes I’m a real bastard.

“You have good taste in friends,” I say.

“Uh-huh,” she says.

Tricia looks back and forth between the two of us, obviously waiting for us to talk to each other. When we don’t, she takes it on herself to continue, papering over the tension.

“So,” she says. “How long has it been since you two saw each other?”

“Twelve years,” we say in unison.

Three months and five days, I don’t add.

Tricia cocks an eyebrow. “Ooo-kay. Good to see neither of your memories is failing. So not since high school?”

“Since prom night,” I say. It’s out of my mouth before I even realize it.

I worry that Cassie will clam up now, but she seems to have recovered her composure.

“What have you been up to since then?” she asks, propping her chin in her hand. Suddenly she’s as cool as an autumn breeze.

I can’t believe this. Every time I have the dream, the one where I show up at her empty house on prom night and everyone laughs at me, I fantasize about this moment when I wake up. The moment when I get to tell Cassie Vincent that I went on to fulfill every dream I ever had.

Well, all except one.

“I went on a full ride to Harvard,” I say. “But I dropped out in sophomore year when my dad passed away.”

Cassie’s eyes widen in shock. “Oh my God, Carson, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“A training accident. He took a live round.” I keep my voice casual, but even now, a decade later, the memory hurts, an almost physical ache that fades but never fully disappears.

“That’s terrible! I loved your dad; he was so easygoing.”

I remember how well the two of them got along. Cassie’s dad was a bigwig colonel, always pushing her to use her intellect to its full capacity. He wouldn’t accept anything less than perfection from her.

And I was definitely not part of his plan for his daughter.

“My dad was too easygoing,” I say. “He spent his life being ordered around by other people. I decided then and there that I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. So I started a tech company and sold it a few years ago. Now I’m retired.”

Tricia is goggling at me now. I can practically see the drool pooling in her mouth.

Cassie gives me an earnest look and puts a hand on top of mine.

“That’s incredible,” she says. “Retirement obviously agrees with you. I mean, look at you.”

I manage to keep my grin polite instead of letting it spread from ear to ear. I’ve been waiting a decade to hear her say that. I realize now – maybe I always knew – that I would never, could never, have found satisfaction with any other woman.

“You’re very kind,” I say. “There are definitely some advantages to being able to spend as much time as you want in the gym.”

I lean in closer. The peppery fragrance of her perfume fills my nostrils and suddenly I can feel myself getting hard under my gym shorts. I lean back again; I don’t need that kind of embarrassment.

“Whatever you’ve been up to agrees with you, too,” I say. “You look incredible.”

“Well, thank you,” she says.

“So what have you been up to for the past twelve years?”

She fidgets in her seat, tugging at the hem of her sundress.

“Well,” she says, “that’s a long story.”

Chapter Sixteen

16. CASSANDRA

It’s taking all of my training right now to not bolt out the front door and lose myself in the streets of Manhattan. Every instinct in me is shouting “Abort! Abort!”

Instead, I stare into Carson’s gray eyes and at the outline under his shirt. He must practically live in the gym to maintain a body like that. I’ve worked with elite soldiers who would look like Zach Galifianakis next to him.

He raises his eyebrows and it suddenly occurs to me that he’s waiting for an answer to his question.

Tricia takes that as her cue to go back behind the till, probably thinking she’s doing me a favor. I try to flash her a “come save me” look, but she’s studiously avoiding looking anywhere but at Carson.

“I’d best leave you two to… catch up,” she says, grinning another Cheshire cat smile at him. “Wonderful to meet you, Carson. I hope I see you again.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” he says with a grin of his own. I can’t help but notice how easily he says it. The last few years have certainly treated him well.

She turns to head back behind the counter. As she does, she catches my eye and widens her own like an owl’s. Oh my GOD, that look says.

Tell me about it.

I smile weakly. And I thought keeping an eye out for billionaire perverts was going to be uncomfortable. This is far worse.

“Well,” I say.

“Yes?”

“All right, then. Time for the Sandra Vincent – uh, I suppose it’s Cassie Vincent now – elevator speech.”

Carson settles in. “I’m all ears.”

You’re all something, but it’s not ears, I don’t say.

“Okay, so obviously I graduated and went on to college.”

“Where?”

“Wharton,” I lie. I’m in their records, thanks to government intervention, but the only time I’ve spent in Philadelphia was to internalize the details of my cover story.

“Got my MBA, specialized in supply chain management systems, and then went on to become a business consultant. Now I’m looking to sell out and partner with Tricia on expanding Patty’s into a national line of specialty ice cream.”

He tents his fingers under his chin, a habit he’s had since we were teens. He thinks it makes him look serious, like my dad. Pft. I used to make fun of him for it.

“Supply chain management,” he says. But it’s not just what he says, it’s the way he says it.

“Uh-huh.”

I’m trying not to squirm under that gaze. Even though he knows nothing about the last twelve years, he probably knows me better than anyone else on Earth. If anyone can sniff out a lie from me, it’s him.

He and I were two peas in a pod, constantly challenging each other. We’d sit around for hours after school, discussing everything from philosophy to physics. No one else could understand what the hell we were talking about, and I guarantee none of them would ever get how much it turned us on.

I can’t help but think he’s disappointed in me for giving that up to get into such a plain lifestyle. If he only knew what I’ve actually spent the last eight years doing.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he says. “You were always good at systems analysis. You could work a program better than anyone I’ve ever known, myself included.”

High praise indeed. Carson always had a healthy dose of cockiness when it came to his intellect. It certainly didn’t help him win any popularity contests back in school. Although, if his interaction with Tricia is any indicator, he’s come a long way in the charm department.

What matters is that he bought the story.

“Anyway, I’ve picked up a loyal clientele over the years and I think I can parlay my goodwill into enough money to buy a factory. Take Tricia’s genius nationwide.”

“That’s a brilliant idea, as long as you can keep the integrity of the products. I’m crazy about the goodies here. In fact, I rode my bike here from Park Avenue just to get some.”

I can’t wait to tell Tricia that Carson is a fan of the shop. She’ll probably wet her panties.

“So you can see where I’m coming from,” I say. “I’m tired of working for other people, too.”

That’s the first time I’ve told the truth since Carson sat down.

He nods. “Definitely. And with your experience, you should have no problem expanding.”

That’s true, too. I actually had to study supply chain management to be able to maintain my cover for so long. That’s the bit they don’t tell you about when you sign up. Of course, I’ll have to figure out marketing and other aspects, but I know we’ll be a success.

“What’s your long-term goal?” he asks.

“Same as you: take the company public, sell my shares for a small fortune and live a life of leisure.”

Again, just enough truth to be plausible.

“A small fortune.” He smiles. “Yep, that’s me, all right.”

We sit in awkward silence for a few moments. I know what he wants to talk about, but I just can’t. Not here. Not now. Not while I have to focus all my attention on the Chase, which I totally haven’t done since Carson walked through the door.

“I’m sorry,” I say, standing and picking up my purse. “I really am. I’ve got so much to do today. I’m working to get my capital together so we can get our leverage deal started.”

He stands up. Mr. Gallant.

“Who are you working with?”

“Tate Capital. My liaison is Miranda Winthrop.”

Carson lets out a whistle.

“That’s impressive,” he says. “They only back winning horses.”

I feel a wave of pride despite the awkwardness of the situation. The praise feels good coming from him.

He holds out a hand and I take it in mine. The touch is electric, even after all these years. He folds his other hand over mine and suddenly the heat is almost too much to bear.

“Have dinner with me,” he says. His eyes are pleading.

“Okay,” I hear someone say.

Oh shit, it’s me.

“Great,” he says. “How about I meet you here at eight tonight?”

“Sure,” says that same crazy person.

“Awesome. I’ll see you then.”

Carson holds onto my hand for a few more beats before finally letting it go. He gives me a look as though he can’t quite believe his luck, but then turns, clearly not wanting to push it.

He grabs his things off the table and heads out the front door to his bike, locked to the lamppost outside.

What the hell just happened?

Chapter Seventeen

17. INTERLUDE

The huge man watches as Carson leaves the ice cream shop, hops onto his bicycle and rides off into Midtown traffic. A few minutes later, Cassandra walks out and hails a cab.

His expression never changes.

He slides a sausage-fingered hand into the breast pocket of his enormous suit jacket and removes a smart phone. Despite his size, and the heat of the day, there isn’t a hint of perspiration.

He dials a number from memory. It wouldn’t do to have it in his contacts, just in case his phone ever ends up in someone else’s hands. The extension rings once and a click indicates that it’s been answered.

“We need to meet,” the man says in Russian. “There are unusual circumstances.”

The other end is silent. Finally, a woman’s voice says: “Two p.m.”

The big man slides the pad of his huge thumb over the end-call button and places the phone back in his pocket.

Chapter Eighteen

18. CASSANDRA

What the hell am I doing here?

Rule number one: I’m not supposed to significantly alter my routine during the Chase.

I’m not a hundred percent sure what that means, exactly, but I know I may be pushing it by going on a date.

Still, here I am, sitting across from Carson Drake in The Modern, in the center of the Museum of Modern Art. Carson and I are still chatting about the pre-dinner tour we took, about the masterpieces and the artists themselves. About the state of modern art today, and the future of art in the multimedia world.

And God, I haven’t felt this good in so long. Honestly, even though the last decade was nothing more than a long flirtation with adrenaline, none of it compares to this.

And this food is unbelievable. I worry that the dress I bought this afternoon is going to be busting at the seams by the time we finish the fourth course. Of twelve. Or something equally ridiculous.

“How’s your quail?” he asks.

“Heavenly. The morels add so much flavor.” Seriously, what’s happening? The life of leisure was supposed to start after Tricia and I sold the company for tens of millions.

Carson smiles. He went with the yellowfin tuna. Something about Matthias kicking his ass.

“Did I mention how gorgeous you look in that dress?” he asks.

“Several times,” I say. Part of me wants to jump him right on the table for saying so, but part of me knows he’s just avoiding what he really wants to say.

The conversation has been so easy up to this point. It’s been glorious going back to the days when we could share our thoughts like this, almost as if all the years and everything that’s happened since just melted away.

But I’d have to be insane to think it’ll stay like that for the rest of the night. Carson’s already running out of subjects to bring up. I can see he’s starting to avoid my gaze. I know he won’t be able to say goodnight without knowing the answer to what I’m sure has been a burning question for the last decade.

Namely, why did I disappear on prom night – and then never contact him again?

So if it’s a foregone conclusion, I might as well rip the Band-Aid off and get it over with. My training tells me to always press your advantage, however small. My advantage here is to control the message before he asks.

“Carson,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry.”

It’s the first time I’ve told the full truth since we met up at the shop. Hell, it might be the first completely honest thing I’ve said in years.

I can’t read the look in his eyes. Is he angry? Hurt? This is a moment I’ve been dreading since that night in high school. I couldn’t have looked him in the eye back then. I can barely do it now.

He clears his throat. It’s as close as he’s come so far to showing anything other than pure charm. He takes a breath and looks me in the eye.

“What happened, Cassie?”

Part of me wants to tell him the whole truth, but the part of me that’s under a lifetime non-disclosure agreement knows I have to walk through a minefield.

“Dad got transferred to San Francisco out of the blue,” I say. “We barely had any notice. We had to pack up and move out of base housing that afternoon.”

That’s somewhat true: my father was actually outed as a CIA operative during a Senate committee hearing on the intelligence community. It was politically motivated – Dad was a climber and someone in the agency didn’t like that, so they leaked his name – and it was hushed up immediately. But the damage was already done.

Dad made plenty of enemies in his time with the Agency, and for our own safety we had to disappear immediately. The government shipped us off to a military base in Honduras because, technically, it was considered a “temporary” base and wasn’t on anyone’s radar. We lived there for a year until the Agency cleared me for return to the US. Dad and Mom moved to Southeast Asia, where Dad became a section chief.

He always hated the fact that his new post kept him away from “the action.” I think that’s why he pushed me so hard to go into the service myself.

Of course, I can’t tell Carson any of that.

And the look on his face is telling me he’s not buying the story I’m currently selling him.

“You had my phone number,” he says.

Be careful how you answer, Cassie. Geez, now he’s even got me calling myself Cassie again.

“I felt so bad about standing you up that I just couldn’t call,” I say. God, that sounds so weak.

But the pained expression on my face is genuine enough that he should buy it.

I hope.

“What about after?”

I cried myself to sleep for a year, I want to tell him. I watched that stupid video of us at the science fair over and over and over.

“I just got so busy with school,” I plead. “You know how it is.”

That’s a total lie: I didn’t start at the Citadel until they let me back in the US when I was nineteen. Luckily I managed to finish in three years.

Carson finishes his fish and wipes his mouth with the napkin. He looks like James Bond in his tuxedo, and again I’m awash in amazement over how much he’s changed. Sure, we reconnected in the museum, but it’s impossible to avoid the fact that he’s completely transformed himself since I last saw him.

Is he still the same boy I fell in love with?

Am I still the same girl he fell in love with?

I honestly don’t know.

Chapter Nineteen

19. CARSON

She’s holding something back, but I’ll be damned if I know what it is.

And really, who am I to be demanding anything from her? It’s been twelve years. We’re both different people now. Am I such a child that I need an apology after all this time?

That kind of attitude was partly responsible for Cassie being the only girl in school who would look at me. The fact I was all gangly angles didn’t help matters, either.

Well, things have changed. Dramatically.

“Sure,” I say. “I know how school is. I guess it was my turning point.”

Cassie smiles. It’s dazzling, especially combined with the stunning sleeveless wraparound she’s wearing. The aquamarine color really brings out the blue in her eyes, and it lifts her cleavage to the point where I can barely keep my eyes off of it.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.

“My time at Harvard really showed me that I wasn’t learning much that I didn’t already know,” I say. “And it drove home the fact that I didn’t want to have my nose buried in books for the rest of my life. I wanted to live, not just learn.”

“You were totally bored in classrooms,” she says. “That was why you decided to build that nuclear reactor model for the science fair. You wanted to actually engineer something.”

I smile. “You remember that?”

She seems startled by the question.

“Vaguely,” she says quickly. “I remember that we won.”

I remember, too. I also remember going for dinner with our parents that night, and then heading off to the old abandoned barracks at the edge of the base. We made out until her hair looked like a rat’s nest. She barely got it back under control before we went home.

“A scale version of that reactor would have worked if we’d had some uranium,” I remind her.

She laughs. “I know! I don’t think the judges ever figured that out. If they did, they probably would have called the government on us.”

I chuckle, too. We sit in silence for a while until our server brings us a couple of lemon sorbets.

“I don’t remember ordering this,” Cassie says.

“It’s palate cleanser before the next course,” I say with a wry smile.

She blushes, shaking her head. “I’m such a hick.”

“Forget it. I guess you don’t come to restaurants like this very often.”

“No,” she says. “But I bet you do.”

She’s opened the door, now I’m going to walk through it. I want her to know about everything I’ve accomplished since she left me standing there like an idiot on prom night.

“Most nights, I order in from room service,” I say. “My building has a concierge and a full-service restaurant, so I just call ahead and tell them to bring something up when I get home.”

Cassie’s eyes widen.

“Wow,” she says. “Where do you live?”

“Park Avenue. Penthouse suite.”

Sure, I guess you could call that second sentence a bit of an asshole thing to say. And you would be right. I couldn’t help myself. Being around Cassie makes me nervous for the first time in a long time. I keep feeling this deep need to prove myself over and over again – a feeling I haven’t experienced in years.

She lets out a low whistle.

“I was thinking,” she says. “It was kind of strange that we’ve both lived in New York for so long and we’ve never run into each other before. But now I realize we kind of run in different circles.”

“I tend to travel a lot, too,” I say. “I spend a lot of time in Europe. Northern Australia during the winter. I love snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef.”

“Yeah, I can see you’ve become a lot more – uh, active than you used to be.”

I beam in spite of myself. Somehow she makes all the years of chasing every woman I met fall away, and I’m back as that skinny kid again, trying desperately to win her approval.

Who am I kidding? Every one of those women was just an attempt to either forget about Cassie, or to somehow validate that I was worthy of such a beautiful woman.

Jesus, I’ve got some issues. Is it enough for me to just admit that? I’m thinking not. I know I’m coming off as a show-off, but for some reason I can’t help myself.

“It’s important to stay fit,” I say.

Good one, buddy. How lame can you get? I can’t believe she still has the ability to screw me up like this after all these years.

“Well, you’ve done it in spades,” she says. “I bet you could get into action movies if you wanted. You remind me a little of Jason Statham these days.”

“Too much work,” I grin. “It would cut into my leisure time.”

“See?” she says. “That’s what I’m looking for! I want to have so much money that I can say things like that.”

I return her smile. Wonder what she’d say if she knew I just paid twice what she can hope to get from selling her shares of this Tricialicious venture, all so I could chase a woman and take her virginity?

Which is exactly when the realization hits me. Holy shit, I’ve wasted the entire first day of the Chase with Cassie Vincent!

What was I hoping to accomplish tonight? Some sort of revenge? Whatever it was, it’s not worth throwing $20 million down the tubes and condemning a poor woman to having sex with some creepy old pervert.

I hope none of this shows on my face.

“Something wrong?” Cassie asks.

“Uh, no. I was just thinking about something I forgot to do.”

“Nothing important, I hope?”

“Depends on how you look at it. But I don’t want it to spoil our catching up.”

She glances at her watch. “Actually, I was just thinking that I probably should be getting home. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

Shit, I’m so confused.

Part of me is struggling to believe Cassie’s not climbing all over me right now and the other part just wants to take her to bed and get it over with.

And all of me can’t stop thinking of the poor quarry being handed a hotel room key by some sadistic rich bastard while I stand around and try to figure all this out!

“Of course,” I say. “Besides, if we skip dessert, I can flip Matthias the bird tomorrow.”

She giggles and my stomach flips. No matter what I do, I can’t stop feeling like a horny teenager around her. She’s not like any other woman I’ve ever been with. It was always so much more with her.

Cassie collects her purse as I pull her chair out for her. At least I can try to act like a gentleman.

She looks at me sideways.

“Don’t we have to wait for our bill?” she asks.

“They’ll just put it on my account.”

She giggles again. It’s like music to me.

“Quit teasing me, Carson. Your life, it’s like everything I’ve been dreaming about. I’m totally going to have an account somewhere when I’m rich!”

I can’t help but laugh, too. I put an arm around her waist and lead her toward the foyer. Touching her like this sends a jolt straight to my dick, making me feel like a teenager yet again.

We reach the coatroom to pick up Cassie’s wrap, but there’s no one at the desk. Cassie looks around with some alarm.

“I really do need to get going,” she says, glancing at her watch again. “Maybe I’ll just leave it here and pick it up another time.”

“Not at all,” I say, making my way into the room itself. “Come here and point out which one it is.”

She follows me in and the door closes behind us. The room is lit only by a tiny sconce lamp on the wall.

“Should we really be in here?” she asks. “What if someone sees us? They might think we’re stealing something.”

“Cassie,” I chuckle. “I spend about a hundred grand a year in this place. They know I don’t need to steal what I want. Now let’s find your wrap.”

She swipes through the hangers for a few moments before finding it.

“It’s up there,” she says, pointing to the shelf above the hanging rack. “I can’t reach.”

I move in behind her and reach over her toward the shelf. As I do, I catch a whiff of her fragrance and suddenly I can’t think. It has the same effect on me as her laugh, making me hard as a rock. And dropping me into a memory back into a time when we were still thick as thieves.

“You,” I whisper in her ear. “You smell so…”

She gasps as my hardness presses against her ass through the thin fabric of my suit pants. I’m helpless to do anything except stand here, breathing into her neck.

I feel her spin around in the dark and wrap her arms around my neck. Suddenly her breasts are pressed against me and her hips are pushing their way into the hardness in my pants.

My lips press firmly on hers, my tongue slipping around and under her own. With that, all rational thought flies out of my head, leaving nothing but animal passion in its place.

Chapter Twenty

20. CASSANDRA

This is wrong. This is so wrong. This couldn’t be more wrong.

Then why does it feel so right?

Years evaporate as Carson’s mouth burns on my own like a hot coal. Suddenly I’m back in that abandoned barracks with him after the science fair, unable to think about anything but the moment we are experiencing right this second. I’m lost in this world with him, ready to take anything – everything – he’ll give me.

Some part of me knows it’s wrong – that we have bigger issues to work out, even if I wasn’t taking part in a little thing called the Chase. But that part is lost under a tidal wave of passion.

I run my hands under his suit coat, groping the marble physique that’s been filling my mind’s eye since our encounter at the shop this morning. I can actually feel the fabric of his shirt straining against the muscles working underneath it.

Our mouths disengage with a wet popping sound straight out of a cartoon. Romantic? Maybe not. But it’s raw. Passionate. Animalistic.

Now his lips are working their way down into the hollow under my ear. The hot caress of his tongue is like a branding iron on the sensitive skin there.

Meanwhile, my hips have a mind of their own, twisting and pushing toward him. I can feel solid steel under his pants, just like our make-out sessions in high school. But something has changed. It’s grown. Or maybe it’s just been so long that I just think it has.

I haven’t let myself go like this since before my family was spirited away to Honduras and I started down the path that led me to the CIA. For the past twelve years, my whole life has been about control, of myself, of the situation.

The total abandon of this moment feels soooo good…

Carson’s mouth reaches my throat and starts to explore. A groan escapes each of us as my hands work my way down to the perfect orbs of his ass cheeks and squeeze. I can’t believe I did that – are women supposed to squeeze men’s butts? I don’t know.

And I don’t care. I just did it and it felt amazing.

He returns the favor immediately with rough, powerful fingers, and I feel a sudden tingle between my legs the moment his hands grab me. The hem of my dress hikes up and exposes more of my legs. The sheer naughtiness of the moment is a giddy thrill I haven’t felt since we were teens.

“Cassie,” he growls in my ear. “My Cassie…”

My heart sings at the sound of my name on his lips. I was always Cassie to myself, never Sandra. That was my father’s name for me. Carson knew who I truly am, all those years ago. Even today, after so many years spent buried under a mountain of secrets and lies, I still believe he’s the only person on Earth who knows the real me.

Whatever comes of this, I know one thing for sure: Sandra Vincent is gone. Cassie Vincent is here to stay.

I tilt my head to allow Carson easier access to my neck. I don’t want him to ever stop what he’s doing there. It’s makes me feel like I’m drunk.

His hands make their way around to my front and begin to stroke my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress. They swell and my nipples strain at his touch. The shock of pleasure runs straight down my belly into my groin. I squeeze my legs together there to maximize the situation.

Geez, Cassie. The situation? Way to make it sound like you’re still on a mission…

My arms reach up to encircle his neck and pull him closer. It’s like I want to be part of him, to have the two of us meld together into something that can’t be separated. It’s been so lonely without him for so long. I never realized just how bad it was until this moment. This feeling.

“Carson,” I whisper as I take over working on his throat with my tongue. I want to return all the desire he’s sparking in me. I want him to feel as good as he’s making me feel.

Next thing I know, he’s scooped me up by my cheeks and my back is against the pile of coats hanging next to the wall. Fur and silk press against my bare back, enhancing the sensuality of the moment. Expensive perfume wafts around me, filling my head.

Suddenly there’s extra space in my gown. I realize it’s because Carson has pulled down the zipper in back and my bare breasts are pushing free from the confines of the fabric. They’re exposed in front of a man for the first time in my life. Except that time in survival and evasion school, and we don’t talk about that…

Besides, I’m too turned on to feel embarrassed.

Then his mouth closes over my nipple and my mind becomes one with the universe for a moment.

My God, the electricity of it! I’ve never felt a tongue on my breast before. It’s so warm and soft, but what it does to me!

The spot aches with pleasure as his hand takes care of my other breast. His powerful fingers stroke so softly, then circle my nipple before giving it the tiniest squeeze and sending vibrations right through me.

Carson’s other hand is still holding me up by my ass as easily as if I’m weightless. His fingers grip me there, prompting a thrill in my groin that threatens to soak me. I let out a groan that I couldn’t hold in for all the money in the world.

He takes this as a cue to press himself into me even harder, pinning me against the wall with that concrete rod against my opening, separated only by fabric.

“Cassie,” he moans. “I missed you so much…”

My eyes flutter open as I run my tongue along his neck, and I see the room behind him. Light filters into the room through the thirty-degree crack in the doorway. For the first time, it occurs to me that someone could walk in at any second. Someone could, perhaps, even be watching us right now.

The jolt of that realization brings another unpleasant thought along with it, and my breath catches in my throat.

What the fuck am I doing?! I’m supposed to be in the Chase!

Chapter Twenty-One

21. CARSON

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Shit!

One second Cassie and I are on the verge of throwing caution to the wind and doing it right here in the restaurant coatroom, now she’s trying to zip up her dress by herself with a look of panic in her eyes

I should have known Cassie is too sophisticated a lady to have sex in a public place. Or is it just that she doesn’t want to have sex with me?

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, gathering up her things. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

Her breasts are still pushing out of her gown, so I step around behind her and zip her up the rest of the way.

“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “This was inappropriate. Maybe we should take this back to my place.”

Her eyes widen like matching blue supernovas.

“I can’t!” she yelps, rushing to the door. “I have to go!”

Way to go, Carson. Make the love of your life feel like a bimbo by mauling her in a fucking coatroom.

“Let me take you home,” I say, already knowing she won’t take me up on it. I feel helpless, useless. How did I screw this up so badly?

“That’s all right, I can get a cab.”

The subtext is clear: I don’t need your help.

She runs her hand through her red curls, trying to smooth them into something more presentable. Her eyes are darting everywhere, like someone is after her.

My mind immediately flashes back to that night in the barracks and my heart cramps. That memory prompts another thought: Cassie Vincent is running out on me. Again.

It’s selfish and uncharitable, I know. Unfair, even. But I can’t help the feeling of déjà vu.

“Will I see you again?” I ask. Might as well be blunt. I never got the chance the last time this happened.

The look she gives me makes me think of a cornered animal.

“I-I can’t,” she says. “Not now. I’m just too busy. With other things.”

Her eyes brighten.

“With business!” she blurts. “The deal! Lots to do. I need an early night. Maybe – maybe in a couple of weeks? Say on August 15?” She looks at me pleadingly.

My eyes narrow. If Cassie thinks Carson Drake is going to sit around and wait until she feels like calling him sometime, she’s got another thing coming. I have women lined up to spend a night with me!

Hell, all I’d have to do right now is call Maksim and get that brunette’s number from the Boom Boom Room and boom! She’d be in my room. I know I’m acting out. I know that Cassie’s dismissal – for a second time – is bringing up bad memories. Hell, some kind of long-repressed psychodrama is most definitely coming to the surface.

I know all that, and yet I can’t stop myself from acting out my part, as though I’m merely an actor in some Shakespearean play.

“Whatever,” I say with a smile. “I’ll give you a call some time.”

She gives me an unfathomable look. I used to be able to read everything beneath those opal-colored eyes. Now I don’t have a clue what she’s thinking.

“I mean it,” she says. “I really am just too busy right now.”

“Sure, I understand. I’ve actually got a lot lined up for the next couple weeks, too.”

Most of that involves throwing myself into the Chase with everything I’ve got. Using the hurt that’s even now bubbling back up to the surface. Using it to win.

Cassie straightens her dress one last time and steps into the atrium that will take her back into the Museum of Modern Art and the exit to the street. She looks around at the breathtaking art on the walls, then back at me.

“I really did have a wonderful time tonight,” she says.

Of course you did, I say to myself. You spent it with Carson Drake. Not spending the rest of it with me is your loss, not mine.

Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

“Me too,” I say. “I’ll see you again. Good night, Cassie. Sorry, I guess it’s Sandra now, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “From now on, it’s Cassie. Always.”

She gives me a sheepish wave and heads into the museum. I stand there, watching her walk away, until she turns a corner and is gone.

“Mr. Drake?”

A female voice behind me startles me out of my reverie. It’s Helene, the maître d, an elegant brunette in a black shift dress.

“Yes?”

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were in the coatroom for an extended period of time.”

I work hard to keep blood from flowing to my cheeks.

“Yes,” I say. “Sorry, my date’s scarf was caught on something and we had to untangle it.”

She nods knowingly and I realize I’m not fooling her.

“That would explain the noises. I couldn’t help but notice that she left on her own. I hope everything is all right.”

“She, uh – she has a busy morning tomorrow.”

Helene smiles. It’s practically a leer.

“I’m off in a few minutes,” she says. “In case you don’t have a busy morning tomorrow.”

And suddenly I’m Carson Drake again. The Carson Drake, man about town, eligible billionaire bachelor.

“Such a tempting offer,” I say. “But I’m afraid I do have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

Her smile turns into a pout.

“A pity.”

I flash her a grin I don’t feel.

“Yes, it is.”

She turns and walks back into the restaurant. Her long legs pivot with every precise step, turning her shapely ass into a perfect 180-degree oscillating gyroscope.

Aaand just as suddenly, I’m that geek from high school again. Sigh.

What I do know for sure is that I need to stop focusing on Cassie Vincent and start focusing on my quarry. I can’t afford any more pointless distractions.

The Chase is underway and the game, as Sherlock Holmes said, is afoot.

Chapter Twenty-Two

22. CASSANDRA

The rules of the Chase stipulate that I can’t leave the geographic area of Midtown Manhattan for two weeks. Some people might consider that a prize, not a punishment. I mean, it’s home to Broadway and Times Square and a hundred other magnificent places to spend time.

The problem for me right now is that Midtown is also home to a financial district that’s almost as prominent as Lower Manhattan’s, which means my pursuers could be right behind me at any moment. And I’m expected to not deviate too much from my everyday routine, so that they have a fighting chance to identify and – well, I guess the politically correct term would be catch me.

So it hasn’t been easy to keep a low profile.

I’ve avoided Patty’s for the past three days for fear I’m too much of a regular there. And, frankly, because now I associate it with meeting Carson again after all these years. I have to focus on the Chase, not on him. And his beautiful body. And his electric touch.

If only it were as easy to do as it is to say.

So, like any good quarry, I keep moving, never staying in one place for too long. I’ll stop for lunch or a coffee, but after that I’m back on the street.

I’ve spent the better part of this morning wandering the shops of Korea Town. It’s been postcard-perfect so far, the kind of day that’s so quintessentially New York that it could be the backdrop of a Woody Allen movie.

“Good morning,” the girl behind the counter says as I enter a boutique jewelry shop on Madison Avenue. She’s stunning: probably five-foot-ten, easily five inches taller than me. Hair like black satin. It’s funny how place like this only hire the extremely attractive.

“Good morning,” I smile back. As I browse the shop’s wares, I use the mirror behind the girl to monitor the front door and the traffic on the street beyond. Honestly, I’d probably be doing this whether or not I was in the Chase. It’s ingrained in me after so many years working for the Company, one of the comedic euphemisms for the CIA.

I have to admit I’m not entirely comfortable popping in and out of the stores. I’ve familiarized myself with most of the latest Forbes list of richest men in America, but to be perfectly honest, a Korean billionaire could walk right past me and I wouldn’t even know it.

It’s a loose end. I make a note of it, because I don’t like loose ends.

“Something I can help you with?”

The words make me jump, and the girl immediately regrets them.

“Pardon me, I’m so sorry!” she says. “It’s just that you seemed to be looking around everywhere and I thought maybe you needed help.”

I need help, all right. Psychiatric help.

I laugh, even though it’s the last thing on earth I feel like doing.

“My fault,” I say. “My mind is somewhere else.”

It’s amazing how off-kilter I’ve felt since this all started. I mean, I’ve walked through downtown Tripoli wearing brown contact lenses, a black wig and a headscarf, and I felt less exposed than I do right now. I have to keep reminding myself that the contestants don’t know I’m a redhead, so I’m actually not a walking neon “look at me” sign. Well, no more than I normally am, I suppose.

I thank the girl and head back out onto Madison. Summer tourists flock by, taking photos of the Flatiron Building and craning their necks at all the skyscrapers. I turn onto Twenty-Third Street, then again onto Fifth Avenue. There’s a food stand about a block up that makes the best Lebanese food on the Eastern Seaboard, and that’s from someone who’s spent quite a bit of time in Lebanon.

“Sandra!” a swarthy middle-aged man says as I approach. He’s got more hair on his chest than his head, which is glistening under the almost-midday sun.

“Hello, Khalil,” I say. “Kayf hu aleamal?” How’s business?

He beams like he always does when I speak Arabic to him.

“Can’t complain, nobody’d listen anyway, amiright?” he says, hardening the words into a passable Brooklyn accent.

I giggle while he throws together a lamb pita and douses it with his signature sauce, the recipe for which I’ve never managed to get out of him, even under threats of torture.

As always, he refuses my money. I helped him get his brother a visa a few years ago and he hasn’t charged me a penny since. I’ve always assumed he knows I’m not really a business consultant, but he’s never brought it up and neither have I. He’s my kind of guy.

“What’s new, Sandra?” he asks as I take my first bite.

“Actually,” I say through a mouthful of lamb, “I’m going by Cassie now.”

His eyes widen and it’s almost like I can read his mind: he thinks it’s an alias.

“It’s short for Cassandra,” I say. “It’s just the other end of the name.”

“Ah!” He claps his hands together. “Beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”

“You’re too kind, sir.”

I take my food up the street to the plaza at General Worth Square and, amazingly, find an empty table under one of the blue umbrellas. This porcelain skin of mine may be the envy of a lot of women, but it also opens me up to a higher risk of melanoma, especially after all the time I’ve spent in deserts. And freckles. God, whatever I do I can’t escape the freckles.

A glinting relection catches me in the eye just as I reach for the chair, and I feel something pulling it in the opposite direction. I lift a hand to shade my eyes and see who I’m about to give an earful – it’s New York, after all, and a “yo, whaddaya think yer doin’?” is expected in polite company.

The silhouette comes into focus, and my heart thumps like a kick drum as I recognize the curvature of the muscles under the microfiber of his golf shirt.

You have got to be kidding me.

“Carson,” I sputter. “Uh, hi.”

He frowns at me but there’s no anger in his voice, thank God. I was so afraid he’d hate me after the way things ended the other night.

“Hello,” he says evenly. “Fancy meeting you here, and all that.”

“I know, it’s crazy!” I say with way too much enthusiasm. “Uh, what are you doing here?”

“Me?” He seems startled. “Just, uh, walking. Beautiful day for it.”

“Me too. Just walking.”

We stand there, hands still holding the back of the chair, for what seems like an eternity. I feel like I’m swimming in awkwardness. I reaallly want to disengage and run away, but I also want to just stand here and stare at him in his shorts for the rest of my life. Those legs are like a stag’s, all bulges and coiled steel.

Carson is the first one to disengage as his eyes wander above my head.

“Richard!” he says, raising his chin to acknowledge someone behind me. “What’s up?”

I turn to see who he’s talking to and my blood freezes. It’s man in his late 60s, tall and fit, with a pompadour of silver hair. His silk shirt is a pale green, his slacks khaki. He looks like he stepped off the page of a J. Crew catalog. I’ve seen him before, on the pages of Forbes magazine.

His name is Richard Linkletter, and he’s No. 11 on the list of the richest men in America.

Chapter Twenty-Three

23. CARSON

“Not much, Drake,” Richard says, extending his right hand. I let go of the chair and take it firmly. “How about you?”

“You know me,” I say with a shrug. “Same old, same old.”

“Right,” he says with a grin. “Like jumping off a cliff in Trentino in a flying suit and landing on Lake Garda. Just another day at the office.”

I shrug. “What can I say? Some of us are still young enough to enjoy our money.”

He doubles over like he’s been punched. It’s an old routine between the two of us. Rich was on the board of the company that bought out Black Sword, and we hit it off during the price negotiations. He respected the fact that I did it myself rather than through lawyers. He’s old money, but he’s still a stand-up guy.

And suddenly I wonder if he’s also one of my competitors in the Chase.

He’s married, but I don’t know how happily. Besides, I know plenty of men in my circle of influence who live their lives almost completely apart from their wives, only getting together as needed for dinner parties and charity events.

It’s a lifestyle I can’t even imagine. If you’re lucky enough to find The One, why would you ever want to be apart? Why would you do anything to risk that kind of happiness?

Big talk, Carson. You haven’t talked to Cassie since the night at the restaurant, and when you run into her during your Chase, you act like she’s nothing more than an inconvenience.

Speaking of Cassie, she looks as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen her, and I realize I’m being terribly rude. My face colors with an uncharacteristic blush.

“I beg your pardon,” I say, laying a hand on her shoulder. Her soft, freckled shoulder. “Cassandra Vincent, I’d like you to meet my friend Richard Linkletter.”

“My pleasure,” he says, the words dripping with old money charm. “How do you know Drake here?”

High school, I open my mouth to say. Before I can form the words, Cassie beats me to the punch.

“We’re dating!” she says loudly.

We are?

Her arm creeps around my waist in a sudden death grip, and she looks up at me with a fluorescent smile.

Richard’s eyebrows arch. “Carson Drake, dating? That’s a new one.”

I smile down at Cassie, trying to keep the confusion out of my expression. What’s going on here? Is this some sort of revenge for the games I played the other night?

“Well,” I say, “it’s early days. We just reconnected. Haven’t seen each other since high school.”

“So you knew Drake here before he was rich?” he says to Cassie. “I’d love to pick your brain about that.”

“He’s the same person he was back then,” she says. “Smart. Sweet. Honest. Just a few more dollars and a few more muscles, that’s all.”

She looks up at me. “Isn’t that right?”

Is it right? I spent a decade trying to turn myself into James Bond and George Clooney rolled into one. I thought I’d succeeded. Now, with a few words, Cassie has me wondering if I ever changed at all.

And whether I should have even tried to in the first place.

“You’d know,” I say. “I’m not a very good judge of character. I still think Richard here is a good man, despite all evidence to the contrary.”

“I can always count on you for a laugh, Carson,” he says with a chuckle. “Anyway, I have to run. I’ve got a board meeting in ten.”

He takes Cassie’s hand in his and kisses it, the old snake.

“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Vincent.”

“You, too,” she says. I can’t read the look on her face. Is it relief? I’d pay a million bucks to know what’s going on inside that head.

“Which board is it this time?” I ask.

“The Museum of Sex up the street. Call it a charity gig.”

“Seriously?” I grin. “Richard, there’s this thing called the Internet now. If you need, you know, release…”

“Laugh it up, Drake,” he says. His nod tells me he’s heard that one before. “It’s actually a fascinating place. You should come. If you’ll pardon the expression.”

He turns to Cassie. “Why don’t both of you join me? My treat.”

“Big spender,” I say.

Cassie looks as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen her, and suddenly I’m thinking of ways to get out of this. To be honest, I really don’t need anything reminding me of the other night. Especially in shorts this tight.

“I’m sorry, but I really have to run,” she says. I can’t blame her. This is awkward as hell.

Especially the part about us dating. We obviously walked away from that encounter on two totally different pages. I can’t be distracted by anything during the Chase. I may have already missed the quarry during the time I’ve wasted standing here.

Cassie stands on her tiptoes and plants a delicious kiss on my lips. My cock begins to respond instantly, and I have to will it back down.

“See you later,” she says with a wave, then quickly trots off down Fifth and cuts through the park.

Richard flashes an indulgent smile at me.

“It’s about time, young man,” he says. “She’s a prize.”

He claps me on the shoulder and continues up the avenue toward his sex museum, leaving me standing there alone, wondering what the hell is happening – and what I’m supposed to do next.

Chapter Twenty-Four

24. CASSANDRA

My heartbeat is galloping as I speed walk across the park toward Twenty-Third Street Station and the subway that will get me the hell out of here.

I had no choice. If I hadn’t, and if Richard Linkletter had handed me a little brass key, the Chase would have been over and there would be less than a million in my Cayman account. Nowhere near enough.

I don’t want to think about the other part.

I feel like I’m on a black ops mission and I just avoided the enemy fire sparking overhead. Lying is second nature to me, but I’ve never been in a situation where the consequences were – well, so real.

Misinformation is standard operating procedure during a mission, because once the operation was over, everything resets. That’s not the case here.

Everything I do now has real-world consequences. I just told Carson we’re dating, and I have no idea how he feels about that. I have no idea how I feel about it. I don’t even know what it means.

He didn’t contradict me, which is encouraging. But what if now he thinks he should call me? I can’t have a boyfriend during the Chase!

Can I?

I slow my pace as I reach the stairwell off the street down into the subway station. People rush past like ants on a hill, everyone going about their own business, close in body only. Their minds, like mine, are on other things.

Probably not the same kind of things as mine, obviously. They’re wondering what to make for dinner. I’m wondering how to avoid capture. And how to avoid a sixty-year-old stranger taking my virginity.

The train hisses to a stop and I hop on board. As it pulls away, I scan the car for anything out of the ordinary. An Armani suit, for example, or a platinum Rolex. It’s possible that my pursuers have dressed down for the occasion, but it’s been my experience that it’s hard to cover up the scent of money. It leaves a mark.

Only a handful of people are sharing the ride with me at this time of day: a pair of teen boys with their skateboards; an elderly Asian woman with three shopping bags; a tall Sudanese man eating a platform hot dog.

No male billionaires here, unless Sudanese billionaires have a thing for cheap red frankfurters that taste like a mustard-covered salt lick.

As I settle into the molded plastic seat, my phone vibrates. I turned the ringer off the minute the Chase started, just as a precaution; I don’t want any unnecessary attention drawn to me over the next two weeks. My training taught me that staying invisible means taking away anything that might cause someone to look in my direction.

I groan as I see the caller ID: it’s Tricia. We haven’t spoken since the day Carson and I met in the ice cream shop. She’s called before but I haven’t picked up. Better not blow her off again or she’ll get suspicious. And in all honesty, I owe her a call. We’re supposed to be business partners, after all.

I squeeze my eyes shut and hit the answer button.

“Hey, Trish,” I say. “Sorry I never got back to you. It’s been a crazy week.”

“You are so dead to me,” she huffs. “I’m actually thinking of adopting you just so I can disown you.”

“Oh, I’m fine, how are you?”

“Don’t try to be funny. You never called me to tell me about your date with Carson! What kind of bitch goes out with a rich demi-god and doesn’t call her best friend right after?”

Apparently, that’s what BFFs are supposed to do. I wouldn’t know, I’m new to this whole thing. I’ve never had a close friend like Tricia. I was always too busy studying, or training, or working. Or killing.

All the things my father wanted me to do.

“I’m waiting,” she says with practiced coldness in her voice. She obviously prepared for this.

“A stupid one?” I offer.

“A stupid one!”

I chuckle in spite of myself. She’s got a way of pulling me out of my head and turning me in a direction that I never would have seen. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much.

“Sorry, sorry, a million times sorry,” I plead. “Can you forgive me?”

“That depends on the details. Hand ‘em over.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I lie. “We toured the Museum of Modern Art and had dinner.”

I leave out the extracurricular activity in the coatroom. Partly because I don’t want to talk about it, partly because it always makes my nipples pop. I’ve been thinking about it every night in bed. Masturbation is a wonderful sleep aid.

“And?”

“And I went home.”

“You didn’t sleep with him?”

“No.”

The line goes silent for a full five seconds.

“Tricia?”

“Now I wish I did adopt you,” she says. “Then I could have you committed, because you are fucking crazy!”

“Hey, now…”

“Honey, you had the opportunity to make Carson Freakin’ Drake your first, and you didn’t take advantage of it! Believe me, any thirty-year-old straight guy who looks like him knows his way around a woman’s body. He has got that roadmap memorized.”

Does he ever.

Tricia thinks she’s helping, but all she’s done is remind me that there’s no way Carson can be my first. If I can just manage to hold things off for a couple weeks, though, maybe something can happen.

Please, God, let it happen.

“Look, it just wasn’t the right time,” I say.

Boy, is that ever the understatement of the year.

She clucks her tongue. “There’s no such thing as the right time when it comes to your first, Sandra.”

“Cassie.”

“What?”

“I decided I want to go by Cassie now.”

“Seriously? One date with Carson Drake and you want to change your name? And yet it ‘wasn’t the right time?’”

I sigh. This conversation is going south faster than a flock of Canada geese.

“Tricia, to be honest, I don’t even know how he feels about me. I mean, we spent a few minutes together that morning and then had dinner.”

“That’s why I’ve been calling you!”

I see the stop for Fifty-Seventh Street Station coming up, so I head to the door and grab the stabilizer bar. My plan is to walk the couple of blocks to Central Park and lose myself in it for the afternoon.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Look, Tricia, I have to go.”

“Listen to me, bitch – and I don’t say that lightly: if you hang up right now, I will break up with you for six months. Do you understand me?”

I roll my eyes as I step out of the car onto the platform.

“All right, all right, what is so fucking important?”

“Carson Drake has been in the shop every day since you two met up that morning!”

I stop in my tracks and the two teens run right into my back, knocking me forward. They dash up the stairs without even looking back. Part of me wants to yell after them, but I’m too stunned.

“I thought that might get your attention,” Tricia says smugly.

“Has he – has he asked about me?”

“Not specifically, but he’s talked to me each time. I didn’t pry, even though I should have, because my soon-to-be-former best friend doesn’t feel the need to tell me anything.”

“Thank you for that, Trish. Things between us are – complicated.”

“Well you better un-complicate them quick, girl, or I might just try to boat that fish myself. A prize like that starts swimming around, I can’t be blamed if I decide to drop a line in the water.”

I grin and shake my head.

“Give me two weeks. That’s all I ask.”

“Two weeks and that’s all. After that, I make no promises.”

“All right,” I say, pausing at the stairs that lead up to the street. “And I really am sorry. I promise I’ll be in tomorrow. We need to talk business, anyway.”

“Fine. I’ll try not to be mad at you by then. Peace out.”

As I slide my phone closed and drop it in my purse, I glance at my reflection in a polished steel panel on the wall. Hair’s okay, make-up still good. I glance down to my blouse.

My nipples are standing at attention like soldiers.

Sigh.

Chapter Twenty-Five

25. INTERLUDE

The big man steps out of his spot under a weeping willow in Madison Square Park and into General Worth Square. His eyes follow Carson as he heads northeast on Fifth Avenue.

This is highly unusual. Two contestants meeting with the quarry, neither of them giving her their key. Then the quarry leaves, and the contestants walk away in different directions.

It makes no sense. Unless…

He takes out his phone and dials a number.

“Yes?” the voice says in Russian.

“Something is happening. Something we’ve never seen before.”

“What?”

“I am not sure just yet,” he says. “But I fear we may have been compromised.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

26. CARSON

Sometimes being a nerd can come in handy. I mean, outside of building and selling multi-billion-dollar tech companies.

The computer server room in my penthouse is something to see, although no one else ever has. The window wall that looks out on the Manhattan skyline actually acts as my monitor, reflecting multiple desktops projected from a lens that’s set into the ceiling. It allows me to see images at almost life size.

I created a program the night the Chase began that’s been helping me narrow down my leads. It combines facial recognition software with a reverse search engine for image files, and it all works in a Tor browser. Translated, that just means I upload photos I’ve taken and the program analyzes the facial features. Then it searches the dark web for any potential matches in its clandestine databases.

Of course, that might all be unnecessary; the information might be out there on the plain old Internet, so I’m also running the program on social media.

Personally, I limit just about everything about me online. Nobody needs to know where I live, or what I’m doing, or how much I’m worth. That’s one of the reasons I’ve managed to stay off the Forbes list for so long.

So between the dark web and Facebook, I should be able to wrap up the Chase long before my competitors. Richard Linkletter may have more money in the bank, but he’s Forrest Gump compared to me when it comes to gray matter.

Even with the hardware I’ve rigged up, the process takes time. The system is currently working on camera phone pics I snapped of three different women I’ve seen multiple times in different spots around midtown. All during the day, which precludes a regular job.

None of them were in expensive designer clothes or shoes, so they’re probably not rich. All of them are stunning, and they move like they’ve had training. Little things like walking with their feet pointed forward, instead of at an angle.

It stabilizes the knees and makes it easier to avoid injury in a fight-or-flight situation. One of the many things I learned from Matthias.

I find myself comparing all of them to Cassie, and to that woman they come up short. I don’t know what she does to stay in shape, but it’s probably CrossFit or something else regimented. She moves like a natural athlete these days, which is amazing, since she never got involved in sports in school.

Then again, neither did I, and look at me now.

I’m staring at the screen from my custom-made gaming chair as thousands of potential matching images stream by on the window wall, when my phone chimes.

It’s a text from Maksim: I am being downstairs. Up I come.

I leave the program to its task and head out into the living room. There’s a half-full decanter of Macallan’s on the bar – I picked up a bottle after my encounter with Red Dress at the Regent bar because damn, it was good.

Of course, it better be at thirty grand a bottle.

The aroma hits my nostrils as I pour the scotch into a couple of crystal glasses. I carry them to the elevator door that opens onto my living room just as I reach it. Maksim’s hand is open to receive it as soon as he walks into the room. After all, when you’re born into money, you become accustomed to the little details.

From the outside, it must look like a choreographed scene out of a movie. It’s just one of the rituals we’ve developed over the course of our friendship. We’re cool like that.

Says the geek who threw together a computer program in one night.

“What is up, my homey?” Maks grins, raising his hand for a fist-bump. Every time he does it I want to slap him – fist bumps are so ten years ago – but I indulge him. He’s trying.

“Chillin’ like a villain,” I grin back as we amble over to the study that adjoins the living room.

Unlike the modern functionality of the rest of the 6,000 square feet, the study is done in rich wood and hand-woven Persian rugs. I designed it to look like the British gentlemen’s clubs I used to read about in Sherlock Holmes stories when I was a kid.

We take our seats in a pair of antique wingback chairs. All that’s missing is a couple of Cuban cigars. Matthias would literally beat me with a rusty rake if he ever found out I’d been smoking, of course, so the air remains unpleasantly clear.

Maks holds the first sip of scotch in his mouth for a moment, savoring it before it goes down. At least he has enough class to do that.

We catch up for a while on what we’ve been up to. I’m sparse on details, of course, because we can’t talk about the Chase, even behind closed doors.

Then Maks decides to throw me a curveball.

“So, Carson,” he says with a grin. “When were you going to be telling me about your new red hair friend?”

I almost choke on my drink.

“What are you talking about?” I say, trying to be nonchalant.

“The other day, I am walking past that Patty’s icy cream place you go to and I see you talking to the lovely red hair lady through the window glass.”

His grin is supposed to put me at ease, but for some reason it only succeeds in annoying me.

“She’s a friend of mine from high school,” I say. “No big deal.”

“Yes big deal! Front of Wall Street Journal kind of deal. She is drop down gorgeous, my friend. I hope you enjoyed your time with her. When is, how you say, acquisition and merger?”

“Merger and acquisition,” I correct him automatically. “But it wasn’t like that. She’s a friend.”

She’s obviously more than that; she said so herself. But I don’t know what I think anymore.

Maks smiles and nods.

“You are making joke,” he says. “I get it.”

“No joke. Cassie and I aren’t … together.”

“Cassie,” he sighs. “Like Cassiopeia, the constellation of stars. Breathtaking.”

I can’t argue with him there.

“So you are not with her? You are not pulling on my leg, are you?”

“No pulling,” I say. “Besides, we both know I’m … busy on something else right now. I have other things on my mind.”

He nods thoughtfully.

“So you will not be angry if I am making the move on this beautiful red hair?”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hell to the no.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” I say, desperately searching my brain for a plausible reason to say that.

“But why are you saying so? You are not interested.”

Suddenly it comes to me.

“Cassie and I used to be really good friends,” I say. “If you started ... you know, pursuing her, it would just be weird. Like if you were dating my sister. You know?”

Maks frowns. “It would be the honor if you dated my sister,” he says.

I bet it would be. I’ve seen his sister – her eyebrows are even thicker than his.

“You know what I mean,” I say.

“I think I know that you don’t want anyone else to have her, even if you don’t want her yourself. That is not cool, tovarishch.”

“Look, I’m not going to go after any woman until I’m finished with … my activities for the next couple of weeks. After that, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Cassie and I might develop into something.”

Maks drains his glass and stands up. I can’t remember him ever being angry with me, but right now he’s about as close as I’ve ever seen.

“I think that is being pretty selfish,” he says. “And you are not the boss of me. If I want to talk to Cassie the red hair, I will do it. Maybe she will like me. You don’t know that she won’t.”

“Maks…”

I follow him into the living room, where he calls up the express elevator that only comes to my floor. He avoids my gaze, flipping through messages on his phone as he waits.

“We’re friends,” I say. “Friends do favors for friends.”

He looks up from his phone, as serious as I’ve ever seen him.

“Like introduce you to women everywhere we go?” he asks. “Like make sure there is always party going on with beautiful ladies?”

Okay, he’s right on that one. I’ve hit him below the belt.

The bell rings as the doors open. Maks steps in and turns to face me.

“I am thinking maybe you need to look at yourself in the mirror,” he says. “If you have so many thoughts of Cassie the red hair, why are you chasing someone else you don’t know even know what she looks like?”

I have no answer as the elevator doors close in front of him, sending him straight to the ground floor.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

27. CASSANDRA

I’m at the stage where faces are starting to look familiar, which means it’s time to up my game.

It’s not easy to keep track of them all. In my work, I always had a database to reference, teams of analysts forwarding me data, or a surveillance control with access to satellites or other means of tracking and identifying people.

In the Chase, all I have is my wits. I’m not allowed to use any work-related technology. Even if I could, I’d be hard-pressed to pull it off without my former employers finding out.

That would mean my father finding out, and I definitely don’t feel like explaining the Chase to him. Somehow, I just don’t think he’d understand. Hard to say which would mortify him the most: the fact I was selling my virginity, or the fact I was taking money from the Russian mob.

Honestly, I don’t know which side bothers me more.

The curtains part as the lights go down, and suddenly the stage is full of nerdy men in black pants, short-sleeved white shirts and black ties. They’re singing a song called “Hello” to the packed house, and it’s hilarious enough to make me forget about the Chase for a few minutes.

This afternoon matinee of The Book of Mormon is a rare opportunity to slip into darkness and out of the line of fire for a couple of hours. I’m surrounded by people giggling their way through the number as the actors portray Mormon missionaries trying to charm their way into the homes of potential converts.

The show continues along that vein, and I keep on laughing along with the crowd. This is a welcome respite from the stress of the last several days. It’s almost as pleasant as looking at the balance in my Cayman account this morning: $1.5 million.

For six days of work.

Finally, we reach the intermission and the lights come up. My instincts kick in and I immediately scan the theater. Nothing sets off any alarms, but in such a crowded place, it’s best to keep moving.

There are four separate lines for the bar, all long enough that I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to get a drink before the lights go down again. But it gives me an opportunity to stand in one place for a while and look bored. Hiding in plain sight.

I check my watch repeatedly, keeping up with the others around me. There’s a large contingent of what I assume are Asian tourists to my right, chatting in Mandarin.

Then I look to my left and I feel adrenaline rush into my system. I’ve seen the squat, balding man in the line to my left, two spots ahead, several times in the last few days. He’s hard to miss, with the nest of auburn hair circling the dome of his head and squinty eyes that look like he’s perpetually staring into the sun.

He was at Patty’s two afternoons ago and I saw him again outside Carnegie Hall, both of which are on the list of places I provided to the organizers of the Chase. I don’t recognize his face from Forbes, but going from memory has never been my strong point.

I have to assume he’s onto me.

The couple in front of me look at their watches and sigh loudly before leaving the line. Suddenly I’m beside the bald man.

An idea comes to me just as he turns his head in my direction.

I roll my eyes and reach into my purse, pulling out my phone. I angrily stab the screen, as if to answer a call.

“What?” I snap. “Can’t I have five minutes peace?”

The man glances around the line, not focusing on me.

“What do you mean you don’t know where she is?” I grouse into the phone. “She has to be there, the recital ended ten minutes ago.”

Next thing I know, I’ve locked eyes with him. He looks at me for a beat before I give him my best NYC “the fuck you lookin’ at?” expression.

“Yeah, I’m here,” I say, turning away from him. “Some idiot was trying to hit on me. Listen, I don’t have time for this. She’s probably talking to Janey.”

I raise my voice. “Janey! How do you not know what she looks like? She’s been to our place a dozen times!” Exasperated sigh. “You know what, I don’t have time for this. Figure it out! The curtain’s going to go up in a minute and I didn’t even get my wine.”

I poke the screen again, toss the phone into my purse and storm back toward the theater entrance. As people mill past, I do a button hook and head back out on the other side of the crowd. I stop in an alcove near the entrance to the ladies room and take up a surveillance position.

My eyes follow the bald man as he scans the room in frustration. Finally he looks at his watch and shakes his head. With a dejected look, he heads for the exit.

I wait several minutes before going back into the line at the bar. If I didn’t need a drink before, I definitely need one now. That was one hell of a close shave.

With the second half of the show underway, the line has thinned out considerably and I manage to find a spot at the counter right away.

“What can I get you?” the girl asks. She’s dressed like a man, with a bow tie and black vest.

“Chardonnay, please,” I say, digging out my wallet. “The biggest glass you’ve got.”

She fills a nine-ounce glass and slides it over to me.

“That’ll be $16.50,” she says.

Call the cops! Even with a million plus in the bank, I wince at the price.

“I’ve got it,” says a familiar voice behind me.

You’ve got to be kidding me. I turn around to see the familiar face that goes with the voice. That chiseled chin and sweeping blond hair, those smoky gray eyes.

“Hello, Cassie,” he says.

I play it cool, even though nothing could be further from the truth. My heart is pounding. I feel like my ribcage could explode at any moment.

“Hello, Carson,” I say. “Long time no see.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

28. CARSON

I’ve never been one to believe in anything I couldn’t see. I’m a scientist through and through: you better be able to prove anything you expect me to believe, or you run the risk of having your argument systematically dismantled.

Needless to say, I don’t believe in any New Age nonsense. Nothing drives me up the wall like people who talk about how everything is connected, claiming that “quantum physics proves it.” Just don’t get me started.

But I just can’t ignore this anymore: it’s happened too many times. Something extraordinary is definitely going on here. I mean, it’s almost enough to make a die-hard skeptic believe in the concept of fate.

Cassie is obviously getting used to it, too. We’re at Holeo’s, a little donut place on the waterfront. It’s the fifth time this week that we’ve randomly run into each other while I was tracking the quarry.

“You still love chocolate, I see.”

Cassie turns and smiles sheepishly at me through the rim of dark brown around her lips.

“Please tell me I don’t have donut icing all over my face,” she says. “Even if I do, please tell me that I don’t.”

“You don’t have donut icing all over your face,” I lie, handing her a napkin. She wipes her lips and tosses the smeared paper into the trash.

I’m here because I managed to come up with three likely suspects via my computer program. One is an FBI agent currently on a sabbatical from teaching at Quantico, one is a retired Army intelligence major, and the third is an analyst with a defense contractor in Iraq, home for six weeks vacation. Any of those would be a perfect cover for a black ops agent.

All of them are from the south, though I haven’t been able to determine whether they graduated from any of the military colleges. Those records aren’t easily accessible to the public, and I’m not about to hack them. That would be cheating. And, more to the point, illegal.

None of them are here right now, unfortunately. This is turning out to be more frustrating that I would have thought possible. The upside, of course, is that none of my competitors is any further ahead than me.

I hope.

“It’s almost eerie,” Cassie says, shaking her head. “You know me – peer-reviewed evidence to the core. But I mean, come on. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

I’m stalking someone, but it’s not her. Although of course I’m not about to tell Cassie that. This situation is already fucked up enough as it is.

“Hey,” I say. “I could say the same thing. Anybody who knows me knows Dino’s coconut caramel is my only weakness.” I frown. “Don’t tell Matthias.”

Her laughter at our running joke is like a wind chime on the soft breeze coming off the river. It’s a welcome respite from the heat of the day. Summer has been a scorcher so far this year, and there’s no relief in sight. Especially when I’m sitting across from Cassie.

Our eyes meet for a moment and suddenly I’m locked there like a magnet. Everything about her is perfection: the curves under her halter and shorts threaten to make me hard right here in the middle of the street. My mind flashes back to our encounter in the coatroom, just like it has every night since as I lie awake in my bed, trying to make the tent under my sheets go down.

There’s only one way to do that solo, unfortunately.

“Do you have time to sit?” I ask, waving at a small metal table and chairs. It’s the best way to hide my erection.

“A few minutes, yes.”

Her shorts follow the curve of her buttocks perfectly, allowing just a hint of ivory skin to peek out underneath the fabric. Not that I’m looking.

I take a bite of my cone and try to act casual.

“How’s the capital raise going?”

“Good,” she says. “Another few days and I should have all my ducks in a row.”

“That’s great. What kind of timeline are you looking at for construction on the new place?”

“As soon as possible. I’ve got a company out of Long Island lined up. They just need the green light on funding.”

“And Tricia is ready with the recipes?”

“She will be. She says hi, by the way. She totally thinks you hung the moon.”

I smile. “She seemed like a nice girl.”

“She’s the best friend I ever had,” she says. Her eyes lock on mine again. “Except you.”

That’s it, I have to say it. I’ve avoided it every other time, but not anymore.

“What’s going on with us, Cassie?”

She looks away, her cheeks suddenly pink.

“I’m sorry about the other day with your friend,” she says. “I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t have said we were dating. That was presumptuous.”

“Things have been pretty weird since that night at the museum.”

“My life is just really complicated right now. I – I want us to get to know each other again. But it’s going to take some time.”

I nod. Every time we talk like this, it’s like the Chase just flies out the window and Cassie is all I care about.

“I get that this deal is very important to you,” I say. “Maybe I could get in on – ”

“No!” she says, eyes wide. “This is something I have to do on my own. I have to prove that I can, to myself and my father.”

That doesn’t surprise me. To call Cassie’s dad overbearing would be like calling Justin Bieber a singer. It gets the basics right, but it misses the magnitude. Besides, I don’t blame her for not wanting to take the easy route – my money. Hell, it only makes me respect this amazing girl even more.

But still, I want to help.

“What about this,” I say. “You come over to my place for dinner and we can go over your business plan. I’ve got some experience in that department. I might have some insight that you and Miranda haven’t considered.”

“I – I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

There’s that uncomfortable look again. This is so frustrating! What isn’t she telling me?

“Why not?” I ask. “It’s just dinner. That’s not unusual for people who are supposedly dating, is it?”

My voice comes off snider than I want it to, and suddenly Cassie is getting up from the table.

“I have to go,” she says, throwing her purse over her shoulder.

She won’t look me in the eye.

“Cassie, I’m sorry, let’s – ”

“I can’t. I have to go.”

She strides off toward the piers, disappearing into the crowds wandering by to take advantage of the breeze on a hot afternoon. In less than a minute, I’ve lost sight of her entirely.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

29. CASSANDRA

I hurry along the waterfront, trying to put as much distance between me and Carson as I can, as quickly as possible. I feel like such an ass. I wish I could just tell Carson anything, like in the old days. But of course, I can’t. Rule number one in the Chase – you don’t talk about the Chase,

To anyone. No matter how much you care for them.

The afternoon sun is hot against my exposed skin, baking me the way only a redhead can experience. Sweaty people flow past me in both directions, snapping photos of the water, laughing, arguing, chatting. Doing all the things normal people do.

I don’t cry. I never cry. It’s not what CIA agents do.

We analyze, we pretend, we think, we act. We endure. Sometimes we kill.

But we don’t cry.

When I’m sure I’m out of Carson’s line of sight, I turn left and head down Forty-Ninth Street to Hell’s Kitchen. Despite the name, it’s actually a beautiful neighborhood. For the most part.

There are still a few areas that aren’t gentrified yet, but at least I know there won’t be any old billionaires following me in here. And if there are, they’ll stick out like a sore thumb.

It gives me a chance to let my guard down and gather my thoughts.

As if I could possibly get the storm swirling inside me right now under control.

Why couldn’t I take Carson up on his invitation to dinner? I’m not a proud woman, and in all honesty, his experience could really help me with the deal.

His negotiating skill alone would be an asset worth millions. I don’t know all the details – it felt somehow strange to look them up, as though I was working an asset – but from what little I’ve been able to find out, he sold Black Sword for a serious amount of money.

I need to stop trying to fool myself.

I know why I couldn’t have dinner with him. First is that my story about selling my business to raise capital is paper-thin. Carson is sharper than anyone else I’ve ever known. He’d see through it in five minutes.

Second is that I know damn well I’d end up in bed with him. No question about it.

But would that really be so bad?

For what seems like the millionth time, I imagine going with Carson, giving in to what we both clearly feel.

Just letting it all go: no more Chase, no more lies. Surrendering to him, letting his body come together with mine and finally reaching the heights that I’ve heard so much about.

And Carson’s rich; I could get him to invest my share to build Tricialicious, and pay him back over time with the profits.

There are only two problems with that scenario: first, I’d be relying on him to make my dreams come true for me. And I might not be a proud woman, but I’m definitely too proud for that. Second, I’d be breaking the rules of the Chase.

Somehow, I don’t think I’d be able to walk away from that scenario unscathed. I don’t know what the woman in the red dress’s “associates” are capable of, but I get the feeling they’re not above making someone disappear.

I might be able to survive in that situation, but not without everyone I know and love finding out that I was in a competition to sell my virginity. I can’t imagine what Carson would think of that. I mean, what would he think of me when he found out I was that kind of girl?

And, of, course, it would come out that I’m a former CIA operative. I watched what that did to my family once. I won’t watch it happen again.

I stop for a moment and look up at the buildings; I don’t even know where I am anymore. The street is lined with brownstones on the west side and tenements on the east. The trees are throwing welcome shade down on my blistering shoulders.

At this point in the chase, I’m amazed anything can startle me anymore, but a voice does.

“Need help, honey?”

I look down at a woman in her sixties, sitting on a folding chair beside a flower stand. I assume she’s Betty from the “Betty’s Bouquets” clapboard sign propped on the sidewalk in front of the stand.

“I’m fine,” I say with a smile. “Just realized I’ve never been down this street before. It’s very pretty.”

“Not as pretty as the lady who’s callin’ it pretty,” she says. Her own grin highlights a set of slightly oversized dentures, and sends up dual fans of laugh lines at the corners of her eyes.

I scan the riot of colors in her inventory: white and orange lilies, roses in red, yellow, pink, even blue, and, of course, a rainbow of daisies and carnations. All look as if they just came off the bush.

“I bet you say that to all your customers,” I laugh.

“Honey, most of my customers is husbands who f’got they anniversaries. Not often I get one of you uptown models wanderin’ down my street. What brings you down here, honey?”

She’s so sweet I don’t try to correct her. Model is about the last career choice I’d ever have gone in for.

“I’m trying to get away from a boy,” I admit.

Her grin widens, if that’s possible.

“Oh, the troubles we gotta endure,” she chuckles. “Lemme guess: he’s chasin’ you with a big ol’ diamond ring and you don’t wanna be tied down.”

She’s got me on the ropes now. I have to buy something.

“Not exactly,” I say. “But – well, he is rich.”

“Course he is.”

“But there’s … something that I have to do before we can be together.”

Whoa, when did I start telling strangers my life story?

“So you do want him?”

“Yes.” God, so much it aches.

“Honey, I know you din’t ask my advice, but it’s been my experience that waitin’ to do things is a bad idea. That’s how life passes you by.”

Wise words from a flower lady, I guess. But then it’s not like I’m finding it anywhere else. Sometimes you need to talk to a stranger to find the truth you need to hear. The truth that’s staring you right in the face.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a portly older gentleman walking toward us from the north. His skin is so deeply tanned it borders on leathery, but his bald scalp appears pink under his Dallas Cowboys ball cap. Must have had too much sun this afternoon.

“Afternoon, ladies,” he drawls in a thick Texan accent, lifting his cap in salute. “Wonderful day.”

“It is indeed,” says Betty. “Even finer with a pretty lady and a handsome gentleman.”

She really is the perfect saleswoman. The Texan looks over her wares and points to a bouquet of blindingly white roses. Their marked price is $50, which, for a forgetful husband, isn’t terribly high, I suppose.

“I’ll take those, my dear,” he says.

Betty stands up from her folding chair and wraps the roses in green paper.

“Breathtaking,” she says as she hands them to him. “Whoever’s gettin’ em is a lucky girl.”

The Texan turns and hands them to me.

“I don’t know about lucky, but she certainly is breathtaking.”

What?

“No sir, I couldn’t possibly – ” I stammer.

“Miss, I’m a single man on vacation in the big city, and you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a coon’s age,” he says with a grin. “How ‘bout you indulge me?”

He lowers his sunglasses to look me in the eye.

“Not gonna take no for an answer.”

Betty looks from him to me and back to him.

He flips a wave at us with one meaty hand and whistles off down the street.

“See y’all later!” he calls back. “Have a wonderful day.”

Betty starts to giggle uncontrollably.

“Oh, the troubles some girls has,” she says as she sits back down in her folding chair.

I look down at the roses, than at the Texans backside as it recedes down the street.

How did an old Texan and a streetside flower lady manage to get the best of a CIA operative?

I can’t help it. I join in Betty’s laughter until we both have tears streaming down our cheeks.

Chapter Thirty

30. CARSON

Each time I come into Patty’s looking for the quarry, I end up running into Cassie. So, of course, when I come in looking for Cassie, she’s not here.

It would be the height of irony if one of my preferred suspects was here right now, but no such luck. At this time of morning – after the pre-work crowd but before the coffee break crowd – there’s only a handful of customers.

I sit down near an elderly couple, sipping tea and poring over sections of the Times as they share one of Tricia’s exquisite raspberry scones.

“Carson!”

I turn to see Tricia waving frantically at me from behind the front counter. I smile and wave back. I’ve managed to avoid her on my previous trips in here on the Chase, mostly because I didn’t want to start a conversation that I know was just going to distract me.

Too late now, I guess.

She fills a cup with black coffee and trots over to my table, bounding with energy.

“Good to see you again!” she says with far too much enthusiasm, setting the coffee in front of me. A few black droplets spill over the edge of the cup.

“Thanks, you too. Can you join me?”

“Hey, I’m the owner, I can do whatever I want.”

She plunks down in the chair opposite me and leans forward on her elbows.

“So,” she says. “I’ve seen you in here lately but I never got to talk to you. How are things?”

Hmm. Why am I suddenly picturing an interrogation room and a hot light? Now, if Cassie tried her hand, I’m not sure I’d be able to resist. Still, I have a feeling that whatever I say is going to go straight back to her. I’ll try to sidestep any potential embarrassment.

“They’re great, Trish. How about you? Is the deal coming along?”

She waves a dismissive hand. “I let Sandra look after that. I mean Cassie.”

What’s this, now?

“She doesn’t go by Sandra anymore?”

Tricia props her elbows on the table and drops her chin into her hands with a theatrical flourish.

“Not since you walked back into her life,” she says, batting her comically long false lashes at me.

Huh. I take a sip of my coffee, mostly to avoid having to say something back. I don’t know how to process all this stuff.

Also, the timing sucks: my cocky belief that I’d win the Chase within a few days was obviously unfounded. There are only a few days left to go, and the hotel key is still firmly lodged in my pocket. I’d be astounded if anyone has made near as much progress as me, but that doesn’t make it any easier to take. It’d kill me to see it devolve into a bidding war for this woman’s virginity.

Honestly, I’m not even sure that I would place a bid. It would almost feel like cheating. Maybe, just maybe, I could get involved to save the poor woman from the clutches of one of my less savory colleagues.

“How did your date go last week?” Tricia asks out of the blue, and I almost spray coffee all over her apron. I manage to choke it down instead.

“You know about that?”

She rolls her eyes. “Cassie is my BFF; I know everything.”

Everything?

“So she told you about the coatroom,” I say, wincing.

Tricia leans back in her chair.

“The coatroom,” she says with a knowing nod. “Mm-hm. Yup.”

“Not my finest moment, I’ll admit.”

“Why, uh, why do you say that?”

My eyebrows go up. Maybe Tricia’s into kinky stuff and public sex isn’t a taboo. In any case, she’s not judging me. It’s good to finally be able to talk about it with someone.

“Well, I mean, I don’t normally go pawing women in public places, especially on the first date.”

“Uh-huh.” She picks up a toothpick and starts gnawing on it. “Of course not.”

“Although, I guess it wasn’t technically our first. I mean, we were together for almost two years in high school.”

“Why did you guys stop?”

“Stop dating?”

Should I tell her? Hell, why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Cassie stood me up on our prom night and disappeared. Her family moved to another base, and she never got in touch with me.”

Tricia frowns. “She did that?”

“Yeah.”

“I was talking about the coatroom. Why you stopped – well, you know.”

Oh, shit.

“But really? She just ran out on you at prom?”

“It was bad timing,” I say. “I’m sure she had her reasons.”

I wish I’d never sat down. Now I have to backtrack on all this. It didn’t mean to turn this into a Cassie-bashing session.

“Let me guess: Cassie stopped things in the coatroom when they got heavy.”

My eyes narrow. “I thought she told you all about it.”

“Look, we’re past that now,” she says. “Was it Cassie that put a stop to things?”

“Well, I sure didn’t. It was all I could do to put on the brakes.”

“And she was all weird after it, right?”

I nod. “I have to admit, I’m not used to that. Usually it’s the woman who can’t stop.”

Tricia grins. “If you do say so yourself…”

“I own a mirror, Trish,” I say with a shrug and a grin of my own, so she knows I’m joking. “Full length, too.”

She breaks up cackling at that, which does a lot to ease the tension I’ve been feeling since she sat down. Tricia is a good friend; I’m glad Cassie has her in her corner. She’s never really had someone like that to rely on.

Well, not as far as I know, anyway. Lately, it seems like I’m constantly reminded of all the things I don’t know about her.

Tricia’s laughter trails off and she leans forward again. When she speaks, it’s in a whisper.

“I think I may know what the problem is,” she says.

“You do?” I whisper back.

What’s with the conspiracy?

“First, you need to know that I would never break a friend’s trust under any other circumstances,” she says in a lecturing tone. “I’ve got Cassie’s back, you feel me? And if you ever hurt her, I’ll be the first one coming at your balls with a pair of live chainsaws.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” I say. It’s the truth. A part of me wonders how she could go about holding two chainsaws at once, but I quickly focus my attention.

“The reason Cassie’s being so weird is that… well, she doesn’t have the same level of, you know, experience that you do.”

I frown. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Think about it: you’re – well, you’re you. You said it yourself, you own a full-length mirror. And you’re rich and successful and super-cool and everything else that comes along with it. Private jets and supermodels and God only knows what else.”

She’s right. I know how that sounds, but I don’t have any illusions about myself. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished; I worked incredibly hard to achieve it all.

“Now here’s Cassie, on a date with you, and she doesn’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “How does she not know what to do? It’s pretty simple.”

Tricia leans in close and lays a hand on top of mine. I glance down and see the tattoo of Tinkerbell that rests on the crook of her thumb.

“Carson, you’re too smart to be so dense,” she says with a soft smile.

I sit there, blinking at her.

“Obviously I’m not,” I say.

But that’s not true. Dawn is breaking somewhere in the back of my mind. I can practically hear it cracking, like a monstrous iceberg of stupidity that’s finally hit warmer waters.

“Cassie’s never been with a man in that way,” Tricia says. “She’s a virgin.”

And suddenly my heart is pounding so hard I fear it’s going to burst right out of my chest.

Chapter Thirty-One

31. CASSANDRA

The roses my new Texan boyfriend bought me survived the subway ride back home yesterday, and they’re still doing well in their vase on my dining table this afternoon.

That probably has something to do with all the natural light my apartment lets in. It may be small – find me one in Manhattan that isn’t, outside of Carson’s – and overpriced, but it’s bright. Southern exposure bathes the kitchen-living room space in sunshine most of the day, and the east-facing window in my bedroom wakes me with the rising sun every morning.

The exception, of course is the panic room. The only source of light in here is the single bulb that illuminates my work laptop. The green text on the screen shows me something that has become something of a talisman for me over the past two weeks: my Cayman account balance.

$2,500,000.00 USD.

Two and a half million dollars. One million away from my goal. Four more days. So close, I feel like I could almost touch it.

The computer whirs softly as I shut it down and hit the light switch. As always when I leave my office, I think of the Pevensie children from the Chronicles of Narnia, leaving the wardrobe and returning home.

Of course, my Narnia is a paranoiac’s wet dream, not a magical kingdom.

The light shrinks my pupils as I emerge into my bedroom, and I’m blind for a moment. I stop at my bed and sit for a moment as my eyes adjust. As I do, I think about yesterday: about the flowers, the Texan, Betty’s advice.

“Oh, the troubles some girls has,” I say out loud.

My phone chooses that moment to vibrate. At first I think it’s my alarm, telling me I’ve spent enough time at home and better get my butt out the door and onto the streets, so as not to violate the rules of the Chase.

But then I glance at it and see Carson’s number.

Do I really want to answer?

I hit ignore call and drop it into my purse, then scoop up my keys and head for the front door.

The walk to Patty’s is a good fourteen blocks from my place, but I need the exercise to keep my head clear. The cadence of my heels clicking against the sidewalk sets a rhythm that lets my mind become passively aware, noticing but not thinking. Meditating, almost.

After several minutes of this, I turn off the avenue and onto an adjoining street, just to keep myself from falling into a pattern. As I do, my breath catches in my throat.

Walking right toward me is the man from the theater.

I can’t slow down or I’ll look suspicious. As I close the gap, he seems to notice me. Recognition dawns in his eyes. I wish I had my phone in my hand to pull the same trick, but I don’t.

Our eyes meet as we pass, and I surprise myself by stepping toward him and raising my arms in a menacing pose.

“D’ja get a good look, you fucking perv?” I holler. “You think I don’t remember you? Maybe I should call my husband to come talk to you, is that what it’s gonna take?”

His eyes nearly pop out of his round face as he speed-walks down the street away from me.

“Yeah, you better fucking run!” I call after him. “Creep!”

I head back toward my original route and let the adrenaline flow back out. I realize now that I was pushing things by using the same routine twice. I also realize that the Chase is still on, and that I need to be on my guard at all times.

My phone buzzes. Carson again. I ignore it again.

The blocks flow past me: trees, people, flowers, architecture, all the things that make New York City so unlike any other place in the world. Thomas Wolfe once said you belong to this city as much in five minutes as in five years, and I believe it. It’s hypnotic, especially on a beautiful day like today.

Which makes what happens next that much more jarring. As I turn the corner to head back onto Forty-Second Street, I run face-first into a tall wall of man heading the other way.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to recover my bearings.

When I finally do, I look up to see Carson Drake’s gorgeous gray eyes looking down into mine. He’s out of breath.

“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” he pants.

Chapter Thirty-Two

32. CARSON

“Look, I just wanted to invite you to dinner again tonight,” I say, propping my hands on my thighs.

I’m more out of breath than I’d like to admit. Sprinting eight blocks will do that to you, even when you spend three hours a day in the gym. Then again, I’ve always been more into strength training than cardio.

Cassie’s fiery brows draw down over her eyes and she looks away. I don’t blame her.

“Carson, we’ve been over this,” she says. “I can’t. Not right now.”

That’s my cue to surrender. I hold up my hands, palms forward. You got me, sheriff.

“Just dinner,” I say. “At a restaurant. Nowhere near my apartment.”

She gives me a sidelong look.

“I really would like to discuss Tricialicious with you,” I say. “That’s where I was running from. I was just talking to Tricia about … a bunch of stuff.”

I was also using my smartphone to confirm that you did, in fact, graduate from the Citadel at the top of your class.

“I was hoping to catch you at your place, but here you are.”

“What’s so urgent all of a sudden?” she asks warily.

“I just think that there’s a situation that we need to discuss. It could have a drastic effect on your deal and how you move forward with it.”

She sizes me up. I’ve never really noticed it before but Cassie can look pretty intimidating when she wants to.

“This isn’t about you putting money in, is it?” she asks. “Because if it is, the answer is no.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Not right now, anyway.

“I just think there are some aspects to your situation that you might not have considered. I’ve sort of got … insider information that I think you’ll find very valuable.”

She shakes her head, tossing those blazing curls, and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I don’t want to get involved in anything that isn’t above board. Insider information is a slippery slope. And I’ve already told you, I want to do this on my own.”

“It’s definitely not illegal,” I say, although a lawyer and a prosecutor would probably argue all day over that. “Tell you what: I’ll give you the information, and you decide whether it’s ethical or not to use it. That way, the choice is entirely up to you.”

Her azure eyes soften.

“Welll….” she says.

I hold up my hand in a Boy Scout salute.

“I solemnly swear that I won’t try to get you back to my place.”

That does it: she finally cracks that radiant smile. Phew. I haven’t had to work that hard in a long time.

Then again, I’ve never cared about another woman the way I care about this one. For as long as I’ve known her, practically as long as I’ve been alive. And this is far and away the most important date of my life.

Cassie doesn’t know it yet, but it’s the most important date of her life, too.

“All right,” she says. “Is this going to be a fancy restaurant?”

“The fanciest.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I’d be just as happy at Burger King, you know.”

“Humor me. I have a lot of disposable income. And I have to dispose of it somehow, since you won’t let me give any of it to you.”

“All right. What’s it called?”

“Have you ever heard of Piccolo?”

She scrunches her face. “Hm… nope, strangely enough, I haven’t heard of your ridiculously fancy restaurant.” The she quickly adds: “It’s in Midtown, right?”

“Yup. I guarantee you’re going to love it.”

“It better not have a coatroom,” she says sternly.

“No,” I chuckle. “No coatroom.”

“So I need to wear a gown again?”

“You could wear exactly what you’re wearing right now and I’d be over the moon,” I say. “But you’d be the only woman in the restaurant dressed that way. Now, I personally think they’d all be jealous of you, but you might not agree.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “If I have to.”

I clap my hands and do an abysmal end-zone dance. “Yes!”

“You are such a geek,” she giggles.

“Takes one to know one.”

Suddenly a shadow crosses her face. I can only imagine what she must be thinking. But whatever it is, I can understand.

“Everything okay?” I ask, placing a hand on her creamy shoulder. The sensation is incredible. Just laying a hand on her bare skin is enough to make me shiver.

“It’s nothing,” she says with a quick smile. “I can’t wait for tonight.”

That sparks a thought. I don’t really want to let her out of my sight until we meet for dinner. Not that I expect any problems, but there’s no point in tempting fate.

“I’ve got an idea,” I say. “Why don’t you let me take you out right now and buy you a dress?”

The shadow is back again in an instant.

“Carson, how many times do I have to tell you…”

“Hear me out: we find you a dress, you wear it tonight, and then I donate it to a charity auction. You get an amazing gown, the Left-Handed Cellists Guild or some such group gets a donation, and I get a tax receipt.”

Giggles again. That’s what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. As though Cassie’s laughter, her very happiness, is a drug that has me hooked. Hell, who am I kidding? I am hooked. Always have been.

She seems to be mulling it over. I’m pretty sure she’ll think it’s a good idea, too.

“All right,” she says. “If it will make you happy, I’ll go shopping for an expensive evening gown. But you so owe me, buster.”

There’s no way I could keep the smile off my face right now if I tried. I feel like this is our chance to finally go to the prom, and get it right this time. No jealousy, no bitterness, mulling over what could have been. Just Cassie and me, going on our very first date all over again,

I cock an elbow at her and she slides a perfect arm through it, clasping her hands and locking on to me. If I had my way, she’d never let go.

Please, whatever God there may be out there, let this night go as planned.

“Well then,” I say, looking up at the sky. “Which direction to Oscar de la Renta?”

She actually gasps. Not just an intake of air, an actual gasp, like in an old-tyme movie.

“You’re not serious,” she says, eyes like blue moons in her face.

“Sorry,” I say with a mock grimace. “It’s the only place that’s close.”

She slams her shoulder into mine but doesn’t let go of my arm. We head north on Forty-Second, walking slowly. We’re not in any hurry. As far as I’m concerned, we can keep on walking arm-in-arm like this until, oh, say the year 2099.

“I should see if I can find a belt,” she says after a half a block.

“Yeah? Need a new belt, do you?”

“Well, I need something I can strangle you with in case you decide to try anything tonight.”

I feign shock. “I would never.”

She giggles again. If she only knew.

Chapter Thirty-Three

33. CASSANDRA

“I can’t believe I’m wearing $14,000 worth of clothes. That’s obscene.”

I smile like a little kid and look at Carson. “Isn’t it?”

He settles back into his side of the limo’s bench seat and gives me an appreciative once-over.

“Someone once told me wealth is relative,” he says. “Me spending fourteen grand would be equivalent to your average New Yorker spending eight bucks for a coffee, which they do all the time.”

I do some quick math. Whoa.

“Are you serious?” I ask. “Just how rich are you?”

He flashes mock annoyance.

“Rich enough to be able to afford it when my date chooses the most expensive dress in the store,” he gripes.

I slap him. “You chose it, you jackass! I was happy with that dark green one.”

“Yeah, but that ugly old lady said plum compliments red hair, and I wasn’t going to argue with her. She’s the expert, after all.”

“That was a man and you know it!”

I tap the reverse camera on my phone and check out our digital reflection. The old lady – I mean man – was right, the purple totally works. Carson is in another tux, different from the one he wore to Modern. I guess that’s another way to answer my question: he’s rich enough to need more than one tuxedo. Until Carson, I’m not sure I knew anyone who even owned one.

Against my better judgment, I snap a selfie. Like, I don’t want to be one of those girls. But sometimes it’s unavoidable. Like starting a sentence with “like.” Oh, gosh, I’m doing it again. How can one man have me so flustered?

“Let me see!” Carson crows.

I suddenly remember that the previous photo in my library is of the woman in the red dress. A tiny stab of panic goes through my belly as I tuck the phone into my purse before he can get his hands on it.

“A girl’s phone is her castle,” I say. “Or something like that. You know what I mean.”

“You’re absolutely right,” he says with mock gravity.

“I like the sound of that.”

Carson pulls a bottle of Salon champagne from a perspiring silver ice bucket in the console and pours us each a flute. The matching silver tray next to it is covered in a pyramid of chocolate-dipped strawberries that doesn’t seem to be shrinking, even though each of us had at least half a dozen.

The interior of the limo is ringed by bands of polished cherry wood that gleam a deep auburn in the reflection of the bar lights. All in all, it’s the kind of place I just didn’t even think existed before I met Carson. For the second time, I mean.

He raises his flute. “To ugly old men who look like women,” he says.

“I’ll drink to that,” I giggle.

A voice comes over the intercom from the front seat.

“Boss, we’re about a block from Piccolo.”

“Thanks, Leonard,” Carson answers. “Let’s do a few laps before we go in. There’s still champagne to finish.”

“You got it, boss.”

“I can’t believe you pay a driver to be on standby all day,” I say, clucking my tongue.

“He doesn’t cost me near what your dress did.”

That’s it. I pummel him with both fists. He grabs my wrists and we play wrestle for a little bit. I’m having déjà vu so hard it’s almost a physical feeling. Still, there’s one thing I know for sure. There is no way he was this strong when we were in high school.

“Besides,” he laughs. “It makes me feel good. Call it job creation.”

After we settle for a moment, I take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh.

“Do you remember when our study dates would devolve into stuff like this?” I ask.

He gives me a wistful smile. “Of course. It’s not like we had to study, so why not?”

“I always knew you had it in you, y’know.”

“Had what in me?”

“This,” I say, waving a hand through the interior of the car. “The dress, the car, the driver on standby.”

“Really?”

“Okay, maybe not this level, but I knew you’d be a success.”

He smiles. “You will be, too, Cassie. I’m positive of it.”

“How do you know?”

He leans forward and plucks a couple more strawberries from the tray. I open my mouth and he slides one in. My lips close over his withdrawing fingertip for a moment until it pops out with a wet smacking sound.

The look in his eyes is priceless.

“Ask me again sometime,” he says. “Right now I want to focus on the moment.”

So do I. God, those eyes: the color of the morning fog in San Francisco bay. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they could see right into my soul.

I wonder what he would think if he actually could.

“I want to talk about your career soon, too,” he says. “I bet it’s been fascinating.”

No, thanks – we’re not going down that road.

I swig back the dregs of my champagne and drop the glass into the little rack on the inside of the door.

“Ask me again sometime,” I say, searching desperately for a humorous way out. “Right now, I’m starving and I want to see if I can spend as much of your money on food as I did on this dress.”

“Challenge accepted,” he grins. His finger finds a panel on the door frame. “Leonard, we’re ready now.”

“Just pulling up front as we speak, boss.”

Seriously?

We come to a stop and the door opens a couple of seconds later. Leonard reaches in a gloved hand and helps me out onto the curb.

“Ma’am,” he says, tipping his cap.

Carson claps him on the shoulder and says thanks. Leonard slips behind the wheel again and is back in traffic almost immediately.

“That’s why I keep Leonard on standby,” he says. “He’s worth every penny.”

I take Carson’s arm again and he leads me toward the carved mahogany doors of Piccolo. I glance around, trying to get my bearings.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in this particular block before,” I say.

“This is a pretty exclusive little area,” says Carson. “A lot of people pay a lot of money to be out of the public eye here. There’s a world-class boutique hotel next door.”

“Really? I’d love to see it sometime.”

Carson’s smile is dazzling as he leads me into the restaurant.

“I can definitely make that happen,” he says.

Chapter Thirty-Four

34. CARSON

The exterior of Piccolo is bland enough that you might walk on by and not even notice it’s there. Except for the rich wooden doors and the deep red canopy leading to them, it’s basically just another of the featureless granite buildings that line the streets of Manhattan like Lego blocks.

But then you step inside.

The low-ceilinged foyer is quite understated, done in darkly veined marble, with a brass-and-wood reception desk that’s only a few feet wide. The maître d is a very serious-looking bald man named Avery – I’ve never been able to figure out whether it’s his first or last name – who always calls you by name, even if it’s your first time here. I have no idea how he pulls it off, but he does. Maybe a careful study of the Forbes list.

He looks up at us over his glasses as we enter.

“Mr. Drake,” he says. “Ms. Vincent. It’s a great pleasure to have you join us this evening.”

I admit it: I love to be served by people who are cultured and discreet. It’s one of the best perks of being rich.

All right, all right, if I’m being totally honest, it makes me feel like I’m James Bond. But I also tip extremely well.

I shake my head at some other nouveau riche guys, who drop thousands of dollars in high-end strip clubs with an entourage of losers. They surround themselves with noise and booze and people who are only along for the ride.

Give me a quiet, elegant room any day, with gourmet food and a beautiful, intelligent woman who gives as good as she gets.

Especially when that woman is the one by my side right now.

And Maksim, of course. But he’s different.

I see Cassie’s jaw drop a full inch as Avery leads us out of the foyer and into the dining room. Her head tilts up to follow the walls that go all the way up to the second-floor ceiling. Piccolo is so expensive, it can actually take up two whole floors of the building for a single-floor seating area.

As big as it is, the place still manages to feel cozy and intimate. It uses sound baffles built right into the architecture and artistic features of the dining area to turn each table and booth into its own perfectly private conversation area. Short of stripping completely naked and waggling your you-know-what you know where, you could do pretty much anything without getting noticed.

Avery leads us to a curved booth in an intimate corner next to a huge granite fireplace, dormant now that the temperatures are soaring into the 90s. As we slide in, he bows deeply from the waist, his narrow frame looking a bit like a coat rack that’s hinged in the middle.

“A bottle of the ’65 Chateau Lafitte will be here momentarily,” he says. “I recommend the duck this evening. Bon appetit.”

Cassie blinks several times, taking in the understated opulence. Piccolo is unlike any other restaurant I’ve ever seen, and as cool as I try to look on the outside, the real me deep inside is reveling in being able to give her this incredible experience. In truth, I would buy this woman the world, and worry it still wasn’t enough.

The wine arrives within moments and the steward opens it at the table. He hands me the cork and I take a sniff.

“Perfect,” I say.

He nods and pours us each a glass, then leaves as silently as he arrived.

“Show off,” Cassie says with a smirk.

“What, the cork?”

“You don’t need to do that anymore. Modern winemaking techniques are so foolproof that you never hear about wine turning to vinegar these days. Not even wine from 1965.”

I give her an indulgent smile.

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Mr. Fancy Pants, that’s so.”

“What about from 1865?”

Her eyes widen as those delicate orange brows lift and crinkle her freckled forehead.

“Are you kidding me?” she breathes.

“Take a sip.”

She looks at the glass, awestruck, for a full ten seconds before finally lifting it off the table. I raise mine in return.

“Do I want to know how much this cost?” she asks warily.

I wince. As far as I’m aware, the only bottles of this particular vintage were found off the coast of France, buried in a sandbank approximately sixty meters beneath the waves. Perfectly chilled. In fact, the perfect environment for wine to survive in perfect condition all this time.

“Probably not.”

She sighs, but she’s smiling. That’s a good sign.

“What should we drink to?” she asks.

I lean close and lock my eyes with hers.

“To new experiences,” I say.

She smiles and our glasses touch, sending a tinkling chime through our little booth sanctuary.

We both take a sip. Cassie’s eyes close and she tilts her head back.

“Oh. Em. Gee,” she moans. “That’s ah-may-zing.”

That’s just the start of the ah-may-zing things tonight has in store for us. At least, if I get my way.

She takes another sip, savors it. We sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, looking into each other’s eyes. A pianist somewhere plays a Cole Porter tune that floats through the room like subtle incense.

Cassie eventually breaks the spell. I could have stayed there the rest of my life.

“Where are the menus?” she asks, glancing around the table.

“Piccolo doesn’t have menus,” I say. “It’s a four-course meal. The entrée is the only item you choose, and even with that, you only decide on the main ingredient.”

She looks confused.

“But how does the chef know what dishes we want?”

“Is the wine good?”

“The best I’ve ever tasted. But what does that have to do with anything?”

“We didn’t choose that, either,” I point out. “And yet it’s exactly what we wanted. Trust me, the chef here is a culinary Michelangelo. Everything he produces is a masterpiece.”

She runs a delicate hand along her throat and looks deep into my eyes.

“Remember when we used to talk about backpacking around Italy when we were kids?” she says. “Going to see David in Florence. Following in Da Vinci’s footsteps. Seeing the ruins up close.”

“Like it was yesterday.”

“I suppose you’ve been there a hundred times,” she sighs. “You were telling your friend the other day that you were there not that long ago.”

Her cleavage peeks out from the neck of her gown as she leans forward on the table, prompting a sudden mist of perspiration on the back of my neck.

“A few weeks,” I croak.

“What did you do while you were there? Tell me everything.”

I shrug.

“Nothing that involved any culture. Just hung out with… friends. Had a few laughs.”

Very few laughs compared to the time I’ve spent with her. I’ve barely given two minutes thought to my jump over Lake Garda since Cassie walked back into my life.

And friends? That’s stretching it a bit. More like friend – singular – and his acquaintances.

I flash back to the night with the two English girls in my bed, and suddenly I’m ashamed of how shallow it was. How shallow I was.

I guess it took Cassie returning to my life for me to truly realize it. All this time I became nothing more than a parody of the man I thought she wanted. When nothing could have been further from the truth.

Cassie takes another sip of wine with the same reverence.

“I think about all the travel I’ve done with… work, and I realize none of it was enjoyable,” she says. “I’ve been to some exotic places, but never really had a chance to be a tourist. To explore the culture and just have some fun.”

My heart cramps a little when I hear that. Compared to her experiences, mine are just the ridiculous escapades of a poor little rich boy. When she was fighting – hurting for her country, what the hell was I doing? No doubt swilling champagne in some ghastly bar with Maksim.

“I’d love to hear more about it some time,” I say. “But not tonight. Is that okay?”

“It’s more than okay,” she says, looking relieved. “Tonight is about the experience. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

We toast again and drink deeply. Our glasses are empty only a handful of seconds before the wine steward appears and refills them.

“Little bugger comes out of nowhere, doesn’t he?” Cassie mutters. “Like some kind of booze ninja.”

I laugh hard. She looks at me for a moment, surprised, and then joins in.

When we finally settle down, our waiter appears beside the table. He’s middle-aged, distinguished-looking like Avery, with a mustache that most hipsters would give a year of their life for.

“May I be of service?” he intones.

“Avery suggested the duck,” I say. “And you?”

He tilts his head slightly to the left.

“It would be improper of me to contradict him, sir.”

“Right. Lobster it is, then.”

His mustache rises in a prim little smile.

“Excellent choice, sir.”

We watch him stride off and disappear around a dark-paneled corner.

“You picked up on his subtext very well,” Cassie says. “I’m impressed.”

High praise coming from her. I’m sure she’s been in situations where reading subtext literally made the difference between life and death.

“If you’re impressed now, be prepared,” I say. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

35. CASSANDRA

I really shouldn’t be doing this.

I’m setting myself up for disaster.

Nothing good can possibly come from this.

Shut up, brain, I’m trying to concentrate on my steps.

Carson sweeps me along the dance floor to the strains of Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Serenade” coming from the piano in Piccolo’s bar. He convinced me – against my better judgment – to work off the most exquisite meal I’ve ever eaten in my life with a slow box step waltz. The CIA trained me for an entire year to resist torture, and yet…

I’m practically hanging from him as he swirls around the floor, carrying me along with him like a child learning to dance by standing on her father’s feet.

“I’m sorry I’m so clumsy,” I say weakly. “But you know from experience that I’ve got two left feet.”

“Must be hell buying shoes,” he says, his cheek next to mine.

“Stop trying to make me laugh,” I say. “Besides, not all of us have unlimited time and money to take dance lessons.”

“I was born this way, baby.”

I giggle. “You forget that you’re talking to the girl who once slow danced with you to Hoobastank’s “The Reason”. I still have the bruises on my feet to prove it.”

And God, that dates me!

“I seem to recall I was distracted by something during that dance,” he murmurs.

A thrill runs through my belly as the full memory comes back: his lips were clamped firmly on my neck as we wandered around the gym, trying to avoid the gaze of the chaperones at the dance.

Nothing good can come from this. The Chase is still on. Whatever happens tonight, I’ll be sleeping with another man within a few days.

Suddenly tears threaten to fill my eyes. I breathe deeply and force them down. Compartmentalize. Focus on the now. You’re trained for this.

As if any sort of CIA training could prepare me for the situation I’m in right now. It’s so bizarre, I feel like I’m in an episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Did you know there are lyrics to this song?” Carson asks out of nowhere.

“Really,” I say, grateful for the distraction. For any distraction. “I’ve only ever heard the melody.”

“Most people know the song instantly, but very few have ever heard the story in the song. It’s about a man standing in the moonlight, singing to his girl’s window.”

He tilts his head close so that his lips are at my ear.

“The stars are aglow, and tonight how their light sets me dreaming,” he croons softly, tickling my lobe. His baritone is slightly flat, almost Sinatra-esque, and utterly charming.

“My love, do you know, that your eyes are like stars brightly beaming?

“I bring you, and I sing you, a moonlight serenade.”

My God, I just want to melt into him and never let go. This night is so impossibly perfect it makes my heart ache.

Because no matter what happens, it can’t possibly end the way I want it to.

“Carson,” I whisper. It’s almost a sob.

“Shhhh,” he breathes in my ear. “Just listen to the song, Picture the man singing to you from the garden.”

I close my eyes and imagine Carson, dressed in an old-style suit, in a black-and-white movie set of a yard, singing to me under a giant cardboard moon hanging in the sky.

My hand cups the back of his neck and I pull him closer to me, as strong and as desperate as a boxer’s clinch.

“I stand at your gate, and I sing you a song in the moonlight,” he purrs.

“A love song, my darling, a moonlight serenade.”

The song is over for several seconds before I finally realize it. We stop swaying and I let go of his neck. I feel like I’ve just woken up from a dream that I wanted to go on forever.

Carson leans in close and whispers: “That was so much better than Hoobastank.”

And here I go again, giggling like a fool. He somehow takes me from the edge of a melancholy that threatened to drag me under, and manages with just a few words to turn my face to the sun.

I clasp his chiseled bicep as we amble back to our table. There are two dessert plates when we arrive, each with a single biscotti, next to a pair of small glasses filled with a bright yellow liquid.

“Dessert,” I moan. “I can’t.”

We sit down and Carson slides my plate closer to me.

“Trust Piccolo,” he says. “They don’t do things randomly. They probably saw us dancing and knew we were both full. So they gave us these to cap everything off.”

I sigh. “All right, if I must.”

The biscotti crumbles easily between my teeth. The cookie starts to melt immediately, evaporating into a buttery paste that spreads flavor across my tongue. Inside the cookie are slices of macadamia nuts that crumble and disintegrate as I chew.

“Uhmfff,” I grunt through the food. “This is heaven. Exactly what I needed after that meal.”

“Ain’t it?” says Carson, licking the crumbs off his fingers.

I hold the aperitif up to eye level, catch the scent of the yellow liquor.

“Limoncello,” I say with a theatrical pout. “I’m not really a fan.”

Carson looks at me sternly.

“What have I been saying all night?”

“Trust Piccolo.” I roll me eyes. “All right.”

We clink glasses and drain our drinks. Piccolo’s magic stays true: the infusion of lemon oil adds a delightful tartness that cuts the cloying sweetness of the liqueur.

Hell, this place is doing something right. It has me thinking like a restaurant critic.

“It’s like a final palate cleanser,” Carson says with a satisfied smack. “These guys earn every penny they make.”

That piques my curiosity.

“How much would that be, exactly?”

“I don’t know. My accountants will get the bill.”

Someday accountants are going to get my bills. I have to keep telling myself that. It will help with the inevitable crash that’s going to come later tonight.

If I can just keep Carson from bolting for a few more days, maybe… just maybe this can lead somewhere. I just need to endure a single night.

One night out of my life, and then I’ll have the freedom I’ve craved for so long.

But at what price?

I told you before, brain: SHUT. UP.

Chapter Thirty-Six

36. CARSON

Cassie and I step out into the night air and the quiet bustle of this exclusive block. Limos and Range Rovers and Bentleys drone past on the street, carrying wealthy people to whatever their wealthy people activities may be on this beautiful night.

Some of them may well be involved in the Chase. If circumstances were different, I’d be ashamed to count myself among them. But tonight, I couldn’t be happier.

In fact, you might say I’m over the moon.

“Care for a nightcap?” I ask, trying to sound casual. “We can check out the bar in the hotel next door that you were interested in.”

“Sure,” Cassie says absently, as if she’s wrapped up inside herself. “I really don’t want tonight to end.”

If all goes well, it won’t have to. It can go straight through until tomorrow. And long after that, if there’s a God out there somewhere.

She takes my arm and we stroll down the avenue toward the exterior entrance to the Regent’s bar. Much like Piccolo, there’s nothing on the outside that would indicate the opulence within.

The doorman tips his cap to us as we approach and opens the door.

“A great pleasure to have you with us this evening,” he says.

I slip a wedge of hundreds into his breast pocket as we pass. The poor guy deserves something extra for standing outside on a night like this in a full-length wool overcoat, just to maintain some ridiculous tradition. God only knows what it’s like in the heat of summer.

We walk through the door and enter the throwback charm of the Regent. As impressed as Cassie was with the restaurant, I think she’s utterly floored by the bar.

“This looks like something out of an old movie,” she marvels as we make our way to a table for two. “I’m so glad you made me wear this gown tonight. Anything less and I would have felt like I was underdressed.”

“You could be wearing a pair of sweatpants and a Snuggie and you’d still be the most dazzling woman in this room,” I say as I pull her chair out and push it back into place under her gorgeous butt.

She props her head in her hand as I sit down across from her. I motion for our waitress, only to realize with considerable alarm that it’s the same girl who served me when I was here with the woman in the red dress.

Please don’t acknowledge me. Please.

Of course, I should have known better. Servers like those at the Regent and Piccolo know the value of discretion. She takes our order with a smile and leaves us to ourselves.

“This feels like the first time I went to Las Vegas,” Cassie says, scanning the room. “Sensory overload. Only this is like coolness overload. I feel like we’re in a different world.”

“This could be your world, you know.”

She shakes her head.

“Like you said, wealth is relative. When Tricialicious goes public, I’m hoping for maybe a $15 million payout. Sure, that’s almost five times my investment, and to most people it’s a fortune.

“But to someone like you,” Cassie says, “it’s chump change.”

I wince inwardly. She’s right; I paid more than that just for the opportunity to chase a woman and sleep with her.

It seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. Now it feels obscene. Disgusting. Something to be ashamed of.

I clear my throat.

“It really is relative,” I say. “You shouldn’t compare yourself to anyone else when it comes to money. It’s not a competition. It’s all about being able to do what you want.”

“Easy for you to say,” she grins. “That’s like Usain Bolt saying there’s nothing wrong with being a mathlete.”

I chuckle. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” she says. “And it reminds me: before we got all caught up in tonight, we were supposed to talk about business.”

She’s right, I totally forgot. That was the whole pretext of getting her to agree to this thing in the first place.

Guess I got swept up in the magic of the night. I just hope I can keep it going.

“Right,” I say, serious as Tom Brokaw. “Business. Let’s get down to brass tacks. See where the rubber hits the road. Do the deep dive. Find the core competencies. Did I miss any?”

“Well, once we unpack, we can amplify our deliverables and see if we can move the needle. You know, drill down and find our wheelhouse.”

I nod thoughtfully.

She nods thoughtfully.

We both hold the pose for a good two seconds before simultaneously cracking up. Our server chooses that moment to arrive with our drinks.

“I should have known I was challenging the master,” I say, taking a sip. “You must be up on all the latest business buzzwords.”

Her eyes are far away. “Yeah, I suppose I must be, mustn’t I?”

“You know what, Cassie? Here’s the only advice I can give you: don’t sell yourself short. If you think fifteen million is the right number for you, that’s great. But don’t limit yourself.”

Those soulful eyes lock onto mine again, and I can see the deep uncertainty there. She makes me think of an acrobat who’s flipping and flying from one trapeze to the next, high above the crowd, with no net below her.

One slip, one momentary lapse in concentration, and she’ll plummet.

I never realized just what this whole thing must have done to her. The stress has to feel like being pulled apart on some medieval torture machine.

“Cassie, you’re the smartest person I know.”

She looks down at the table.

“I don’t feel very smart right now,” she says softly.

“That’s nerves talking. I went through the same thing when I sold Black Sword. I really only had a prototype. No market share, no goodwill list. Hell, I barely had any clients even test it out beforehand. There wasn’t time.

“What I did have was an unshakeable faith that what I’d built was valuable. Very valuable. And when the negotiations began, I went in with high expectations. I wouldn’t settle for anything less than what I wanted.”

“It obviously worked,” she says. “But you’re talking about international cyber-security software. I’m talking about ice cream.”

“There’s more to it than that, and you know it. Patty’s doesn’t sell treats; you sell happiness, however fleeting, and people will pay a premium for that. Why do you think Americans have spent billions on decaf non-fat lattes every year for the past two decades?”

She looks puzzled.

“Because at least we know that part of our day is guaranteed to be good?”

“Exactly. Tricialicious is going to be a bigger success than you can imagine. So when you set your sights on the payout, set them high.”

“How high?” she asks. Her eyes are wide, childlike.

“As high as you want them to be. You’re smart, you’ve got capital, you’ve got a great partner in Tricia. Everything is on your side in this.”

I reach out and take her hand in mine. In some ways, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Part of me wishes I could just give her the key right here and now. I can’t. I’ve got to let Cassie find her way back to me. And it hurts more than anything I’ve ever done.

“Especially me.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

37. CASSANDRA

The faith I see in Carson’s eyes makes me want to cry.

He’s telling me all the wonderful things he sees in me, but he’s wrong. I’m a fraud. I’m not a businesswoman, I’m a spy.

And I’m not even that anymore. Now, I’m just the quarry in a stupid chase.

“I wish I could believe you,” I say, squeezing his hand. “But I feel like I’m drowning. I’ve bitten off so much more than I can chew, and I worry that it’s going to choke me.”

He squeezes back. If only he knew what I’ve done. Would he be disgusted with me? Outraged? Or worse yet – disappointed? I don’t know if I’d be able to live through hearing that.

“You’re not just smart,” he says. “You’re capable. A mover and a shaker. A fucking job creator. You make things happen.”

“You barely know me,” I say. “The real me. The woman I’ve become.”

My raw emotions are closer to the surface than they’ve ever been. All my training is telling me not to do this, to cut this off and run from here as fast as my feet can take me.

Fuck my training.

“I’m not that girl you remember, Carson. Things happened to me after my family moved away. I’m not the same person I was before prom night.”

He leans closer so that our eyes are only inches apart.

“I know more than you think,” he whispers. “I know you can think on your feet. I know you can handle yourself in ways most people couldn’t even imagine. I know you’ve got steel inside you.”

He always knows the right thing to say. But how? We’ve barely spent any time together since we met again a few weeks ago. He doesn’t know my past; as far as he knows, I’m a consultant in supply chain management. Jesus, why is he interested in me? Could the Company have picked a more boring profession?

“You mentioned prom night,” he says. “I know now that something extraordinary must have happened to your family that day. And I’m so sorry I ever believed you’d disappear without contacting me if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

I can’t think of anything to say, so I stay quiet. I just want to feel the warmth of his hands in mine.

“In a way, I think that day shaped who we are now. If you hadn’t left, I’d probably still be screwing around in a lab somewhere, trying to figure out why the world didn’t recognize my genius.”

I chuckle. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

“Don’t,” he says. “I was smart, sure, but I wasn’t motivated to do anything other than not be my old man.”

I can understand that. For years, everything I did was to make my father happy.

“But look at you now,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says. “And look at you. Actually, don’t bother. I can look at you enough for the both of us.”

I need to stop this. If I don’t run right now, bad things are going to happen. Things I can’t take back.

“Carson,” I say, but he stops with me with a raised finger.

“Hear that?”

The piano player has been playing Gershwin the entire time we’ve been here – there’s that situational awareness again, can’t turn it off – but now there’s just a single low note being played over and over.

That’s not the piano in the bar.

Now the beat of a drum and a guitar lick join in.

I’m not a perfect perrr-sonnn….

Is that…?

Carson pulls me up with him and leads me toward the dance floor.

“You…” I husk. “How did you…?”

He grins. “I texted the manager while you were powdering your nose at Piccolo. Or whatever it is that girls do.” He winks at me. “See – I’m still a nerd, really.”

We reach the floor and suddenly I’m clutching him so tight I fear I might break him. I float in his arms like a dandelion seed in the breeze, oblivious to everything around me. Twin tears escape the corners of my eyes and trickle down my cheeks.

We sway back and forth as “The Reason” tells its hypnotic story of hurt and redemption, of heartache and forgiveness. The touch of Carson’s hand on my bare back sends an explosion of sensations up my spine and down my belly, into the junction of my thighs.

Carson’s lips find my throat, but this time I don’t think of chaperones seeing us. All I can focus on is the warmth of his breath, the electric touch of his tongue. The here. The now. The forever.

This moment is so right. I’ve been waiting for it since I was a girl, dreaming about it. It couldn’t be more perfect. In the arms of the man of my dreams, the only man in the world who truly knows me.

Except everything he knows about me is a lie. And I can’t follow through with this. Not just for my sake, but for his. I’m holding a ticking time bomb, and Carson can’t be anywhere near when it goes off.

I place my hands on his shoulders and push, separating us.

“Stop,” I pant. “I can’t…”

He smiles. “Let me guess: you’re going to pull a Cinderella on me again.”

“I have to. I can’t do this, I’m sorry. Not right now.”

“Yes,” he says, pulling me back in. His eyes lock with mine. “Right now.”

“You don’t understand,” I plead.

“But I do,” he says. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand.”

I shake my head and steel myself to move. I position my right arm under his left; all it will take is for me to cock my elbow and trap him in an arm lock. After that, just a quick shifting of my weight and he’ll go flying over my hip and land on his back on the floor, I don’t care how strong he is. I’ll step out of my heels and bolt barefoot for the exit.

I move in to apply pressure when his right hand suddenly reaches into his pants pocket and pulls something out. Something small and narrow.

Rational thought disappears as my training takes over. My pupils dilate, taking in more light to process the sensory input. My strategy changes instantly to deal with the possible weapon in his hand.

I move my right arm so that it’s over his left instead of under. Then I bend my elbow and drive my hand upwards past his armpit, locking his arm in place. I jam my right knee into the back of his, bending the joint and forcing that leg to the floor.

Now he’s down on one knee, looking up at me with shock on his face and something in his hand. I realize suddenly that anyone looking at us would think he was proposing.

“Cassie,” he grunts. I let go of his arm and he takes a deep breath.

“What the hell are you doing?” I hiss.

How did this all go so wrong so fast? Things are spiraling out of control!

“I was trying to give you this,” he pants.

He opens his right hand and the light over the dance floor reflects off the polished brass of a skeleton key.

Embossed in script on the key’s handle is the word Regent.

No. It can’t be.

It can’t be.

Carter smiles up at me.

“Consider yourself caught,” he whispers. “The Chase is over.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

38. CARSON

The look on Cassie’s face is worth every moment of heartache over the past twelve years and then some.

Her hand closes over the key quick as a snake as she glances around the room. The she pulls me up from the floor and into her arms. She’s amazingly strong.

I see her throat working, but no words are coming out.

“Let’s go someplace more private,” I whisper.

My hand finds her back and I lead her off the floor toward our table. I drop a few hundreds next to our unfinished drinks and we’re on our way to the Regent’s lobby.

“What…” she stammers. “How did…?”

“I figured it out this morning,” I say, barely able to contain myself.

Every part of me wants to run to the top of the Empire State Building and shout “I won the Chase! I won Cassandra Vincent!”

On the outside, this manifests itself as a shit-eating grin. And a stiffness under my slacks.

The lobby is empty except for us and the night auditor, a handsome woman in a dark pantsuit. Cassie and I stand in front of the elevator, arm in arm, watching the ornate silver arrow over the door count the floors as it lowers itself down to us. It seems to take the better part of an eon.

The muted “ding” announces its arrival and the accordion doors slide open.

“Hang on just one fucking minute,” she says, grabbing my arm as I try to step inside the elevator.

Oh, shit.

Her eyes are blazing. She pushes me into the elevator and the doors close behind us.

“You’re telling me that you’re a competitor in the Chase?”

Oh shit oh shit oh shit.

“Yes?” I offer weakly.

“And you figured out that I was the quarry?”

“Uh-huh. This morning.”

“That’s why I kept running into you everywhere I went? You were following the information on the quarry?”

I feel like I’m being interrogated by the team on The Shield. The walls of the elevator feel like they’re closing in on me. How did this all go so wrong so quickly?

“Yeah,” I say. “I should have figured it out sooner, but I obviously had a blind spot where you were concerned. I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”

Her eyes narrow.

“So how did you figure it out?”

“I was talking to Tricia. She told me you were… inexperienced. Everything else just fell into place after that.”

She’s silent for several long moments. My stomach is buzzing with nerves. Everything was so incredible on the dance floor. And now this.

Finally, she looks up at me again.

“Do you mean to tell me you have so much fucking money that you dropped millions of dollars to chase a woman just so you could sleep with her?”

“Well,” I say. “It’s a little more complicated than that. But yeah, I guess that’s the elevator pitch version.”

I grin, throwing chance to the wind. “Get it? Elevator pitch?”

She looks down at the key in her hand, then back up at me.

“Surprise,” I say weakly, waving my hands like a third-rate talent show host.

Before I can react, her hand flashes out and grabs the back of my neck. I brace myself for a body slam or something equally unpleasant. And honestly, she has every right to be pissed. I screwed up. Bad.

Instead, she pulls me into her, locking her mouth on mine and squeezing her body against me with a force that I can barely believe.

Her tongue snakes around mine as her hands slide up into my hair. My own glide down the plum fabric of her dress and grip her buttocks, driving our pelvises together.

“I ought to kill you,” she gasps.

“Later,” I groan, clamping my lips on her neck and stabbing the button for the third floor.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

39. CASSANDRA

My chest heaves as Carson fumbles the old key into the lock with one hand. The other grips my hair and locks me in place on top of his open mouth.

Our weight is against the door when it finally swings open, sending us crashing into the suite. My ass rams into the corner of an antique bureau, knocking it back several inches on the dark mahogany floor.

The room is lit with a single lamp on the nightstand next to a four-poster canopy bed. Carson effortlessly lifts me off the floor and tosses me on top of it. It’s so soft, I feel like I’m landing on a cloud.

He tears off his tux jacket and hurls it in the general direction of the door. I reach up and help him with his bow tie, sliding it off in a single tug. He props himself on top of me on the bed with his left hand and undoes the top button of his shirt with the other.

I finish with the rest of the buttons, laying bare that sculpted torso. The shirt joins his jacket on the other side of the room. All of this is so new to me, and yet with Carson it feels like I’ve done it a thousand times.

Suddenly I’m compelled to just squeeze his pectoral muscles. They’re so solid, so smooth. My hands explore the rest of him, running down the xylophone of his ribs to his abdominals. I count the lumps under my fingers: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

Now that my hands are in the neighborhood, they might as well take care of these pesky suspenders. Two quick squeezes on the silver clips and they going flying backwards. Then my hand reaches for the clasp of his pants.

Carson’s mouth disengages from mine with a wet smacking noise. He fixes me with his gaze.

“What’s the matter?” I breathe.

“Are you ready for this?” he asks, his chest heaving. “I only want to do this if it’s what you want.”

I grab him and press my body against his bare chest, feeling the unyielding softness there.

“I’ve never wanted anything like I want this,” I whisper in his ear.

That may very well be the truest thing I’ve ever said in my life.

As if on cue, his pants hit the floor and puddle around his ankles. He kicks them off and stands there a moment, wearing nothing but his boxers and a pair of long black socks.

I try to stop it, but the giggle escapes me.

“Oh baby,” I purr. “You are so sexy.”

He holds up a finger.

“Hang onto that thought.”

In two seconds the socks are flying across the room like a pair of blackbirds on the wing.

That’s when I see the massive tent under his boxers, and I gasp.

He reaches under me and lifts me from the bed, turning so that he’s sitting on the bed and I’m standing in front of him.

“I’ve waited for this my whole adult life,” he says, his eyes wide.

“Then I better not keep you waiting a second longer,” I say, reaching behind me and sliding the zipper down the $14,000 plum dress until the slider hits the spot where my back meets the cleft of my ass.

I shiver and the dress falls to the floor, exposing me to Carson’s greedy gaze. He looks me up and down, every curve, every freckle, every single flaw, laid bare in front of him.

In spite of myself, I bite my lip. I’ve never wanted anyone’s approval so badly.

His mouth drops open.

“You’re perfect,” he growls.

I reach forward and pull his face to my breasts. He kisses them gently, stroking the undersides with both hands. My whole body trembles at his touch as he runs his fingertips along the sides, then glides around to the hollow of my back.

As he does, I close my eyes and drop my head back. The warmth of his mouth as it closes over my pale pink nipple is delicious. They’ve both been bullet-hard since we entered the elevator, begging for this attention. And truly, I’ve been running on a low ebb of desire ever since Carson stumbled back into my life.

He alternates between my breasts, kissing one gently while massaging the other. He starts out slowly, gently, then changes to scraping the edges of his front teeth up and down them. The sensation is so powerful, so delightful, that I almost lose my balance. After long moments of this, he wraps his tongue around the nub again and applies pressure, sending a flood into the slit under my panties.

Without thinking, I reach down between his legs and reach through the fly of his boxers to the hardness within. It’s so hot to the touch, like a branding iron wrapped in silk.

“Unhhh,” he groans against my breasts. My heart soars. I’m so glad I’m making him feel as good as he’s making me feel.

Well, maybe not quite that good. But I can try.

Carson stands and his shorts drop to the floor, leaving him totally nude in front of me for the first time in our lives. It’s like looking at Michelangelo’s David in the low light of the bedside lamp. Every perfect curve, every angle, delineated by shadow.

Except he’s considerably better endowed.

I can’t imagine ever seeing another man naked – anyone else would pale in comparison. For a split-second my mind threatens to go to the other contestants in the Chase, but I clamp it down instantly.

I’m not with one of them. I’m with Carson. And if this is a dream, I never want to wake up.

Chapter Forty

40. CASSANDRA

“No fair,” Carson breathes, reaching behind me and clasping my buttocks in his hands. “You can see me, but I can’t see all of you.”

He slides his thumbs under the lace waistband of my panties and pulls outwards and down. No one besides me has ever taken off my underwear before. The sheer eroticism of it makes me weak at the knees.

They slide down to my ankles and I step out of them. Carson leaves them hanging on the end of his index finger, a wolfish grin spreading across his face.

“Finally,” he growls. And by God, it is a growl. I can’t believe that the shy – yet handsome – teenage boy I used to debate has become this, this…

Man.

I let out a faint shriek of delight as he grabs me and lifts me back onto the bed. He returns his attention to my breast, kissing each freckle one after the other.

Meanwhile, his hand has found its way home. He uses it to stroke my pussy for a few moments until I can actually feel my lips parting in anticipation. God, that sounds so mechanical. But it’s so goddamn true. If mechanical is what a night with Carson is like, call me an engineer.

“You’re sure?” he whispers again. I can’t tell whether he’s afraid of my answer, or afraid of pushing me too far. I suspect the latter.

“Completely sure?”

I grab his hand and press his palm against my clit. My hips buck in response to his touch.

“Does that answer your question?” I whisper back to him.

He keeps his right hand on me as his left works my right breast and nipple. His mouth continues to attend to my left nipple. I lie there with my arm wrapped around his neck, making sure that mouth doesn’t stray from its job.

I shiver as Carson’s fingers reach my clit, gliding along the lips on either side. After a few moments, he dips the tip of his middle finger inside me.

My right hand grips his shaft, thumb on the underside, up and down. It’s like I’ve read a goddamn manual. In truth, just doing its job. Still, I go slowly, slowly. I have no idea if this is what I’m supposed to be doing, but judging by his groans, Carson is okay with it.

A handful of moments later, I feel the beginnings of a wave radiating out from between my legs. Part of it is sheer stimulation, part is the fact that it’s not from my own hand. It’s Carson who’s making me feel this way.

The intensity builds as Carson rolls his fingers around the circumference of my clit. Each twist brings another vibration, another wave, until I can’t hold back any longer.

I reach up and grab his neck, pulling myself to him and wedging my chin on top of his rock-like trapezius muscle. I drive my chin deeper and deeper into him with each tremor, as the pleasure waves finally crash against my shore.

My heart rate gallops as I gulp in air. It’s never been like this on my own. I want it to go on forever, entwined with Carson like this, feeling like this.

In my spasms, I inadvertently grip his cock tighter and he gasps.

“Are you okay?” I ask, suddenly terrified that I’ve hurt him.

“So okay,” he groans, lying back on the bed. “You don’t even know.”

I raise myself up and onto my knees, never letting his cock escape my hand. In the light of the bedside lamp, I see him bite his lip. I’ve never seen anything so sexy in my life.

Now that his bare chest is open to me, I go to work on it greedily with my mouth. I don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t care. I kiss every bulge, stopping to flick my tongue along his nipples. Each lap against his skin draws a corresponding throb from his cock in my hand.

I reach his groin to find that he’s almost bare down there, aside from a few veins lining his muscles. Slowly, deliberately, I inhale his secret scent. I want to know everything about Carson.

“Cassie,” he whispers, wrapping his fingers in my hair. “Oh, please.”

I oblige, looking at his cock up close for the first time. I’ve imagined what it would be like, mostly during my one-woman shows in the secrecy of my bedroom. It’s thicker than I would have thought, with narrow veins circling the muscles. A dab of moisture glistens on his tip in the lamplight.

My tongue starts at the base, flattening against the underside and ever so slowly rising to the tip. Carson’s fingers close in my hair in response. My tongue moves to the sides, first one, then the other. Up and down, up and down.

After several of these turns, I finally get on all fours and face his cock head-on. My lips close over the tip, and my mind flashes back to Carson’s finger in my mouth that day at the restaurant. God, I wanted him so bad in that coatroom.

But this is sooo much better.

He exhales as my mouth explores downwards, my tongue wrapping around the shaft like Cleopatra’s asp. I reach about halfway and can’t go any farther, so I head back up, adding suction as I reach the tip again.

“Huhhh,” he groans as he reaches up to slide two of his fingers inside me.

I continue up and down, gripping my fingers around the base to add to his sensations. Again, I’m not getting any complaints, so I must be doing something right. I respond to his touch with slick wetness, lubricating his fingers as they explore my pleasure center.

We do this for what seems like forever, until Carson finally moves away from my mouth and props himself on one arm. My pussy misses him immediately when he withdraws his fingers.

“My turn,” he says with a grin.

He lifts me and turns me in one deft movement, laying me on my back on the coverlet. I reach on either side of me to push it down, revealing the glorious satin sheets underneath.

Carson drops over me, supporting himself on his elbows, as his mouth explores mine, then wanders over to my earlobe and the hollow that forms where it meets my neck. From there he moves down to my throat, then my breasts again.

My belly quivers as I realize what’s happening. I’ve imagined this for years, wondering how it would feel.

I’m going to find out, and with that knowledge my chest begins to rise and fall like the pistons of a steam engine.

Carson’s lips are on my belly, then the orange fuzz of my groin. He kisses me there lightly, like a butterfly landing.

I breathe deeply as he reaches his destination. His lips close around the hood of my clit and his tongue greets my lips with a long, slow glide. The tremors begin and suddenly I understand why he had to wrap his fingers in my hair. I do the same with his.

My hips begin to respond on their own. Raising to meet the pressure of his lips and tongue, pressing against him and the softness there. After about a century of this, Carson’s tongue changes suddenly, become hard and insistent.

I gasp as my hips buck as the probing tip of his tongue presses against my clit. I can’t hold on anymore, I have to let go.

Just when I think I might lose my mind, his tongue becomes as hard as any other of his muscles and presses against me with an intensity I couldn’t have imagined even ten seconds ago. The world melts into a riot of colors and feelings as my body heaves and shakes with pleasure.

Chapter Forty-One

41. CASSANDRA

I never understood how this could feel. You can’t imagine something like this until you experience it. Even my pocket rocket pales in comparison.

Carson kindly lets me recover my vision for a few moments as he rummages through his pants pockets. Finally he emerges with a foil square in his fingers.

He comes back to the bed and I reach out and grab the condom.

“I want to do it,” I say, trying to look like a dirty vamp.

It must work, because his cock bobs up and down in appreciation.

“Okay,” he says, eyes wide.

I’ve never done this before, obviously, but as Carson pointed out, I’m a very capable person. A quick study, you could say. I tear along the dotted line and remove the disk, leaving the package on the night table.

Carson kneels in front of me as I drop to all fours on the bed. I grasp his cock by the base and pull him closer. He obliges by shuffling a couple of inches on his knees.

The tip of his cock is gleaming as I unroll the condom over it. Once it’s past the edge of the head, the edge of no return, I grab hold with my thumb and forefinger and unspool it down to the base. It’s so thin – almost like you can’t even see it.

That’s the limit of my bravery, though. My belly fills with butterflies as Carson positions himself above me and between my open thighs. He props himself with one hand and guides the tip of his shaft into my opening with the other.

The sensation of fullness comes over me as he slides slowly into my canal. His eyes are on mine as he moves, watching for my response.

“Don’t stop,” I beg. “I’ve never wanted anything so bad.”

God, he’s reduced me to begging. I always swore I’d never do it if I was ever captured. But with Carson? It’s irresistible.

“Me either,” he sighs as he eases himself the rest of the way in. It hurts, oh God, it hurts. But it’s as though Carson knows exactly what I’m experiencing. He knows when to stop, when to drop his mouth to mine, when to absorb as much of my pain as he can.

And when I’m done with pain. When what I want – what I need – is pleasure.

I grip his neck in my arms as he begins to move, slowly, gently. I’m so wet that his girth isn’t a problem. We move in sync with each other, matching each stroke.

“It’s so good,” I moan.

With each movement it gets easier, until Carson is thrusting all the way in each time.

He pushes himself up and leans his weight back until he’s on his knees, his butt on his calves. I let him do what he wants – I trust him to know what’s going to please me.

He reaches down and curves his sculpted arms under my thighs and lifts them until they’re pointing straight at the ceiling, propped against those cannonball shoulders. I feel him ease in even deeper than before.

Now the tip of his cock starts to press against the inside of my pelvic wall and a sensation like a bruise of pleasure overtakes me. That’s the only way I can describe it. It doesn’t sound sexy, but it is. Believe me, it is.

“Oh my God,” I gasp, eyes wide.

He leans forward slightly and we lock gazes once again, staring at each other’s souls as each thrust lands home. Finally I can’t take anymore, and I throw my head back in abandon. My hands grip the fabric of the plush headboard on the wall behind me and I hang on for dear life.

“I can’t hold on any more,” Carson grunts.

My head spins as he picks up speed, pistoning in and out so fast it feels like my body is a machine over which I have no control. A pool of pleasure starts to build its way up from my core like oil into a well.

I feel my abs contract with every stroke, out of my control, almost like I’m doing sit-ups, until I finally abandon all control and just let my body be assaulted by Carson’s powerful thrusts.

“Cassie,” he groans. “Oh baby, It’s so good. You’re so freaking good.”

“Carson,” I pant. “I’ve waited so long. So long.”

And it’s true. Not that it has been so long, though it has. But that I’ve waited. Because it’s only just now that I’m realizing I’ve been waiting for Carson this whole time. I didn’t realize what I was holding out for.

As the spasms take over, I grip his triceps with everything I’ve got. We shudder together once, twice, three times. I lie there gulping in air, trying to stop my eyes from rolling.

Suddenly, Carson wraps his arms around my thighs and grips them together as he drives home one final thrust. I feel like the universe is exploding inside me and around me. We’re as close as two humans can be in a moment, any moment.

We both let loose with guttural growls from deep inside us. Carson’s head drops backwards like an animal howling to the moon, but he stays silent.

God, I hope the rooms in the Regent are soundproofed.

When it’s over, he drops low and covers my body with his. I wrap my arms around his neck and my legs around his torso, feeling his girth inside me. Our breath mingles into a chorus of gasps as we try to catch our breath.

I burrow my face into Carson’s neck and nibble on the flesh there. I don’t know why; it’s just instinct taking over.

We lie like that for what seems like an eternity as our runaway heart rates slow to normal. Carson caresses me gently, rhythmically, all over. The tingle it elicits makes me feel warm all over. Safe.

Suddenly, from nowhere, the tears start to flow freely, staining my cheeks. I’ve never felt so naked in front of another human being.

“I’m so happy it was you,” I sob into his ear.

He takes my face in his hands and kisses me gently everywhere: my eyes, my cheeks, my lips, my chin, my forehead. When he pulls back, I can see the shimmer of tears in his eyes, too.

“I’ve never believed in God,” he whispers. “But I think I may have just found a compelling argument.”

I stroke his cheek, unable to stop touching him, even for a moment.

Finally, he rolls onto his back and we both shift our bodies around so that we’re lying on the pillows. I put my head in the crook of Carson’s shoulder and lay my arm across the vast expanse of his naked chest. Our sweat mingles and dries in the recycled air of the room.

Chapter Forty-Two

42. INTERLUDE

A woman with long, satiny blonde curls glances down at the tiny flashing red light in the top right corner of her smart phone’s screen.

“Don’t move,” she snarls at the man hanging from the metal rack. He’s covered from head to toe in black leather, except for a small zippered opening where his mouth is. The room is painted entirely in black.

“Yes, mistress,” he moans.

“Did I give you permission to talk?” the woman snaps as she sets down a leather cat-o-nine-tails and swipes a scarlet-tipped finger across the screen.

“C-c-call me sen-sen-senator maggot,” he breathes. “Please.”

“No,” she says coldly.

The information on the screen bothers her. She steps away from the dungeon into an alcove and types in a phone number from memory.

“Yes?” says a voice on the other end.

“One of the keys has been used.”

Silence for a long moment.

“As we feared?”

“Room 317, yes. The transponder in the ring confirms it.”

“This is… unfortunate.”

“I’ll begin the process of rectifying the situation.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Of course.”

She thumbs the phone’s end-call button and types in another number. This time the call is greeted only with a click.

“You were right,” she says. “You know what to do.”

Silence. Then a click to indicate the call has been disconnected.

She ends the call and picks up the leather whip.

“Wh-who were you talking to?” the man in the leather outfit asks. “Please tell me.”

“Your mother,” she spits, whipping the backs of his legs with the steel tips of the cat-o-nine-tails. He howls in response.

“She said you should go fuck yourself.”

Chapter Forty-Three

43. CARSON

“When I realized you were the quarry, I thought I was dreaming,” I say.

Cassie sighs and strokes a finger down my chest.

“I know the feeling,” she says. “When I realized that was a key in your hand and not a weapon, I literally thought the world had turned upside down.”

“It kind of did turn upside down,” I chuckle. “For me, anyway.”

She grimaces.

“I’m so sorry about that.”

“Sorry? You were like Scarlett Johansson in The Avengers! Except you’re a real redhead.”

The awkwardness in her smile makes my heart melt. I pull her closer and nuzzle her hair. It’s a forest fire I could lose myself in for good.

“Think about this for a second,” I whisper. “Two geeky kids, so lame that the only people who would hang out with them were each other. Building scale models of nuclear reactors and talking about Renaissance artists.”

“I think I remember them.”

“Now go back in time and tell them that, in a dozen years, one’s going to be a billionaire playboy and the other will be a secret agent.”

Cassie is quiet for a moment.

“That’s crazy,” she says.

“Right?!” I hoot.

She rolls to her side so she can face me.

“I’d rather tell them not to lose hope, because they’re going to be together again someday.”

My heart stops. This girl is so damn perfect.

“Always have to one-up me, don’t you?” I say.

She smiles. I pull her close and lay a long, slow kiss on her mouth. Our tongues explore each other, less urgent now, more familiar.

After our lips part, we look into each other’s faces for awhile, like we’re taking inventory. Okay, those lips are mine, those eyes, check, that freckle, that other freckle. Yup, all mine.

Cassie turns her head to look up at the ceiling.

“Holy shit, this is a beautiful room!”

I don’t remember ever going from post-orgasmic afterglow to full-on horse laughing in such a short period of time, but that’s Cassie for you.

When we finally manage to rein in our hysterics, she looks at me and shakes her head.

“That killed the mood a bit,” she says sheepishly. “But I mean, wow! This is incredible. This whole night has been incredible.”

She looks at me. “You’re incredible.”

I take her face in my hands and kiss her slowly and deeply again. Now that the initial frenzy is over, we can just be for a little while.

Until Round Two, of course.

Cassie is right about the room. It’s done in a tasteful ivory palette, with hand-carved paneling across the walls and deep tray ceilings with moldings that probably cost in the neighborhood of a thousand dollars a foot.

The high ceilings and vertical mirrors give the illusion of a grand space, and the pastel toile curtains are held aside with antique silver tiebacks. The furniture is of the same Prohibition-era vintage as the bar, with curved drawers, damask fabric, claw feet and sublime cherry wood inlay.

“The Regent is probably the most exclusive hotel on the Eastern Seaboard,” I say. “You’ll never find it on Expedia. I had to hear about it from wealthy acquaintances. There are no prices listed anywhere, just like Piccolo. I think they might actually have the same owner.

“It’s the ultimate no-tell hotel. I’m sure the Chase’s organizers want to maintain the illusion that it’s a discreet, classy affair.”

“The Chase,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” I say.

“We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“You first.”

She props herself on one elbow, giving me an excellent view of her bare breasts. I give each of them an appreciative kiss.

“I’ll give you just thirty minutes to stop that,” she says.

“I’m good. Let’s talk.”

Her eyes narrow.

“Not for too long,” she says.

I point to the tent between my legs under the sheet.

“Definitely not for too long,” I say.

She grins.

“Well,” she sighs. “You’re right. I’m a secret agent. Was a secret agent.”

“I’m guessing that’s not the job description they stuck in the HR file.”

“There is no technical job description for what I did. I’m not an analyst or special agent; I was strictly off the books.”

So much makes sense now about Cassie’s behavior lately. Then again, this opens up a whole new line of questions for her. I decide to just let her talk. She needs to talk.

We’ve got all the time in the world now.

“You’ve probably guessed by now that this had something to do with prom night,” she says.

“Sort of,” I say. “Your dad – was he in the agency when we were kids?”

She looks me square in the eye.

“You need to understand this is privileged information.”

Wow. Like I said, a whole different Cassie.

“Of course,” I say.

“Dad was seconded into the agency after 9/11. He’d been in Army Intelligence until then, but his specialized knowledge of Afghanistan put him in high demand after the attacks.

“The day we disappeared – do you remember what had been in the news that week?”

A psychologist once told me the human brain is like a computer; mine just has a lot more RAM than most, so I can access things inside it quickly and easily. So I tend to remember things really well.

“There was a Senate hearing into some black ops dealings to do with the war,” I say.

She nods.

“My dad was identified by one of the witnesses as being involved. Within a day, there was chatter on NSA intercepts about threats against his life.”

“Holy shit…”

“Yeah,” she breathes. “He came bursting through the door in the middle of the afternoon and the next thing I knew, we were on an Army transport to Honduras.”

“And I was standing on your porch, wondering where the hell you were.”

She takes my head in her hands and pulls me close, touching her nose to mine.

“I am so sorry,” she husks. “For years I wanted to get in touch with you, but – ”

“Shhh.” I kiss her eyelids. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

A moment later her hand is under the sheet and around my appreciative cock.

“We’re both here now,” she whispers. “So what should we do about it?”

“I’ve got a few ideas.”

Chapter Forty-Four

44. CASSANDRA

I think it’s morning, but I’m not sure. Being sure would require me to open the curtains to peek outside. Or get up and look at my phone on the dresser.

Both of those things require me getting out of this cloud of a bed, and that just ain’t happening.

Carson stirs beside me and lets out a deep sigh. His chest has been gently rising and falling in a slow rhythm since I’ve been awake, which hasn’t been long.

Or maybe it has. Time lost all meaning when we stepped into the elevator last night.

He turns toward me and opens his eyes.

“Thank God,” he says, a hint of red embarrassment in his cheeks. “I was scared to fall asleep. I honestly thought I’d wake up and realize last night never happened.”

“Oh, it happened,” I say. “Three times. I’m surprised you didn’t collapse into a coma after that last one.”

“It was an important night. I wanted to make sure it was worth waiting for.”

I climb on top of him and weave my fingers into his.

“Imagine you’re waiting to taste lobster for the first time, because everyone you know always talks about how great lobster is,” I say. “And then, the first time you try it, it’s the meal we had at Piccolo last night.”

His eyes widen.

“Wow,” he says.

“And then multiply that by a billion.”

He chuckles.

“There’s only one problem,” I say.

“Problem? What problem?”

“You set the bar ridiculously high. If you don’t live up to last night every single time from now on, well...”

He slides his hands under my rear and gives me a friendly squeeze.

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” he asks with mock gravity. “Carson Drake eats challenges for breakfast.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “And then Matthias whips him for it in the gym later on. That song’s been on repeat for a while now, babe.”

He barks a laugh. I giggle, too.

I didn’t mean to lead the conversation in this direction, but I’ve been taught to take advantage of every opportunity. We’re on the subject, and we’re both in a talkative mood.

“Speaking of challenges,” I say. “How on Earth did you end up in the Chase?”

“I knew I couldn’t avoid this for much longer,” he sighs. “I have to be honest with you, Cassie: I was bored.”

“That much I figured out on my own. You never could sit still – you always had to have something to occupy your mind or you’d go crazy. I’m curious how you heard about it.”

He shrugs. “It was in the Billionaires Club newsletter.”

I cock my middle finger with my thumb and flick his earlobe. Hard.

“Ow!”

“There’s more to come if you don’t smarten up,” I say. “I’ve interrogated men in ratholes in the Middle East who would eat you the way you eat challenges.”

He goggles at me.

“Is that true?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say with a grin. “The fact that you have to ask means I’ve done my job.”

“Understood, ma’am.”

“Now: how did you really hear about the Chase?”

Carson props himself up on his pillows. I do the same – it’s more suited to serious conversation.

“I have a friend named Maksim,” he says. “His family is connected to the Russian mob, though I’m pretty sure I’d have a hard time proving that. He put me in touch with someone who brokered the deal.”

Brokered the deal. Hmmm.

“Let me guess,” I say. “About five-eight, long blonde curls, crimson lipstick?”

“Seriously? You know her?”

“She brokered my deal, too.”

“Huh,” he says. “Makes sense. They probably don’t want to do the dirty work themselves, so they contract it out.

“Your turn: how did you find out about the Chase?”

It seems like a thousand years ago now, even though it’s only been a few months.

“I was doing research for work. I came across a cryptic site on the dark web offering a commission for anyone who could connect the poster with someone who had – let me make sure I remember this exactly – ‘a very unique set of circumstances.’”

Carson’s eyebrows go up.

“That’s a pretty good way to describe it,” he says.

“It piqued my interest,” I say. “The first thing that came to mind, obviously, was sex slavery. But the more I discovered about it, the more I realized it wasn’t a criminal operation. At least not in the strict sense of the word.

“They were looking for a woman who had counter-espionage or intelligence-gathering skills. Someone who could lead a bunch of rich, old men on a merry – old – chase.

“And, of course, they had to be a virgin, and willing to… submit to the winner.”

I blush, even now, after everything. Carson smiles and kisses my hot cheek.

“In return, the quarry would get $250,000 a day,” I continue. “That kind of money represented a freedom I didn’t even know I wanted. As soon as I saw it, all I could think about was leaving the underground lifestyle behind and becoming financially independent.

“I think I finally realized that I only signed up because my father pushed me into it. He said it was my duty to the country to use my smarts to save American lives.

“But when you wake up one day to discover you’re thirty years old and you’ve never even been to bed with a man, you start to get a new perspective.”

Whoa. That was a revelation. I suppose I’ve had those thoughts before, but I’ve never articulated them like that, to myself or anyone else.

“Your dad is definitely a demanding guy,” Carson says. “How did he take the news that you wanted out?”

I wince. “How do you think? He said I was wasting my potential. Disappointing my country. Disappointing him.” Even now it hits me in the gut like a haymaker.

“You know what? I think what you’re doing now is discovering your potential. We’re both living proof that you don’t know what you’re capable of until you go for it.”

He always knows exactly what to say. I could get used to that. To this. For the rest of my life.

“If I had a glass of champagne, I’d toast you,” I say.

Suddenly his expression darkens.

“Wait a minute,” he says. “You only got $250,000 a day for this?”

“Only? That’s a lot of money.”

“My buy-in alone was $20 million.”

Holy shit. Wealth may be relative, but that’s a serious wage gap.

“Those bastards,” he says. “I thought it would be at least a million a day. That’s an obscene profit margin.”

I shrug. “Most obscenely rich people don’t get where they are by undercharging, Carson.”

His face lightens and he doubles over, covering his heart with his hand.

“That hurts,” he groans.

“The truth often does,” I say. “Better get used to it. Because I don’t swing and miss.”

He smiles absently. I’ve seen this look before: there’s an idea percolating in his head. I’ve missed that look. God, how I’ve missed it.

“You’re right,” he says.

“I always am. Which instance are you referring to?”

“I’m obscenely rich.”

“Well, the first step is admitting it, I guess.”

“We should be doing the kind of things obscenely rich people do together. Last night was a good start, but there’s all sorts of stuff we could be doing. The only limit is our imagination.”

The thought sends a little thrill through me. If last night was only a sample of what life could be like, I think I could get addicted to it.

“Just one thing,” I say. “You’re obscenely rich. I’m not.”

“Who cares, as long as one of us is?” he says. “Your time is coming, babe. And when that ship comes in, you better believe you’re going to be picking up the check. I’m a firm believer in feminism.”

I punch his shoulder.

“We need to make some plans,” he says. “What do obscenely rich people do?”

I put my lips to his ear and take his left hand in mine, placing it between my thighs. His touch makes me instantly wet.

“Do obscenely rich people fuck?” I whisper.

“Oh, yeah,” he whispers back. “Obscenely.”

Turns out he’s right.

Chapter Forty-Five

45. CARSON

Trying to lead two blindfolded women by the hand isn’t nearly as fun as you might think it would be.

It doesn’t help that they’ve already finished a bottle of wine between them at lunch.

“Watch your big feet, bitch!” Tricia hollers as she stumbles into Cassie.

“Maybe if you stepped on yours instead of mine, you’d be okay!” Cassie counters.

They both burst into a slumber party giggle fit, which makes it even harder to pull them in the direction I need them to go, which is down. I should have recruited Leonard to help when he dropped us off.

We’ve got a triangle of hand-holding going on – each has a hold of one of mine, and one of the other’s – which maybe isn’t the best way to do this. But it’s too late now. I can’t imagine how opening my big mouth would help one little bit.

“Why are we on a slant?” Cassie’s asks. “Are we in a museum or something?”

Tricia snorts. “Better not be, with the spectacle we’re putting on!”

“Okay,” I say. “Stop here.”

A murmur of laughter comes from in front of and below us.

“Who’s laughing at us?” Cassie calls. “You try doing this blindfolded! Whatever this is!”

“What are you doing to us, Carson?” Tricia growls. “I didn’t sign up for public humiliation.”

I hide a grimace, even though I know that can’t see me. At least we’ve reached where we need to be. I position the two of them so they face the same direction, holding their arms to make sure neither of them falls over.

“All right, you can take them off now.”

“This better be worth it, buster,” says Tricia.

“I’m sure it will be,” Cassie says, patting my hand. She leans toward me. “It better be.”

They both reach up and tug on the fabric knots of their blindfolds.

“Ta-da,” I say.

The look on their faces is worth every penny and every stumbling step it took to get to this point.

“Oh, my God,” Cassie says. “Is this…?”

Tricia, as always, is a bit more blunt.

“Holy shit!” she says.

I direct their attention to the stage and the gentleman standing there.

“I apologize for the laughs from the orchestra,” he says. “They’re all drunk. They usually spend their afternoons in a bar.”

More laughter from the orchestra pit in front of us.

Cassie looks at me, mouth open.

“Are you serious?”

“He’s serious, all right,” says the man on stage. “Hi, my name is Michael. I’m the stage manager for The Book of Mormon.”

Tricia scans the place, wide-eyed. The Eugene O’Neill Theater is empty except for us.

“We’re the only ones here!” she crows.

“It’s a private matinee,” says Michael. “Which is pretty amazing since, like I said, no one involved in this show gets up before happy hour.”

I drape an arm over Cassie’s shoulder.

“You didn’t get to finish watching the show the last time you were here,” I say. “I figured you wouldn’t mind watching the first half again.”

I turn to Tricia.

“As for you, I figured you could use a little culture.”

She grins wide and flips me the bird.

“This is seriously awesome, Carson,” she says. “Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“How did you pull this off?” Cassie asks.

I point to the stage.

“A sizeable donation to the Foundation for the Arts opens a lot of doors,” Michael says. “The truckload of top-shelf scotch didn’t hurt, either.”

I direct the women to their seats directly behind the orchestra pit.

“This is hands-down the craziest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Cassie says as she settles in.

“Correction,” I say. “The craziest thing this week.”

Tricia grins. “I would tell you two to get a room, but I want an invite to whatever the next crazy thing is.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “You’ll get one.”

“Ahem,” says Cassie. “That depends on what the next crazy thing is.”

“Seriously,” Tricia deadpans. “You’re not making the ‘get a room’ thing easy here.”

Cassie rolls her eyes and tilts her head toward mine.

“Riff-raff,” she sighs. “It’s getting so people like us can’t even go to the theater without running into them.”

Tricia ignores her and stretches her legs out into the aisle, crossing them at the ankles.

“I could get used to this,” she sighs.

The lights go low as the familiar strains of “Hello” begin to waft from the orchestra directly below us. Once again, the young men in their short-sleeved shirts and black ties take the stage.

“This is obscene,” Cassie whispers in my ear.

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I whisper back.

Chapter Forty-Six

46. CASSANDRA

A week later.

“Okay, I admit it: coming to Grand Cayman in August wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.”

I can barely hear Carson through the giant floppy hat that’s doing an abysmal job of protecting my pale, increasingly freckled skin from the scorching hell of the Caribbean sun. But hey, at least the sunscreen is running off my body in rivulets, thanks to a constant supply of sweat.

Of course, it actually works in Carson’s favor. When he’s all sweated up, his physique glistens in the sun like an oiled-up bodybuilder’s. Except he’s not afflicted with their pig-ugly, veiny head.

“Whatever makes you say that?” I ask sweetly, plucking an ice cube from my gin and tonic and dropping it down my cleavage. If I’m suffering, I figure Carson has to as well.

Okay, it could be worse. The restaurant – and its blessed air-conditioning – is only a few steps away. And there’s a bit of a breeze coming off the ocean.

But my God, the humidity. I’ve read that it’s impossible for it to go above one hundred percent at sea level, but I’m seriously wondering if the hypothesis needs more research. If I could prove it’s possible, I could publish and go for my PhD.

Or I could stop being such a baby and finish my drink. That seems like the more viable option. And more pleasant. I down it in a gulp, my taste buds puckering at the bitterness of the tonic.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you,” Carson says. “After we’re done here, we can fly to Reykjavik. Shouldn’t be more than sixty degrees there.”

I smile sweetly and stroke his cheek.

“Oh, honey,” I soothe. “It’s going to take a hell of a lot more than that to make up for this.”

He grins and drains his Corona. It joins the army of empties on the table. Dealing with this weather is thirsty work.

In the distance I see Tricia and Maksim trudging toward us through the sand. Neither of them seems all that put out by the heat, although it’s hard to tell with Maks. He sort of has a light sheen to his skin all the time, regardless of temperature.

“Who would have thought those two would get along?” I say as they approach.

Carson drapes an arm over the back of his chair, letting his shirt fall open to expose his torso.

“Maks is pretty easygoing,” he says. “Although, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if he’d come on this trip. The last time we hung out, we didn’t exactly part on the best of terms.”

“What happened?”

He looks at me over his Oakleys.

“He wanted to go out with you.”

An involuntary snort escapes me before I can stop it.

“Sorry,” I say. “He’s a really nice guy, but me and him? Especially when you’re in the picture? I don’t think so.”

“Actually, I think I owe him for driving home just how much I want you to myself.”

“Is that right?” I drop my own glasses. “Well, I guess I owe him then, too.”

Speak of the devils. Tricia and Maksim arrive at the table, shaking the sand out of their beach towels. Tricia’s compact curves fill out her wet one-piece nicely, while Maks’ kind of looks like most of his time in the gym is spent chatting up girls. Still, I guess Tricia knows what she’s doing.

“There were stingrays flying out in the surf!” Tricia says, grinning like a kid.

“I saw no fish flying,” says Maks. “I was only seeing lovely Patricia.”

She wraps her towel around her and sits at the table, plucking a beer from the ice bucket on the concrete.

“I appreciate the effort, Maks,” she says as she pops the cap off the bottle. “But it’s not going to happen.”

To his credit, Maksim just smiles and spreads his hands wide in a “what are you gonna do?” gesture.

Carson glances at his phone on the table and then up at me.

“I suppose we should get to the bank,” he says. “Money never sleeps, but bankers sure as hell do. It’ll be closed in an hour.”

I gather up my beach bag. We’ve been so busy being obscenely rich the last couple of days that I almost forgot I just won a multi-million-dollar prize. Carson suggested we come directly to Cayman to deal with the money, given the legal tightrope I’m walking with it.

We wave good-bye to our friends and hop in a passing taxi van that speeds us to the Grand National Bank of the Islands. A tall black gentleman in island business casual greets us in the deliciously frigid foyer as we walk in.

“Ms. Vincent, a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “Andre Moreau. We spoke on the phone.”

“A pleasure,” I say, taking his offered hand. “This is my friend, Carson Drake.”

Andre’s eyes widen. “The Carson Drake?”

“Well, a Carson Drake anyway,” he replies. He bends down and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll wait for you out here.”

I love that he’s leaving this to me. It means a lot that he’s not trying to horn in and give me advice. Mainsplaining, they call it. But Carson would never.

Andre ushers me into his office and we take a seat. He boots up his computer and begins typing.

“If I remember correctly, we will be discussing a sum of $2.75 million USD.”

“That’s correct,” I say.

Three days shy of the full $3.5 million, because of circumstances beyond our control, but Carson said he’ll reimburse me for his impatience.

“I’m interested in the best way to access it in the States in a lump sum for a business investment.”

After a few moments, he stops typing. His eyes narrow and his brows draw together as he peers at the screen.

It’s never a good thing when someone looks like they don’t believe what a computer is telling them.

“This is… unusual,” he says.

“How so?”

He looks at me with a mix of disbelief and sympathy.

“Madam, I’m afraid this account is empty.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

47. CASSANDRA

My heart sends out a single kick drum beat in my chest as adrenaline pumps into my system.

“There must be a mistake,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. Inside, I’m anything but.

“Perhaps,” says Andre. “There was a balance of $2.75 million USD, but the funds were withdrawn the day before yesterday.”

“That can’t be. I haven’t accessed the account in over forty-eight hours.”

He continues typing, scanning the monitor for clues. I quickly get the impression that he’s only humoring me. Staving off the moment he has to confirm the unpleasant truth. But I already know what it is. The pit of my stomach makes that fact absolutely, unpleasantly clear.

“It appears the money was recalled by the depositing account.”

What? A cold fury creeps into my guts.

“How is that possible?” I ask. How could you let that happen, I want to scream.

“There are certain unique provisions in accounts of this nature. Payments can be withheld or withdrawn in extraordinary circumstances, usually to do with breach of contract.”

I draw a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I am very sorry, Ms. Vincent,” he says. “Obviously this is a mistake. Unfortunately, it is not one I can rectify here at the bank. You will have to contact your lawyer.”

He smiles nervously. I swallow the rage building inside me and manage to smile back.

“Of course,” I say, rising from my chair, as if this kind of thing happens to me all the time. “These things happen.”

We shake hands and I walk out of the office. Carson looks up from a copy of Yachts International as I emerge into the waiting room. His eyes widen as he sees my expression.

“I take it things didn’t go as planned,” he says cautiously.

I flash a thousand-watt smile.

“The fuckers took my money back,” I say.

Carson’s jaw literally drops open.

“What?”

“Every cent. Two days ago. Andre said they have the right as the depositor and to take it up with my lawyer. I don’t have a lawyer.”

“I’ve got about eighty,” he says absently. “But we can’t get them involved in this. You don’t want something like this coming anywhere near the eyes of a judge.”

“No kidding.”

He takes me by the shoulders and looks me in the eye.

“We can fix this,” he says.

“I can fix this,” I say, trying to keep the venom out of my voice.

I don’t want Carson Drake riding in on his white horse to save the helpless damsel in distress. This may be distress, but I’m far from helpless.

He holds up his hands in surrender.

“Absolutely. I know what you’re capable of.”

He wishes. That flip on the dance floor was child’s play. I was just surprised then.

You don’t want to see me when I’m angry.

Carson smiles crookedly.

“Can I ask one favor?”

“Make it good.”

“Can it wait till we get back to New York tomorrow night? I’m sure there’s a logical explanation. Until then, let’s enjoy the next twenty-four hours.”

I’m still pouting, but the idea is growing on me.

“I’m still obscenely rich,” he says.

“Yeah, and I’m flat broke.”

“But soon to be rich. Maybe not obscenely, but rich enough that people will shake their heads and cluck their tongues.”

I fight the smile as long as I can, but I finally I give in. How does he do this to me? Before he came back into my life, I wouldn’t have slept until I’d figured this out.

“All right,” I say, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Let’s go find Tricia and Maks. Might as well have a night out while we’re here. Besides, I want to show off my body. I’ve sweated away fifteen pounds since we arrived.”

He shakes his head.

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“If you think that’s bad, imagine if you’d stolen a couple million dollars from me.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

48. CARSON

One of the great things about Grand Cayman is that the sun sets between 6:00 and 7:00 p.m. every day of the year.

And when the sun goes down, the party starts.

The club we’re in – it’s called JetStream – is all blue lights and bright whites, with electronica throbbing out of the speakers. But we’ve got a booth in the VIP section, and it’s low season for tourism, so we can actually hear each other. Sort of.

Cassie points to the dance floor and puts her lips to my ear.

“Look at them!” she says. “Who’d have thought?”

I know from experience that Maksim is a seriously good dancer – he literally lives in nightclubs, how could he not be – but Tricia is a surprise. She’s writhing and grinding with him like an old pro. All while holding a triple mojito.

If nothing else, the girl knows how to cut loose.

“I think Tricia likes him,” says Cassie.

“Are you kidding? He’s been talking to the hand since we took off from JFK.”

“She was just playing hard to get. She wants a guy to work for it.”

“That’s good,” I say. “It’s about time Maks had to work for something.”

We clink our glasses together and down some of the blue concoction inside. It’s sweet and coconut-y and totally unlike anything I usually drink. But hey, it’s Cayman. And what happens in Cayman…

I can tell by the look in her eyes that Cassie’s mind isn’t here in the club, though.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s figure out how we’re going to tackle this when we get home.”

She grins like a kid who just got a parent to play Barbies with her. The fact that she gets so giddy about planning revenge disturbs me a little.

Not to mention the way it causes my shorts to fit more tightly.

“The woman in the red dress is key,” she says. “If we can find her, we can communicate with the organizers.”

“Agreed.”

Cassie pulls on her lower lip. It’s been a sign of deep thought since we were kids.

“Of course, that’s easier said than done,” she says. “They have plenty of kompromat on me and you – and the other contestants. But we have nothing on them. They like it that way.”

“Kompro-what, now?”

“Kompromat. It’s Russian for blackmail. Their intelligence community collects or manufactures compromising info on public figures, then uses it as leverage to ensure compliance. The US does it too, but the Russians are masters at it.”

Her competence turns me on. Is that wrong? I don’t know, but if this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

I slide my hand under the table and onto her bare thigh. She returns the favor, but her expression is still all business.

“We should operate under the assumption that this was deliberate,” she says. “But we need to make sure we don’t go in with guns blazing, just in case it wasn’t.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Diplomacy can work wonders when you give it a chance.”

“Unless you’re in a situation where someone is screwing with you,” she says. “Then you nail them to the wall with railroad spikes and pour battery acid into the wounds.”

I can’t help myself: I take her hand and lay it directly on my hard-on.

Cassie’s eyebrows go up.

“Easy, tiger,” she says, but gives me a friendly squeeze for my trouble. “We’ve got all night.”

“Believe me, it’s going to take all night.”

Her smile is so sexy it makes my heart stop.

“Promises, promises,” she purrs.

I knock back the rest of my drink in an attempt to steady myself. How was this girl possibly a virgin last week? She’s taken to sex like a fish to water.

I guess she has a lot of lost time to make up for.

“All right,” I say. “We agree that the first step is to find Red Dress and figure out what the situation is. If it’s innocuous, we settle it.”

She smiles. “I love it when you use $50 words like that.”

“It’s my milieu,” I say, buffing my fingernails on my Guayabera shirt.

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “It sounds so dirty when you use it the wrong way like that.”

She’s right, dammit, I did screw it up. I chuckle and shake my head.

“The question is what we do if it’s not innocuous,” she says. “If they’re trying to pull a fast one.”

That prompts an unpleasant idea that never occurred to me before. It should have, but it didn’t.

“What if the whole thing was a set-up to get kompromat on a group of wealthy men?” I ask. “Maybe you were meant to be collateral damage the whole time.”

Molten lava seethes behind her eyes. Apparently it never occurred to her, either. Now that is has…

“You’re obscenely rich,” she says. “So are the other contestants. That means you have resources.”

“What are you driving at?”

“Just like Liam Neeson, I’ve got a very particular set of skills.”

“Okay, you’ve got the skills, I’ve got the resources. What are we going to do with them?”

She raises her glass in salute and downs it in a gulp.

“We’re going to fuck them up,” she says. “Hard.”

“First things first,” I say. “We have to find Red Dress.”

Cassie rummages in her purse and pulls out her phone. She slides her finger along the screen for a moment, then turns it toward me. On it is a photo of a laptop screen, featuring a woman with long, golden curls.

“It’s not much,” she says. “But it’s a start. I wish I had full access to my agency computers. But then I’d have to explain what I was doing.”

A Cheshire cat grin threatens to circle all the way around my head as I picture the floor-to-ceiling screen in my computer room running through thousands of online photos per hour.

“I happen to have something back at my penthouse that may be of service,” I say.

Before I can elaborate, Maks and Tricia suddenly appear, sliding into their seats on the other side of the booth. They’re sweating freely and laughing like kids.

They see the looks on our faces and the laughter dries up.

“I am thinking you need drinks,” Maksim says.

Tricia’s eyebrows go up. “Quadruples, by the looks of things. Everything all right?”

I smile. Cassie follows suit.

“Nothing we can’t figure out,” I say. “Man, you guys were tearing it up out there!”

Maksim beams at Tricia.

“A dancer is only as good as his partner,” he says.

“You notice his English always gets better when he’s throwing out pick-up lines?” Tricia says, shaking her head.

Cassie giggles, and it’s almost as if our previous conversation never happened. She’s the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.

She raises her hand to catch the server’s eyes. She twirls her index finger in a gesture to signal another round.

“All right,” she says. “Let’s kick this night into high gear!”

The waitress arrives with a tray of drinks and a shot of what smells like top-shelf Don Julio tequila for each of us.

“Compliments of the house,” she says with a practiced smile.

We each grab a glass and clink them together.

“To obscene riches,” I say.

We drink. The smooth liquor goes down like a fire in the walls, heat without flame. I highly recommend expensive tequila if you have the means. The cheap stuff is just rubbing alcohol in a fancier bottle, as far as I’m concerned.

Suddenly Cassie’s lips are at my ear. The scent of her shot fills my nostrils.

“Pace yourself,” she whispers. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us, remember?”

Under the table, her hand slides under the hem of my shorts and finds the delicate skin of my cock.

“Trust me,” I say. “It’s all I can think about.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

49. CARSON

The screen-window in my computer room displays blonde after blonde after blonde. I’m hoping Red Dress is a natural, or I’ll have to do this all over again with brunette when this cycle is done.

In any case, this is going to take awhile, so I might as well be doing something else while it does.

I suit up in my running shorts and a tank top and lace up my Reeboks. Matthias worked me like a rented mule this morning, but after all that booze and rich food in Cayman, I feel like I need to put in some extra effort.

Plus running always helps me think.

I climb into my elevator for the eighty-floor trip to ground level. As it descends, my mind wanders to what Cassie’s doing right now.

She’s got a delicate conversation ahead of her. She has to explain to Tricia – then Miranda Winthrop at Tate Capital – that her funding has been delayed. It’s not a deal-breaker, but it puts her in an awkward position where she’ll have to lie. She’s trying to leave that behind.

I get that. I tried to do it for years.

The bell chimes as the elevator reaches the lobby. I trot through the foyer and out the front door that Chuck, the doorman, holds open for me. I smile and wave as I go by. Chuck’s cool. I slip him a hundred a couple of times a week and he takes good care of me.

Park Avenue is already baking and it’s only 9:30 in the morning. I let my mind go on autopilot as I set my pace, feeling the jolt of each step, listening to the rhythm of my breathing, tuning out the noise of the street and its people.

It’s kind of a Zen state that helps clear my mind of distractions so that it can start making the connections that my psychologist was talking about. Running threads of synapses from one piece of information to the other in a web of subconscious thought. Feeling for vibrations the way a spider feels for its prey.

I head northwest on 122nd Street to Marcus Garvey Park. If I have to keep dodging all these pedestrians, I’ll never sink deeply enough into my brain. Once I’m there, traffic disappears and I have the trail mostly to myself.

What reasons would the Chase’s organizers have to claw back Cassie’s money? I’ve asked myself that a thousand times over the last thirty-six hours. Occam’s razor says the simplest explanation is usually the right one. Was it just an accounting error?

Somehow, I doubt it. Any group that’s as meticulous about secrecy as they are wouldn’t make a stupid error like that.

Blessed shade covers me as I run into a dense copse of elm trees. Now I’m wishing I had thought to bring my water bottle with me. I suppose I can be forgiven – my mind is a bit preoccupied.

So what’s the next scenario? Kompromat? If so, they’re taking an awful risk. I don’t know how many other billionaires are involved, but there’s only so far they’ll be willing to be pushed. Like Cassie says, we have resources.

And I know from personal experience that many of them can be real bastards when they want to be. They didn’t get where they are by rolling over and showing their bellies.

Or is it simpler than I’m making it? Maybe the men behind the Chase are just cheap misogynists. I mean, look at what the Chase is all about. They could simply be screwing Cassie over, believing there’s nothing she can do about it.

If so, they definitely don’t know who they’re dealing with.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a water fountain and head toward it. Normally I can go a few miles without a drink, but damn, it’s a scorcher today.

I bend down to let the water flow into my mouth. When I’m done, I stand up to see a blonde in a red sundress standing beside me.

“Good afternoon,” she says with a smile. “I hate to interrupt your exercise, but I’m afraid we have a few urgent matters to discuss.”

Chapter Fifty

50. CASSANDRA

“So let me get this straight,” Tricia says, cocking an eyebrow. “We just spent three days watching a private matinee, flying a private jet to Grand Cayman, and staying in five-star hotels, right?”

“Right.” I feel like a kid in the principal’s office instead of a grown woman in an ice cream shop.

“And now you’re telling me we have to wait a while for our start-up capital to come in.”

“Yeah.”

She manages to glare at me for a full five seconds before she bursts out laughing.

“I know,” I groan. “It sounds ridiculous. But it’s just business. We’re still on track, I promise.”

Tricia wraps a sugar-sticky arm around my neck and hugs me tight.

“I’ll tell you what, honey,” she sighs. “Life is never boring when you’re around. I know you’re good for it, Cassie. Besides, you were always the one with the deadline, not me.”

She’s got me there. I guess I just assumed she’d be as disappointed as I am in not being able to move ahead on schedule. I should have known better. I’ve always been a Type A. Doesn’t mean everyone else is.

“Now if only Miranda Winthrop can be as forgiving,” I say.

Of course, Miranda definitely is.

“Look, hon, I get that you want to make it on your own, and I’m totally with you on that,” says Tricia. “And I’m sure Miranda won’t have any problem extending the deadline. But if she doesn’t, you know you can just drop Carson’s name, right?”

I do know she’s right, but just the thought of it makes me stiffen. I didn’t go through everything I’ve been through to just roll over and ask Carson to save me. I know he’d do it in a heartbeat, but that’s not how I do things. For good or bad, that’s not how my father raised me.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I say, leaning in to give her a peck on the cheek. “And I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Chin up,” she says as I head for the door. “Your life is still pretty fucking good, you know.”

I realize she’s right as I leave the air-conditioned safety of Patty’s and step into the midday Midtown oven. It’s just hot enough that I decide to cab it to Tate Capital instead of walking.

I head for the taxi stand about a half a block up the street when someone pulls alongside me. I glance out of the corner of my eye to see a familiar face: it’s the Texan gentleman who bought me the white roses in Hell’s Kitchen.

He stops to face me, and his jowls lift in an easy grin. He’s dressed in a manner more suited to his home state today: short-sleeved cowboy shirt, jeans and boots.

“Looky who it is!” he hoots. “I told you I’d see you later!”

“Well, hi!” I smile back. “Now, what are the odds that we’d run into each other again?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I bet you do. I’m sure you’re as smart as you are pretty.”

Sweet old guy. I notice he’s not wearing his ball cap today; the pink skin on his scalp is gleaming in the sun.

“You should probably wear a hat on a day like this,” I scold. “At least get some sixty SPF on there.”

It’s then that I notice the tan line. His face is brown, but the pink begins right at what would be his hairline if he had hair. That’s odd.

“Did you shave your head when you came to New York?” I ask.

Why would he do that?

His grin widens and he slaps his knee. “I knew you were smart!”

Something weird is going on here. My instincts are starting to crawl around in in my belly like a little spider.

“Have you and I met before?” I ask.

“Not exactly,” he says, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans. He produces a leather wallet and pulls a small square of paper from it. He shows it to me.

“Maybe you’ve seen my photo somewhere before.”

It’s a folded piece of glossy magazine paper. On it is a mugshot of a portly man with flowing silver hair and jowls that hang like pouches from his cheekbones.

It’s him. But it’s also someone else.

I look up to see him smiling at me, black humor gleaming in his beady eyes.

Eyes that were hidden behind sunglasses that day in Hell’s Kitchen.

Oh, my God.

“You’re Randall Buckner,” I breathe.

No. 17 on Forbes’ list of richest people in America.

“Right the first time,” he says.

His hand reaches into the pocket of his jeans. When it emerges, it’s holding something familiar. Something I saw five nights ago in Carson’s hand.

A brass skeleton key.

I look up to see three burly men closing in on me.

“Pleased to officially meet you, Cassandra,” says Buckner. “I hope you’re ready for our date.”

Chapter Fifty-One

51. CARSON

“I’m glad you saved me the trouble of having to find you,” I say, trying to keep my temper in check.

Another man might find it emasculating, but not me. I don’t care that Cassie is way more hardcore than I am. In fact, I kind of wish she was right here by my side.

Red Dress stands there with her hands folded in front of her. She’s calm and totally dry, despite the stifling heat and humidity of the afternoon. I’m still trying to slow my breathing so I can sound calmer. I hate being caught off guard.

“And you’re right. We do have things to talk about. First and foremost, Ca – the quarry’s money.”

She smiles.

“The quarry forfeited the prize when you broke the rules.”

Broke the rules? What kind of bullshit is this?

I take a deep breath before my agitation has a chance to show on my face. Keep it under control, Carson. This isn’t the time or place.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I say evenly. “I was under the impression that I won the competition fair and square on the eleventh day.”

Her smile is maddening, like a game show hostess who’s expressing just how darn sorry she is that you didn’t win the new washing machine.

“Some information came to light early on that disqualified you as a contestant,” she says.

“And what might that information be?”

“You and the quarry had a pre-existing relationship. You became reacquainted on the first day and continued to meet daily, yet you never ended the competition.”

Oh, shit.

Steady, Carson. Keep it off your face.

“We knew each other years ago,” I say. “It was sheer coincidence that we were both involved in this.”

“My associates find that hard to believe. At first they were willing to accept that you were merely conspiring together to win the competition. But that made no sense – neither of you stood to gain from it.

“That was when I suggested you were, in fact, investigating them.”

This time I can’t keep my anger in check.

“That’s a goddamn lie,” I growl. “What possible reason could we have had to do that?”

“Unfortunately, we don’t know the answer to that just yet. But we’ll discover it soon enough.”

I sigh and run a hand down my sweaty face. This is going nowhere. I know Cassie wants to give these people what they have coming to them, but the longer this goes on, the fewer options I see.

“Look,” I say. “In the interests of putting this behind us, I’m willing to offer your associates compensation for any perceived damages.”

That game show hostess smile again.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s too late for that option.”

My stomach sinks. I don’t like the sound of that.

“What are you talking about?”

“Unfortunately, the competition was tainted when you prematurely stole the prize. The quarry is no longer… intact. Therefore, my associates were forced to return the other contestants’ entry fees.

Her expression turns serious, and suddenly I’m terrified. If that smarmy smile is gone, I don’t want to hear what she has to say next.

“Only one contestant was willing to forego reimbursement,” she says. “In return, he was… allowed to finish the competition, even though the prize was tainted.”

Jesus Christ. Cassie.

“The contestant is known for his straightforward negotiation style. My associates hope the experience will make the quarry more… amenable to their questions regarding any possible investigation of their activities.”

My heart is pounding in my chest. I can hear my blood coursing through my inner ear.

“This ends now,” I say, leveling a finger between her eyes. “No more fucking around, no more euphemisms, no more banter. You call it off and take me to her right now, or I’ll make it my mission to see you spend the rest of your life in the bottom of a pit somewhere deep inside the world’s asshole. Do I make myself clear?”

Her smile is back.

“I appreciate your concern,” she says. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

I feel a large presence behind me, and I know who it is even before I turn. It’s the man who dropped off the briefcase outside the Boom Boom Room.

“My associate is here to escort you back to your penthouse, Mr. Drake.”

“So,” I say. “We’re using names now?”

“What harm can come from it at this stage?”

You’ll soon see what harm can come from it, sister.

“I’m not going home,” I say. “And if you’re smart, you’ll get on your phone right now and call everything off, then take me to her. If you don’t, I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

She pouts those ruby lips into a pitying look.

“Mr. Drake, please don’t waste time on hollow threats.”

“You’re right,” I say, hanging my head. “I should stop wasting time.”

With that, I flex my right hip from the foot upwards and loop my right fist in a rising arc that connects squarely with her jaw.

Chapter Fifty-Two

52. CASSANDRA

The room isn’t in the Regent. Of course it’s not, that would be stupid.

It’s in the Hotel James, a fleabag off of Times Square. The three goons are posted outside in the hallway, and I’m alone with Randall Buckner. Randall Fucking Buckner. How could I have been so stupid?

“You know,” he says, “I should have just given you the key that day in Hell’s Kitchen instead of those roses,” he says, sitting on the swaybacked old bed and pulling off his boots. “I was pretty sure you were the one at that point – that’s why I bought you the white bouquet. They’re supposed to symbolize purity.”

He looks me up and down like a steer at auction. Like I should know the color of the rose that symbolizes fucking purity. This guy makes me sick.

“Course, I guess that doesn’t apply anymore,” he mutters, a disgusted grimace scraping his face. “But I guess we’ll make up for it.”

“I don’t understand,” I breathe. “What’s going to make up for it?”

He’s acting like someone who always gets his way, as if there’s no other possible outcome. I never really appreciated just how special Carson is among the obscenely rich. He’s a real person. A human being.

Most of them are just obscenely entitled.

“Well, like I told you on the ride here, I decided to forego my refund in order to get you for a night.”

“Because the Russians think I cheated,” I say. “But they’re wrong! I didn’t cheat!”

He chuckles. It makes his jowls quiver like a pair of turkey wattles.

“Man alive, you are a feisty one!” he hoots. “That’s going to make this even better. Anyway, they want me to soften you up a bit so they can question you afterwards. They’re worried that maybe you and Drake are trying to collect some damning evidence to use against them.”

“But we didn’t! We would never!”

He untucks his cowboy shirt and starts to open the buttons.

“Doesn’t really matter to me what they do with you after,” he says. “I just have to make sure you’re receptive to it. I’m good at making gals receptive. I rented out the whole floor tonight, just in case things get loud.”

He slides his belt out of the loops on his jeans and coils it around one fist.

I will the blood to rise into my cheeks.

“No,” I whisper, lying through my teeth. I just need a second’s opening. I’ll rip this fat fuck to shreds. “It doesn’t have to be that way. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Honey, you’re going to do that anyway.”

Panic creeps across my face as my eyes dart around the room.

“I’ll be good,” I plead, shuffling closer to him. “I can p-please you.”

He stops and gives me the once-over. I take that as a good sign and move even closer. I reach under the overhang of his belly and unbutton the fly of his jeans.

His leathery palm whips forward and strikes my left cheek with a dry smacking sound. I gasp.

“I didn’t say stop, bitch,” he growls.

I avoid his eyes and tug downward on his jeans until the waist is around his knees.

“What are you waiting for, stupid?” he says. “Take ‘em all the way off.”

“I don’t think so,” I say, grabbing his right wrist in my left hand and twisting it inwards. The motion drags him toward me and to my right, where his nose connects squarely with my rising elbow.

The wet crunch it makes is the most satisfying sound I’ve heard in a long time.

“Guhnf,” he croaks as he stumbles forward. The waistband of his jeans trips him at the knee and he hurtles face-first toward the floor. My right knee stops his momentum, snapping his head back. The blow sends him sprawling onto his side on the floor, out cold.

I time the thump of his fat gut landing with a scream.

“No, please!” I cry, tugging off the ring that came in my Chase package. I realize now that it’s how they tracked me and sent Buckner to my location. I stuff it into his bleeding mouth.

I clap my hands together hard and follow it up with another shriek.

“Oh God! Someone help!”

Meanwhile, I examine the window. There’s a slide opening at the bottom, but it’s not wide enough for me to wriggle through. The upper casement is big enough to fit through, but it doesn’t open.

I figure I’ll have less than a minute before the goons in the hall come charging in.

It’ll have to do.

I pick up Buckner under his armpits and drag him toward the window. If I have to do this, might as well get some poetic justice out of it.

I drop him on his knees on the windowsill and grip his skull on both sides. With a swift motion, I jerk it back and then drive it forward, shattering the glass.

The inevitable knock comes as I wrap my hand in the curtain and knock out the remaining shards.

“Sir! Everything all right?”

I hop out onto the fire escape and swing onto the descending ladder. We’re on the third floor, so I have to hop from the end of the ladder onto the balcony below, then down its ladder and onto the alley below that.

A goon’s head appears in the window just as I look up. I see the flash of the muzzle an instant before I hear the cough of the silencer. A slug kicks up chunks of pavement less than a dozen inches from my foot.

I sprint from the alley into the street, melding into the Times Square crowd. It amazes me how someone who had the brains to become the seventeenth richest person in America could be stupid enough to pick a hotel right next to the most congested spot in North America.

I emerge into the Square and get my bearings. Avoiding the goons in here shouldn’t be difficult. The question is, where do I go next? The goons took my phone, so I can’t call Carson.

Thank God it’s Times Square, one of the few places left in the country that still has payphones. This is going to be easier than I thought.

As I rummage in my pocket for a quarter, I scan the area. And suddenly, all my bravado dries up and flies away like a feather in the wind.

Across the street, Tricia is sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside a coffee shop. Next to her is a swarthy man I’ve never seen.

He’s pointing a gun at her under the table.

Chapter Fifty-Three

53. CARSON

The big man is much faster than he has any right to be.

He’s easily six-nine and probably four hundred pounds, but he’s on me in a flash, wrapping his tree trunk arms around me in a bear hug from behind. He straightens to his full height, lifting me a good three inches off the ground.

It presents an interesting challenge from a physics perspective: my arms are locked in place and I have no leverage since my feet are off the ground.

Luckily, I don’t need leverage to use my trapezius muscles to whip my head backwards.

The back of my skull connects squarely with the bridge of the big man’s nose and I hear cartilage snap. He reflexively drops me and reaches up to touch his shattered face, allowing me time to land, drop to my back and piston my right foot upwards into his balls.

Again, thanks to physics, I have the upper hand because I have the stability of the ground under me. Combine that with the hours I spend in the gym with Matthias every day and my odds in this confrontation are actually pretty good.

Now might be a good time to mention that Matthias is a retired four-time world mixed martial arts champion. When I say he kicks my ass, I mean he literally kicks my ass.

The big man is reeling backwards, consumed with pain I’ve inflicted to two of his most vulnerable areas, giving the perfect opportunity to finish this with a couple of shots to his kidneys and a shin kick to the base of his thigh where it meets the knee.

Pain explodes in my temple and the world goes wobbly for a moment. When my vision finally clears, I see him still stumbling but flailing wildly. It’s my own damn fault for underestimating him – his arms are almost as big as my legs. If there’s one thing that physics can’t compensate for, it’s mass. And the big man has that in spades.

I reach down and throw a handful of dirt into his face, sending him staggering backward, following it up with a stomp kick downward to his knee. That does the trick; his leg collapses inward and twists at an unnatural angle.

He’s not getting up from that. Now to finish with Red Dress.

I scan the area: she’s gone.

Shit. I underestimated her ability to recover from that punch. If Matthias finds out I couldn’t knock out a woman, I’m really in trouble.

Then again, I get the sense she’s no ordinary woman.

A crowd has started to gather – typical New Yorkers, only show up when the fight is over – so I head back down the way I came as fast as I can go. I pull out my phone and call Cassie.

No answer. Shit.

All right, don’t panic. Clear, rational thinking. You’ve always been able to do it before.

Yeah, but you’ve never been in love with a woman in danger before.

I thumb Maksim’s picture in my contacts. He picks up on the third ring.

“Tovarishch! What is up, dog?”

“Maks, listen carefully,” I pant as I emerge from the park onto Madison Avenue. “I need you to meet me at my apartment immediately with everything you have on your uncle. Photos, records, anything tangible.”

The line is silent for several moments.

“I don’t have time to fuck around, Maks! Really bad things are going to happen if you don’t!”

“Ennh, Carson, I’m not really wanting to do that…”

“Listen!” I bellow. “Cassie is in danger, and if anything happens to her, I swear to God I’ll spend my last dime making sure every member of your family ends up deported back to Russia and thrown into prison to rot for the rest of their miserable lives!”

I know I’m not serious. I think I’m not serious. But right now, I’m being pushed. And there’s no limit to what I’ll do to the person who threatens the woman I love.

“Bozhe moi! Cassie is in danger?”

“If you only take one thing seriously in your entire life, Maks, this has to be it! Get what I need and get to my place! Now!”

I end the call and sprint harder toward home. A cab blares its horn at me as I cut across the avenue and into its back seat. I gasp out my address and throw a hundred dollar bill at him. He takes off like Dale Earnhardt, Jr.

Long minutes tick by as my heart hammers in my chest. I can’t have found Cassie again, only to turn around and lose her like this. I can’t!

After what seems like an eternity, I see my building. I jump out on the fly in the middle of the street and sprint to the front door.

Chuck’s eyes widen as he sees me coming, and he throws open the door.

“Everything okay, Mr. D?”

“No,” I say. “Buzz me when Maks gets here, will you?”

“Will do, sir.”

I stab the button for my elevator and, thank heaven for small favors, it’s already on the ground floor. It takes me up the eighty stories at a painfully slow rate, allowing me time to think about every possible horrible scenario that could happen to Cassie.

Chapter Fifty-Four

54. CASSANDRA

Assess the threat. Analyze the options. Choose the outcome with the best chance of survival.

These concepts are all ingrained in me to the point of being second nature. But I’ve never been in a situation where someone I love is in the line of fire. Literally.

I scan the area on either side of the table, but I already know that there won’t be any heroic measures. The potential for catastrophe in such a crowded place is unacceptable. If there’s one reason I went into the CIA, it was to stop Americans getting hurt. I won’t have it happen on my watch.

There’s only one way out of this that I can see.

Tricia looks like she can’t decide between panic and fury. Her eyes are like a caged animal’s, but the snarl on her lips says she’d castrate this guy as soon as look at him if she could. My gut is in knots knowing that something I did put her in danger.

I approach the table head-on, giving the gunman plenty of time to see my red hair and recognize me. The last thing I want is to get close and startle him, for fear that he reflexively pulls the trigger.

Tricia sees me first, her eyes widening.

“Cassie, get out of here!” she calls. “It’s a set-up!”

The gunman looks up and sees me. My hands are raised to show him I’m not armed.

“It’s all right, Trish,” I say calmly. “This is all just a misunderstanding. We’ll get it sorted out.”

“Thank you for being so reasonable,” the guy says. His accent tags him as Albanian. “Your friend here was only meant to be a failsafe. Looks like my employers were right not to underestimate you.”

“Let her go,” I say. “It’s me you want.”

“Where is the winning contestant?”

“On the way to the emergency room, if he’s lucky.”

He frowns.

“That is unexpected.”

He pulls out a phone and hits a speed-dial number. Then a conversation in Russian. I’m not an expert, but I have a working familiarity. I make out references to compensation and a cleanup crew, as well as the Hotel James. All in all, it doesn’t sound promising.

“Da,” he says, then ends the call.

“You piece of shit,” Tricia spits. “My friend Maks is connected with some powerful Russians. When he finds out what you’re doing –”

“The people behind this are those powerful Russians,” I say. “Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t know this would happen.”

Tricia’s eyes are wild, looking from me to the gunman and back again.

“What the hell is going on here, Cass?”

“I’ll explain later. Right now I have to go with this gentleman here. As soon as he lets you go.”

He stands up, and I see that he’s draped a nylon running jacket over his clasped hands, hiding the gun.

“Actually, you are both coming with me,” he says.

I shake my head.

“Uh-uh. Me only.”

A black Lincoln pulls up beside us and the gunman opens the back door.

“Both of you get in,” he says. “Or both of you die right here and I jump in this car and speed away.”

Shit.

“I’m so sorry, Trish,” I say, taking her by the shoulder and pulling her into the car.

“What do you mean about Maks? He’s not involved in this, is he? Cassie, what is going on?”

“It’s a long story,” I sigh as the Albanian closes the door and gets in the front with the driver.

55. CARSON

The elevator doors open and I drag Maks out by the collar.

“Come with me,” I say, leading him down the hall to the computer room.

“I’m not getting what is happening,” he yelps as I toss him onto the sofa. “What is going on with Cassie? Why are you being so angry?”

I take a deep breath and sit down opposite him, fixing him with a glare that I hope conveys just how serious the situation is.

“Long story short,” I say. “Your uncle and whoever else in involved in running the Chase have Cassie. They’re going to hurt her.”

“Bozhe moi,” he breathes. “But why?”

“Cassie was the quarry in the Chase. I caught her. But your uncle thinks we cheated and that we’re somehow conspiring against him.”

He blinks rapidly, staring at nothing.

“I looked up your family while you were on your way here,” I say, calling up the screen on the window. It fills with a grainy shot of a man in his sixties, with a brush cut and deep pouches under his eyes.

“I know your uncle is Alexei Ivchenko. Except that’s an alias – I can’t find any record of him before 2004. You would have been seventeen at the time, so you obviously know his real name. What is it?”

Maksim looks at the floor in silence for a moment, and I have to combat the urge to reach out and throttle him.

“Bogdan,” he says finally. “His name was Bogdan Nabatov.”

My fingers fly over the keyboard as I boot up my own personal hacking software. Code runs by on the window as I kick down back doors in the NKVD, Russia’s security and law enforcement division.

The program doesn’t work quickly enough for my brain, and I feel the kind of frustration I used to experience as a toddler, when my language skills weren’t yet up to expressing what was going on in my head.

“I am sorry, tovarishch,” Maks says, still staring at the floor. “For everything. I should never have been telling you about the Chase.”

“Your uncle should never have been doing the Chase,” I mumble as I scan the data on the screen.

Who am I trying to bullshit? I should never have been doing the Chase!

I fight off a wave of shame that threatens to take my attention away from the matter at hand. Names and faces begin to run across the screen as I access the NKVD’s watchlist files.

“I knew why we left Russia,” Maks says. “I was old enough. I listened to the talking at family dinners. But I try to ignore it all. Party all the time. That way I don’t think about it.”

“I’m not your therapist, Maks,” I say, eyes on the screen.

Finally, a file: Bogdan Nabatov, brother of Maksim’s mother, Ilyanna. Indicted in the early days of Putin’s first term for trafficking in sex slaves, importing heroin from Albania and several counts of murder.

And he’s got Cassie.

“My father bought us out of Russia after Uncle Bogdan was arrested,” says Maks. “We all got new names in America, and Papa hid all of his money. He is a good man, not like Bogdan.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” I mutter as I try to find anything new on Alexei Ivchenko. Nothing. He’s learned how to hide very well in his new homeland.

Wait a minute…

“Maks, you said all of your father’s money,” I say. “Does that mean Alexei doesn’t have any of his own?”

“I think Bogdan had to leave all his own money in Russia,” he says. “Papa runs the business and pays him salary.”

“So his money is all underground…”

Maks looks confused. “He does not bury his money, Carson.”

“Forget it,” I say. “I need you to call him and set up a meeting. Right now.”

He seems conflicted for a moment, but before I can say anything, he pulls his phone from his pocket and dials a number. There’s a brief conversation in Russian. Maks looks on the verge of throwing up the whole time.

Finally he ends the call.

“One hour,” he says. “At gentleman’s club in Brighton Beach. I am to take you there.”

That’s good. We’re making progress.

“What about Cassie?” I ask. “Is she all right?”

“For now. He is waiting to see what you will be saying.”

I breathe deeply, let it out slowly. There’s still hope, if my plan works.

My eyes meet Maksim’s and I see tears there.

“I am so sorry, my friend,” he whispers. “I never would be wanting anyone to be hurt, especially Cassie.”

My heart sinks. He’s a victim in this too, and I’ve been treating him like a criminal for the last hour. I wrap an arm around his neck and squeeze.

“I know that, buddy. And thanks to what you just did, I think we’ll be able to get her out of this.”

Even if it costs me everything I have.

I take a last glance at the screen, only to see another pop up from behind that one.

Match found, it reads.

Holy shit! I totally forgot I left the facial recognition program working in the background when I went for my run.

Up comes a photo of Red Dress, but no name. She’s wearing a black dress this time, but it’s definitely her. It’s from a dark web site that features photos of satanic rituals. What kind of sick person would be into this kind of shit?

The text posting alludes to an annual sacrifice at the height of summer. Reference to it being a female, and recently defiled…

Oh God, no.

“Maks!” I snap. “The Chase – is it always at this time of year?”

“I am not being sure exactly…”

“Is it always in summer?!”

“Yes! Always summertime. Why?”

My heart gallops in my chest as my stomach turns to ice.

“She’s going to kill Cassie,” I breathe. “That bitch is going to kill the woman I love.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

55. CASSANDRA

The ride to Brighton Beach was awkward, to say the least.

“So all this was going on and you never told me any of it?” Tricia barks. “Great, now I feel like the dumb sidekick in a romantic comedy!”

We’re sitting in the parlor of a vast Victorian mansion. It appears to be a gentleman’s club of sorts, judging by the photos of old men sitting around the place smoking cigars and drinking. None of those gentlemen is here right now, though.

The room is beautiful. In any other circumstances, I’m sure it would be enchanting.

As it is, it makes me want to vomit.

“How many times can I say I’m sorry, Trish?”

“I don’t know. How about you keep going and I tell you when to stop?”

“Be quiet,” our Albanian friend says from the corner of the room.

If it was just him guarding us, I might try to make a move. But he’s been joined by a couple of others, both of whom have hairy chests and unibrows. And guns, of course.

“You three are thoroughly unattractive,” Tricia snipes. “I just want you to know that before you kill us. I’m talking not a hope in hell.”

The Albanian rolls his eyes.

“What are we waiting for, exactly?” I ask.

It’s common practice to keep people isolated and bored when you’re trying to break them. That’s not going to work on me, so I’d like to speed the process along, whatever the endgame might be.

“I think it’s me,” says a voice from behind me.

I turn, and my heart sinks as I see Carson and Maksim walking into the room. They can’t be here! It’s bad enough I couldn’t keep Tricia from being involved in this. If anything happens to Carson, my heart will crumble and disappear.

“Are you all right?” Carson asks, eyes wide.

I look directly at the Albanian, using all my training to keep my emotions from showing on my face or in my voice.

“Get them out of here,” I say coldly. “This doesn’t involve them.”

Tricia glares at Maks.

“What are you doing here with them?” she asks. “Are you involved in this too?”

He doesn’t meet her eyes, just looks at the floor.

“Cassie,” Carson says. “I’m here to negotiate for you.”

I want to yell at him to get out now, to run. But I won’t give these Russian slugs the satisfaction of seeing me weak.

“I don’t negotiate with people like this,” I say.

Tricia turns her glare to me.

“Were you planning to tell me that at some point?” she yells.

“I’m sorry, Cassie,” Carson sighs. “I’m the one in charge here, not you.”

“That is good to hear,” says a voice from the doorway.

Without looking up, Maks says: “Hello, Uncle.”

Next to the Albanian guard is a barrel-chested man with a wide face and a pompadour of iron-gray hair. His hairy body is covered in a sheen of sweat under his Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts.

“Aannd the sexiness factor in the room just went down, somehow,” says Tricia.

“Not now, Trish,” I growl.

Carson locks eyes with the newcomer.

“Bogdan Nabatov,” he says. “I’m glad we finally get to meet.”

The old man’s eyes flash anger and he tilts his head toward Maks.

“You and I will have a long talk after all this is over, boy,” he snarls.

Maks says nothing.

“This meeting is about you and me,” Carson snaps. “Nobody else. I want just the two of us in a room. I think I have an offer you’ll appreciate.”

Nabatov pulls a cigar from his shirt pocket and lights it. The stench of the smoke makes my stomach hitch.

“You would like that, I’m sure,” he says. His English is much better than Maksim’s. “But I’m afraid we will all stay right where we are. I know what you did to my associates; I can assure you that won’t happen to me.”

What Carson did? What did he do?

“Fine,” says Carson. “I’m here to make a deal. To compensate you for your losses. And to prove that there is no investigation against you.”

“Is that so?” Nabatov’s thick eyebrows go up. “Well, then. I am a reasonable man. Please go on.”

“You let these two go,” says Carson, pointing to Tricia and me. “And I sign over my fortune to you.”

What?

I see naked greed in Nabatov’s eyes as the offer sinks in. His cigar almost drops from his mouth.

“Carson, no!” I blurt.

“I told you before,” he says, eyes never leaving Nabatov. “I’m in charge here, not you.”

“Carson, I am not going to let you give up everything you’ve worked for just so a piece of shit like this won’t do something to me! I can handle myself!”

“Well?” he says, ignoring me. “What do you say, Bogdan?”

Nabatov sucks on his cigar for a moment before answering.

“And how do you propose to do this?” he asks.

“I know you’re under your brother’s thumb here in America,” says Carson. “You create a shill corporation and I buy it from you for everything I have, three billion and change. I get a worthless company, you get the cash. More than enough for you to go legit and give up nonsense like the Chase.”

This is crazy. If I weren’t so desperately in love with Carson, I’d kill him myself for being such a fool.

Nabatov chews his cigar noisily.

“I would be amenable to that,” he says. “Of course, part of the money would have to go to compensate Mr. Buckner for his… troubles.”

Carson frowns. “Buckner?”

“Don’t ask,” I say.

“How do I know you will keep your end of the deal, Mr. Drake?”

“Simple,” says Carson. “You keep Cassie here until it goes through. I’ll make sure my lawyers fast-track it.”

Fuck that! I open my mouth to say exactly those words, but Maksim beats me to the punch.

“No, Uncle,” he says, looking up from the floor for the first time since he arrived.

Nabatov turns slowly to face his nephew.

“What did you say to me?” he growls, his heavy brows drawn down over his piggy little eyes.

“I said no. You are not going to be hurting my friends. I won’t let you.”

Chapter Fifty-Six

57. CARSON

“Stay out of this, Maks,” I say. “It’s between your uncle and me.”

“And me!” Cassie snaps.

“Excuse me!” Tricia gripes. “I’m sitting right here!”

Maks steps slowly and deliberately toward Nabatov. The guards move to intercept him, but a raised hand from his uncle stops them.

“Was that a threat?” the older man says, eyes wide. “From little Maksim?”

“I won’t let you hurt them,” Maks says, his voice stronger this time.

“And what will you do to stop me? Dance at me? Make me drink until I pass out?”

Maks stops on the edge of the exquisite Persian rug, a few yards from where Nabatov stands in the arched doorway.

“I don’t have to be doing anything,” he says. “That’s the easy part.”

Nabatov frowns.

“What the hell are you talking about, boy?”

“All I have to be doing is not calling a phone number for a few days,” says Maks. “When I don’t do that, someone I pay money to will be sending a package to FBI office in New York City.”

The older man’s face slackens and this time, the cigar actually falls out of his mouth to the floor.

“Stupid little Maksim is not so stupid, Uncle,” says Maks. “Ever since I was being teenager, I make recordings. I take photos. I am writing things down. Just in case something ever happens to me; maybe someday you decide I need to be gone.

“So I give sealed package to someone and pay them to be keeping it for me. If I am not contacting that person, they know something bad is happening. They deliver the package.”

Holy shit, Maks. This is the life you’ve been living behind that smile? I glance at Cassie, who looks at me wide-eyed.

“You think I don’t know what you were doing in Russia?” he continues. “I know all. You ruined lives of girls. You killed people. Now in America, you are making embarrassment of our family! You are like a rat in the sewer. This country is giving us everything, but you spit on it.”

Nabatov tries to smile, but it looks ridiculous on him.

“Maksie, Maksie, come on now,” he says. “We don’t need to do this. We’re family.”

“No.” Maks waves a hand at me and the girls. “These people are being my family now. Not you.”

Nabatov’s face hardens again.

“If you do this, your father will go down with me,” he says coldly.

Maksim’s eyes close for a long moment.

“I know,” he says. “That is why I haven’t been doing this before now. But I must stop you. My friends must be going free.”

The room is silent. I guess no one knows what to say next. I sure as hell don’t.

“Very well,” Nabatov sighs. “We have what the Americans call a Mexican standoff. You may leave. Obviously, I have enough information on all of you to burn you if you try to talk to anyone. I will have to compensate Mr. Buckner, but that’s the cost of doing business.”

Cassie and I exchange hopeful glances.

“And you’ll return the money you owe her to the account in Grand Cayman,” I say. “That’s $2.75 million USD.”

He flashes annoyance, but nods.

“One more thing,” I say.

“Do not push your luck, Mr. Drake,” says Nabatov. “My patience is not infinite.”

“The woman in red.”

His eyes narrow.

“What about her?”

“Do you know what happens to the quarries after the Chase?”

“They take their money and disappear,” he says with a shrug. “It is no concern of mine.”

“They disappear, all right. But not in the way you think.”

“What are you talking about?” says Nabatov.

“Yeah,” says Cassie. “What are you talking about?”

Before I can answer, I hear the cough of a bullet, and see the guard closest to Nabatov dance a strange jog and fall to the floor. Two more coughs and the other two follow suit.

“He’s talking about me,” says the blonde in the red dress as she enters the room from the hall.

Her silenced pistol is aimed squarely at Cassie’s head.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

58. CASSANDRA

“Anna!” Nabatov cries. “What are you doing?!”

The woman in the red dress stalks toward me. Her face isn’t the cool, flawless mask it was in her video the night I joined the Chase. Now it’s twisted with rage.

There’s also a good-sized goose egg and a clot of dried blood on the left side of her jaw.

I rise from my chair. Tricia moves to do the same beside me, but I stop her with a hand on the shoulder.

“Don’t,” I say. “Leave this to me.”

“You will pay for these men,” Nabatov says, waving at the men lying in pools of blood on the floor. “They do not come cheap.”

“Shut up if you want to walk out of here,” Anna says without a trace of emotion.

Carson glares at her.

“I knew I should have gone for your throat,” he snarls.

Without taking her eyes off me, Anna points the gun at him.

“I have even less reason to keep you alive, Mr. Drake,” she says. “That goes for the rest of you, as well.”

We lock eyes and I can see the madness there. She was good at hiding it, but whatever circumstances have changed the situation, she’s a complete wild card now.

“This is what I was trying to tell you,” Carson says to Nabatov. “Anna here is the reason the quarries disappear after the Chase. She kills them!”

My heart skips a beat, but I don’t let it show on my face. That’s right, blondie, keep looking right at me. You don’t need to be pointing that gun anywhere else.

“Let me guess,” I say. “After you kill them, you steal their winnings.”

“Stupid sow,” she chuckles. “Money means nothing. Power is everything.”

“Money is power.”

She smiles without humor. Those cold, dead eyes are starting to scare me as she gets closer.

“Power is power, sow. It is a gift from Satan. It’s why we offer him the desecrated virgin when the summer sun is at its hottest.”

Suddenly my mind is whirling, extrapolating from what she just said. It’s crazy, but it explains so much.

“Let me guess,” I say. “You’re the one who suggested the Chase to Nabatov in the first place.”

Nabatov looks down at the bodies of his henchman, then back at Anna.

“Is what she says true, Anna? Did you have me start this so you could kill these women? Are you insane?”

“What difference does it make to you?” she says. “You made a fortune from it. It doesn’t have to end. We just need to eliminate these people.”

She slides a hand around my upper arm and places the barrel of the silencer against my temple.

“This one is coming with me,” she says. “The rest I will leave for you, Bogdan. Do with them what you will. My time grows short.”

“I will not be a part of this!” Nabatov shouts.

“Very well,” she says, pulling the barrel from my scalp and aiming it at him. Two more coughs and Maksim’s uncle is dead on the floor.

That was exactly the distraction I needed.

I aim directly for the enormous bruise on her jaw and drive the side of my head into it. The sound it makes is like two bowling balls colliding.

She stumbles backwards but keeps the gun pointed forward. She squeezes off two more rounds into the room, but the only thing they hit is the far wall, thank God.

Before I know what’s happening, Carson is rushing toward her. I grab her gun hand just as he leaps in the air and comes crashing down with a diagonal blow right into her skull.

What the hell was that? Obviously Carson is still keeping a few secrets from me.

I flip Anna backwards with a wristlock that sends her sailing to the floor. Her head connects with the hard oak and she lies there, motionless. Two massive head traumas have left her with a concussion.

Carson and I stand there, breathing heavily.

“That bruise on her jaw?” he says. “That was me.”

“Yeah?” I huff. “And what was with that flying punch?”

He shrugs.

“I got some skills,” he says. “No biggie.”

Neither of us sees Anna move until it’s too late. She grabs the gun and sits up on the floor, angling the barrel toward Carson’s chest.

Suddenly my mind fills with images of him: the gawky teen who kissed me for the first time under the bleachers, the dashing playboy who restarted my heart for me when I didn’t even know that it had stopped.

If I lose him, I’ll die myself. I can’t let that happen.

I react without thinking, grabbing him and pivoting my weight to throw him out of the line of fire. My back is now to Anna, shielding Carson from the gun.

Three loud coughs split the air.

No ricochet cracks, which means they all struck flesh.

I hear a faint thump.

My heart races as I grip Carson tighter than I ever have before. Which of us is hit?

“Cassie!” He’s groping me with both hands. “Are you all right?”

I open my eyes, and realize I’ve been groping him. No bullet holes.

“I’m fine,” I breathe. “But what…?”

We both turn to see Anna’s prone body on the floor, bleeding out from three exit wounds in the front of her sundress. Her eyes are open, staring lifelessly at the ceiling.

Behind her stands Tricia, eyes wide, chest heaving. She’s still in the shooter’s stance.

“This was… on the floor,” she breathes, her eyes round and unblinking. “One of these guys… he dropped it… when he got… y’know. Shot.”

She goggles at Anna’s body. “Did I do that?”

I grab her in a fierce hug as tight as the one I used on Carson.

“You sure did, babe,” I whisper in her ear. “You saved all of us. You’re a hero.”

Carson joins us. We stand there, holding each other, trying to process what the hell just happened.

After several moments, we look up to see Maksim standing across the room, staring at us. Tears are streaming down his face.

I smile weakly and hold out an arm to him.

“Room for one more,” I say.

He bolts across the room and grabs the three of us in a vise grip. We stand that way for a long time.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

59. CASSANDRA

Carson and I don’t speak on the ride up in the elevator, which is okay. There’s not a lot left to say right now, really.

We waited at the Brighton Beach house until the Company cleanup team arrived. My father was more than happy to dispatch them, once I’d explained what happened to us.

I’ve done this many times in my career, so it’s second nature to me. For the others… well, they had a lot of processing to do. You can’t go through something like that and not be fundamentally changed by it, even if you know in your heart that you only did what you had to do.

Dad assured me that the Company wouldn’t have a problem with two players like Bogdan and Anna being taken off the board. Minimal questions. All he asked in return for helping me was that I visit him and Mom in Virginia next week to talk about my life.

I’m not sure that’s a better fate than what Anna had in store for me, if I’m being honest.

A blue light inside the elevator glows as we reach the top floor. Then the doors open, and I forget to breathe for a full ten seconds.

It’s the most spectacular apartment I’ve ever seen. The floor-to-ceiling windows, the marble floors, the crystal light fixtures hanging from the twelve-foot ceilings. The art on the walls: Picasso, Matisse, Pollock, Warhol.

“It’s stunning,” I say. It’s the only word I can think of.

Carson smiles. “Would you like a tour?”

“Now? Don’t be stupid.”

I reach down and grab the hem of my dress, pulling it up and over my head in a single movement. Then I jump onto him and wrap my limbs around his body like a four-armed octopus, my heart pounding.

My mouth is mashed against his so hard it’s almost painful.

He grabs hold of my back and reciprocates, twisting his fingers into my hair.

“I was so scared,” he breathes in my ear. “When I realized what was happening. And then I saw Anna, what she was going to do…”

“Shhhh. It’s over.”

“I couldn’t lose you. Not again. I would have given everything I had not to.”

“I know,” I whisper.

He carries me down the opulent hallway into a bedroom that’s easily three times the size of my apartment. He drops me gently on the bed before ripping off his shirt and sliding off his shorts.

Our lovemaking is urgent. Not like the night at the Regent; that was pure desire. This is something else, something deeper. Assuring each other that we’re still here. That everything is okay. That we’re together.

Carson reaches behind me and unclasps my bra, freeing my breasts to brush against the skin of his chest. I don’t ever want to get used to that feeling of his skin on mine; I want it always to be as new and thrilling as it is now.

I pull off my own panties and lie back on the bed, pulling him down on top of me.

“Carson,” I moan as his lips find my neck.

“I love you, Cassie,” he whispers in my ear.

Hot tears squirt from the corner of my eyes. I never though I could ever feel like this. I never understood what life could be like. A whole new world is opening for me.

“I love you, Carson,” I whisper back. “God, I love you so much.”

With the words comes a new urgency. He presses his body hard into mine, and I open my legs wide for him. No foreplay, no athletic sex games, no furious passion.

Just the unyielding need to become one.

I hold my breath as his hard shaft enters me. His strokes are slow at first, our bodies still gripped together, our mouths and tongues locked on each other. Neither of us wants to let go, even for a moment.

Then the urgency builds, and his thrusts become deeper. We disengage from kissing and I place my chin on his shoulder. Soon he’s driving harder, faster. I wrap my arms tight around his neck and my legs around his waist, matching each stroke with a lift of my own.

“I love you,” I pant as my orgasm builds. “I love you I love you I love you I love you.”

I grit my teeth as the pleasure wave crashes into me, lifting me into a stratosphere where Carson and I float together, melded into one, drifting toward infinity.

We lie together like that, still in each other’s grip, for several long moments. It wasn’t our usual gymnastics, but we’re both spent as if it was. Our breathing finally slows and we separate, lying face to face.

His gray eyes scan me all over, as if checking for damages.

“I’ve never said those words to anyone,” I say. I know his answer can’t be the same, but I want him to understand.

“Neither have I,” he says.

My eyes go round.

“Really?” I ask. The words sound childlike to my own ears.

“Really. I won’t lie, Cass – I’ve taken a lot of women to bed. But I’ve never been in love. Unless you count our time in high school.”

“I don’t know if we understood what love was back then,” I say. “But I do now. It’s having someone who sees you for who you really are, and wants you, not in spite of it, but because of it.”

He kisses my ear.

“That’s exactly how I feel,” he says. “You know who I really am, not the face I put on for the world.”

We lie there in silence for a while.

“I’ve never had anyone to worry about me,” I say. “Let alone someone willing to give up billions of dollars for me. It’s still processing.”

“Don’t forget,” he says. “I punched a girl for you, too. Twice. That’s not something I go around doing for just anyone.”

I snort a giggle. “High five on that one, babe.”

We kiss slowly, leisurely.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” I say after a while. “Something really important.”

I look around the room. It makes the suite at the Regent on our first night together look like a Motel 6.

He props himself on an elbow and looks me in the eye.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything.”

“Can I move in here?” I ask. “Because, seriously, babe, this place is just fucking sick.”

Chapter Fifty-Nine

60. CARSON

“I can’t believe we’re still arguing about this,” I say.

“We’re not arguing,” says Cassie. “I’m telling you how it is.”

I sip my double espresso to keep from saying something I’ll regret. Cassie takes this as me acknowledging her win and flashes me a smug grin.

Tricia wanders over with a tray of ice cold treats and sits down. A handful of customers are sitting inside, escaping the rain on a dreary September morning.

“Having you two as friends is like living in a sit-com,” she says, sitting down. “The Billionaire and the Bitch. I should pitch it to Netflix.”

“See?” I say. “Even Tricia thinks you should let me put up the cash for your stake in Tricialicious.”

“No, I don’t,” says Tricia. “Why would I want you as a silent partner in my business? You’d eat all the profits.”

Cassie’s grin gets even smugger.

“Look, I told you I’ve found a better option,” she says. “One that’s going to work out for everyone.”

“Really?” I say, reaching for a brownie.

Tricia slaps my hand away. “Leave it alone, fatty. It’s not for you.”

I pull my hand back and give her my most wounded look.

“Who could possibly deserve this more than me?”

“My new partner,” says Cassie.

At that moment, the door on the bell clangs. Maks walks into the shop, shaking the rain from his umbrella.

“Hey, comrade,” says Tricia.

She yanks him to her and plants an aggressive kiss on his mouth. His smile when she finally disengages is heartwarming. I’ve never seen the guy so happy before.

“That is my kind of hello,” he says as he sits down.

“Play your cards right and you’ll get a ‘how are ya’ later, too,” Tricia purrs.

His cheeks blossom with color.

“All right,” says Cassie. “Before you two get a room – did you bring it?”

Maksim grins and reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Right here,” he says, handing an envelope to Cassie.

She opens it and pulls out a long piece of paper. A quick scan and she’s all smiles. She reaches a hand out to Maks, who takes it.

“A pleasure doing business with you, partner,” she says.

“I look forward to doing the work with you,” he replies.

My eyes dart from one to the other and back again. Tricia pushes the other brownie in front of Maks.

“What just happened?” I ask.

Cassie waves a hand in Maks’ direction.

“Meet my new partner.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. Then open it again.

“What?” I say.

“No point in going to Tate Capital when I know someone who’s got the full $11 million,” says Cassie. “And not just someone – someone who gets me and knows how I work.”

Maks looks at me and shrugs.

“I will make three times my money back,” he says.

“Since when do you have money?” I ask.

“Well,” he says. “Maybe I am not abstainly rich…”

Cassie winces. “I think you mean obscenely.”

“Yes, what she says. But I have a trust fund, tovarishch. And I am looking to be the investment tycoon, yes?”

I fold my arms across my chest and look Cassie in the eye.

“So you’ll take his money but not mine?”

“I don’t sleep with him,” she says.

Tricia gives her an appraising look.

“You better not, ho,” she warns with an exaggerated snap of her fingers.

I shake my head and chuckle. Just another of the compromises I’ll have to make to keep Cassie in my life. Sometimes she drives me up the wall, but I’ll take it over living without her any day. I honestly don’t think I could live without her.

At least she didn’t drag me to meet her parents last month. I’ve still got a little time to prepare for that.

“Whatever,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ll just wait till Tricialicious goes public and then buy the controlling interest. I’ll end up running the show in the end.”

“Go right ahead, sucker,” says Tricia. “Your money’s as green as anyone else’s. We’ll be retired and rich, so what do we care?”

We all bust up over that one. After the laughter dies down, the three of them go over some of the details of the plan, particularly the construction schedule, now that fall is around the corner. I watch them with a smile on my face and in my heart.

My mind drifts back just a couple of months, to standing on a cliff in the Alps, thinking I was somehow going to find the meaning of life by jumping off. Now I realize how utterly ridiculous that was.

This is the meaning of life right here, in a little ice cream shop in Midtown. With these crazy, frustrating, wonderful people. How could I supposedly be so smart and yet not get that for so long?

Cassie runs a hand along my arm and leans close.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she says. Then she holds up Maksim’s check. “I can afford it, I’ve got this.”

I smile and kiss her temple. The same one Anna held her gun against.

“I was just thinking we should go to Italy soon,” I say. “I think we’ve kept David waiting long enough, don’t you?”

Chapter Sixty

EPILOGUE: CASSIE

Four Years Later

I stand at the edge of a cliff, looking down at the 1,500-foot drop just beyond my toes. Far below is an outcropping of jagged granite pointing toward the sky, like fingers from the earth reaching up to the heavens.

In the distance is Lake Garda, the summer sunlight dappling off its turquoise surface as the Alps stand sentinel behind it. There’s not a cloud in the sky, not a breath of wind.

Carson wraps his arms around my waist from behind.

“What do you think?” he whispers in my ear.

I smile at his touch, the warmth of his embrace, the feel of his beard scruff against my cheek.

“I think you were a fucking idiot,” I sigh.

He chuckles. “Don’t hold back, tell me how you really feel.”

I turn inside the circle of his arms to face him, wrapping my own arms around his waist. In the afternoon light, his gray eyes are the same pale shade as the stone fingers on the valley floor below.

“A single miscalculation and you would have been bug splatter on the side of the mountain,” I say. “Or you could have hit the water at the wrong angle and broken your neck. You would have been the world’s richest quadriplegic.”

He winces at my words.

“You’re absolutely right,” he says. “Either of those things was very possible.”

“That’s not why you were an idiot, though.”

“Oh, good. Thanks for clearing that up.”

I grin. “Hey, I was no better back in those days. A redhead disguising herself as a Middle Eastern woman and hanging out with terrorists is quite a bit stupider than jumping off a cliff in a flying suit.”

Carson throws his head back and laughs. I chuckle at the memory, too. It’s been long enough that I can do that.

“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand your point,” he says. “Why was I an idiot?”

“Because,” I say, hugging him tight and pressing my face against his chiseled chest. “There was so much more you could have been doing with your time and your brain and your money.”

“You mean like when you and I came that first time a few years ago?”

“Exactly. That was incredible. A private tour of David in the Galleria d’Accademia, vineyards in Tuscany, shopping in Milan, hiking the cliffs of Cinque Terre…”

The memories of that month still give me goosebumps to this day, even after all the times we’ve been back to Italy. We’ve tried on the entire boot, from here in the north all the way to the toe and beyond to Sicily. But that first trip was magical.

We walk hand-in-hand back toward our waiting Aston Martin roadster. Carson rented it specifically for the sensation that we were in a James Bond movie as we drove the winding road through the mountains. He won’t admit it to me – the last thing he wants is a lecture on what a real secret agent’s life is like – but I know it’s true.

It’s one of the many reasons I love him – sometimes he’s just a big kid. With a really expensive toy box.

“In my defense, I was pretty lost in those days,” he says, opening the passenger door for me. “I thought I was bored; that I needed excitement to make my life worthwhile.”

He slides in behind the wheel and sparks the Aston’s savage twelve-cylinder engine to life.

I raise an eyebrow.

“And that’s changed how, Mr. Bond?”

Carson laughs as he pulls away from the trailhead parking lot and onto the winding road that will take us back down to Bardolino and the villa we’ve booked for the wedding.

“I met you,” he says, having to raise his voice over the sound of the engine and the air rushing into the cockpit of the convertible. “That was when I learned what life is really about.”

Awww. I want to squeeze his hand, but it’s busy working the gearshift. So I figure I might as well take advantage of the opening he’s given me to fish for a compliment or two.

“And what, exactly, would that be?” I ask.

He grins.

“Sex with virgins.”

Oh, you little…

I smack his rock-hard shoulder.

“Try again, Romeo,” I say. “And bear in mind that we’re just up the street from fair Verona.”

“Two households, both alike in dignity,” Carson says, reciting the opening lines of Romeo & Juliet. Show-off. “In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.”

“Exactly. So if you don’t want any grudges or mutinies or civil blood, I suggest you come up with a better answer.”

He gears down in an attempt to keep me from losing my headscarf as we round a hairpin curve. It works, allowing me to maintain my Grace Kelly vibe for a little while longer.

“Life,” he says, “is really about connection. That indescribable feeling you get when you realize that you’ve found the missing part of you that you didn’t even know you were looking for. Sharing your life and your heart and your experiences with that person.”

Geez, even after all this time, he can still make my heart swell up. I take the silly scarf off my head – it’s not going to do any good for my crazy, curly mop – and dab at the corner of my eyes.

“Not bad, eh?” he asks.

I sniffle. “Been practicing that one, have you?”

We reach a straightaway and he takes his hand off the gearshift to squeeze mine.

“I just opened my mouth and that’s what came out,” he says. “That tends to happen when I’m with you. You bring out the best in me.”

His hand slides down the hem of my dress and back up the bare thigh underneath.

“And the worst,” he says with a grin.

“I’ll be the judge of which is which,” I say, opening my legs a bit to accommodate his touch.

He teases me for a couple of minutes, until he can’t avoid gearing down any longer. The road gets steeper the closer we get to the village, so I pout a bit and close my legs again.

“Can I have a rain check?” he asks with just the right amount of begging in his tone.

“If you play your cards right,” I say. “Maybe I’ll practice my own manual shifting with you later.”

He flashes me a look that combines lust and theatrical surprise, eliciting a hearty giggle from me.

* * *

Later, in Bardolino, we sit at our table at a little café across from the marina. It’s a tiny place, downscale, but that’s why we love it. It has an unbeatable view of the water, delicious food and wonderful staff.

Carson and I have both learned over the years that value doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with cost. My oversized D&G knockoff sunglasses, for example, were twenty-four dollars at the airport in Milan. His deck shoes were thirty-five dollars at a shop up the street from here. And we have to get used to living on less.

I kick off my sandals and run my bare foot along the muscles of his calves under the table.

“So,” I say. “Ready for the wedding?”

He takes a sip of his after-lunch grappa. He’s developed a taste for it; I’d sooner drink kerosene myself.

“Not really that much to it,” he says. “But it’s always easier for guys. Throw on a tux and show up. How about you?”

I smile, thinking about the gorgeous dress I’ll be wearing tomorrow. Then I sigh, because it reminds me of the night Carson bought me that plum-colored Oscar De La Renta gown that eventually ended up on the floor of our suite at the Regent Hotel.

God, what a crazy time that was. Then again, it was that crazy time that brought us together. Fate must have been tripping on LSD when it came up with that plan.

“I can’t wait,” I say. “The planner has everything under control. Flowers, doves, orchestra, meal. I have to admit, having money makes it a lot easier to put on a wedding.”

Carson raises his glass in a toast.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he says.

I frown and return the salute with my glass of Orvieto.

“I’m going to miss being obscenely rich,” I sigh.

* * *

“Well, would you look at that?” I say. “Another hill. Better gear down.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, gear down. Just like that.”

“How many speeds are there on an Aston Martin, again?”

“Suh-six.”

“Six. Plus reverse. That’s back this way, right?”

“Right,” he moans. “Oh yeah, that’s perfect.”

Our pool is in the shadow of the villa, so it stays cool through most of the day. Which is good, because we’re both about as overheated as you can get.

Carson floats on his back in the shallow end while I practice my “shifting” on him. I love watching his face twist and his mouth drop open as I go through each stroke. Meanwhile, his hand is under the water, working his fingers in and out of my opening in time with each of my shifts.

Luckily, we’re still obscenely rich for the next few days, which means this place is gated and locked, and we can prance around as naked as the day we were born without fear of being disturbed.

We’ve developed a rhythm during our years together, one that puts us in sync with each other’s movements and allows us to anticipate where the other is on the pleasure scale. Like right now – I know instinctively that Carson can’t take much more of this without going further, and he knows I’m on the verge of my first orgasm.

He slides himself out of my hand and turns over in the water, leaving me the one lying on my back. He quickly manipulates his way between my legs, lifting them up onto his submerged shoulders. His eyes gleam and he flashes me a cocky grin as he wades his way ever closer to my slit.

The sun sizzles on my face and breasts as his tongue darts in and out, combining to take me out of myself and onto a floating wave of sheer ecstasy. I entwine my fingers into Carson’s hands, gripping them tightly as I float closer and closer to the moment of release.

So many times he’s done this to me, and each time is just as good as that first night in New York. As the pressure of his tongue gets stronger, my orgasm builds, relentless as a storm, until I can’t hold back any longer and I give in to the power of it.

In my spasms, my hands release his and slap at the surface of the water, sending up splashes right into Carson’s face. It has no effect on the evil grin there.

As my convulsions slow and the sensations ebb away, I float forward and wrap my arms around Carson’s neck. We bob there together for several moments, breathing in time with each other, feeling the delicious cool on our bodies, in stark contrast with the baking sun on our heads.

When I have control of myself again, I let go of him and turn to face the side of the pool. I kick myself forward and reach out, grabbing the rungs of the ladder.

“Um,” he says. “Excuse me? Where are you going?”

I pull myself up two rungs and stop, bending slightly at the waist. As I do, I drop a smoldering look over my shoulder.

“Sorry,” I say. “I just left my scarf up on that top shelf. Do you think you could help me reach it?”

Carson’s eyes light up and he crosses the gap between us in two seconds, despite having to wade through thigh-deep water. He glides up behind me and suddenly the heat of his erection is pressing against my bare ass.

“Of course,” he breathes into my ear. “But we’d better hurry. Don’t want someone to walk into the coatroom and get the wrong impression.”

“No,” I sigh as he slides the tip of his shaft between my lips, back and forth, front to back, back to front. “A girl could get a reputation that way.”

He covers my shoulders with kisses as I grind my hips in time with his movements. His hands reach up and gently massage my wet breasts and rock-hard nipples.

“I think it’s just a bit too high for me,” I groan.

“No problem,” he pants. “Let me get that for you.”

He takes a step forward and upwards, finally thrusting his stiff cock into my slick entrance. I shudder with pleasure as it penetrates deep inside me.

I steady myself with the railings as Carson grabs my ass with both hands and I can tell he’s barely able to control himself. His powerful hands grip me tight and pull me toward him as he thrusts harder, faster. My second orgasm begins to radiate upwards from my core even as I feel his building inside me.

“Cassie,” he rasps in my ear, giving voice to his urgent need. I can’t help myself – I let go of the railings and drop forward, hands on the pool deck, allowing his cock to go as deep as possible inside me. His hips move so fast and hard that it all blurs into a sprint of orgasmic delight, until I finally let out a cry that startles the birds in the copse of beech trees next to the pool into flight.

Carson explodes inside me in a wave of heat and pressure that sets me off one last time, wracking my body with shudders of passion and leaving me a shaking mess. If it weren’t for his hands holding my hips, I’d simply collapse in a heap on the pool deck.

He leans forward, still buried deep inside me, panting in my ear. His chest is like a bellow against my back, expanding and contracting. His arms are wrapped around me like he’s holding on for dear life.

“How is it we keep getting better at this?” I moan, trying to catch my own breath.

“Practice makes perfect,” he pants.

* * *

The cool shower was glorious, and the nap was even better. But alas, nothing lasts forever.

“Honey,” I say, rolling over onto my back and stretching. “You need to feed me or I’ll fade away.”

Carson’s already bringing a tray of fruit and cheese into the bedroom. Apparently he can read my mind while I’m asleep, too. He’s even dressed, which is more than I can say for myself.

He hands me a small plate of provolone, gorgonzola and grapes. I snatch it away and dig in.

“You’re the bestest billionaire in the whole world,” I coo.

“For a little while longer, anyway,” he sighs.

I smile and shake my head.

“We’ll still be able to afford cheese and grapes,” I say. “Just not in a $50,000-a-night villa.”

“Probably supermarket cheese,” he mumbles morosely.

I stick out my tongue, which is probably pretty gross from his perspective, given that it’s covered in green-veined cheese.

Carson glances at his Rolex. “Just about time to get ready for cocktail hour,” he says.

I stretch one more time, giving him an unobstructed view of my boobs. He smiles appreciatively.

“All right,” I say. “I’ll get dressed if I absolutely have to.”

As I rise from the bed, the electronic chime of the intercom system goes off. I reach over and hit the “talk” button on the tablet next to the night table.

“Yes?”

A cold male voice with a thick Russian accent fills the room.

“We have your son,” says the voice. “If you ever want to see him again, I suggest you let us in.”

* * *

I roll my eyes.

“Just a second, Maks.”

My finger taps the “unlock gate” button and I continue into the en suite bathroom and walk-in closet.

“I hope they fed Leo,” Carson says absently. “He’ll go down for his nap more easily if he’s had a snack.”

I pull on a camisole and a pair of capris before stepping into my sandals.

“You know who you’re talking about, right?” I say, running a brush through the briar patch of my hair. “I didn’t come up with the name ‘Tricialicious’ for nothing.”

He kisses my neck as we step out of the master suite and head for the parlor one floor below.

“I just hope Maks didn’t try to set him up with any girls,” he says.

My heart sings as I see the familiar strawberry blond mop on Leo’s head. He’s holding Tricia’s hand, until he sees me: then he drops her like a hot potato and makes a beeline for the base of the stairs.

“Mommy!”

I scoop him up in my arms and hug him fiercely. It’s only been a handful of hours, but it might as well have been years. He wraps a pudgy arm around my neck and lays a wet kiss on my cheek.

“My mommy,” he says absently, looking around the expansive room from the elevated perspective of my arms.

Carson tousles his hair and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey buddy, did you have fun today?”

“Uh-huh. I saw a clown.”

“Really?” I raise my eyebrows. “Where did you see one of those?”

Tricia grins, and her own brows go up.

“Down by the marina,” she says brightly. “He was rummaging through the garbage outside the bar and started talking to us.”

“Ohhh!” I say, beaming at Leo. “And did he smell funny, too?”

“Yup,” Leo says, barely able to contain his boredom. I set him down and he trots over to his MathMat and starts solving the equations it electronically dictates.

Carson heads to the antique bar that takes up a good chunk of the wall by the stairs.

“What can I get you guys?”

“Mojito,” says Tricia. “By which I mean a bottle of rum and a lime.”

“What about the mint?” I ask.

“Okay, throw in a stick of gum.”

I smile sympathetically.

“Everything is going to be fine,” I say, sitting down beside her on the sofa. “All we have to do tomorrow is get you dressed and get you to the church. Sophia is taking care of everything else.”

“What about you, Maks?” Carson calls from the bar.

“Nothing, thanks.”

He’s looking a little green. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was hung over, but his bachelor party was weeks ago. Carson took him and the rest of the groomsmen to the Boom Boom Room.

“Everything all right, buddy?” Carson asks.

“He’s worried about his family tomorrow,” says Tricia. “I keep telling him they can’t be worse than my clan. My cousins make the guys from Jersey Shore look like Mensa members. I’m pretty sure Leo could beat their SAT scores.”

“What’s SAT?” Leo says from his MathMat.

“Nothing you have to worry about for a few years,” I say.

Although, judging by his progress, not much more than a few years. He’s already figuring out how to read by watching the phonetics skits on Sesame Street. He may have inherited my red hair, but he got his father’s gray eyes and gifted intellect.

Too bad he also inherited my own father’s overly serious disposition. But we’re working on that.

Maks smiles, but it seems a bit forced.

“Maybe I am overthinking,” he says. “I just don’t want it to be – awkward?”

He looks at Tricia. “Is that the right word?”

She gives him the thumbs up.

“Perfect, babe,” she says, taking a sip of the mojito Carson hands her. “We’ll have you saying those vows right yet. Although I still have nightmares about you telling the priest that ‘I am taking this woman to be awfully wet and wife.’”

Carson takes a seat next to Maks and chucks him on the shoulder.

“It’s one day of your life,” he says. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Easy for you to be saying,” Maks says glumly. “You eloped.”

I smile at the memory. It was just the two of us, in a little church in Siena. Our folks weren’t overjoyed, but we had a big party when we got home and that helped smooth things over with them. Well, with our moms, anyway. Dad was put out. Of course.

But he’s coming around. It’s pretty hard to argue with a billionaire son-in-law who once offered to give up his entire fortune for your daughter.

Of course, he probably wouldn’t agree with what we’re about to do. But it’s not his decision to make. It’s ours.

“Don’t worry,” says Tricia. “If anything goes wrong, we’ll just blame Cassie and Carson. They’re the ones who paid for everyone to fly here first class and stay at the resort.”

She lays her head on my shoulder and snuggles in. I put my cheek on top of her head and we both stretch our legs onto the priceless eighteenth century coffee table. When Leo sees this, he ambles over and crawls up, stretching out across both our laps.

“I want your life,” Tricia sighs, stroking Leo’s head.

Be careful what you wish for.

Carson and Maks sit down in the armchairs across from us.

“I know this might not be the right time,” Carson says. “But have you given any thought about what you’re going to do when we go public?”

Tricialicious is on the verge of launching its initial public offering of shares in a few months. It’s been a lot of work over the past few years, but we managed to exceed our every goal. And I’m proud to say we did it without a single penny of Carson’s fortune.

Our best estimates predict Tricia, Maksim and I will be able to sell our one-third shares for $29.3 million each, or $88 million total. That’s about eight times our initial investment. I’ll be honest – sometimes the thought that I was able to do it all myself makes me so proud I want to cry.

Or at the very least phone up my dad and lord it over him.

“Oh, we’re cashing in,” says Tricia.

“Yes,” says Maksim. “No ifs, ands or asses.”

Carson snorts a laugh. Tricia and I manage to keep ours under wraps.

Maks sighs. “What this time?”

“It’s ‘buts,’” Carson says with a sympathetic look.

“Butts, asses,” Maks grouses. “What is the difference?”

I give him a reassuring smile. “It’s perfectly fine, Maks,” I say. “So you’re ready to walk away with sixty million bucks?”

“It is more than enough for us,” he says. “Even now that I have no trust fund.”

Maks lost that money last year when the feds finally cracked down on his family. His father managed to avoid jail, but they were left virtually penniless after all the fines were paid and the illegal assets were confiscated.

Now they all come to him for money, which I know makes him as proud as my situation makes me.

Of course, he didn’t have to spend any of his own money for years. Carson always picked up the tab. Maybe that was a good thing – Maks never learned how to be greedy.

“I still can’t comprehend any of it,” says Tricia. “My whole life I couldn’t afford anything, then I meet you people and suddenly I’m living this ridiculous lifestyle. It’s crazy. Like my grandpa used to say, I don’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

“Don’t say shit,” Leo murmurs sleepily in our laps, prompting the two of us to clamp our lips between our teeth to keep from bellowing laughter.

“Besides,” Tricia says after we calm down. “Our best friends are still obscenely rich.”

Carson and I exchange a glance.

“Actually,” I say, “we were wondering if we could talk to you two about that.”

* * *

“Trish, if you don’t close your mouth soon, a bug is going to crawl in.”

Her jaw has been hanging open for a full minute, since before I took Leo to his bed for his nap. Maksim’s mouth is closed, but his eyes look like they’re trying to bid adieu to his skull and float off into orbit.

Carson squeezes my hand as I sit next to him.

“Say something,” he urges them. “Even if it’s telling us to go pound sand up our asses. I mean butts.”

“You’re not serious,” Tricia breathes. “This is a joke.”

“No joke,” I say. “If you two are up for the trade, we’ll make it happen.”

“But – but it’s not making sense,” says Maks. “Nobody trades $3 billion for $90 million. That is like giving someone your precious Ferrari and taking their Smart Car.”

Carson and I look at each other.

“Never thought of it that way,” he says with a grin.

Tricia leans forward on the sofa and takes my hands in hers.

“Why?” she asks. “Why give it away? And to us, of all people?”

I squeeze her hands and smile. Sometimes I love her so much, it hurts. If God had asked me to design the perfect sister, it would have been her.

“Simple,” I say. “Because we do want to give it away, and you two are the best people to do that for us. We want you to oversee a charitable foundation that distributes the majority of the fortune. How much you decide to give is up to you.

“After all,” I smile, “one of us has to still be obscenely rich.”

Carson claps Maks on the back.

“That means the penthouse is yours,” he says. “But you still can’t smoke cigars in the study. Sorry.”

Maks smiles absently. He looks like someone waiting for the alarm buzzer to go off and wake them up.

“You didn’t answer my question,” says Tricia. “Why us? Why not someone else who would be better at it? Neither of us has even been to college.”

I glance at Carson. It’s his money, and it was his idea. He should be the one to explain it.

“Well,” he says. “As to why we chose you, it’s simple. It’s not because we consider you family – you already know that much. It’s because you two are the kindest people we know.”

He looks at Maks. “I’ve never met someone like you, man. You never judge, ever. You’re kind and accepting to everyone. You don’t have a mean bone in your body. Sometimes you remind me of Leo that way.”

I see tears shimmer in Maksim’s eyes, and next thing I know, I’m fighting my own.

“Thank you, brat,” he breathes, using the Russian word for brother. “That is greatest compliment I ever have.”

“And you,” I say, looking Tricia in the eyes. “You have a way of looking at things that cuts straight through the bullshit and gets right to the heart of the matter. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you.”

Carson and I exchange a glance.

“We wouldn’t be where we are without you,” he says. “If you can help others the way you helped us? We couldn’t ask any better use for the money.”

The two of them look at each other and link their hands. Tears are flowing freely everywhere now.

Tricia wipes at her eyes with the heels of her palms.

“Good thing you got this out of the way tonight, bitch,” she rasps. “It’d be just like you to ruin my make-up on my wedding day.”

Carson and I simultaneously position ourselves on either side of them on the sofa, wrapping our arms around their shoulders. We were prepared for this.

“So,” I say. “Is that a yes?”

They look at each other and back at us.

“Yes,” says Maksim. “I mean yes, it is yes.”

“And you know I’ll be calling you every five minutes asking you what to do,” Tricia snuffles.

I smile. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“But wait,” she says, finally rummaging a tissue out of her purse. “What are you guys going to do? With the $90 million, I mean?”

She looks at Carson. “You’re already retired, you lazy ass. What are you going to do, just downsize?”

We exchange another glance.

“Well,” I say. “Therein lies a tale.”

* * *

“Your mouth is hanging open again,” I tell Tricia. “It’s getting a little old.”

“You’re the one who keeps kicking my feet out from under me,” she breathes. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” says Carson.

“But why?” Maks asks, clearly baffled.

“I was blessed for a long time,” says Carson. “And when I found Cassie, I finally understood what the term ‘embarrassment of riches’ meant.”

Maks opens his mouth and Tricia holds up a hand.

“It means he has more than he deserves. Go on.”

“I realized when we got together that I had wasted a good portion of my time, abilities and fortune,” says Carson. “I don’t know if I believe in a god, but I do know that if there is one, he really put me at the front of the line.”

He looks at me.

“And when I learned more about Cassie’s life, I realized what a selfish shit I’d been. There are so many people in the world with real problems.”

“That’s where the idea to give away his fortune came from,” I say.

Tricia nods. “Okay, I get that. But what about this other crazy scheme?”

Carson smiles and shakes his head.

“Maybe it is crazy,” he says. “But we have to try. There are a lot of women – and girls – in this world who are being bought and sold as possessions. That’s wrong. And I, of all people, have a lot to atone for in that department.”

I take his hand. We’ve had a lot of long talks about this. We’re both ashamed of ever getting involved in the Chase – each for different reasons, of course, but both for lowering ourselves. Me for money and Carson for thrills.

But what we saw that day in Brighton Beach, with Bogdan and Anna… no one should ever have to deal with people like that. But thousands of women and girls around the world have to, every single day of the year.

“We’ve got a unique combination of resources,” I say. “We have an obligation to use them to help those who can’t help themselves.”

“It’s a tall order,” says Maksim.

The rest of us gape at him.

“Maks!” Tricia cries. “You got it right!”

He beams at us like a kid who brings home an A+ test to his parents.

“You’re right, buddy,” says Carson. “But we have to start somewhere.”

Tricia’s tears are flowing freely again now, and I’m barely keeping mine in check. This might just be the most emotional moment of my life outside of Leo’s birth.

“You guys are my heroes,” she sobs.

That’s it; the dam’s breaking again.

“What do you mean?” I say. “You saved both our lives that day! And Maks risked his life to try to save mine!”

Jesus, now we’re all blubbering. We sit there like that for a while, laughing, crying, hugging.

Finally, we get ourselves under control, outside of the occasional snuffle.

“All right,” she says. “Now that the fucking love-in is over, let’s eat.”

We lose it all over again, and laugh so long and hard that we wake Leo from his nap, and he starts to wail from his bedroom at the noise.

* * *

The sun has begun to go down in a ball of fire by the time they come around to collect the dishes from the banquet. Leo is squirming in my lap at the head table; he’s normally an easy kid to keep entertained, but a wedding where he’s surrounded by Russian women constantly pinching his cheeks has pushed his patience to its limit.

I sneak into my purse and pull out a small Rubik’s cube, which he snags greedily and takes with him under the tablecloth. It should keep him occupied for an hour at least – or until he solves it, whichever comes first.

Out in the courtyard across from us, the string quartet is warming up for the dance to follow. I get the feeling Maksim’s family will enjoy it, but Tricia’s will be calling for a DJ within an hour.

Carson reaches over and takes my hand, bringing it to his lips. His kiss is warm and familiar and still sends a tingle through me after all these years.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I say.

He frowns. “I don’t think we can afford that anymore.”

I slap his arm with my free hand and roll my eyes.

“Are you ready for all this?” he asks softly. “It’s not going to be easy.”

“Neither of us has ever done anything the easy way, my love.”

He sighs. “I suppose you’re right. The curse of being blessed with an embarrassment of riches.”

I squeeze his hand in mine, feeling the warmth there, the familiarity. I imagine I can feel the beat of his heart in time with mine.

“Hey,” I say. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I’m still so happy it was you.”

Tricia comes trotting over, radiant in her dress and rimmed with the blazing colors of the sunset against the rich green of the courtyard behind her. She yanks up the tablecloth, startling a shriek out of Leo. She picks him up and hauls him off, giggling with him like a loon, onto the dance floor, where she does her best to keep him moving to the delicate strains of the chamber music.

Carson leans in and kisses my cheek.

“I’m still so happy it was us,” he says. “All of us.”

We sit there in silence a long time, drinking in the beauty and reveling in the utter contentment of this perfect moment.

Faking It

Fake Husband, Real Daddy.

I've got the perfect kid, and I’ve got the perfect life.

But there’s something missing: the perfect virgin wife.

It doesn't matter if it's fake.

The second Penny walked into my office, I knew I was f*cked.

Nineteen, sweet, soft, delicious.

I sense it just by looking at her. The hesitation when she hides from my stare.

She's a virgin.

Her sweet scent tempts me to pluck the innocence right out of her.

When my billionaire nemesis bribes Child Protective Services to pressure me to sell my company, Penny steps in to play mommy.

She has no idea how bad I want this. How bad I want her.

Fake marriage to help save my daughter?

What a f*cking turn on.

She played mommy in my time of need.

Now it’s time for me to play daddy!

Chapter One

Penny

Glass. Glass everywhere. That means reflections: everywhere.

I can’t hide from the reflections; nor can I hide from myself. Everywhere I look I see a ginger girl with an ironing board chest and a bowling ball ass staring back at me. Oh, and she’s pale, to boot. I need some sun: except – even if I get some – I’m not going to get a killer tan, just freckles.

I accepted long ago that I’ll never be on the cover of Vogue.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“Don’t just stand there, girl,” Miss Casey says. “How did you get this job, anyway?”

I can’t believe I have to call this woman Miss Casey. I feel like I’m back in kindergarten. She’s a stern woman in her late fifties, and it shows. She wears her hair in a tight bob, pulled back, and a freaking tweed skirt pours all the way down past her ankles.

Seriously; I kid you not.

But the worst part of all this? She makes me feel exactly who I am – a nineteen-year-old virgin, and hopelessly out of my depth.

“Sorry,” I squeak. The tray of hot drinks rattles in my hand, betraying my nervousness.

Now that I’m here, it all feels so real. It’s my first day, but I’m not just working behind the counter at a Starbucks – not even close. A security lanyard dangles around my neck. I’ve been background checked like you wouldn’t believe.

Just getting into the skyscraper headquarters of Thorne Enterprises was, well, thorny. I had to dance through half a dozen security checkpoints. The closer I got to the CEOs office, the more intense they got: hard-faced men – all ex-special forces – eyeballing me, hands twitching on their weapons.

I dunno. It all seems a bit much. But – I made it here: to the inner sanctum. Miss Casey’s desk sits right in front of the frosted glass doors to the CEOs office. New York stretches out ahead and below of the skyscraper’s huge windows – all the way to the horizon, and fifty stories down.

“Give me that,” Miss Casey huffs.

Close, but no cigar.

“I can do it,” I squeak. But it’s too late.

I’d done my research – just like anyone should do when they get a new job – and a whole lot more. But Charlie Thorne’s secretary is an enigma cloaked in mystery. As far as I can tell, she’s been with Mr. Thorne from the start. He took her with him on his meteoric rise to billionaire-dom: lucky woman.

She reaches over to grab the tray. At that same moment, a harried-looking executive in a tailored suit storms into the office lobby. It would be a cliché to say he’s leaving sheets of paper in a trail behind him, but that’s close enough.

“Ella,” he grunts. “I need to see Charlie: now.”

He doesn’t even bother looking at Mister Thorne’s secretary. I know his type: self-important; myopic; bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. I recoil in distaste. The tray rattles, again.

I wish you could see the look on Ella – no – Miss Casey’s face. A stormy darkness, worthy of a summer Oklahoma tornado, crashes across her visage, and that’s just when she’s facing me.

“Excuse me?” she hisses. Her voice is chilling. It reminds me of every terrifying schoolteacher or imposing headmistress I have ever had in my life. “Precisely what did you just call me, Michael?”

The executive glances up. His thin eyelashes brush each other rapidly as he realizes his mistake. Unfortunately, he’s got too much pride to back down.

“Ella,” he says, doubling down. “This is none of your business. I need to see Charlie – now. You’re just a secretary –”

Oh, crap. You should not have said that. You should NOT have said that.

Miss Casey holds up a single finger. Michael freezes, as though she’s reached in and squeezed his vocal chords. “You,” she says, “wait.”

She turns to me. She fixes me with an intense, questioning stare. I just stand there, steam wafting from the hot drinks. I know she’s about to really test me; I just don’t know whether I’ll pass.

“Penny, please go into Mr. Thorne’s office and deliver this tray. If you can accomplish this task without being seen or heard that would be lovely. Don’t spill anything.”

She turns away.

My throat clenches. A tiny shudder of adrenaline passes through my body. This is what I wanted – of course it is. I couldn’t be closer to power than I am about to be. Yet: after all this work; the research; the job hunting; the hours of careful preparation for the interviews; I couldn’t be more terrified.

“Sure thing, Miss Casey,” I say. I twist on my heel and face the big frosted doors. Be seen and not heard. I can do that. I’ve been doing it all my life.

“And dear?” She says more than asks. I turn my head. “Remember the nondisclosure agreement you signed. Believe me, it’s ironclad. If you reveal a word you hear in there, I’m afraid that’ll be it for you.”

I nod. The tray rattles. My stomach does a backflip as I realize I’ve landed myself in an incredibly serious situation.

Miss Casey dismisses me, turning back to the hapless executive. She lowers her voice to a hushed, outraged whisper. I can’t fault her professionalism. She’s all kinds of pissed, but there’s no way she’s going to let her boss hear the drama.

“And, as for you, Michael: let’s get some things straight. It’s Mr. Thorne, not Charlie. And I am most certainly not called Ella.”

“But Charlie – I mean – Mr. Thorne said I could –”

I push the frosted doors aside. They whisper open without a sound, and hush the argument behind me.

A huge office opens up in front of me. The CEOs desk is right at the other end of the sixty feet long room, pushed up against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Otherwise, the office is sparsely decorated.

Whoever Charlie Thorne really is, apparently he doesn’t do ostentatious wealth. This place is elegant and understated. Even so, it screams that it’s the office of one of New York’s most eligible, and billionaire, bachelors. It surprises me. I expected everything to be dripping leaf gold.

I hear the murmur of conversation. I freeze for a second. I need to remember why I’m here: I’m Mister Thorne’s new personal assistant. Everything he knows, I need to know.

“Mister Thorne, I really must insist –”

He sees me.

His piercing gray eyes search me out from across the room. Crap, I didn’t expect him to be quite so handsome. In the pictures I’ve seen he looks colder, somehow. In all the research I did, I’ve never seen him do a spread in BusinessWeek or Time Magazine. He’s not in the society pages, either. He’s not that kind of billionaire. He’s elusive, hard to pin down. He flies under the radar.

He beckons me over.

A prim lady is seated in front of Mr. Thorne’s desk. Her legs are crossed, and her hands rest neatly on a yellow legal notepad on her lap. She’s sitting on a wing-backed, aged maroon leather armchair. She twists to look at me, but dismisses me instantly. Strangely, my new boss’s gaze never wavers. His eyes follow me all the way in.

“The fact is, Mr. Thorne, we’ve had a number of complaints. I really don’t see how you can run a corporation of this size and still have enough time to devote to a healthy home life –”

Mr. Thorne bites his lip. I can tell he wants to say something, but is only holding back through a monumental force of will. I close the distance to his desk.

“More to the point, my records state that you are a single father. You are unmarried. This is simply not acceptable. How can you possibly hope to provide a stable environment for your daughter? The simple fact of the matter is that my department is of the mind to remove her from your care until –”

“Miss –” he says, his face flinching with the effort of not biting back at the woman. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what is going on. The woman in front of him is from Child Protective Services. If I heard her correctly, she wants to take away Charlie Thorne’s child.

I didn’t even know he had a daughter. How the hell did I miss that?

“Ms. Winters,” she says. I reach her, and I see a sickening, saccharine smile sweep across the face. It’s such an obviously fake smile, it hurts. I can’t believe that she believes the words coming out of her own mouth. I feel like I’m watching a game of chess play out in front of me.

Charlie smiles at me. I mean – Mr. Thorne. I can’t let myself think of him as a real person, though this situation is quickly making it difficult not to.

“Ms. Winters,” he says. “What complaints are you talking about? My daughter has everything she could ask for. I’m there when she wakes up; I’m there when she gets home from school. She has the best tutors; the best of everything. Hell, she’s on a hockey tour of England at the moment –”

The woman from CPS raises her hand. “You’ll understand, of course, I simply cannot reveal my sources.”

An idea strikes me with the force of a lightning bolt: a way to solve Charlie’s problem – and my own – in one fell swoop. It’s neat: it’s tidy; it’s damn near genius. If I manage to pull it off. And that’s a big if.

“But you’re happy to sit here,” Charlie spits, “and threaten to take my daughter away because I –”

Oh God, I can’t believe I’m going to do this. Someone stop me. This is quite simply the most foolhardy, craziest thing I’ve ever done. How can it possibly end well?

I bring the tray to rest on the green leather that tops Charlie Thorne’s mahogany desk. My heart is thundering inside my chest. My throat is clenched.

I walk towards him, breaking his train of thought. He looks up at me questioningly. His eyes would steal the breath out of me, if I had any to give. I don’t. I need it all.

I loop my arm around Charlie Thorne’s waist. I reach up onto my tiptoes – I need to – and plant a little kiss on his cheek. “Charlie,” I say in a stage whisper, in an accent that makes me sound like I grew up on the Upper East Side, not half-homeless in Brooklyn.

“I’m so, so sorry I’m late. It was the traffic. I had to get out of the car on 5th and run the rest of the way. Did I miss anything?”

You could hear a pin drop. Charlie Thorne – billionaire Charlie Thorne – a man who has never met me in my entire life, looks me in the eye. He has no idea who I am. I can tell he doesn’t know what to do.

“And you are?” Ms. Winters says from her armchair. She ruffles through the papers on her lap. “I don’t have any records of you having a girlfriend, Mister Thorne. And might I say that I find it somewhat improper –”

“Girlfriend,” I say. I let out a tinkling little laugh that seals my fate. “Charlie, please. Didn’t you tell the poor lady?”

Cruella de CPS’s forehead wrinkles suspiciously. “Tell me what, precisely?”

“That we’re married, of course,” I say. “We kept it quiet, but only because that’s what Charlie’s like. You hate being in the society pages, don’t you, darling?”

I hear an intake of breath. I can’t tell whether it’s from Ms. Winters, or from Charlie himself. Since the lady from CPS opens her mouth a second later, I realize that it’s Charlie: definitely Charlie.

“So you mean to tell me that you are –”

“Penny Thorne, of course,” I say. I lean against Charlie’s perfect, muscular frame. He’s wearing a light gray suit that matches his eyes, and hugs his billion-dollar body. He feels stiff. I wonder if he’s about to throw me out; to apologize for the crazy lady that burst into his office. But he doesn’t.

I realize that he can’t. I’ve put him in a no-win situation. If he denies he’s ever met me, then that’s just more evidence in the take-his-kid-away camp. But even if he embraces my lie, it still might not be enough.

But right now, it’s the only shot he’s got.

Ms. Winters turns to Charlie: my new husband; kinda. “Mr. Thorne, would you please explain exactly why you failed to inform my office that you were married.”

I freeze.

This is the moment of truth. A year’s work might – in just seconds – be thrown onto the scrap heap. Maybe I moved too fast. Maybe I ruined everything. I hold my breath.

“That,” he breathes, “is a very good question.” He pauses. The silence in the room lingers. My eyes track a seagull holding position on a thermal wind , forty stories up in the New York skyline. I certainly wish I was out there, carefree on the breeze, not here.

Winters’s eyebrow kinks. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to enlighten me as to whether it’s a question with an answer?”

Charlie heaves a sigh. My lungs are still frozen, that same breath straining to get out. But I hold it still, waiting for the answer. I’m about to find out if my new surname is Thorne.

His arm falls to my waist. He hugs me tight and brushes his lips against my forehead. Where his skin touches me, I feel an electric tingle I never expected.

“It’s just been so frantic,” he says. His reply is halting at first, but quickly strengthens. This man is a born actor. I guess you have to be, when you’re dealing with this much money. After a while, you’re just playing a part. “It all happened so quickly. What’s it been, months?” He says.

My eyes narrow as I try to head him off. I know exactly what Ms. Winters is going to say about that. I can’t let her think that we had a shotgun wedding, especially when the reality is so much worse.

“Mr. Thorne –” she says. Her voice is hard, lips pressed tight against each other. I cut her off.

“Yes,” I say. I stroke an imaginary piece of fluff from his suit pants. “Months – since the wedding, that is. But we’ve been dating for years.”

“And just how old are you, Miss –?”

“Mrs. Thorne,” Charlie growls. The sound of his voice thrills me. I shiver. It was protective and caring. God, this man can act. If only it was real.

“Mrs. Thorne, then,” Ms. Winters says with a sour look on her face. “You don’t look much past your eighteenth birthday.”

“Nineteen,” I say. It’s just about the first thing I’ve said since I entered this room that hasn’t been a lie. And a quarter, I don’t bother adding. I have a funny feeling it wouldn’t go down well.

The woman’s eyes dance between me and my fake husband. A look of barely-concealed disdain dances on her cheeks. “Don’t you think that’s a little young to be getting married?” She asks.

I’m of half a mind to slap her. What business is it of hers if I get married at this age? Even if it isn’t real, I mean. Does that matter?

“No, not really,” I reply. “We’ve been in love for long enough. Why wait, I say?”

“What about your daughter, Mr. Thorne. How does –”

Crap. Given that ten minutes ago I didn’t realize my new boss had a daughter, I sure as hell don’t know her name. Can I go to jail for lying to CPS? I don’t know, and the last thing I want is to have to find out.

“Tilly loves Penny,” my new husband says. “I haven’t seen her as happy since her mother died.”

Double crap: he’s really doubled down. I mean, I guess I didn’t leave him any other choice, but still. I should not have done this. Screwed doesn’t even cover it. I mean, where do we go from here? Do I move in with him? Meet his daughter? Sleep with him?

Ms. Winters stands up. The movement breaks me out of my shocked daze. She shuffles her papers and settles them in her handbag.

“I suppose everything is in order,” she says, “for now.”

“I’m glad,” Charlie says. He turns a hundred-watt smile on her. It does nothing to melt the woman’s icy exterior. “And about those complaints: you couldn’t –?”

“I couldn’t,” she confirms. “And Mr. Thorne: it’s not best practice to ask those questions.” That’s the last thing she says before she takes her leave. Both Charlie and I hold our breath until the frosted doors close behind her. The second they do, he recoils from me as though I’m coated in poison.

I don’t know why, but his reaction hurts.

My boss stalks behind his desk, and then sags back into a brown leather executive chair. He reaches forward and stabs a button on the intercom. He doesn’t wait for the person on the other end.

“Ella, organize a meeting with Harper: now.”

Click.

He doesn’t wait for a response. I guess that’s one of the perks of being worth more than most small countries. I feel his gaze on my skin, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. A phrase keeps repeating in my mind.

Charles Thorne. Boss. Husband.

Lover?

Chapter Two

Penny

Walking in Charlie Thorne’s wake is like following the path of a hurricane: a hurricane with a perfectly toned, beautifully sculpted ass. His gray suit hugs it. Every time he takes a step forward, the soft, thin wool clings to his buttocks.

I need to get my dirty mind off it. I’ve got bigger problems than my libido right now.

He doesn’t say a word. After he spoke to his secretary over the intercom, Charlie closed his eyes, laid back in his seat, and sat like that for a couple of seconds. I opened my mouth, and then I closed it again.

After all, what the heck do you say to your boss when you’ve just married him?

Yeah – I didn’t know either.

We breeze past the lobby.

Miss Casey gives me the stink eye. She knows I’m in trouble; and I can tell she’s desperate to find out why. But in truth, the stern secretary is the least of my problems right now. Mr. Thorne’s pumping out a cold, calm fury. He hasn’t turned it on me yet, but I know he will.

And I’m worried.

“Good Morning, Mr. Thorne; are you heading out?” A man says as we near the elevator. He’s mid-30s, with a pistol on his hip and short-cropped military hair. Ex-special forces; I’d put money on it.

Mr. Thorne just grunts.

“Mind if I come along?”

Out comes another grunt.

We all know that it’s not really a question. Men with Mr. Thorne’s resources don’t just walk around town without protection.

The strange, tense anger radiating from my boss’s body almost crackles in the elevator. The last thing I want is for those doors to ping closed, but they do. So now there are three of us, in a box that sinks forty stories toward the ground in just a few seconds. My stomach falls out from underneath me.

My hand flails out and –

And Charlie Thorne catches it. He holds me tight. Our eyes meet, but neither of us says a word. What can we say? Still, I know what I feel. A tingle runs through me, sparking and crackling. Then he lets go.

It’s gone.

The elevator hits the bottom floor. The doors slide open. The bodyguard steps out and whistles. Another man – same haircut – catches his eye, grabs a set of car keys and spins away.

“Where are we going, boss?” The bodyguard asks. He keeps his voice low and respectful. I can tell that he doesn’t want to poke the bear any more than I do.

Charlie looks up for the first time. His eyebrow dances. “Sorry?”

“Just wondering where we’re headed,” the bodyguard says. “So the chase cars can keep up.”

He meets his boss’s gaze, but I notice that his eyes don’t linger there. They are always moving, always dancing. Looking up, checking sniper spots and suddenly interrogating everyone who walks. There’s no doubting how professional this guy is. If I was worth nine billion dollars, he’s the kind of guy I would want on my side.

Charlie runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, Tony. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Let’s head to Yautcha, okay?”

Yautcha: New York’s hottest Japanese restaurant. I’ve heard of it because everyone’s heard of it. Every day of the week they’ve got celebrities there: Matthew McConaughey; Emma Stone; Meryl Streep; you name it, they’ve been there.

And that’s just Monday.

I’m no restaurant critic, but I know a thing or two. Like, I know you can’t just waltz into Yautcha without a reservation. It’s got a nine-month waiting list; and that’s just to book a table. Except, apparently, you can just waltz in once you’ve got several zeros and three commas behind your name.

“You got it, boss.”

The hurricane resumes walking.

I’ve thought about this moment – well not this precise moment, but close – every day for months. I’ve been working up to getting a job like this all year. I thought about it more than you could possibly imagine. But even so, the reality takes me by surprise. When you’re worth what Charlie Thorne is worth, things just happen.

You need a car? Sure thing – one will turn up outside your New York skyscraper office and take you wherever you want to go.

You need a restaurant reservation? Don’t bother.

You need a woman? Well – apparently you can get a wife just by showing up at work.

We sit in the back seat of Charlie’s limousine. He leans forward, rolls the partition window up, and we’re left in silence. There’s a pause for a couple of seconds. I start to wonder if he’s ever going to mention what I did. Maybe I’ll get away with it.

Yeah, right.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He asks. He’s trembling, bristling with rage. “No – scratch that. Who the hell are you? Why don’t you start with that? What’s your name?”

The limousine’s engine rumbles into life. I hear the signal indicator – click, click – and feel as the limo turns into New York’s lunchtime traffic. My mouth goes dry. I scrape my tongue across my lips. What the hell am I going to do?

“Penny,” I croak. “Penny Walters.”

Charlie Thorne’s gray eyes drill into my skin. It’s an icy heat – cold, crackling, but no less painful. He breaks me, as I frantically search for an explanation.

His eyebrows kink due to my answer. “Not Penny Thorne? Because – funny story, really – if I’m remembering correctly, you just lied to Child Protective Services and told them you were my wife. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Thinking? That’s the problem; I wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought –”

“That you were helping?” He says with scorn. “Well, that’s obvious. Couldn’t you come up with a believable story, at least?”

Every time my boss speaks, my stupidity gets rammed home. It’s like I’m an anvil, and his dismissive words are the hammer. He rains down blows upon blows.

“I mean, look at you,” he says. “You’re what, eighteen?”

“Nineteen,” I say. Angry heat surges onto my cheeks. I know I’ve screwed up, but he doesn’t need to treat me like this, does he?

Charlie wakes his hand. “Nineteen, then: and you think this is believable? You think CPS is just going to swallow your story hook line and sinker, do you?”

“Well,” I say softly. “You went with it, didn’t you?”

Charlie sighs. He brings his hands to his throat, unlaces his tie and throws it on to the seats opposite. He loosens the top button of his shirt. “Penny, you really didn’t leave me with any other choice.”

* * *

The limousine pulls up outside Yautcha after twenty long, agonizing minutes of silence. It quickly becomes apparent that Charlie Thorne doesn’t think of me as an equal. In fact, if he had it his way, I don’t think he would think of me at all.

I don’t know who this guy Harper is, but I guess I’m about to find out.

A white-jacketed maître d’ greets us at the floor to ceiling glass doors. I don’t know how he knew to be there. I guess this is just Charlie’s life.

“Mr. Thorne,” he smiles. “It is such a pleasure to have you join us again. Would you like your usual table?”

For the first time since all this started, I see Charlie crack a genuine smile. “Hey Jimmy,” he says. He brings the man in for a hug. “Good to see you again. Can you put me somewhere quiet instead?”

I look out into the busy restaurant. It’s dark and intimate. Black-jacketed waiters float around – seen but not heard. It’s only just past noon on a Monday, and yet the place is packed. I don’t think Yautcha does quiet. I’m getting ready for the inevitable apology – because that’s what happens in my life – when the exact opposite happens.

“Sure thing, boss,” Jimmy says. “Just give me twenty seconds. Can I get you a drink while you wait?”

Charlie shakes his head.

The wheels spin into motion. In a few seconds, well-heeled diners paying hundreds of bucks a head get asked to stand up, move the different tables, and are given free bottles of wine to calm their plaintive complaints.

We’re sitting down in under two minutes. The table’s laid for three.

“Can I get you anything to eat, Mr. Thorne?” Jimmy asks.

Terrified as I am of the conversation we’re about to have, my stomach rumbles. I’ve never been to a restaurant like this in my life. Hell, a week’s worth of my paycheck at Thorne Enterprises probably wouldn’t cover the entrées. So, I’m kind of hoping that Charlie says yes.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

“I’m good, Jimmy; just a bottle of sparkling water.”

Sure. That’s just my luck. I get the one goddamn billionaire in all of New York who isn’t a glutton. I mean, that it seems he’s also the one billionaire in all of New York who isn’t fat, red-nosed and verging on the edge of gout, but still…

I stop thinking about it: about Charlie. It’s not like I’ve got any chance of sleeping with him anyway. I think we’re long past that point.

I cast my eyes longingly around the restaurant. Spicy, Eastern scents waft into my nostrils. I breathe in, deeply. I wouldn’t miss them for the world.

“You’re not hungry, are you?” Mr. Thorne asks. He’s definitely Mr. Thorne when he’s in this kind of mood.

I shake my head. “No,” I reply. “Not hungry,” I lie.

We wait. The sparkling water arrives. We wait some more.

I stare at the perfectly pressed white tablecloth. My heart thuds in my chest. I feel like I’m waiting for Judgment Day. I guess in a way, I kind of am.

I hear the clicking of heels approaching.

Charlie’s chair scrapes back on the sparkling black marble floor. He stands. “Harper,” he says. “Thanks for making it here on such short notice.”

I glance up guiltily. I expect to see Charlie’s lawyer: probably a man in his 60s with a rounding gut, and a two-thousand dollar suit.

That’s… not … what I see.

Instead, I see Charlie Thorne embracing a six foot tall beauty. I glance down to see if she’s wearing heels and a lance of jealousy burns through me when I notice she’s not. Harper’s not just model tall, but a perfect Scandinavian blonde. She’s wearing a restrained blouse, and a close-fitting pencil skirt. In short, she looks like every man’s fantasy.

I pale away in comparison.

“Penny,” Charlie says in a clipped tone. “Meet Harper: Harper Cole, my… fixer.”

Harper, Harper Cole sticks out her hand. “Please, Charlie. I’m your lawyer, not some backstreet mob enforcer,” she says.

They both sit.

“So,” Harper says.

Her eyes twinkle as she pours a small glass of water. The bubbles fizz and pop and I decide that out of everywhere in the world, those seem like the right place to look. Less dangerous, at least, than looking at Harper, Harper Cole, who I’m pretty sure can read me like a book. “What’s the emergency?”

Charlie waits so long before he speaks that I begin to wonder whether he wants me to explain what I did. Luckily, he finally speaks up. As he does I finally summon the courage to look somewhere other than the tablecloth.

“Harper,” he growls. “Meet Penny – my wife.”

That, I think, is the only sentence that could possibly have knocked Harper’s cool, collected confidence. Her face blanches, and her eyes widen. She mops her dark red lips with her napkin, leaving a tiny smear of lipstick on the bright white cotton.

“And I didn’t get an invite to the wedding, Charlie?” She says calmly, barely missing a beat. “After all we’ve been through together, I think I deserve that much, don’t you?”

“That’s the thing, Harper,” Charlie says. “I didn’t get an invite, either.”

Harper leans forward. “Oh,” she says. “Now this is getting interesting. Tell me everything.”

Charlie does. It doesn’t take long. By the time he’s finished, I feel even more stupid than I already do. He lays out my silly excuse for a plan step-by-step, and doesn’t even need to knock it down for me to realize how stupid I was.

Harper’s eyebrows soar like hot air balloons throughout the story. “Well, Charlie. You always bring me the most interesting cases, don’t you?”

Charlie brushes aside Harper’s pale attempt at humor. “What the hell are we going to do, Harper? You assured me that the CPS thing was done. Then this woman turns up my office demanding a meeting out of the blue.”

“Two words for you, Charlie,” Harper says: “Landon Winchester.”

I sit up in my seat. Finally, I understand more than a fraction of the legal jargon the pair of them have been bandying around the last couple of minutes.

Landon Winchester: I know that name. He’s New York’s other leading light. Unlike Charlie Thorne, he craves the spotlight. Unlike Charlie Thorne, he came from money, didn’t make his own fortune. Still, I don’t see what he could possibly have to do with what happened earlier in Charlie’s office.

“Go on,” Charlie growls.

He’s got a dangerous, hard edge to his voice. I shiver. He sounds like exactly the kind of man I thought he was when I took the job. And, though he doesn’t know it, it’s exactly the reason I applied.

“Our good friend, Mr. Winchester’s father, was one of the mayor’s biggest donors. Since the old man died, little has changed. In the last election campaign alone, he gave a couple of million dollars. Not all legally, of course. Wired it through half a dozen 501s, but it’s hard to trace.”

Charlie’s face wrinkles with disdain. “Elections,” he spits. “I’ll never understand why people spend so much time and money trying to influence grubby politicians like the mayor.”

“See, Charlie,” Harper says. “Here’s the thing –.”

I get the feeling this is a conversation they have had many times before. Again, a little tinge of jealousy runs down my spine. I know I shouldn’t feel it. I’m nothing to Charlie, and he’s nothing to me. But I envy the relationship he has with his lawyer. They treat each other like equals; it’s plain to see.

“– I know you don’t like paying people off, but when it comes down to it, Landon Winchester has the power to put pressure on the mayor.”

“I don’t want that power,” Charlie says. “I just want to make money and spend it, is that so much to ask?”

Harper rolls her eyes. “Charlie, this is New York, not freaking Rhode Island. This place is like Game of Thrones, you know that. Anything goes; the gloves are off. If Winchester thinks he can mess with your head while this merger’s going on –”

I realize what they’re talking about. I don’t know if it’s true, but Harper definitely thinks that the CPS investigation is politically motivated. Thinking about it, it makes sense. After all, even if he doesn’t have a wife – not before me, anyway – Charlie Thorne can still give Tilly the kind of life that most children could only dream of.

“So what do we do?” Charlie says. He does it irritably, but shoots Harper a look of apology just a couple of seconds later. Trying to get my head around Charlie Thorne is giving me whiplash. Every time I think he’s an asshole, a piece of evidence suggests the opposite is true.

I wish he was an asshole. I want him to be an asshole. It’ll make this so much easier.

“You’re not going to like this, Charlie,” Harper says. “But until this investigation blows over, we can’t rock the boat.”

Charlie shakes his head. “No, don’t you dare say it, Harps.”

Harps: the nickname runs like a blade through my heart.

The blonde lawyer smiles, and spreads her hands wide, like a priest giving a blessing. “It is what it is, Charlie. You two need to get married.”

Chapter Three

Penny

I’m still trembling two hours later.

My best friend, Robbie – Roberta, really, but she’s a tomboy and she’d kick my ass if she heard me call her that – slides into the diner booth next to me. I’m gripping a milkshake in both hands: chocolate, and hard. Hard in the sense that I dumped three shots of whiskey into it from a pint I bought in a run-down grocery store across the street from my apartment. Condensation rolls down my fingers.

“Get dumped?” Robbie giggles. She throws her hat and gloves down messily on the table.

I look up at her. She’s colored her hair again: blue, this time. “You’ve got to stop doing that,” I say. “It’ll start falling out.”

“Ooh,” Robbie grins. “Must have been a bad day if Little Miss Perfect’s back to telling me how to wear my hair.”

“Don’t call me that,” I grump. “You know I hate it.”

Robbie elbows me in the ribs. When she does that, she’s not messing around. I wince and rock away; almost spilling my milkshake in the process. Robbie leans over and gracefully steals it from me. She brings the straw to her mouth and takes a sip.

“Wild Turkey,” she says, naming the brand of bottom shelf bourbon I’ve used.

“It must’ve been a really bad first day. Geez, Penny, you know how many calories they put in these drinks? If you want to fit into one of those sexy li’l pencil skirts tomorrow, you better lay off. Don’t worry, I’ll help.”

Help she does.

A long, lingering slurp fills the cramped booth. I know Robbie’s messing with me on purpose, but it sure as hell works. I’m distracted by a little flicker of annoyance. It’s like having a stone in my shoe while I’m being chased by a bear. I shouldn’t notice it, but I do.

It’s all I can think about.

I guess that’s what best friends are for.

“Why are you so upbeat?” I growl. “I screwed it up. Everything detail we’ve been planning, for months, I wrecked it all.”

Robbie clunks the heavy milkshake glass down. She loops her arm around my shoulder and squeezes me tight. It feels funny, because she’s half a foot shorter than me, and doesn’t weigh hundred pounds soaking wet, but I don’t complain. I need a hug.

“Hey, Penny?”

“Yeah?”

“You know how they say misery loves company?”

“Yeah.”

“Well they say bullshit. Or I do, if that makes more sense. Screw it, what I mean is that if I’d wanted someone to bring me down. I’d have gone over to Dan’s place.”

Dan.

He’s Robbie’s on-again, off-again boyfriend. He’s a musician – guitar – not that I’ve ever heard him practice. As far as I’m concerned, he’s an anchor dragging Robbie to the depths of despair. I’ve told her that, but she doesn’t agree. Besides, the sex is too good; or so she says. Seems like a crazy reason to stay with a guy to me. But then again, I can’t really say. It’s not like I’ve been with a man before.

“You’re too good for him, Robbie,” I say. It’s an automatic reaction.

“Bull. Shit.” Robbie grins.

She reminds me of Harley Quinn from Suicide Squad. She’s got that same deliciously unhinged personality. Don’t get me wrong: I love it, but I’m not lying to myself. My friend is all kinds of crazy. On the plus side, at least, she doesn’t walk around town swinging a baseball bat.

Yet.

“I mean it –” I protest.

“Nuh uh; trust me, girl, I know my strengths. My pussy’s dynamite, I’ve got a rack to die for, but like you say, my hair looks like straw and I’m so pale it looks like Dracula’s drained me of ten pints of blood.”

“Robbie –!”

“I told you, Pen. We ain’t having this conversation. Not now, not ever. Anyway, you’re the one drowning your sorrows in a freaking milkshake; so spill.”

I wriggle free from Robbie’s arms. “You don’t have to be such an ass about it,” I mutter.

“And you don’t have to keep deflecting, Pen. I know your game. I know something’s up, so tell me what it is. You can’t have screwed up that badly, can you? I’m sure it’s nothing. Just a storm in a teacup –”

I fix my friend with a pointed stare.

“I’m babbling again, aren’t I,” she says. She doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed.

I nod.

I speak softly. “I ruined everything, Rob. You know how I was supposed to stay under the radar: keep my head down; just get the lay of the land for a few weeks?”

“Don’t tell me you spilled coffee all over your boss’s shirt or something.” She leans forward, a wicked glint in her eye. “You did, didn’t you? Did he change in front of you? What does he look like naked? Oh – shit.”

My eyebrow kinks upward at the sound of her yelling. “What?”

“He made a move on you, didn’t he? Charlie Thorne, I mean. What an asshole. What did you do?”

“No,” I protest. “It’s nothing like that.”

“No?”

I shake my head. Dark red hair dances across my vision like I’m caught in a wind tunnel. “No,” I say. “Worse.”

“Worse?” Robbie says. There’s a slight hint of disappointment to her tone. I know she wouldn’t really want me to be in that kind of situation.

“Much worse,” I say.

A crawling sense of worry strangles my stomach. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster, creeping up the rails, almost at the highest point. I’m just going to have to come out and say it. If not, in a few seconds, I won’t be able to speak at all.

“Robbie – we’re getting married.”

There aren’t many things that can strike my best friend dumb, but that statement is one of them. She turns to me with a look of shock on her face. If I wasn’t buried ten feet deep in crap, I’d almost think it would be worth it, just to see that.

My heart beat drums loudly inside my chest as I wait for Robbie’s response.

Thump, thump.

Thump, thump.

Thump –

A wicked peal of laughter rings out across the diner. Customers turn their heads to search out the source, and quickly look away. I don’t blame them. I’m used to Robbie’s look – thick black lipstick, blue hair, and the choker collar around her neck, but most people aren’t.

I grip my friend’s arm, digging my nails into her skin. “Robbie,” I hiss. “Shut up, people are looking.”

She doubles over with laughter, slapping the table as it consumes her. “Pen, this is too much,” she says over snatches of giggles. “Say it again.”

I look around the diner. Everyone’s looking studiously away – but I can’t help but feel they are listening into our conversation. I lower my voice. It comes out in a hushed, embarrassed murmur.

“I’m not joking, Robbie. I’m freaking marrying him. Hell, I told a woman from Child Protective Services that we were already married!”

Robbie blinks. The laughter dies in her throat. “Wait,” she says. “You’re serious.”

Like I said, not many things can turn Robbie quiet. I’ve done it twice in one day. I’d go buy a lottery ticket, but I don’t think it’s my lucky day; the exact opposite, maybe?

“Deadly.” I hiss. “What the hell am I going to do?”

“Whoa. Take it from the top, Pen. And stop panicking. This might be exactly what we need.”

I tell her everything. How I made a split-second decision to throw myself in at the deep end. How Charlie’s lawyer told us that we need to get married, that she can alter the wedding registry of some Central American state like the Dominican Republic so it makes it look like we got married months ago.

How I’m moving in with Charlie Thorne, CEO of Thorne Enterprises.

Now it’s Robbie’s fingers digging into my forearm. I wince. “Geez, that hurts. Lay off, will you?”

“Penny; what the hell has you so worried?” Robbie asks. “You’re in. We don’t need to con the dude out of his fortune anymore. He’ll just give it to you. You’ll be married, right? In a few months you can walk away with half of everything he owns: shotgun the master bedroom.”

“It – It doesn’t work like that,” I say. Apparently I spoke too quietly, because Robbie reaches over and envelops me in a hug.

“This time next year,” she laughs, “we’ll be millionaires!”

“Robbie,” I hiss. “I told you, it doesn’t work like that.”

The smile falls off Robbie’s face. In that instance, I realize exactly who we are: a couple of formally-homeless girls who are in way over our heads. It’s only day one, and our plan is already falling apart. “Why not?”

“You don’t understand,” I whisper. I look around, making sure that no one’s listening in on our conversation.

“We underestimated this guy, Rob. We were so dumb. There’s no way I can just waltz into Thorne Enterprises and help myself to the gold. It’s too big, too professional. He’s got security everywhere, and his lawyer –.”

“Wait, there’s gold?”

I grimace as my best friend winks at me.

“But that’s the magic of it, Penny, don’t you understand? We don’t have to steal from him anymore. If you marry Charlie Thorne, he’ll have to give you anything you want.”

“We my ass,” I say. “It’s me putting my freedom on the line, not you.”

“Don’t be like that, Penny,” Robbie says. She pastes a hurt look on her face, but I know it’s just for show. She’s got thicker skin than your average rhinoceros. She lifts up her arms, turns them over, and shows me the cuts that scar her forearms.

“It was the only way. There was no way a nut job like me gets a gig in a fancy office like that. You’re the hot one, the one no self-respecting billionaire in existence would be able to stop slobbering over. You know that. Hell, you were the one who suggested it!”

“Don’t try and butter me up, Robbie,” I mutter.

“I know better. Look, you weren’t there. They are going to button me down to an ironclad prenup. I know it. You didn’t meet his lawyer, Rob – she’s one cold fish. I put one foot out of place, and she’ll do whatever it takes to put me away.”

Robbie goes quiet. She bites her lip.

“Don’t you back out on me now, Penny,” she says. Her voice is hard. She’s only just concealing her anger.

“I’m not –It’s just…”

“You are, and you know it,” she says. “Have you forgotten what happened to us, Penny?”

It’s my turn to fall silent. Of course I haven’t forgotten. I remember everything. After dad went into the hospital, I found myself on the streets. You know what sleeping outside in New York in January is like?

No?

I hope you never have to find out. You can’t stop shivering. Every time you breathe in, it’s like an icicle slicing through your heart. When you sweat, it freezes, and your clothes become icy shells. Your fingers get so cold that if you tap them, you don’t feel a thing.

I don’t recommend it.

“You remember living in that shelter?” Robbie says.

I nod.

Shelter is putting it a bit strong. It wasn’t a homeless shelter, just an abandoned factory down on the outskirts of Brooklyn. God only knows how it was still there, and hadn’t been acquired by some faceless developer. It was boarded up, there were weeds everywhere. It stank in summer and froze in winter.

But it was home.

“Of course I do,” I whisper. “How could I forget?”

I found the old factory one night. It was close to zero, and all I had was a dirty bag I carried on my back. It was two years ago, almost three. I was barely seventeen. I didn’t have any relatives to take me in, and the city forgot about me. I was abandoned.

I tried shelter after shelter, but they were all full. I was barely more than a kid, but it didn’t help. I didn’t blame the women who turned me away. Those shelters were overflowing, some filled with mothers and their kids. You can’t let a five-year-old sleep on the streets.

So I walked.

“That place was home,” Robbie says. “How many of us were there; twenty; thirty?”

“More,” I say.

Robbie’s right.

The factory was salvation. I saw a flicker of candlelight coming through the boarded windows. I lingered on the street: first for a minute, then two, then five.

I might have waited there all night. I was too scared to go in. Being a female out on the streets is a dangerous business. Everyone’s looking for something from you – and it’s usually no good. There’s no way I was about to walk into an abandoned factory.

Then I saw Robbie.

“Remember the parties: the food; the community?” She asks.

I nod. “Of course I do.”

She was carrying a bottle of cheap vodka in her hand. She couldn’t have been much older than sixteen, yet her fingers were rosy from the booze. She stumbled through the snow.

“Hey, you,” she said. “Got a cigarette?”

I remember turning, numb with cold. This girl in front of me, wearing a mismatched selection of thrift shop furs, she seemed like she’d fallen from some other universe. She was so damn confident.

“I don’t smoke,” I said. I turned to leave.

“Nor do I, really,” Robbie said. She flicked her cigarette butt into the snow. “It’s a horrible habit. Fancy a drink?”

But it’s not the parties I remember. It’s the fact that, for the first time in weeks, I found a group of people who welcomed me in with open arms: a group of people who cared for me; a group of people who loved me.

“And,” Robbie says – her voice stirring, “Remember how it’s all gone?”

I do.

I got back from a day’s casual work. The kind you find hanging around outside shitty temp agencies that cream off half your pay check. The kind where some sleazy manager tells you that if you go into the back room with him, unbuckle his pants, and do you-know-what, he’ll let you come back and work another day.

Yeah, that happened a lot.

I got back to the old factory after work – the one I’d called home for months, and there was a fresh fence around it. The construction company was already bringing in bulldozers. They cleared us out, every one of my friends. The only home I knew was gone in weeks, just rubble on the ground.

“Of course I do,” I say. “How could I forget?”

“And you remember who did it?”

“Of course I do,” I repeat. The words clatter out of my mouth, harsh and aggravated. It’s not like the bulldozers turned up with Thorne Enterprises painted on them, or anything. It was only a year or so later we found out who owned the company that bought our home.

Charlie Thorne.

My boss.

“Penny,” she says. “He’s the same kind of prick who refused to pay out on your dad’s health insurance. They are all the same, these rich assholes. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” I mutter. I feel my resolve begin to stiffen. “I do.”

“So, what do you say? Way I see it, we’ve got two options: either we stick to the original plan, and con the asshole out of his cash; or you become Mrs. Penny Thorne, and take him for everything he’s worth in the divorce.”

An evil grin stretches across Robbie’s face. “So which is it: You in?”

Chapter Four

Charlie

What the hell am I doing?

How am I supposed to explain to Tilly that while she was away in Europe for a week, I installed some nineteen-year-old girl in our guest bedroom? I always promised I’d tell Tilly before I even started dating. How the hell am I going to break this news?

Shit.

Do I have to share my bed with this woman?

The intercom system buzzes once. It tickles my brain, but doesn’t break through the ocean of angst drowning it out. It buzzes again. I finally answer it.

“Mr. Thorne?”

It’s the doorman, Frederick. He’s worked high-end buildings around Manhattan for longer than I’ve been alive. Even if he thinks that Penny is a hooker I’ve called while my daughter’s on her hockey trip, he’s far too professional to ever let that show.

“Fred?”

“I’ve got a lady here, says she’s here to see you?”

I dry my hands on my gray suit trousers. “Penny?”

“That’s right, sir. I apologize – I didn’t know you knew her.”

“That’s all right, Frederick.” Suddenly, my mouth goes dry; dragging my tongue across my lower lip tastes like kissing the Sahara desert. But I finally get out, “She’s my wife.”

There’s a pause, but only a second. 220 Central Park houses some of Manhattan’s wealthiest, strangest, most reclusive residents. Frederick Johnson’s seen some shit. This probably doesn’t even make his top ten – and even if it did, there is no way he’d let the owner of the penthouse suite know about it. Still, I make a note to tip him twice this Christmas. The last thing I need is for this… arrangement… to become the talk of New York.

“Of course, sir: I’ll send her up at once.”

I walk to the elevator with the heavy footsteps of a condemned man. A hundred worries mount up in my mind. What’s Tilly going to say? How am I going to explain to her that she’s got to pretend that I’ve married Penny? Will Miss Winters from the CPS discover the truth?

That’s the bit that really worries me.

I don’t believe for a second that Landon Winchester is going to give up this easily. He wants me to sign the merger agreement, and he won’t stop until I do.

Maybe I’ll have to do it.

If it’s what it takes to save my family, then I’ll do it without blinking.

But I don’t want him to win. I never lose. Winning is part of my DNA.

The elevator pings once. My heart thuds. The doors slide open.

I know I shouldn’t think it, but Penny looks like a million dollars. Her dark, russet red hair falls past her shoulders. It shimmers every time she moves her head. She’s petite – barely makes it past my chest, but the things that are rushing through my head right now, they are barely legal. Like her.

I clear my throat, and run my fingers through my hair. I need to pull myself together.

“You made it,” I say.

Penny flinches.

I didn’t mean to be an asshole, but I know that’s the way it sounded. The truth is, I want to fuck her; I’ve wanted to ever since the second I saw her. I want to throw her over the nearest couch, tug her pants down and enter her. I want to leave my red handprint on her ass. I want to make her mine.

I want all that – but no way does it mean I trust her. Not as far as I can throw her, and I’m pretty sure that’s a hell of a long way.

“I did,” she says. “This place is hard to miss.”

The corners of my lips jerk upwards slightly. For a girl who’s thrown herself in at the deep end, she’s got balls. I’m not sure I’d be cracking jokes in her position.

“I guess you better come in,” I reply, “before that thing heads back down.”

Penny takes a couple of hesitant steps towards me. She drags a wheeled suitcase behind her – just an overnight bag, really. It looks like she hasn’t fully committed to moving in with me. It’s either that, or she lives light.

My eyes narrow as I examine Penny’s face. I can be an asshole, I know I can, but the sight of a pretty girl changes all that. “Is everything okay?”

She speaks too quickly. “Sure, why do you ask?”

“You look like you’ve been crying,” I say.

I regret it the second the words come out of my mouth. I’m no expert, but I don’t think you’re ever supposed to tell a girl something like that. It’s like asking them their weight…

Penny wipes the back of her hand across her face and brushes past me. “I’m fine,” she lies. We both know it. “I just didn’t have time to put my makeup on.”

“I guess I should show you around,” I say.

I turn to follow her, and my jaw drops.

God, Penny has a killer ass. I want to bounce quarters off it, and a whole lot more than that. They say some girls have got cushion for the pushin’, but Penny’s not like that. She’s so much more.

Her ass is thick, perfect and tight. I want to drag her toward me and get a handful of it. I wonder what she’d say. We’re married, after all…

“Listen, Charlie,” she says. She pauses, and I somehow drag my eyes back to her face. “I’m –I’m sorry about all this. I don’t know what made me do what I did. I should have just put the tray down and left, like Miss Casey told me …”

My stomach rumbles. A short, booming laugh escapes my lips. “Ella’s got you calling her that as well, has she?” I say. I shake my head. “She’s something, eh?”

Penny doesn’t say anything. I pause, and rake my eyes across her body once again. This time I pretend as though I’m studying her, trying to formulate an answer.

I am, and I’m not…

In truth, I just want to drink her gorgeous curves in once again. Every time I close my eyes, the image of Penny riding me, bouncing on my cock as I slam into her, pressing her body against one of the huge windows that overlooks Central Park paints itself on the back of my eyelids.

I cough, and look away. I feel a warm flush spreading on my cheeks. I wonder if she knows what I’m thinking about. I don’t think I’m hiding my reaction very well.

“The truth is, Penny,” I say, “I don’t trust you.”

The honesty slides easily from my lips. It’s never been a problem for me. In this town, too many people lie straight to your face. I don’t play that game. I’m honest, even when people won’t like me for it.

Penny flinches. Her hair dances, shimmering once more in the light. “Oh,” she says. The word comes out of her mouth almost apologetically. She looks like a deflated balloon. “I get that.”

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

Now the idea has popped into my mind, I realize it’s all I’ve been thinking about all day. Who is Penny – really – and why is she doing this?

I’ve always been fiercely protective over Tilly. Hell, I hid her from most of the world – just in case. That was until Landon started sniffing around, hiring detectives and God only knows what else. I thought I’d done the only job a father should: protected my family.

And now, there’s this. And now, there’s Penny.

“Doing what?”

My voice is hard. “You know what.”

“Mr. Thorne, I –”

I wince and hold up my hand. “Jesus, you can’t call me that.”

Penny bites her lip. It’s all kinds of sexy. I want to lose myself in her ocean eyes. I want to swim in them, float in them, on her. “Then what should I call you… boss?”

Boss.

The word sends a shiver running up my spine. It’s true. This morning, Penny walked into my office as my newest PA. Now she’s my fake wife. But I’m still the one who signs her paycheck. I’m the one who pays for her apartment. I could fire her right now.

Or maybe I could do something else.

Maybe I could order her onto her knees. Maybe I could make her unbuckle my belt with her teeth, and pleasure me.

I close my eyes. I feel my fingers running through Penny’s shimmering red hair, my nails digging into her scalp. I feel –

“Mr. Thorne –? I mean, I mean – boss?”

My eyelids spring open. A short, sharp breath hisses from my lips. I turn away slightly, pinching my nostrils, but mainly it’s cover. I need to readjust my pants.

“Sorry,” I say. “I got… distracted.”

Penny licks her lip again. Her red tongue darts out. It’s the same color as her hair. I want to grab her ass and pull her toward me. God, what is this. What’s this girl doing to me? It’s not love, I know that. But right now, it feels every bit as powerful.

“Apparently,” Penny says. Her voice drips with sarcasm. Okay, she knows.

“Just call me Charlie,” I say.

My throat is hoarse. I need a drink. Not lemon and ginger: something that will calm me down. Then again, maybe a drink is the last thing I need. I don’t need my inhibitions to be lowered very much before I’ll push myself onto Penny.

The funny thing is I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t resist. I see the way her glances catch me when she thinks I’m not looking. I see the heat on her cheeks, the flutter of her chest.

“Okay, Charlie,” she replies with a shy smile.

“I’ll show you to your room,” I say. “Come this way.”

As we walk, I realize that the last couple of minutes haven’t achieved anything. I started by asking her why she was doing this, and I ended up with my cock growing so fast in my pants I thought it might jump out. But that’s not an answer. It’s anything but.

Penny’s flats tap on the marble floor. “So, you live here?” She asks. She’s lost the sarcasm, and it’s been replaced by pure astonishment. “Alone?”

I look back. “Here,” I say. “Let me grab that.”

Penny offers up the tiny suitcase. Our hands brush. An electric shock burns through me, but I look away. I can’t let myself succumb. They say every man makes his fortune with his head, and loses it through his cock. I’m not going to be one of those men.

I can’t be.

“With my daughter,” I continue, as if that moment didn’t happen. “But she’s away in Europe, right now.”

“Must be nice,” Penny says, quickly, without thinking.

I glance back. “Call me Charlie, Penny – but don’t forget who I am,” I growl. “I’m still your boss, and I expect you to treat me that way. Understood?”

Shock flashes in Penny’s eyes. I don’t blame her. I don’t know where that came from. Maybe it was what she said about Tilly, but it can’t be that. It was a mild criticism, at best. No – I know the truth. I’m burning up for her.

I look away. The sun has long past set on New York’s skyline. The city sparkles like diamonds beneath us.

I clear my throat, and gesture Penny forward.

“This is you,” I say. She walks past me with an attitude of sulky defiance, sashaying her hips. I don’t blame her. I was an ass. But it’s not going to stop me from locking my eyes on hers…

In a second, it’s forgotten. Penny gasps as she sees the view from her room. Her hands fall to her sides, and she runs to the window like a kid at Christmas. I bite my lip. In spite of everything, it feels kind of good to make her feel this way.

“This place… is mine?” She says, stumbling over her words.

I nod. A little smile dances over my lips. I kill it immediately, but the damage is done. This weird love/hate, push/pull relationship that Penny and I are developing isn’t healthy. I just don’t know what to do about it.

“It’s bigger than my apartment,” she whispers.

She shakes her head, as if she can’t believe that anyone could possibly live in a place like this. I stand there, watching, and it reminds me of my reaction when I bought this place. Two hundred million dollars, cash, and I spent it like it was nothing.

Except, standing here, I realize that it’s lost some of the magic. The thought rifles through me. It takes. I grit my teeth. And instead of accepting it like a man, I take my annoyance out on Penny.

“You never did tell me,” I growl.

“Tell you what?” She replies, looking back. Her face is a mixture of delights – and distress over what I’m about to say.

I pause. I hold my breath. I could not say what’s on my mind. I could allow Penny this one moment of happiness.

But I don’t.

“Tell me why you’re doing this,” I growl. “Because if you’re here to hurt my daughter, I promise you one thing – I will not sleep, and I will not rest until I see you ruined and behind bars. Do you understand?”

A hurricane of emotions passes across Penny’s face in just a couple of seconds. I can’t pick them all out. There’s anger, for sure: embarrassment, maybe; but guilt? It’s hard to say. Maybe Penny really is just what she seems – a girl who said a stupid thing at a stupid time.

A thought strikes me, clenching my gut in a cold, terrifying vice. What if Landon Winchester planted her here? What if her good-girl act is just that: an act? Landon’s a bloodless psychopath. I don’t believe he feels emotions – other than when he crows over his vanquished foes.

“I understand,” Penny croaks. “I –, I prom –” She cuts herself off. I wonder why she can’t say that word: promise. Does it mean anything? Am I just paranoid?

I stride forward. The thick cream carpet deadens the sound of my footsteps. Penny’s hair forms a sparkling halo around her face in the dim overhead lighting. New York glows behind her. She’s my angel: my glorious, beautiful, broken angel. Maybe she’s exactly what I deserve.

Penny backs away.

“What are you doing?” she whispers. Her voice cracks.

I open my mouth to reply, but my tongue fails me. I don’t know what I’m doing. Whatever it is, I sure as hell shouldn’t be doing it, but I can’t stop myself.

Penny falls back, all the way to the plate glass window that overlooks the city. She presses her back against it, wincing at its cool kiss.

“Charlie, please…”

“Call me boss,” I growl. I don’t recognize the words coming out of my mouth. Someone else is in control of me now. “When we’re alone, you call me boss.”

Penny licks her lips. Her eyes dart with nervous intensity to my face, my crotch, then left and right. It’s like she’s searching for an escape.

“Charlie –, I mean, boss. What are you doing?”

I press my body against hers. She’s so damn tight I almost lose control of myself right then and there. As it is, I’m on the edge.

“Please…” she whispers. Her breath tickles my face. She brings her hands up, putting them on my chest, and instead of pushing me away, her fingers tug at my shirt. It’s like she’s caught in two minds: does she kiss me, or run?

I don’t know, and hell if she does either.

I lean forward. My lips brush her cheek, and dance a path to her ear. “What would you do, Penny,” I whisper, “If I kissed you right now?”

Penny shakes her head, but she looks up, straight at me. This close, her eyes look like dinner plates: a deep, sparkling blue, like the water off the coast of some Pacific island.

She says it again; “Please.”

Is she asking me to do it, or asking me to stop?

Her fingers tighten against my soft cotton shirt. I think I have my answer. But I can’t do it. Not here, not now.

I break away. I pinch my eyes and sigh. “I’m going out. There’s food in the fridge, if you need it; or press one on your phone for the butler. He’ll take care of anything you need.”

“Butler?” Penny breathes.

“Wake up early,” I say. “We’ve got a marriage certificate to sign.”

Chapter Five

Penny

I’m so far in over my head it’s not even funny. Charlie Thorne is toying with me like a cat with a ball of string – and I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it.

He’s hot; then he’s cold. He’s yes; then he’s no. He’s turned my life into a freaking Katy Perry song, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

The worst bit is; I’m falling for it.

There’s an attraction between us. I don’t know whether Charlie would admit it if I asked him, but it’s undeniable. The way he pressed my body against the glass last night, the way he kissed my cheek, and stroked my hip…

If he’d undressed me right then and there, I wouldn’t have whispered a word of complaint.

This morning, he held the door to a black limousine open for me, like a gentleman. It’s like he really is my husband, and I really am his wife. He closed the door after me. I turned my head, so I was ready to thank him when he entered from the other side, but…

The limousine’s engine growled into life instead. It pulled away from the sidewalk smoothly. I looked through the back window, and saw my fake husband stepping into an identical black limousine, ten yards back.

Push and pull.

Yes and no.

Now we’re back at the office. We ride the elevator all the way up, without exchanging a word. Miss Casey’s waiting at the top, folders held in the crook of her arm. She’s dressed exactly the same as she was yesterday – as if she’s been teleported straight out of the 1950s.

“Mr. Thorne –” She starts.

Then she stops dead, opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish. It doesn’t take more than a second before she regains control of her body. When she does, I know how much trouble I’m in.

“Penny,” the secretary says with a sour scowl. “Please wait here. I need to have a few words with Mr. Thorne.”

“No, Ella,” Charlie grunts. Or my boss, or whatever I’m supposed to call him.

Push and pull.

“Things have… changed since yesterday. I need to see you in my office: both of you.”

Ms. Casey presses her lips tight. I can tell she’s fighting hard to prevent an acidic comment escaping her lips. She is too professional for that, but I wouldn’t blame her if she did.

We follow Charlie into his office like a paddling of baby ducklings. Ms. Casey behind him and me bringing up the rear.

The huge frosted glass doors whisper closed behind us. Except, today, they aren’t frosted. I turn my head as I try to figure out how that’s happened. Does Thorne Enterprises have a maintenance team on staff for the sole purpose of making sure Charlie’s office is just the way he wants it every day?

Maybe.

“Sit,” Charlie says. He points at two identical red wing back armchairs in front of his desk. He stabs a button next to the intercom. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the office doors resume their frosted state.

At least that’s one mystery solved.

“Mr. Thorne,” Ms. Casey says. Her hands are on her lap, her legs pressed together, but not crossed. She leans forward in her eagerness to speak. I hurriedly sit down.

Ms. Casey waits for her response. Charlie lets the silence linger. As the quiet builds, I let my mind drifts back to yesterday evening. To what happened after Charlie left me there, pressed up against the glass. To what happened when my bedroom door swung closed.

I’m not proud of it.

My fingers inch downward. I press my eyelids shut, and paint a scene on the back of them. I imagine the perfect, ripped body that I know must exist beneath Charlie’s perfectly pressed suits. I unbutton my blouse, but dream of Charlie’s fingers doing it.

I scrape my fingernails down my flat stomach, but picture his.

“Penny.”

My eyes spring open. I look up. My cheeks burn, putting my guilty conscience on display as if they were an entry at the World Show.

“Yes Mr. Thorne,” I say, “Boss.”

I’m all in a panic. I don’t know what to call him. I don’t know if boss is just something for the bedroom, or –

“I think we need to explain what’s going on,” Charlie says. “Ella has been with me from the beginning. She deserves to know.”

Charlie’s secretary casts me a suspicious look out of the corner of her eyes. “Know what, precisely?” She asks. Her voice is cold, and cutting. She reminds me of Professor McGonagall from the Harry Potter books; just my luck.

Charlie sinks back into his office chair. The hydraulic mechanism beneath sinks a little, hissing as it takes his weight.

“Ella Casey,” he says. “Meet Penny. Penny Thorne.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” she says.

“I’m not sure any of us do, Ella,” Charlie says. “My new PA, here,” he says – gesturing at me, “decided to aim a little higher yesterday. Shot for the stars, in fact.”

“Precisely what did you do?” Miss Casey asks me acidly.

The anger in her eyes burns a hole in my forehead. I know exactly what kind of woman she is: one who takes absolute pride in the impeccable quality of her work. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s married to her job, and no-one else.

“It’s not her fault, Ella,” Charlie says. His voice is surprisingly relaxed. “She told Miss Winters from CPS, that we were married.”

Not for the first time today, Miss Casey’s jaw drops open.

“You –” She stands up. “Penny, come with me: now. We’ll pack your things, and –”

“No, Ella,” Charlie says, raising his voice. He stops his secretary in her tracks. “I’m afraid not.”

“Mr. Thorne,” Professor McGonagall – I mean, Miss Casey says. “Could we have a couple of minutes in private?”

Charlie leans forward, resting his elbows on the leather-lined mahogany desk. He looks older up there: a decade past his twenty-nine years.

The glass doors at the other end of the office hiss open. Charlie stands up and smiles a tired smile. “Harper,” he says. “I’m glad you could join us.”

I turn, looking around the red armchair, to see Charlie’s lawyer striding toward us. Just like yesterday, she’s wearing Italian heels, and a suit that probably costs more than my month’s rent. No – definitely costs more.

“It takes all sorts, I suppose,” Harper grins back. “I’ve got the papers you asked me to prepare.”

Miss Casey begins to speak. The words come out slow and stifled. She’s beginning to understand what’s happening. “What’s going on here?”

Charlie grins. “I’m glad you asked, Ella. You’ve known me longer than anyone, haven’t you?”

Miss Casey nods.

“I thought you might like to witness my wedding.”

* * *

The ring weighs ten pounds. At least it feels that way as I sit here, in Brookdale Hospital. This place feels a world away from Charlie’s smart office. I twist it, circling and circling until I wonder if the polished gold band will dig a furrow into my skin.

The nurse doesn’t give me a second glance. She’s harried – crow’s feet spinning webs from the corners of her eyes, her hair tied in messy pigtails. They’re coming loose. I’ve been sitting here for half an hour, watching the busy hospital pass me by.

She hasn’t had a moment to stop and fix herself in all this time. She barely has time to check up on her patients. The last thing she’s worried about is a young girl minding her own business in the waiting room.

“Hey, doll – you smoke?”

The voice startles me. It’s hoarse and rasping. Its owner’s fingers are stained yellow from decades of nicotine consumption.

I shake my head. My red hair dances left and right at the corner of my vision. I just want to be left alone.

“I’m fine,” I say. The acrid taste of disinfectant pollutes my tongue.

The man stands up. He’s wearing denim on denim. It doesn’t look like he’s washed this month. I wonder if I should speak to someone about him. All the disinfectant in the world won’t save the patients in this ward from whatever he’s carrying around with him.

But then I think better of it. I’ve been where he is – homeless. I should know better than to judge.

“You don’t smoke,” he asks. “Or you don’t want to smoke with me?”

He takes a step towards me, dragging and infirm-like behind. I’m not scared. Most other girls would be, in my position. But not me. I’ve lived on the streets. I’ve dealt with men like him before. He’s no threat, not really. Just lonely, I bet – and not all there upstairs.

“I don’t smoke,” I say, meeting his rheumy eyes.

The homeless man sits down next to me. He barely controls his fall, and the plastic seat groans underneath his weight. He removes a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a frayed breast pocket that long ago lost its popper.

“Me neither,” he says. He taps a crumpled cigarette out onto his palm. “You sure?”

I nod. We fall silent. The bum smells, but not in an unbearable way. I can tell he does his best to manage his hygiene – showering in whatever shelter he can. It’s just that sometimes that’s not possible.

“I don’t really smoke ‘em,” he admits. “Not anymore: gave the sparkies up years ago.”

“So why do you keep carrying them around?” I ask. This strange little interaction feels safer than confronting the reason I’m really here.

“A reminder,” he says. “It’s a nasty habit, you know; wouldn’t want to end up in a place like this.”

I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “You wouldn’t.”

The man beside me falls silent again. I wonder if he realizes that he’s made his way onto unsafe ground.

“I come here every Wednesday,” he says. I guess not.

He turns to face me. The cigarette dances between his knuckles, tiny shards of tobacco flying out at every turn. “Have done every day this month.”

“Why’s that?” I ask – even though I have a feeling I already know.

“Security’s light,” he admits with a grin. “And the nurses don’t bother me much. Long as I keep to myself, they don’t seem to care. And it’s warm,” he adds, as if that reason was an afterthought, rather than the main event.

“It’s a tired place, all right,” I say. I glance up, looking around the tired, yellowed walls of Brookdale Hospital’s Palliative Care Unit, like I’ve done so many times.

He shrugs. “Running out of money,” he says. “State should shut it down, but long as they don’t, it works for me. So what do they call you, then?” He asks without skipping a beat.

I don’t know why, but I feel more comfortable talking to him than I do even Robbie. I guess it’s easy enough to open up to someone when you know you’ll never see them again. It’s like talking to a therapist, except without the diploma on the wall, or the two hundred dollar bill for half an hour’s work.

“Penny,” I reply. I don’t give my surname, mainly because I don’t know which one to give.

“Nice to meet you, Penny,” he says. He doesn’t stretch out his hand. The cigarette spins, marking the jitters of his addiction. “I’m Joseph. Like from the Bible.”

I smile. “Hi Joseph, like from the Bible; nice to meet you.”

“You mind me asking what you’re doing here.” Joseph asks. “Pretty little thing like you don’t need to hang around in hospital waiting rooms for warmth. Sure a girl like you got a nice warm body to cuddle up next to.”

I bite my lip. Whether by accident or design, Joseph has cut right to the heart of the matter.

“You don’t need to pay Joseph here no mind,” he adds. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m here to visit someone.”

The cigarette stops spinning.

“Are you my social worker?” Joseph asks.

My eyes narrow. I wonder if I was wrong. Maybe he really is crazy. “No. Why do you say that?”

Joseph jerks his head at the empty waiting room, and at the big red display that marks the nonexistent waiting time. This is the kind of hospital where the state dumps people who haven’t got a family to kick up a fuss.

“Seems to me,” he says. “That a girl like you got more important things to do than hang around in shitty hospital waiting rooms chatting up homeless guys…”

“I’m not –”

“I’m just messing with you, girl,” Joseph grins. He holds up his hand. An old wedding band stands out on his dirty fingers. “My woman’s been gone five years this Christmas, but she’s still the only one for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for, and nor do I. Those were the best years of my life.”

“And now?”

Joseph looks around the dirty waiting room. He winks at me. “Oh, things ain’t so bad. Say, Penny – you gonna answer my question, or are you just going to leave me hanging?”

“Question?”

“What are you doing here, Missy? Because you sure didn’t come here to keep me company.”

I offer up a weak smile. “Maybe I like you, Joe. You mind if I call you that?”

Joe doesn’t take the bait. He wags his finger at me. “Nah, you ain’t getting off that easy.”

“I’m here to see someone.”

“Figured as much. So why you sitting here?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” I mutter.

Joe winks at me again. “I’m curious. They call me curious Joe.”

“Who’re they?”

“You say you’re here every Wednesday, Joe?”

He nods. His milky eyes are now bright with interest. “Every week, come rain, come shine. Until they hire more security – and that ain’t looking likely.”

I smile. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe you will.”

I walk through the dilapidated ward.

I twist the ring on my finger. Behind me, the door quietly hisses shut.

“Hey, dad.”

Chapter Six

Charlie

“I get it, Harper.”

The elevator chimes quietly. The mechanism whirs into action. I take a couple of paces toward the control panel, feet padding across the cream carpet.

“I’m just looking out for you. You know that, don’t you?” My lawyer says down the phone connection. “We don’t know who this girl is, or where she came from. Call me crazy, but I’m just a little bit suspicious of her motives. Aren’t you?”

I tap my finger against the touchscreen. Penny comes up on the unit, crystal-clear. She’s resting her forehead against the mirror. Her rich, deep red hair billows out around her like a flaming halo. I guess she doesn’t know she’s on camera.

“Of course,” I finally reply. “You think I made it this far without knowing how to look after myself?”

Harper’s laughter tinkles down the line. “Call yourself a self-made man if you want, Charlie, but we both know you wouldn’t have made it this far without me by your side.”

“Big claim,” I grunt. “Got any evidence for it?”

Another peal of laughter, then she’s all business.

“Listen, Charlie, I’ve got guys digging into Penny as we speak. Nothing concrete yet, but these guys are the best. If there’s dirt to find, they’ll find it. The prenup I had you guys sign is ironclad. You can call it off for any reason within a year, and she gets nothing. That’ll buy us time to figure out this situation with CPS.”

“This situation,” I reply acidly, “is my daughter’s life, Harper. You know that, don’t you?”

The light above the elevator flashes twice, indicating it’s nearly at the top of its journey. Penny takes a step back, breathes deeply and stands tall. She runs her fingers through her hair, as if she’s getting her game face on. I wonder what that means.

“Of course I do, Charlie. I love that little girl like she’s my own, you know that. I know you’re hurting, but trust me – I’m not going to let anything happen to her. Okay?”

“Okay,” I mutter. “I do trust you, Harps. You’re the best.”

“I know,” she says.

The elevator dings.

“I gotta go,” I say. I kill the call.

The elevator doors slide open. Penny flinches when she sees me waiting for her. “You don’t need to do that, you know,” she says. She speaks quietly as though she knows – or at least feels – she’s on uncertain ground.

“Do what?”

“Wait for me.” Penny spreads her arms and spins. I can’t resist getting a good view of her ass in those tight jeans. “This place is big, but even I’m not going to get lost.”

I agree, guiltily jerking my eyes back up to Penny’s face. The eleven year age gap makes me feel creepy, but Penny’s one hell of a looker. And after all, she is my wife. Still – I’m breaking that rule. The one that says half your age plus seven’s okay.

But I don’t care.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Penny says. She bites her lip – just a fraction – just enough that my eyes dart to that in turn.

I feel like the gears in my brain have stopped turning. They are stuck, not working. I know that I need to be smarter than this – I’m no fool. Like Harper says, a hundred women have tried to fuck me for my money, and a hundred have failed. But then, none of them ever looked like Penny. Don’t get me wrong, they were all drop dead gorgeous – bombshells in their own right.

But Penny’s different. There’s something about her – the hesitation, the innocence. She’s winding me up. She’s making me ache. I need her like I’ve never needed a woman before. The worst bit is that I know I can’t have her.

If she’s after my money, the dumbest thing I could do would be put a baby in her belly.

“It’s nothing,” I croak. “Just…”

I take a step forward. It’s like I’m being yanked toward Penny by a rope attached to my cock. Her eyes narrow. I think she’d take a step back if she could, but there are only the closed elevator doors behind her.

I reach up, and brush an imaginary piece of fluff of Penny’s chin. “There,” I say, “it’s gone.”

I let out a deep breath, trying to disguise it. It’s hard; and that’s not the only thing that is. Penny’s getting me worked up, and I don’t think she knows it. Either that, or she’s one hell of an actress.

“I could have done it myself,” she says. Her jaw clenches with determination.

My mind’s still swimming, still drunk. I wonder what Penny would do if I kissed her right now? Kiss me back, or turn away?

“We’ve got somewhere to be tonight,” I say.

I take a step back, then another. I need to be away from Penny, and those pouting red lips, and her perfect red hair. I can’t be anywhere near her perfume. It’s exciting, electric, and drawing me in.

“What do you mean?” She says. “Like a date?”

I shake my head. Would you like that?

“No: a charity ball.”

“I thought we were supposed to be lying low,” Penny says. Her cheeks redden slightly. “You know; keeping out of the public eye?”

“I wish,” I say. “No – if we’re going to pretend to be married, it’s got to be right out there in public. There’s no point in doing this if we hide it.”

Penny bites her lip. God, it’s sexy when she does that. “I guess.”

“I don’t like these things either,” I say. “But beggars can’t be choosers. It’ll be fine. We can hang out at the back of the room. Together,” I add. Why did I say that?

Penny nods. “Okay. But I’ll need –”

“– an outfit?” I smile. “No need. I’ve already sorted that out.”

“How do you know my –”

“– measurements?” I finish again. Girl, I’ve been eyeballing your measurements all day.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say instead. “I had someone go out shopping for you.”

That seems to steal the breath from Penny’s lungs. “Oh.”

I glance down at my wrist. “Everything’s in your room. Shall we meet here in – say – two hours? Is that enough time?”

“I guess so,” Penny says again. She seems strangely restrained – she has been like this ever since she stepped out of the elevator. I wonder where she’s been. She doesn’t seem like the same feisty girl she was when we first met. The girl who lied about being my wife before she even met me.

“Perfect,” I reply. “And Penny – smile. It’ll be fun.”

* * *

I step out of the shower. Steam billows around me like smoke from a burning house. Condensation soups the mirrors. I’m lost in another world. My skin is flushed from the heat of the jets of water.

I walk, naked, not bothering to towel myself off. As I move, a cool breeze runs down my spine. Goosebumps stand tall on my skin.

If I thought the shower might have cleared my head, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The heat has fired me up. As I rest my head against the cool tile, I see Penny’s face written on the inside of my eyelids. I see her lips kissing me, wandering down my skin, leaving a trail of red lipstick all the way down.

My cock throbs.

It’s hard to describe the sensation. I’ve slept with women since Tilly’s mom left: beautiful women; women who turned heads when they walked into a room; but not one made me feel like Penny does.

Maybe it’s because Penny is a contradiction.

She’s the only woman I’ve ever lusted for, who I simply cannot have.

Penny’s a forbidden love. She’s the apple that Eve eats in the Garden of Eden. The second I taste those lips, I’ll be lost. I already know it.

I need to do something to stop myself. Penny has invaded my mind like a disease. I need the cure. I’m sure I know what it is.

I walk into my bedroom in a daze. The room is sparse. One wall is glass, and looks down on Central Park hundreds of feet below. My bed is set low, sinking to the floor. The sheets are light, gray and silk. I topple onto them.

The wispy material tickles my skin. If I close my eyes, I can mistake it for Penny’s touch. I feel her fingernails whispering across my chest, and her fingers running through my hair. My cock grows. I feel it stiffen.

The very tip kisses the soft mattress below. I twitch. The breath is stolen from my lungs. In the world I’m lost in, the touch might as well be Penny’s lips meeting my skin. My hands dances lower. I drag it across my naked chest. The heat from the shower mixes with the heat of my blood and the heat from my loins and builds to a burning crescendo.

I picture Penny.

Naked.

Pressed up against the glass wall like she was yesterday – except this time she’s naked as the day she was born. Her perfect, pert tits rise and fall with her breath. It happens quickly – she’s panting. Her cheeks are flushed, her pussy glistens with wetness.

“You want me, don’t you?” This imaginary Penny asks.

The words are stuck in my mouth. Of course I want her. I want to stride towards her, press her up against the glass. I want to fuck her right there and then: with all of New York looking at us from down below. I want helicopters taking pictures of Penny’s perfect ass; I want pictures of my rigid cock printed in the Post and the Times, and whatever other rags want to report on it.

My cock twitches. I can’t take it anymore. My fingers close around it, making a fist. Even the slightest touch is enough to make my manhood stiffen in my fingers.

I pause.

I don’t do this – masturbate – I mean. I’ve never needed to. A man’s sex drive is like a car’s engine. Some people have old, beaten up jalopies. They can’t get it up without popping pills. Some have rally cars – strong and dependable, they’ll keep chugging, but it’s uninspiring – the kind of men who will keep pumping into you, even if it hurts. Then topple over and start snoring the second they are done.

I’m a goddamn sports car. I’m a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and an Aston Martin – all wrapped up in one.

The thing about sports cars, though, is that you don’t drive them very often. It’s a waste.

So I channel my sexual urges into other avenues. Some men waste their entire lives chasing tail in dive bars. Some never get a piece of ass at all. They make me sick.

My engine drives me on. It built Thorne Enterprises. It made me worth more than every other man in this filthy city. Masturbating is a waste. I’m not like the Pope; I’m not saying it’s a sin to waste my seed. There’s plenty more where that comes from. Pardon the pun.

No, the crime’s wasting my energy. Some men waste their entire lives away whacking their meat in front of the laptop. That’s not me. Why would I watch porn when million-dollar girls chase after me like I’m Brad Pitt?

But I don’t need porn. Not when Penny is painted inside my eyelids. Not when I see her as clear as if she was standing in front of me. Not when my finger’s attached to my cock, not when the pleasure starts to build. The breath deepens in my chest. I tip my head back, biting my lip. The pain adds to the pleasure.

My hand isn’t 1% of how good Penny would feel. I need to taste her, to feel her tightness around me.

I groan. The orgasm overtakes me. It feels like a vice tightening around my balls, an overwhelming urge being satisfied. My breath catches in my throat. A sticky heat spurts from my cock.

I grab a towel discarded on the floor and clean myself. I have that feeling – the same one every man does the second after he orgasms.

Disgust.

Not at Penny, but at my weakness. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I resist this woman who’s entered my life? Why can’t I stop myself, even though I know she’s a danger to everything I’ve built?

She might ruin me, and I can’t seem to bring myself to care. Oh, I might pretend I do – but I don’t, not really. I could have found a thousand other ways to deal with that moment in my office. I could have told the woman from CPS I has never seen Penny before in my life: and I wouldn’t be lying. I could’ve had her dragged out by security.

But I didn’t.

The second I saw her, I knew I had to have her. Even if she’s my downfall – I know I’m going to have to taste her at least once. Because even now, just seconds after coming, I feel that same relentless urge building between my legs.

It won’t go until I give my body what it needs. Until I give it Penny.

I stand up. My eyes fall upon the Patek Philippe watch lying on my nightstand. For some reason, the advertising slogan crosses my mind: “You never own a Patek Philippe. You just take care of it for the next generation.”

I snort. “Bullshit,” I grunt. It’s just a marketing slogan. It’s Goddamn genius, I’ll give them that – but it’s still just marketing. I lace the watch around my wrist. I’ve got half an hour to get ready before it’s time to go.

The time seems to speed by. I pull a wardrobe open. It’s stacked with five thousand dollar Brioni suits. I reach in and grab a tuxedo, and throw it aside, grimacing with distaste. I do it again and again, until a small pile of rumpled clothing which costs more than most houses lies on the floor beneath me.

I pull out the last. In truth, it’s no different to the mountain lying by my feet. I won’t admit this myself, but I’m nervous. I want to impress Penny. I feel like a high schooler taking their crush to prom. I want to look my best – to blow this girl away.

“Fuck it,” I growl. “You’ll do.”

The Italian wool clings to my body. I check myself out once in the mirror, but don’t let myself get too carried away. It looks good, I know it does. It looks like an expensive, tailored suit, on an expensive, tailored body.

Here’s the thing; no one’s looking at a man’s suit; not at these fancy charity events. We’re just there to make our ladies look a million dollars.

I don’t know what Ella picked out for Penny. My lips tighten into a smirk. I almost wouldn’t put it past the old girl to have bought a frumpy old dress – floral print maybe, just to make her disapproval known.

Almost.

Truth is the old girl’s way too professional for that.

I told her to get my girl something hot, but in hindsight, maybe that was a bad move. Penny will probably be wearing a Frog that looks like it’s come out of the 1950s…

I check my watch again. It’s time.

I leave my bedroom, and stride through the carpeted halls of my apartment. It’s strangely quiet without Tilly, but for once she’s not the only girl on my mind.

I reach Penny’s bedroom. I’m about to open the door, when I pause. My heart is beating. I feel it starting in my chest. I wipe my palms on my suit pants, even though they are already dry as a bone. I swallow hard and knock.

There’s a pause, then: “come in.”

I push Penny’s bedroom door open. I take a step forward – and then I stop dead. The breath from my lungs escapes with hurricane force.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “You look –”

Chapter Seven

Penny

“– incredible,” Charlie whispers.

He just stands there, open-mouthed. I can’t tell if he really means it, or if he’s just playing with me. I’ve never been good at reading men, and Charlie Thorne is no exception. In fact, he might be the most inscrutable man I’ve ever met.

His icy gray eyes flash, advertising his powerful intellect. Every time I see that look on his face, I start to question everything I’m doing. If I was going to pick a man to con, why did he have to be one of New York’s most intelligent men – as well as one of her most eligible bachelors..?

I bite my lip and turn away, hiding behind my main of red hair. “Stop messing around,” I mutter.

Charlie clears his throat. “Hey,” he says. “I tell it like it is.”

“Can you do me a favor?” I ask. I’m looking at the wall so I don’t have to look at my husband. My husband! I only caught a glimpse of him as he walked in, and I have to admit that he looks unbelievable. His evening attire clings to his body as though it was sculpted for him and him alone.

I have no doubt that it was.

The material hides everything, and yet leaves nothing to the imagination. I can almost pick out each of the individual ridges on Charlie’s abs. His shoulders are marked out like a man carved from stone, or smelted out of iron.

“Sure,” Charlie breathes. “I’m at your service.”

If only.

If Charlie Thorne really was at my service, if he would do anything I asked of him, then that would change things considerably. I know precisely what I’d request – just not exactly in what order.

I would ask for money to pay for my father’s treatment. I would also ask for the touch of his fingers on my naked skin. I lick my lips, and try to hide from the image that thought conjures. As for the order …

“Can you do me up?” I say. “I can’t reach.”

Charlie’s leather soles whisper against the thick cream carpet as he walks toward me without another word. I don’t realize he’s arrived until I feel his hand touch where my hip kinks into my waist. It settles there, light, like a man’s touch on a first date.

I shut my eyes.

Even though this is all a charade, I can’t help but regret that we’ll never have a first date. We’ll never have a first kiss. We’ll never have –

“There, how’s that?” Charlie asks. His breath kisses the back of my neck, and sends a couple of my long red hairs dancing through the air.

“Perfect, thank you,” I whisper. I wait for Charlie to lift his fingers from me – from my hip, and where his right hand now rests, just beneath my neck – but he doesn’t.

I shiver.

“What?” I asked. “What are you looking at?”

Charlie turns away. It’s a quick, jerking movement. It’s almost as though he’s afraid he’s been caught.

“Nothing,” he says. “I’m just – just surprised this is what Ella picked out.”

“Miss Casey bought this?” I squealed, spinning on my bare feet.

Charlie shrugs. A wide grin splits his cheeks. “Sure did. I guess the old girl’s got style.”

I sit down on the guest bed. As I do so, I kick out at Charlie. I look up at him, pouting. “And what if she hadn’t? What if she’d –”

Charlie dances away from my ill-aimed blow. I miss him with feet of air between us. He’s so light on his feet. I wonder if he was a gymnast as a kid, or if he played football. I bet he was a quarterback, if he did. He’s got that easy balance, that almost predator-like grace.

He glances down at his watch. “Are you done?” He winks. “I can’t wait around for you all night.”

I grimace, slipping on a pair of Valentino heels that are miraculously my size. I’m more of a Footlocker girl, ordinarily. Not out of choice, but because that’s all I can afford: even that just barely.

“Then let’s go,” I say. I stand up and stick out my arm. I’m just doing what I’ve seen in a thousand movies, but somehow it feels right.

Charlie loops his arm through mine, and leads me gently to the elevator. He presses the button, and the doors slide open. We step inside.

As the doors hiss closed behind us, I can’t help but feel that everything feels right: too right.

* * *

Charlie’s chauffeur driven car pulls to a halt outside the ballroom. I blink. It’s like the whole journey passed by me in a daze.

“Where are we?” I ask as I step out of the car.

“Guastavino’s, on 59th,” Charlie replies. “Ever been?”

I disguise a laugh. Clearly Charlie Thorne knows very little about me. Fancy charity balls are definitely not my scene.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” I say.

I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk, looking up to the ballroom’s glittering façade. The ballroom is built out of beautiful nineteen twenty stone, and fronted by delicate, green-painted metal work.

The sky overhead is dark and light floods through the huge glass windows. Just looking at it, I know that I’ve never been to a place like this in my entire life.

A bouncer stands at the entrance. I slow, expecting to have to hand over ID – and realize that I’ve been such an idiot. When it comes to drinking with Robbie, or my other friends, my age is no big deal. No one in Brooklyn cares about serving underage kids – and when you grow up homeless, alcohol isn’t exactly a big deal.

Charlie gives me a questioning stare and tugs me along. “What are you waiting for?” He asks.

“Good evening, Mr. Thorne,” the suited bouncer says. He lifts up a small velvet rope and lets us through without so much as a word of complaint.

“Nothing,” I say, half-stumbling by Charlie’s side.

My heart thuds in my chest.

I feel like I’m being so rebellious: as if I’m pulling off the heist of the century, not heading to a fancy society event on the arm of one of New York’s wealthiest men. I’m such an idiot. I should have realized that no one would’ve stopped me – but this isn’t my life. I don’t know the rules here. I don’t know how this rarefied world works.

A concerned look flickers across Charlie’s face. He hides it quickly, and winks at me. “Don’t be nervous,” he says. “Trust me; no one here’s going to have a problem with you.”

“How do you know?”

A smile breaks on his face. “Because they all want my money, that’s how,” he says. “And they sure won’t get it by insulting my wife…”

I’m still processing that sentence when Charlie starts walking again: his wife. That’s what I am, and no matter how I got here – I need to act like it. I haven’t met many, but I doubt that billionaire’s wives act like nervous little schoolgirls.

We walk through a small, but beautiful garden. Thousands upon thousands of tea lights flicker everywhere: hidden in the bushes; ringing each section of the grass. My expensive Italian heels click against the asphalt path.

“Charlie,” I mutter quietly.

My eyes dart from person-to-person as we thread our way through a group of people my date appears to know. They all greet him.

“Yes… Honey?” he replies. I can’t be certain, but I think he deliberately raises his voice.

I elbow him. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Do we have a story?”

“– a story?”

“Yeah, you know. Like how we met. Have we been on holiday together? What’s our favorite show on Netflix –?”

Charlie’s eyebrow wiggles upward: “Netflix?”

The question rocks me backwards. For the first time, I truly feel like Charlie and I are from entirely different worlds. “You can’t be serious?”

The corners of his lips kick upward. “I’m just playing with you, girl,” he says. “Of course I know what Netflix is.”

A whoosh of breath escapes my lips. It’s more than just Charlie’s joke: it’s everything. A wave of nerves overcomes me. I cling to Charlie’s arm. “Well, I didn’t know,” I mutter. “For all I know you fly the actors in and –”

Charlie’s face wrinkles in feigned confusion. “Doesn’t everyone? How do you meet the actors if you don’t?”

“Shurrup,” I groan. “You’re not as funny as you think, you know that?”

Charlie shrugs. “That’s cool,” he says. “As long as I’m as funny as I look, I’ll manage.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “What’s our story?”

Charlie grins. It’s a wicked, mischievous smile that makes my heart sink. “You tell me,” he says. “Let’s play a game: anything you say, I’ve got to go along with.”

I shake my head. “No. That’s a terrible idea. You want this whole thing to unravel? I’m no good at thinking on my feet.”

“Are you sure about that?” Charlie replies. “Sure didn’t seem to stop you deciding that we were married…”

“Are you going to hold that over me for the rest of my life?” I say.

“As long as you’re my wife: at least,” he admits. “Wouldn’t you?”

I stop dead. This is too unsettling. We’re acting like a couple who’ve loved each other for years – not known each other for days, yet Charlie doesn’t know the truth. He doesn’t know that I’m only here because I’m after his money.

It doesn’t matter why I need it – just that I do.

“Fine,” I grimace, covering the momentary pause. “You made your bed, now you’ll have to lie in it.”

Charlie’s eyes rake my body. If I wondered whether he was checking me out before, now I know for sure. The heat of his stare travels from my heels up the slit that runs down the side of my dress, and lingers at my plunging neckline, before finally meeting my eyes.

“That’s the plan,” he growls.

The sound of Charlie’s voice and the masculine certainty of his stare combine to send a shiver running up my spine. My inner thighs tingle, too, and I clamp my legs together to stifle the sensation.

We walk inside. The ballroom is vaulted; arched ceilings soar up above us. I know it isn’t cool to stare, but I can’t help myself. The room is dazzling. It’s laid out for at least a hundred and fifty people, and a fifteen-piece band is playing at the far end.

A waiter hands me a glass of champagne, and I sip at it greedily. Like I said, I’m no stranger to alcohol. Maybe that isn’t right, and it’s definitely not legal, but that’s just the way it is. When you’re trying to keep warm on the streets of the Big Apple in mid-February, anyone trying to take the fifth of vodka out of my hands had better bring a knife…

“Like it?” Charlie asks as he leads me through the sea of people. Some are dressed for dinner, just like we are, but most are servers.

I nod. “Are we early?” I ask.

“A little,” Charlie allows. “I’ve got a few things I need to sort out, first.”

I don’t ask why. My eyes linger on some signage for the Pediatric Cancer Fund. “I’ve never heard of this charity,” I say.

“You wouldn’t have,” Charlie says. “That’s the whole point. We don’t advertise. Every penny we raise goes to the kids.”

I arch my eyebrow; “every penny?” I say pointedly.

“Every one, Penny,” Charlie says. He smiles to himself – pleased with his play on words.

“Then what about tonight?” I ask. “It seems like renting out a place like this must cost a whole heap of cash. Shouldn’t that go to the kids as well?”

I’m spoiling for a fight. I can sense it. I don’t want to be a bitch – I really don’t – but sometimes I feel like that side of me is lingering just underneath the surface, waiting for an opportunity to escape. I look around this room and I see obscene wealth. I see rich people buying their way to an untroubled night’s sleep.

I don’t see charity, I see people playing at being generous.

“Every penny,” Charlie repeats. “You got to spend money to make money,” he says. “It’s just the way the world works.”

“You couldn’t just donate it instead?” I reply. “Or is it not the same if people don’t see you doing it…”

Charlie’s gray eyes flash with a glimmer of hurt. However, he hides it quickly. “Maybe you’re right, Penny,” he says. “Maybe there are better ways of doing it. But you see all this?” He gestures around the spectacular ballroom.

I nod.

“I’m paying for it. Every… penny,” he adds, unable to help himself. “And I’ve invited anyone who’s anyone in New York. You know there are more billionaires per square foot in this city than anywhere else on the planet?”

I shrug, pretending that I don’t. In truth, I do. I know that fact very well. Robbie and I did our research before selecting Charlie as our – my – target. Now, though, the evidence is stacking up. We didn’t do our job properly: first I find out about Tilly, and now I discover that Charlie’s a bleeding heart philanthropist as well.

It was easy enough to talk myself into lightening Charlie Thorne’s pockets when I thought of him as a big bad billionaire. But now: it’s not so easy.

“Hey, earth to Penny,” Charlie says, with a quizzical half-smile; “anyone home?”

I shake myself out of my trance. For some reason I’ve got Kanye lyrics playing in my head. What’s fifty grand to a motherfucker like me, will you please remind me?

Except instead of Kanye’s angry rap, I’ve got Charlie’s gravelly bedroom voice in my head. I rationalized stealing millions of dollars from a heartless, ruthless billionaire. I thought his money was just going to knocking down homeless shelters. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.

But I know one thing for sure – if I go through with my planned con –

“Sorry,” I freestyle. “I lost myself in my own head. I didn’t realize you were paying for all of this.”

Charlie brushes the comment aside. He takes me by the waist and spins me. It’s a delicate, first-date touch that sends thrills running up my spine, and sparks running down to – well, you know where.

“You see all these rich guys?” He says, pointing out a sea of gray-haired men with platinum blonde, twenty-year-old hopefuls around their arms. I’m still recovering from his touch when he pulls me in to his side. He does it without thinking, but it’s all I can think about.

“Sure,” I whisper.

I swallow, and drag my tongue across suddenly dry lips. I try and concentrate on what Charlie’s saying, but it’s hard. The sharp, springtime scent of his aftershave invades my nostrils. My skin is on fire.

“They’re assholes, all of them.” Charlie speaks with a tone of scorn to his voice.

“Rich assholes, though: they don’t want to give their money away. If it was up to them, they’d let their accountants stash it in some Panamanian bank account where Uncle Sam can’t get his hands on it. That’s why I do this.”

“Do what?”

Charlie’s hand rides up my lower back. I pay attention to every nerve ending as they fire in delight.

He grins. “Fleece ‘em, of course. Lighten their pockets so they can show off to the hooker they booked for the night.”

“What do you mean?”

“They can’t help themselves,” Charlie says, wincing with distaste. “These guys will drop fifty grand on a painting they don’t want in the charity auction just so they feel like they’ve worked for the hooker’s lips around their cock. But I don’t care how filthy the money is, and the sick kids don’t either.”

I don’t know why, but an overwhelming urge to rest my head on Charlie’s shoulder washes over me. My hair brushes his shoulder when I’m interrupted.

“Charles,” a low, patrician voice says.

It brings the temperature in the ballroom down a dozen degrees, and a morbid shiver running up my spine. I feel like I’ve stepped into an abattoir. Charlie’s body stiffens.

“How positively lovely to see you; and who is this wonderful… young girl?”

Chapter Eight

Penny

“Landon,” Charlie growls. His lips pucker with a distaste he doesn’t bother to conceal. “I don’t remember seeing your name on the invitation list.”

My eyes coast across the new arrival’s face. I would recognize him anywhere. He’s been plastered across every magazine and newspaper in the city for the last couple of years.

He’s handsome, in a Nazi recruiting poster kind of way. His coloring is classic: blonde hair; blue eyes. However, it’s coupled with a cold, creepy demeanor that you don’t pick up from the pages of a carefully stage-managed interview in a glossy magzine, but that is definitely evident in person.

Yep: it’s Landon Winchester.

He happens to be the second wealthiest man in New York. Or the first, depending on which article you read. Either way, Charlie and Landon are neck and neck.

The blonde billionaire sticks out his hand. His eyes glitter with an evil humor; like winter sunshine reflecting off a frozen lake. Charlie doesn’t move.

“Come now,” Landon says. He holds his palm completely steady. He’s like a statue. Evil carved out of stone. “You wouldn’t want all these people to see you like this, would you, Charlie? It wouldn’t play into your carefully-crafted PR strategy.”

“I don’t do PR,” Charlie says. His voice is crushed stone. “I don’t care about seeing my face all over the news, Landon. Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Landon’s face flashes with concealed anger. His cheeks twitch, but his hand still remains perfectly still.

I see an event photographer approaching us out of the corner of my eye. I subtly elbow Charlie. My mind might not be made up on whether he’s a good guy or not, but I know one thing for sure: Landon’s definitely not. In this fight – at least – I’m in Charlie’s corner.

“Or maybe you should, Charles,” Landon says.

“After all, it’s not my company that’s in danger of being taken over, is it? You will never understand that Wall Street’s just a game, Charlie. Investors love me. And when Thorne Enterprises becomes just another arm of Wincorp, I think I’ll take your office. Enjoy the view out of those plate glass windows. It won’t last.”

He grins. Then he turns his attention to me. “Say, Charles: does she come free? Perk of the CEO’s chair?”

Charlie grimaces. I feel the bristling anger transmitted through his tight, tense muscles. I lean into him, trying to silently relieve some of the strain. The thought strikes me that this is exactly what a real wife would do, but I push it out of my mind.

“Show some manners,” he growls, “when you speak to my wife.”

Landon shrugs disinterestedly, but his forehead dances with interest. I practically watch the gears turn in his mind. That same sneering, calculating grin creeps across more of his face. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s like a stone in someone’s shoe, or a splinter under their fingernail.

“No, Charles. Perhaps you should show some manners.” Landon jerks his head at the photographer. “This gentleman has been patiently waiting to take a photo of us. What do you say; shall we give him what he wants?”

Charlie turns, and I follow, mainly because I’m attached to him. The photographer is hiding behind his camera with an expression on his face that makes it perfectly clear he knows he stumbled into a cold war, and there are a million places he’d rather be.

“It’s for the charity website,” the man croaks, almost apologetically. “I can –”

Charlie shakes his head. He tries to hide the sigh that escapes his mouth, but I feel it. “Of course,” he says, taking Landon’s hand and shaking it for the camera.

The camera clicks several times, and the photographer disappears without another word. I see him bow his head with relief as he walks away.

“Good to see you, Charles. And, I’m so sorry young lady – I didn’t catch your name…”

“Penny,” I say.

“Well, Penny,” Landon says, appraising my body with his eyes. “I look forward to… seeing… you around.” Landon disappears, tapping something into his phone.

“What was he talking about?” I ask. “What merger? Is it as big a threat as Landon says?”

Charlie takes a long time to reply. His face is a riot of anger and dismay. After seeing the calm, collected version of the man by my side for the last couple of days, this incarnation of Charlie is a complete surprise. I don’t know how, but Landon’s completely knocked him off balance. Finally he masters himself.

“It’s fine,” he says in a tone that makes it perfectly clear it’s not fine.

“He thinks he’s pulling together enough investor money to mount a takeover bid, but there’s no way he’ll drive Thorne Enterprises’ share price that low.”

“I hope you’re right,” I say. The words coming out of my own mouth surprise me. I actually do hope that Charlie wins this battle. The jury’s out on Thorne Enterprises; but if Wincorp’s anything like its owner, then I don’t want Landon to win his battles.

Charlie relaxes. “Me too,” he admits. Then he rolls his neck to relieve the tension and smiles at me. It feels genuine, and I grin shyly back.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s not let that asshole ruin tonight. We’ve got a Billionaire Blowjob Fund to build!”

* * *

I set my cutlery down.

Hands down, that was the best meal I’ve ever had in my life. Of course, the competition’s not exactly that high. When the rent on a five hundred square-foot Brooklyn apartment takes up the vast majority of your income, you don’t exactly get to splash out on Michelin star cooking.

“That was amazing,” I said.

Charlie shrugs. “It was okay. The salmon was a bit overdone –”

My jaw drops. “Are you kidding?” I say. “Seriously, Mr. Thorne, you need to get out more. Trust me; most normal people don’t get to eat a meal like that in their entire lives.”

“Don’t you Mr. Thorne me, Penny,” Charlie grins.

I go along with it. It feels nice; like a break from the mistrust and worry that has filled the last few days.

“Why not?” I ask. I bite my lip. I know what reaction it’s going to provoke, but I can’t help myself. I want to be desired. Charlie’s eyes flare with hungry interest. Every time I’ve done that, he’s reacted the same way. It’s more than just a pattern. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Do to you?” Charlie says, kicking his eyebrow. “Who mentioned doing anything?

I neatly fold my napkin, place it on the table in front of me, and stand up.

“Where are you going?” Charlie asks. His cheeks are flushed; and judging by the heat on mine, I look the same way.

“To wash up,” I say. I glance left and right to make sure no one’s listening. In a low voice, I say, “coming?”

I don’t know what’s coming over me. Pardon the pun. Oh God: that thought fills my mind with images of a very explicit nature.

Charlie grimaces. “You’re bad for my health, Penny, you know that?” he says. His voice is hoarse.

He leans back in his chair, and subtly adjusts the fabric around his crotch. I can’t tell who he’s hiding the act from: me, or the rest of the room. Either way, he doesn’t do a very good job.

“Is that a yes?” I say, doubling down on the innuendo. My cheeks pulse with warmth. I can’t believe what’s coming out of my mouth. I’m still Penny – a nineteen year-old virgin – and yet I’m toying with the ripped, experienced Charlie Thorne.

“I can’t…” Charlie groans. “I’m the charity’s patron. I can’t just screw you in the bathroom.”

I lean forward, bringing my lips right up close to Charlie’s ear.

“Who said anything about screwing me?” I whisper. My tongue darts out and licks Charlie’s earlobe. He jerks backward, and fixes me with a shocked stare.

“Penny –”

I stand up and straighten my dress, acting like I didn’t say anything at all. My mind is filled with images of the same dress, hiked up against Charlie’s thighs as he pushes into me against a bathroom stall.

I back away. There is no way I’m losing my virginity in a public restroom, that’s for sure. Still, for the first time in my life, the thought fills me with excitement. What’s happening to me?

“I’m just going to wash my hands,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

I dance through the ballroom. The dinner tables aren’t packed tight, but dozens of waiters swarm the room – some carrying champagne on silver trays, others desserts on little plates. I try to get out of their way, but instead they back away from me, looking down at the floor as I pass. It feels weird – like I’m the Queen of England.

I dart out of the ballroom, hurry down a short corridor, and push into the women’s bathroom. I don’t need the toilet – I just need to splash a little water on my face. I need to cool down. Sitting right next to Charlie all meal was bad enough.

His aftershave has tortured me all night – and so have the little touches whenever he leaned over to refill my plate, or top up my glass. I’m not an idiot. I know they weren’t accidental.

Yet until I ran off my mouth just now, I could have dismissed all that. Whatever weird little attraction Charlie and I have, it was bubbling under the surface until I basically propositioned him with public sex…

The water feels like ice against my face, but it’s exactly what I need. I pat myself dry, and then head back out into the fray.

But the hallway’s not empty. I walk straight into a man’s body. And not just any man: Landon Winchester, Charlie’s mortal enemy.

“Penny,” he smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s got a predator’s cunning expression on his face. “Imagine meeting you here. What a surprise…”

“Imagine,” I reply flatly. “I don’t believe for a second that it’s a surprise.”

“No, really: I’ve got a surprise planned – all for you. I think you’re going to like it,” Landon says.

A lascivious sneer creeps across his face. He must be doing it on purpose. I can’t believe anyone could act as evil as he does without meaning it. I bet he practices in front of the mirror…

I take a step back. “I don’t want anything from you,” I say.

He smirks. “No? But I haven’t even told you what it is.”

I try to sidestep the creepy billionaire, as he steps in front of me to block my path. “Now where do you think you’re going, Penny?” he says. He licks his lips, and I shiver.

“Anywhere,” I reply. “I don’t care, as long as it’s far away from you.”

Landon takes a step forward. “But you don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” I growl. “Enough to know that you’re not the kind of man I want to spend any time around.”

He takes another step. Only a couple of feet separate us now.

A heated blush paints my cheeks. I’m all kinds of vulnerable right now, but there’s no way I’m letting Landon know he’s getting to me. I’ve dealt with men on the streets who tried to rape me. Landon Winchester doesn’t scare me, not really.

Still – one thought haunts my mind. What if I scream and nobody comes to help? Landon’s a staple of New York society. It’s hardly a secret that the rich get away with their crimes. He could do anything to me right now, and if people found out, would they even care?

“I know things too, Penny,” Landon says. He reaches forward and brushes a stray tendril of hair from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear.

“I told you, Landon,” I growl. I bat his hand away. He’s got cold, clammy skin. “I don’t care what you know. What you think you know.”

A wolfish grin spreads across his face. “Oh, I think you will,” he says. “Have it your way, Penny.”

He licks his lips, and his eyes dance from my toes to my rack. Charlie only did this a couple of hours ago, yet this feels completely different. When Charlie did it, I felt like I was a fine piece of art being appreciated. With Landon, it’s more like he’s sizing up his next meal.

“Think what you want,” I say. “Just keep it to yourself.”

I attempt to push past his tall frame. He takes a step towards me, making me press my ass up against his crotch in order to squeeze in between him and the wall. I’m sure I feel the outline of his cock through the thin silk of my cocktail dress. It sickens me.

“You’re an animal,” I spit.

Landon smiles as though I have complimented him. “Thank you,” he says. “I try.”

“That’s not –,” I start, appalled by his total lack of understanding that I was insulting him. Then I stop.

I know Landon’s game. He’s doing exactly what he did to Charlie earlier: trying to wind him up, trying to push his buttons. Now he’s doing it to me. When he sees weakness – or what he thinks is weakness – he exploits it. I can’t let him.

“Go fuck yourself, Winchester,” I hiss.

Landon just stands there, ignoring my comment. I don’t know what I expected, but that reaction wasn’t it. Landon Winchester doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who takes assaults on his pride lightly. As I leave, his eyes burn with icy anger that crackles against my back.

I shiver.

I just hope I haven’t provoked an enemy; especially not one as powerful as the CEO of Wincorp.

As I disappear around the corner, heading down the hallway that leads back to the main ballroom, I hear Landon speak. It’s barely more than a whisper. At first, I don’t know if I’ve heard him right. But then I realize that I have.

“That, my dear, is the goal…”

The comment makes me sick.

Still, I wander back into the ballroom, holding the shimmering silk at my waist. When I’m wearing something this beautiful, it’s hard to stay angry for long. The silk is so soft it feels like my entire body is being layered with sweet, gentle kisses.

If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine it’s Charlie.

The man himself is still sitting where I left him: pride of place at the top table, an empty chair beside him. He looks slightly tense, but the expression softens as he sees me slipping through the dinner tables.

Something changes in Charlie’s mood as he watches me walk through the crowd. I see his gaze shift to something behind me. I peek over my shoulder, and see Landon striding cockily out of the hallway. He stops, pauses, and stares directly at Charlie – just long enough to adjust his fly – then he winks and carries on.

Asshole.

“Is everything okay?” Charlie asks me urgently. “He didn’t do anything to you, did –”

“Nothing,” I assured him, touched by his concern. “He’s just a creep, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?” Charlie says, grinding his teeth. His enmity with Landon Winchester couldn’t be more obvious if he scrawled it on a fifty-foot billboard. “I’ll have him thrown out, just give me the word.”

I close my eyes, picturing the scene. All I am is Charlie Thorne’s fake real wife, and yet I somehow now have the power to get people thrown out of fancy balls. I open them again, and smile at Charlie’s worried face. The husband might be a fake, but the concern is most definitely real.

“Trust me it’s…”

The band stops playing as I open my mouth. A startled rattle of conversation dances across the room. A spotlight sweeps across the crowd, and slows, slows, until it comes to a halt on Charlie and me.

“… fine.”

Chapter Nine

Charlie

I reach for Penny’s hand underneath the table.

I do it without thinking. I freeze for a second, ignoring the spotlight lighting us up, ignoring the whole fucking crowd around us. In that moment, all I care about is whether Penny is going to push me away.

My heartbeat – each single, solitary beat – seems to stretch out into a lifetime.

Boom, thud.

Boom, thud.

Boom, thud.

Penny squeezes my hand back.

I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. The world returns to motion and life.

I hear the clinking of champagne glasses, the slightly-too-loud cackle of a woman who’s had a bit too much to drink.

I see a hundred bored-looking gray-haired men staring up at me, and another hundred platinum blondes with Botoxed lips, looking at their paycheck. It wouldn’t surprise me if half the women in this room have had a client die on them, mid-thrust.

Until this very moment, I didn’t realize that – no matter how fake this thing is between Penny and me – she’s still by far the most real woman in this room.

“Charlie,” Penny whispers. “What’s going on?”

I wish I could give her an answer, but in all truth, I don’t know. What I do know is that someone’s ass is on the line. I give the Children’s Fund tens of millions of dollars every year, and I ask for only one thing in return: complete, absolute, and utter, discretion. They had to wrestle with me to get me to this damn ball at all.

I don’t care whose idea it was to stick this fucking spotlight on me, but I’m going to see they regret it.

“Just sit tight,” I reply through gritted teeth. I smile at the crowd, because it seems like the thing to do. “I’ll get this sorted out.”

I reluctantly release Penny’s fingers. Without the touch of her skin, my hand feels cold. I half-stand in order to begin my search for whatever idiot is responsible for this mess.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the master of ceremonies announces. “Please put your hands together for Charles Thorne, tonight’s generous patron!”

A smattering of applause fills the room. I wouldn’t call it warm. I know the men in here: each and every one. They don’t give a fuck about charity, not like I do. They are just here to get their picture in the paper, another tax write off to send to the IRS, and of course a pair of pumped up lips around their cock.

I wave away the applause. It’s not fake modesty, it’s the real deal.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen,” the portly announcer says. “As you all know, some very generous people have donated fantastic prizes for tonight’s charity auction.”

I sit back down. There’s no way I can interrupt this without making a scene. As long as the spotlight’s the biggest problem I have to deal with tonight, then I guess I can handle it: just this once.

A murmur of excitement fills the room. Charity auctions aren’t about charity: not really. In my experience, they are about competition. They’re about showing off. They’re about showing who’s got more “fuck you money” than the guy sitting next to you.

I don’t get involved. It’s not my style. I just donate the prizes: every single one; a week’s stay on my Monaco-based super yacht; a private trip on my 737. For these people, it’s about status. Nothing says status like a private plane. It doesn’t matter who owns it…

“Before we begin, I’ve just been informed,” the announcer says, while I’m lost in my own little world, “that a particularly generous individual has thrown another prize into the pot.”

The man looks up and grins into the crowd. “Gentlemen, this one’s for you. I think you’ll agree it’s a real peach.”

Penny leans back in her chair and reaches for my hand again. It’s a calm, unhurried movement. She’s loose and relaxed.

I wish I could say I feel the same way. I’ve got an overdeveloped sense of personal preservation. Some have called me paranoid, and in truth, they aren’t far from the mark. The prickling feeling that I’m getting in my belly tells me that something ain’t right.

The portly announcer stretches out his arm, palm up: and points it at me! I grimace. I feel like a car wreck is unfolding in front of me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

“Once more, let us thank our generous patron, Charles Thorne, ladies and gentlemen!”

There’s more applause.

This time it’s longer, more sustained. The atmosphere in the room has changed. This ballroom is full of predators – sharks. They can sense blood in the water as easily as breathing: my fucking blood. I chew my lip, trying to figure out what to do.

“… and his beautiful new wife, Penny.”

She looks at me with nerves in her eyes. I paste a fake smile onto my face to please the crowd, and turn to my wife.

“It’ll be okay,” I say. “I promise.”

I speak too soon.

“We’re going to kick off our third annual Charity Auction with the grand prize…” The announcer pauses, leaning forward. It’s like he thinks he’s on Dancing with the Stars, or something, and speaking to the whole of the United States.

He winks at the crowd. “Drumroll please… I’m just kidding. Tonight’s grand prize is – and you’ll have to believe me on this one – a weekend away with Mr. Thorne’s gorgeous young wife, Penny.”

You could hear a fucking pin drop.

“Charlie,” Penny says urgently. “What the hell’s happening? You didn’t –?”

“Of course I didn’t,” I growl. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on, or who did this –”

I see Penny’s head drop imperceptibly. “I think I do,” she whispers.

“What are you talking about?”

She points into the crowd. “Landon,” she says. “He said he had a surprise for me. I thought he was just being an asshole, but –”

A surge of blinding rage shoots through me. In that moment, all I want to do is jump from the top table and put my hands around Landon’s throat. I’d do it, too, if Penny wasn’t holding tight to me: holding on like she’s terrified; holding on like she wants to be anywhere else in the world but here.

“Oh, he’s an asshole, all right,” I say grimly. “It’ll be fine, Penny. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

I search the sea of fascinated faces for Landon. It doesn’t take long to find him. The sleazy prick’s the one with the shit-eating grin on his face, reclining in his chair like he thinks he’s a Roman Emperor.

“No, Charlie,” Penny says. “I think I do.”

My head flicks to face her. “What are you talking about?”

“Look,” she says, surreptitiously squinting at the crowd. Her eyebrows tent in the middle. It’s so cute it makes my heart smile, even now, when I’m boiling up with anger. “There’s nothing you can do. If you back out now, it’ll look like you’re stealing money from the hands of dying children.”

Shit, she’s right.

“So what are you saying?” I ask. We don’t have long to talk. An excited buzz fills the room, blocking the plump announcer’s attempts to regain control, but the reprieve won’t last long.

“I’ll do it,” she says. “It’s just a weekend, Charlie.” She leans in close so that no one else can hear. “Plus, it’s not like we are really married…”

I don’t know why, but that, it hurts me the way I wouldn’t have anticipated even a couple of hours earlier. I felt something different about Penny tonight. We acted like a couple: walked like a couple; talked like a couple. I know what we have is a fake relationship, but it feels anything but.

“Okay, let’s do the auction,” I say. “But Penny?” I get her attention.

She glances up at me, face pale and tense with nervousness. “Yes?”

“I’m going to win.”

At that precise moment, the announcer brings the champagne glass to the microphone and taps it with the backside of a knife. A squeal of static bursts out of the PA system, and silences the room. “Let’s get started.”

The room is deadly quiet.

Every single eye is focused on Penny and me. If we were trying to lay low, this is just about the worst development I could have anticipated. I don’t know how I’m going to fuck Landon’s life up for this – but fucking his life up is absolutely on the menu.

For some reason, this particular ruse makes me even angrier than Landon’s attempts to steal my company. That stuff I can rationalize away – it’s just business. But, if Penny is just a deal, a trip, a way to keep Tilly out of the hands of the foster system –

– then why am I so pissed off?

“Penny my dear,” the announcer says. “If you’ll come down here to the dance floor so that everyone can see you?”

Right then, I know that Landon’s slipped this prick a bribe. There’s no way some fat man would dare risk his job parading my wife like a piece of meat if he didn’t have some skin in the game. I add him to my shit list.

I half-stand, ready to give him a piece of my mind, but Penny tugs me back. Damn, she’s only been in this life forty-eight hours, and she’s playing the game like a pro.

“I’m fine, Charlie,” she whispers. “I can handle myself.” She stands up, waves, and twirls for the crowd.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” I say out of the side of my mouth.

“Why?”

I jerk my head toward the crowd. “You just made all these assholes with two thousand dollar hookers imagine what you’ll look like naked.”

Penny’s face drains of what little color it had. “Naked?” She whispers. “But I’m not going to –”

“It doesn’t matter if you’ll actually sleep with them,” I say. “It just matters that they think you will… maybe they’ve decided we’re swingers, or something. Maybe they think I get off on selling my wife. It doesn’t matter. They are going to be like dogs on the hunt now. You just raised your price by a million dollars.”

It’s a cliché, but in this case it’s bang on the money. Penny’s jaw drops. She stumbles over her tongue: “… a million dollars?”

I nod. “That’s just the starting bid.”

Penny closes her eyes and composes herself. When she opens them, they glitter with intrigue. She leans forward, displaying that tasty ass to nearly a hundred hedge fund managers, billionaires and CEOs, and plants a kiss on my lips:

our first kiss.

My head spins. I can’t get my head around this girl. Is she innocent, or a master mind? Is she playing me, or really that naïve?

“Then let’s find out how much you think I’m worth.”

As Penny is sashaying that tight, perfect body down to the dance floor, I close my eyes. I can’t believe she just said that. That’s right up there with “does my ass look big in this?”

This relationship – if that’s what I’m calling it – is like none I’ve ever had. Not only am I married to a girl I don’t know, but apparently I’m going to have to drop five million dollars on her before I’ve so much as slept with her.

It’s not the money, it’s the principle.

“Gentlemen, do I hear a hundred thousand dollars?” The announcer says.

I relax a little. I’d pay one hundred thousand for Penny a dozen times over. I can’t help but bristle, though, when at least thirty hands shoot into the air. Wedding rings glint in the ballroom lighting. These men make me sick.

“Two hundred thousand?”

Not a single hand falls.

“Four hundred thousand?”

I see the first casualty. The blonde hooker by his side looks at him with distaste, rather than irritation. I chalk that one up as a victory. If she puts ten percent less effort into his blow job, then that is fine by me.

“Half a million dollars,” The announcer says it with giddiness, almost as though he can’t believe what he’s hearing.

I can’t believe this idiot’s surprised. Doesn’t he know his crowd? These rich assholes – and I count myself among them – are gagging for a night with Penny. It’s not just sex they want, it’s the bragging rights.

Okay, maybe the sex as well, because anyone looking at Penny – at those gorgeous curves, her flowing red hair – couldn’t help but be turned on. I’m no different.

I look up, and realize that I was lost inside my own head. How much have I missed?

“One… Million dollars?” the fat man says in a quavering tone of voice.

More hands drop out of the race. But others still remain, like oak trees in a dying, wintry forest – each one shorn of leaves.

Mine joins them.

An audible gasp runs around the room. It’s mainly the women, I think. Some put their hands to their mouths as they notice. I don’t know what they think’s going on – maybe some sex game – and I don’t really care. If it’s a game, I’m going to fucking win it.

And if it was a fucking game, I’d win that too.

“Do I hear one point five?”

I just keep my hand up. It’s easier that way. The crowd’s thinning now. There can’t be more than five or six hands left in the air – mine, a couple of hedge fund managers I vaguely recognize, the CEO of Next Stop Trucking – a fat, balding guy who Penny won’t thank me for letting her go on a date with – and, of course, Landon fucking Winchester.

I’m swearing – I know. I’m riled up – I can’t help it. I feel like a lion out on the savanna, except someone’s coming in and trying to steal my lioness. Nothing else matters. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.

The trucking guy will have to drop out of the race soon. I could buy his firm with the change I find down the back of my couch. The hedge fund dudes – well, let’s just say they are all talk, no balls.

In truth, Landon’s my only adversary. He knows it. He set it up like this. He want’s nothing more than to get his hands on Penny – not because he wants her, but because she’s mine.

There’s no way I’m going to let him buy her. Even if he did, I’d hire out SEAL Team Six to guard her.

The thought brings a smile to my lips. Penny looks up at me, and smiles back. God, she’s hot. Right now she’s bracketed by a spotlight that accentuates her curves in a way that makes my cock twitch. God, I’d pay this auction fee twice over to know what she’s thinking right now. Is she disgusted by this display of wealth?

Or turned on?

“Two million?”

Trucking dude’s out.

“Three million?”

The hedge fund managers look at each other, shrug, and sit down. There’s a strange tension in the air now. Everyone in the ballroom can sense it.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, it looks like it’s a two horse race…” The announcer says. “Let’s make this interesting, shall we? Do I hear five million dollars?”

I turn my head languidly to look directly at Landon. He chews his lip, and his arm trembles in the air. Even for a man worth about as much as I am, five million bucks is no small sum. What people forget is that assets aren’t cash. I’m worth nine billion dollars, but that doesn’t mean I’ve got nine billion in the bank.

Landon’s got less.

I know it for sure. Every last dollar he has is leveraged up to the hilt for his attempt to buy out my baby, Thorne Enterprises. Hell, the more I think about it, the more I realize that I could do serious damage to any deal he has, in his attempt to buy my company, if I make him pay for Penny.

Five million dollars won’t do it. Ten might. Twenty and he’ll beg me for mercy. It might just be enough to make his bankers call in their margin. They do that, and Thorne Enterprises is mine for good.

“Six million?”

I stroke my chin and catch Landon’s eye. He’s raging. I wonder if he expected me to throw my hat into the ring. I send him a silent message. I don’t need words for this one. It’s simple, and to the point.

It’s your move, motherfucker.

Chapter Ten

Penny

The heat from the ballroom’s overhead lighting beats down on me. In truth, it shrinks in comparison to the fire burning me up inside.

I’m caught between two of New York’s most powerful men. I never thought that I was the kind of girl who could be impressed by that kind of thing – but now that I’m here?

I can’t deny it: it’s kind of hot.

God, this is like some kind of sick fantasy. Except even in my most private moments I’m not sure that I would fantasize of something like this. I mean – really – I’m just an inexperienced, kind of curvy virgin. How the heck did I end up here?

I’m not ashamed by my sexual naivety, not really. It’s just the plain, honest truth. My fantasies don’t extend much further than a guy pressing me up against the wall like Charlie did the other night. They certainly don’t reach caught in a billionaire’s power-play kind of heights.

“Eight million dollars?”

I’m transfixed. I don’t know where to look – at Charlie, or Landon. A heat prickles between my legs. It’s a raw, animal desire. I feel like I’m back in caveman days, and the tribe’s leading hunters are tussling over who gets to own me.

Own me? Where did that thought come from?

“Make it ten,” Charlie calls out. “It’s all in a good cause, after all…”

He doesn’t bother looking at me. His gaze is locked on Landon. He’s cold and calm. The anger that crackled from him like a wild brushfire earlier this evening is gone. He’s completely in control.

I gasp.

So does the rest of the room. Landon is beginning to look less composed. He bites his lip, looking around the packed, spellbound ballroom. He’s set a trap for himself, and he’s only just beginning to realize it.

If he backs out now, then everyone will see him as weak.

But then, if he keeps going, it’ll seem like he’s a man with a mission: a man with a vendetta. There’s only so long you can hide the type of anger like the one that drives Landon Winchester. I wonder what happened to him in life to make him this way.

I sensed his fury the second I met him. He’s hidden it from the rest of the world with good looks and better PR. But when you’re as anxious and nervous as I am, practiced at putting on a front for the rest of the world, you get to know when someone’s hiding something.

“How generous, Mr. Thorne!” The announcer says. His voice drips with syrupy sycophancy.

“Eleven,” Landon mutters. I wonder if he’s finally realized the trap he’s walked into.

Charlie smiles – a shark sensing blood in the water.

“Let’s make it a round fifteen,” he says. I hold my breath. I think everyone does.

I’m not insecure, necessarily: just different. I’m mostly self-reliant, and about as well-adjusted as any girl who grew up with her dad in a coma, and out on the streets can reasonably expect to be. But I know I’m not a fifteen million dollar woman.

Hell, I’m not even a million dollar woman… Hearing that kind of number bandied about so casually makes my head spin.

I stare at Charlie. He’s trembling with anger. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. To the rest of the room, he seems calm, but I can see it. Maybe it’s only me.

And I get the feeling that there’s more going on than meets the eye. Sure, Charlie promised me he wouldn’t lose – but I never in my wildest dreams expected this to go past a couple hundred thousand bucks, let alone a million! I glance back at his opponent, waiting for his decision with baited breath.

Landon bites his lower lip so hard it turns white, so hard I’m sure at any moment he’ll draw blood.

“Fine,” he spits. “You have her, Thorne. Pay for your own goddamn –.”

He starts, catching himself, perhaps realizing where he is: at a charity ball, in a room filled with cameras and New York society’s gossiping best.

A strange energy takes hold of my legs. I start walking before I know exactly where I’m going.

In the background, I hear the same vapid announcer vamping to the crowd. I try and block him out.

“Well, folks; I think that’s a story we’ll be talking about for a very long time. I certainly know I will…”

I barely hear it. A second later, I’m in front of Landon Winchester. I give the crowd a fake smile and lean down so that only he can hear what I’m saying.

“The word you’re looking for,” I growl, “is wife. Keep me out of your testosterone-charged power plays in future, you understand?” I start to turn away, before catching myself. My lip curls with scorn. I shouldn’t say it. I know I shouldn’t say anymore. But I do anyway.

“In fact, here’s some free advice for you: maybe don’t pick battles you can’t win.”

I kiss Landon on both cheeks, to the applause of the unaware crowd. He radiates a cold fury, but it bounces off me.

“Oh, how sporting! The announcer says in a Hunger Games TV tone. “Now – how about we see the lucky gentleman and his wife take the first dance?”

I freeze.

I don’t dance. Like, seriously, I really don’t dance. I’m not the kind of kid whose parents sent her to ballet after class. Honestly, I don’t think it would’ve mattered even if they had. I’ve got two left feet. Two left feet bound up in blocks of concrete…

Charlie gets to his feet.

He does it slowly, as if he’s thinking about refusing. My eyes fixate on my husband. My skirmish with Landon is long forgotten. I can’t help but admire the dark–haired man with the icy gray eyes I see from across the room. His dinner suit clings to his sculpted body – leaving everything and nothing to the imagination, all at once.

“Come on, ladies and gentlemen, let’s give them some applause,” the announcer says, as though he’s emceeing a kids concert.

Nevertheless, the crowd does as they’re told. The band strikes up a song – some slow dance number – and I breathe a sigh of relief: encouraged that I’m not going to be thrown in at the deep end and made to dance the tango. As it is, a slow ballroom dance is probably beyond my limited skill.

I trace Charlie’s slow path through the crowd. Energy is running through me, the likes of which I’ve never felt before. My inner thighs prickle with excitement, and the heat from the overhead lights beats down on my shoulders and my back.

I’m buzzing. There’s no respite from the overwhelming rush of sensations that’s assaulting me from every direction.

Then Charlie’s there. He puts his arms around my waist and pulls me in close. Another sensation – a rush of sparks charging up my spine. “I’m sorry about this,” he whispers.

I swallow, hard.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I can even speak. My body is on fire, scarcely capable of processing everything tonight’s throwing at it – the heat from above, Charlie’s touch against my silk dress, the sharp, spicy scent of his after shave tickling my nostrils.

“It’s alright,” I say, nestling my head against his chest. “It isn’t your fault.”

Charlie grips me tight. “It is,” he growls. “You’re my wife. I’m not supposed to let things like this happen to you.”

The band falls silent. I hear the rustling of sheet music, a pause, and then the sound of piano and violin, trumpet and saxophone combining together in a tune that moves something inside me, something primal.

“Um, Charlie,” I whisper urgently. “There’s something I need to tell you…”

“What?”

“I… I can’t dance.”

My husband turns a chuckle into a cough. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll lead. You just follow me.”

I do.

There’s something comforting in it. I’ve always at least tried to control my own fate. Even in that moment in Charlie’s office when I claimed I was his wife – I was in control. Mostly. New York City’s the kind of place that can chew up and spit out a girl who’s not prepared to fight her own corner.

But in this moment, I don’t have any other choice. I have to trust Charlie Thorne not to make me look like a fool. It seems like such a little thing – but right here and now, it feels like so much more.

“Relax,” Charlie whispers, as he turns in time with the music. “Just let all your muscles go limp. Do what I do, don’t force it.”

Relax, he tells me.

How can I, when the place his hand meets my back feels like a volcano, spitting fire? How can I, when his left hand clasps mine so softly, in a way no man has ever held me before. How can I when I’m pressed so tight against Charlie’s perfect body?

“See – it isn’t so hard,” Charlie says. The crash of the brass band, the sound of trumpet and violin, it combines in a crescendo that blocks out even the sound of my own ragged breath. I lose myself to it, and to him.

I lose myself to the heat of Charlie’s body and his scent. I lose myself to his soft touch and the reckless, whirling abandon of the dance.

I can’t speak. Every inch of my skin is on fire. I bite my lip as my hair whirls around me, in perfect time with the music. The slightest touch of Charlie’s stubble grazes my cheek, and I press my head into the feeling.

And then it’s done. And then the music stops. And then applause fills the room.

“And now,” Charlie grins, his face lightly flushed. “We bow…”

He keeps hold of my hand, and leads me into a bow at the waist. I don’t know what overtakes me at that moment. I pull Charlie close to me, press myself right up tight to his body, and look up at him.

He kisses me.

He does it without hesitation, as if we’ve done it a thousand times before.

Except this is no ordinary kiss.

Not that I would know.

This cannot be an ordinary kiss.

His lips graze mine, soft, then hard. A rush of white-hot sparks charges down my front, all the way down to my core. Charlie’s thick, strong arms pull me against his muscular frame, and he holds me there.

“You know,” Charlie growls into my ear as the lights beat down on us in the center of the dance floor. It’s filling fast, now that we’ve broken the ice.

“I think we’ve paid our dues. Shall we get the hell out of here?”

* * *

The privacy divider in Charlie’s black limo hisses slowly upward, leaving us in perfect silence: alone; alone in perfect silence.

I’m sitting next to Charlie: next to my husband. Except it doesn’t feel that way: it feels like we’ve only just met; it feels like the first spark of a relationship.

Our bodies meet at the thigh, the hip; our hands brush each other like high schoolers with their first crush. Charlie breaks the silence.

“What did you say to him?” Charlie asks, “to Landon.”

I look up and meet the wicked glint in Charlie’s eye.

“I don’t know what came over me,” I admit. “I just wanted to rub his face in the fact he lost: to you.” I bite my lip; just a little, just the inside. The surge of pain is subtle yet electric.

“He’s a dangerous enemy to make, Penny,” Charlie says. But he doesn’t say it in a chiding way – if anything, he sounds proud. “He’s a little man. He’ll hold a grudge. You might find out this bites you on the… ass.”

“Let him,” I declare.

I lean into Charlie. This is high school-level flirting, but I don’t care. It’s not like I’ve got much experience to build upon. The furthest I’ve ever gotten with a guy is: a hurried kiss; a hand up my shirt; a hand on my thigh.

I’ve got a funny feeling that a whole lot more than that is about to happen.

I’m not scared: nervous, maybe – but mainly excited.

“That’s brave,” Charlie says. “Maybe a little bit stupid too, but it’s brave for sure.”

“If you say –”

Charlie rests his hand on my upper thigh, just at the point the long slit in the soft silk opens up to my leg. I jump from the contact. An electric shock surges across my skin, like a lightning storm’s winds swaying trees in a thick forest.

It makes no difference that I knew exactly what Charlie was going to do. The here and now is a very different place from the analytical quiet inside my head.

“– So,” I finish breathily.

“Who are you, Penny?” Charlie asks.

He fixes those cool gray eyes on me. I picture him at the other side of the boardroom table – interrogating me before signing some momentous business deal. He’s not got that fierce, predatory look in his eyes, but I squirm nevertheless.

“Really – who?”

“What – what do you want to know?”

“Not what,” he whispers, dragging his tongue across his lower lip. “Who?”

I can’t take my eyes off his mouth: his lips; his perfect jawline. Charlie Thorne is the kind of man every girl dreams about, but precious few get to meet. Fewer still get to touch, or taste.

It’s hard to breathe, hard to think when he’s this close to me. When his fingers are gently stroking my upper thigh, higher and higher with every touch, I press my legs together, and heat builds between them.

“No one,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

Charlie scrapes his fingernails higher. It’s a delicate, whispering touch. Electricity sparks inside of me.

“You’re definitely not “no one”,” he says. “You’re a mystery. I can tell you that much for free.”

“What else can you tell me?” I ask. The limousine hits a bump in the road, and we both jolt upward. I end up leaning even further into Charlie’s heat.

I'm not an idiot. I know I’m treading on dangerous ground. Charlie’s pumping me for information even as we speak. He’s torturing me. It’s a delicious, delicate, pleasurable kind of torture – but torture nonetheless.

“I can tell you that you’re a ghost, Penny,” Charlie says.

He drags his fingernails higher, until he’s pulling the silk of my dress up with them. I feel it, creeping inch by inch. He’s getting higher. The cool air of the limousine kisses my skin.

“No one’s ever heard of you, that’s for sure.”

A warning signal goes off in my mind. But it’s faint, so faint – overpowered by the blaring of my desire.

“You’ve been digging into me?” I ask, panting.

Charlie brings his hand to rest at the crease where my leg meets my hip. Then – slowly – he slides his fingers down low.

“Please, Penny. Not me. You think I’ve got that kind of time on my hands?”

“Then who?” I whisper. Charlie’s fingers graze the lace fabric of my underwear. My whole body flinches; I arch my back as a tidal wave of pleasure courses through me.

“Harper,” he says. He strokes my pussy from bottom to top. I close my eyes, and in that moment I don’t care that he’s looking into my past, I don’t care what he might find. All I want is what’s between his legs – and what’s between mine.

The limousine slows. We are outside Charlie’s apartment building.

“Don’t talk to me about Harper,” I beg. “Don’t talk to me at all.”

Chapter Eleven

Charlie

The elevator dings as it reaches the penthouse floor. It breaks the spell, and Penny reluctantly drags her lips away from mine. She’s on tiptoes, and slowly lowers back, with a look of petulant dismay on her face.

I take her hand. “Can I get you a drink?”

Penny nods. Her face is already slightly flushed from tonight’s alcohol. I remind myself that she’s only nineteen, and that she’s probably not very often up until now. Except that doesn’t seem to be the case.

It’s obvious just by looking at Penny that she’s lived an interesting life. She might have seemed nervous in some of the situations she’s been in since we married – but never overawed. God, I’m desperate to know everything about this girl.

“Please.”

We walk hand-in-hand to my private bar. I kneel down and go for a fridge stocked with French champagne.

Penny claps her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God, Charlie!” she exclaims with mock surprise.

I glance up at her. “What?”

“The way you’re proposing. I never knew that you were such a romantic…”

Penny winks at me. I shake my head. “You’re a minx, you know that?” I growl.

“I try,” Penny says, turning away from me.

I feel a surge of blood at my crotch as I see Penny’s ass sashaying away from me. I want it so bad. I want to pull her onto me; I want to grind my cock against her. I want to push her legs apart and plunge into her: hear her whisper my name; know I’m the only man in the world she’s thinking about.

Penny puts down her clutch purse, kicks off the Italian heels, and settles on the dark-gray suede couch that looks out over Central Park. The park itself is dark, and studded with streetlamps. They remind me of a diamond necklace gleaming in the sunlight.

“What are you looking at?” Penny asks. She dips her head to the side and chews on her lip.

I pull myself to my feet, tear the foil from the neck of the champagne bottle, and pop it open. I pour two glasses and carry them over.

“You,” I growl unashamedly. “You’re Goddamn gorgeous – you know that?”

Penny’s cheeks redden still more. It’s not the alcohol’s fault this time. She grabs a champagne flute from out of my hands, and takes a long sip – just to be sure.

“I’m not,” she replies. “Don’t lie to me, Charlie. I’m a lot of things, but I know beautiful isn’t one of them.”

I lean forward and kiss her. She tastes like bubbles and Chardonnay grapes. I force myself to drag my lips away from hers, but it’s hard, because it’s the last thing I want to do.

“They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I say. I drag my finger down Penny’s cheek. Her eyelashes flutter closed, and she opens up the side of her neck.

I kiss that too.

“I don’t know who they are, but they’re wrong,” I say.

Penny’s eyes flicker open. The deep blue orbs have an uncertain hue to them now – like the oceans seen from space: clouds swirling above them.

“What do you mean?” She asks. I know what she’s truly thinking. She’s wondering if I just insulted her, when nothing could be further from the truth.

“I’m saying: I don’t know who ever told you that you weren’t the most beautiful woman who’s ever walked this earth, but they were wrong; dead wrong.”

Penny blushes. Damn, I should put that on a coffee cup and make her drink from it. See those perfect pink lips on the rim, just like they’ll look on the tip of my cock.

“Stop it,” she says. But she says it in that voice all women use when the last thing they want you to do is stop.

This time I skip the formalities. I’ve already grazed her pussy with my fingers – even if a tiny scrap of fabric stood in the way. It won’t, not this time. I’m burning up with desire. I’m desperate to drag my finger across Penny’s slit then taste her. I can’t stop imagining toying with Penny until she begs for more, until I’m so horny just from touching her that I can’t hold myself back a second longer.

I drag my hand up her leg and pull her underwear aside with rough, careless excitement. I cup her chin with my free hand and drag her gaze back to me. The champagne flute in her fingers quivers; the pale amber liquid rippling like there’s an earthquake. Penny’s going to do a whole lot more than just quiver when I’m done with her.

“Do you really want me to stop, Penny?”

I pull her underwear down.

I drag her lace thong down her perfect, milky white thighs – slowly, inch by filthy inch. Penny’s eyes track it. I’m not even sure she’s breathing: her chest certainly isn’t moving. She’s paralyzed, tantalized by what’s about to happen to her.

Shit, I wonder where she got these panties. Did Ella buy them, too? I squeeze my eyes shut and push the thought of my secretary to the bottom of my mind.

Penny shakes her head. “No,” she whispers with eyes closed.

“‘No’ what?”

“No, I don’t want you to stop.”

God, the way she says those words, I can’t describe it. She’s so innocent, so cute, and yet so inviting. She’s almost virginal, though I know that there’s no way a woman as hot as my wife could possibly be untouched.

There’s no way a girl this hot could have made it this far in life without the touch of a man. Still, I can’t help but choke back regret that I wasn’t her first.

“But I’ll be your best,” I whisper.

Penny’s eyes spring open. “Did –?” she murmurs, a little veil of confusion on her face. “Did you say something?”

I smile a hungry smile. I can’t help myself. “Just lie back…” I growl.

I drag myself down Penny’s body, until I’m kneeling on the floor between her legs. She watches me the whole way, barely capable of breathing.

If I could take a picture of the look in her eyes and frame it, I would. She’s excited, yet uncertain; like a wild animal that’s found a meal in an open clearing.

She knows she wants it – wants me – and yet she’s not ready to trust. She’s not ready to give herself to me: not completely.

Not yet.

I can deal with that. It’s my job to break down her barriers. In my experience the fastest way to a woman’s heart isn’t through her stomach; it’s through a toe-curling, sheet-tugging, back-arching, blackout-inducing orgasm.

It just so happens that they’re a family specialty.

“Take off your dress,” I order.

Penny’s eyelashes flutter. She flinches, and looks at me with nervousness in her eyes.

“Don’t make me ask you again,” I growl.

I lace my tone with an unspoken threat, but leave the punishment up in the air. I don’t need to tell Penny what it is. It’s the anticipation that kills. In truth, all I’ll do is undress her with my teeth, but Penny doesn’t need to know that.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Her hands slide down her body – inching down the black silk. My cock throbs as I realize what she’s doing – reveling in the feeling of the sparks erupting on her skin. Her tiny fingers clutch the hem of her cocktail dress and start to pull it up.

“Go slow,” I say.

I can’t help myself. If Penny was a stripper – not that a fifteen-million-dollar girl like her would ever fall into that line of work – she’d make enough in an hour to never have to work again. I want to see that silk creep up her skin. I want to see her pale goose bumps exposed an inch at a time.

I want to watch Penny torturing me just like I’m torturing her.

“Okay,” Penny says again.

Her eyelashes flutter shut, and her head tips back. Her long, rich, red hair greets the gray suede couch like a wildfire flinging itself at a rock cliff.

“Okay,” she whispers – this time to herself – talking herself into doing as I ask.

Penny pulls her dress up millimeter by millimeter. I hold my breath. It climbs up her perfect, thick thighs. She slows before the fabric passes her pussy, and then pushes past that too. She murmurs as the cool air kisses her lips. I think about turning down the penthouse’s AC system, but a wicked grin creeps onto my face.

There’s no way I’m changing a damn thing.

“Stop,” I growl.

Penny does as I say: instantly. She freezes, eyes still shut, chest rising and falling rapidly. “Good girl,” I say. “Stay like that. Don’t move a muscle.”

“Yes,” Penny whispers.

I bite my lip. I try to stop myself saying it, but the words spill out of my mouth regardless. “Yes what?”

Penny’s forehead wrinkles slightly as she tries to decipher what I want, and then the muscles relax. “Yes, boss.” She groans.

I reward her anyway. I lean forward, placing my palms on her outer thighs, and blow a thin stream of air onto her glistening slit. Penny’s back arches, her hair ripples against the couch like a burning waterfall, and she lets out a sound that’s half way between a murmur and a hiss.

I stop blowing. Penny freezes once more. And then I kiss her, right down between her legs, in her most private spot.

“Open up for me,” I say.

For some reason, Penny’s thighs are still pressed together – not like a vise, but close enough it’s hard for me to get my head in between them. It’s almost as if she’s still nervous – though I don’t know why.

It’s obvious how turned on she is. Her skin is flushed red and burning hot to the touch, and goose bumps sprout like mountains on every inch of skin.

Penny does as I ask. It’s slow, and halting, but her legs open up like a rising drawbridge.

A thin layer of red fur coats Penny’s pubic mound. I prefer my girls were naked, but there’s something kind of sexy about this – almost innocent. I haven’t seen a girl natural like this in as long as I can remember.

“Go slow,” Penny whispers.

I don’t reply. I wouldn’t tell a postman how to deliver my post, and I sure as hell don’t need Penny’s tips on how to pleasure her. There are three things in life I’m good at – making money, being a dad, and making women come harder than Niagara Falls.

I extend my tongue and lick Penny’s pussy from bottom to top.

If I thought she was moaning before, this is another level. I’m kind of surprised. It’s like she’s never had a man go down on her before, but I’m not complaining. My cock stiffens. There’s something about a woman’s moans that are hard for a man like me to resist.

I layer Penny’s slit with kisses and blows and licks. I keep going until she’s dripping wet, until out of nowhere her fingernails move to my head and dig into my scalp. I keep going until she grips my head in between her thighs, until she presses my face into her pussy so tight I can barely move. I’m locked in a prison – but what a prison.

“You still want me to go slow?” I say in a throaty whisper.

“Please… No…” Penny whimpers.

God, the sound of that high-pitched crack in her voice does things to me I cannot explain: filthy things; naughty things. It drives me on, pushes me past my limits. My cock’s straining fit to burst against my tuxedo pants, and my self-control is strained to the limit.

Why fight it? Why fight fate?

I take Penny’s clit between my lips, and apply a light, gentle pressure – flicking it softly with my tongue. She makes a sound I can’t describe – except I can: it’s pure, unadulterated desire. She rakes her fingernails across my scalp; she clenches her thighs against my head, she grinds herself into me.

“Omigod, omigod,” Penny whimpers. “Don’t stop!”

I don’t.

I scrape my fingernails down the outside of Penny’s legs. I press my lips against her pussy and I go hell for leather. I keep licking and sucking and kissing like I’ve never done before. Penny’s scent, the tangy, musky taste of her pussy, it all drives me on.

She tastes right. She smells right.

I don’t know the science behind it, and I don’t care to. I know deep down that Penny’s the right girl for me. Call it pheromones: call it instinct; call it whatever you like: something’s pulling me toward this girl. It’s tying me to her. It’s not letting me let go.

Penny’s back arches one last time. Every single muscle in her body tenses, radiating the orgasm that’s crashing through her. I feel the vibrations through my head, through the fingers she’s intertwined through my hair.

I’m right there, with her. I wish I could sense what she’s going through right now. I need it. I need to feel it. I need to feel her tight pussy around my cock, her heat. I need to push myself into her and let myself go.

I pull myself free of the cage Penny’s created with her legs, and climb up her body, kissing as I go.

I barely touch the lost, hungry, animal kiss on her mouth, grazing her lower lip between my teeth before I let go.

“How was that?” I whisper as I nibble her ear.

Still, I don’t let up my assault on Penny’s senses. I know better than that. In my experience, a woman’s orgasm is a delicate thing. Unlike a man’s – basically guaranteed – a woman’s is like a balloon with a tiny hole. You need to keep building, keep pumping, keep kissing, keep overpowering her senses, or else all of your hard work will drain away.

Okay. I’ve strained the metaphor a bit far…

But you get what I mean.

I walk my fingers down Penny’s stomach, scrape my fingernails on her mouth, and run them through her pubic fur. I drag my index finger up her pussy, and then inserted, massaging the ribbed spot of skin I know so well.

Penny opens her eyes. The blue orbs look more like an ocean than they ever have.

But something’s wrong.

There’s a storm in her eyes: she’s roiling and uncertain.

“Are you okay?” I ask, concern – for now at least – overpowering my desire.

It’s like Penny can’t speak. She glances down, and I follow the direction her eyes are pointing in. Her pussy: I reluctantly remove my finger from inside her. I don’t understand what’s just happened. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong.

“Did I do something –?” I ask, straining my brain for any evidence of what it might be.

Penny shakes her head. It’s like her tongue is encased in a concrete block.

“What is it?” I ask. “Don’t worry – you can tell me anything.”

“Charlie,” Penny whispers, closing her eyes. She squeezes them shut, as if she’s building a wall around her. “I lied to you.”

I freeze. Was I right? Is there more to Penny than meets the eye?

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s not what you think. I – I’m a –”

Chapter Twelve

Penny

Virgin.

You ever wake up cringing with embarrassment over something you did a decade ago? I do: All the time. So you can imagine how much worse it is this morning, when the shame’s only ten hours in my rear-view mirror.

I wake up.

My eyelashes flutter open.

And I’m immediately attacked by a deep, blushing sense of embarrassment. My cheeks burn hotter than the surface of the sun. I pull the sheet covering my body up to hide my face.

It does little to help.

I replay last night’s events in my mind. I was a little tipsy – I remember that – but in truth the champagne was only enough to add a little spice to the proceedings, I wasn’t drunk. It would take a heck of a lot more than that!

I told Charlie the truth.

Not the whole truth, of course. Not the real reason I’m here – to steal enough money from him to pay for my dad’s cancer treatment.

No: a smaller truth, and a more shameful one. The truth that what happened with Charlie last night was the furthest I’ve ever been with a man – by a long way. The truth about how I’m still a virgin. I’ve never slept with a man. I’ve never been naked in front of a man.

I’ve barely gone past a first kiss.

Last night I was caught up in the heat of the moment. Charlie did things between my legs – made me feel things that I didn’t know were possible.

I’ve touched myself before. Close my eyes and painted spicy romances in my head. Let my fingers slide past the elastic of my pajama bottoms.

Of course I have. What woman hasn’t?

But last night was different. Last night Charlie pushed me past every barrier of pleasure that I even believed possible.

And still I pushed him away.

“Why…” I whisper.

I’m still not sure what happened, or what came over me. I pushed Charlie off my body. He coaxed me to orgasm, and when my knees were still trembling from it, he stood over me, unzipping his tuxedo pants.

I saw the outline of his cock.

I saw the desire on his face: the hunger.

I saw every act he wanted to do to me written on his cheeks, and in those inscrutable iceberg eyes. I wanted it: Him.

And yet I couldn’t let it happen.

Shame washed over me –

– and guilt.

I made him stop.

“Please,” I said, hugging a couch cushion and turning away from his inquiring, confused gaze. “Not tonight.”

Charlie sat down next to me and tried to stroke me, but I flinched from his touch. I know exactly why I did it – because the guilt of what I’m planning to do to him started to eat me up.

I feel the guilt now, too. In fact, if anything, it’s stronger than it was last night.

I throw the sheets off, and the cool air of my bedroom raises goose bumps all over my body. I toss on a bathrobe and walk into the hallway.

I know what I’m like.

If I let myself, I’ll stay inside and stew all day. I can’t let that happen. I need to work out how I’m going to extricate myself from this situation.

Because the truth is, I’m beginning to like Charlie. Not love him, or anything crazy like that, but there’s definitely something between us.

Charlie Thorne isn’t the man I thought he was.

I’m not the girl he thinks I am.

Are we the perfect couple or a disaster waiting to happen? I hope it’s the former, but I suspect I’m wrong.

“You’re up…” Charlie says.

I jump, half-startled out of my skin. My feet kiss back down onto the thick cream carpet, and I look up. Charlie’s standing behind the kitchen island, toying with something that’s sizzling in a pan on the stovetop. Once again, my cheeks betray me, filling with color.

“Why aren’t you –?” I squeak.

“– at work?” Charlie asks.

I nod. Up and down. Fast. God, I’m such a mess. This is so unsexy. I don’t think I could come across as more naïve and innocent if I tried.

He shrugs. “One of the perks of being the CEO, I guess. Anyway – I should ask you the same question, shouldn’t I?”

My mouth goes dry. “What are you talking about?

“Well,” Charlie says distractedly. He grabs a spatula from a hanging rack behind him, and twirls it in his fingers. “You’re still my PA, aren’t you?”

I lick my lips. “I guess so. I mean, I thought –”

Charlie flips a perfectly-brown pancake with a flourish. “Relax, Penny. I can’t exactly have my wife working for me, can I? I’m sure Harper would call it a conflict of interest or something like that.”

I inch towards him. My legs feel like they are filled with lead. “What about you?”

“Me?” He repeats, jamming a thumb towards his chest. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

“It does to me,” I say. I’m not really talking about the PA job. I’m not talking about working for Charlie, and I don’t think he’s talking about that either.

Charlie takes a different tack, pulling away from discussing the bombshell I dropped last night. I’m glad and I’m not, all at once. Part of me wants to just get it into the open.

He cocks his head to one side. “Hungry?”

My brain’s screaming at me to run. Rule number one of being a con girl: don’t fall for your mark. I mean – this is my first time, in a lot of ways – so I’m no expert. But getting feelings involved seems like a losing strategy.

The problem is, my body is screaming as well: and it’s singing a completely different tune.

My stomach chooses that precise moment to betray me, and groan loudly.

Charlie chuckles. “I thought so,” he says. He puts the pancake onto a short, but growing stack, and ladles another small spoon of batter into the pan. “Sit down.”

I approach the kitchen island slowly. I can’t deal with this Charlie Thorne – this Charlie Thorne who’s so freaking different from the monster I built up in my head all of these months.

When he was the Big Bad Wolf, I didn’t mind knocking down his walls. But he’s been nothing but kind to me. Even last night, when I told him I was a virgin, he didn’t look at me with pity in those glorious gray eyes, but kindness.

Some men might hold a grudge that I led them on. Not Charlie, even though I know how horny he was. That was last night, and right now is today. In his mind – at least, it seems that way – it’s already forgotten.

“I said sit,” he grins. “Don’t worry, I don’t fight. Unless…”

My fingers stroke the back of the stool. “Unless what?”

Charlie barks with laughter. He flashes me a wink. “… Unless you ask me to.”

I sit with my cheeks flashing red with embarrassment – and a little bit of heat. I don’t know what Charlie means by that – not really – but I want to find out.

“Blueberries, or –”

“Blueberries will do fine,” I say.

I feel uncomfortable; like I’m on a hot seat. I’m not used to people doing me kindnesses like this. Having a gorgeous man, like Charlie Thorne, cook me breakfast is kind of a dream. I’m afraid that at any moment I might wake up…

Charlie pushes a short stack of thick pancakes over. They are drizzled with blueberries and syrup. My stomach rumbles with excitement.

“Thanks.” I say.

“My pleasure.” He replies.

“What happened to the private chef?” I ask, cutting my first mouthful.

Charlie laughs. “Francisco? That guy’s got the easiest job in New York, I tell you.”

“Why?”

“To be honest with you, I like cooking. I keep Frankie around for big events, or when I’m entertaining, or –”

I frown. “– Or?”

“– Or for when Tilly’s around, needs to eat and I’m not here. It’s probably stupid, but it just doesn’t feel right letting someone else cook for my own daughter. You know?”

“I don’t think that’s stupid,” I say.

The silence grows heavy around us. Charlie’s studying me – at least, it feels that way. He stares at me and doesn’t let up, not even when awkward goose bumps begin to prickle on the back of my neck.

I laugh awkwardly. My cutlery clinks against the plate, and I take my first mouthful of the meal Charlie’s prepared for me. It’s heaven. The blueberries melt on my tongue – little tiny explosions of sweet and sour.

“This is incredible,” I groan. “Tilly is – I mean, your daughter is – a lucky lady.”

Charlie rubs his forehead pensively. “I sure hope so,” he says. “I really do.”

That silence, again.

It’s a little more comfortable this time. It gets more comfortable every second. The goose bumps on my neck fade, and then it feels like Charlie and I have been sitting here forever; living with one another forever; Loving each other… forever.

Down, girl.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try and forget I just thought that. “You’re not eating?” I ask.

Charlie shakes his head. “I already ate. Besides, I’ve got an early meeting.”

“You’re leaving me?” I wince at the edge to my voice.

“Hey there, needy,” my husband grins. “I’ll be back later.”

He bites his lip. “I think we’ve got a lot of getting to know each other to do…”

My cheeks flush with awkwardness once again. It only serves to broaden the smile on Charlie’s face. I wish I could read a manual on how to deal with this guy. He’s always so calm, so confident. By contrast, I feel awkward at every turn.

“Listen, Charlie,” I whisper. “About last night…”

“About last night nothing,” he growls. His demeanor changes in an instant, like roiling thunder clouds.

“You got nothing to be ashamed of, Penny. Listen. I’m a father. I’ve raised this beautiful, perfect little girl. That kind of thing changes your outlook on life, you know that?”

I sniff, and look anywhere other than Charlie Thorne’s gorgeous, caring face. I’m unsure exactly where he’s going with this.

“I s’pose.”

Charlie cups my chin, lifting it an inch at a time.

I lose myself in his caring gray eyes. They don’t look like they belong to a ruthless billionaire, anything but. Charlie makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room. I mean – I am the only person in the room. But Charlie Thorne could make me feel this way even if we were standing in the center of Yankee Stadium.

“You should do more than suppose, Penny. You’re a hell of a girl; don’t ever think anything less of yourself. One day, when she’s all grown up,” – Charlie scowls – “hopefully about fifty years from now, Tilly will meet a guy.”

“Are you sure about that?” I half-sniff, half-giggle.

“Well, not if I can do anything to stop it,” Charlie allows. “And believe me, I’ll do my best.”

“I don’t doubt it,” I whisper.

Charlie’s radiating this fierce intensity. I truly believe that he would do anything to protect the woman he loves: in this case, his daughter Tilly. I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but hope that one day he can love me the way he clearly loves her.

“Anyway,” Charlie growls, getting back on track. “I just hope she meets the kind of man who will treat her right.”

“I’m pretty sure she will,” I say. “You’re a good dad, I can tell. You’ve brought her up right.”

I see a flash of – something – in Charlie’s eyes; a hint that something’s changing inside him. As if – just maybe – he’s beginning to see me in a whole different light. Or maybe I’m just seeing what I want to see.

A crack of sparks runs out of his fingers and through my chin, exactly where he’s holding me. He chews his lip, and grimaces.

“Crap,” he grunts.

“What –?”

Charlie leans forward in one swift movement. He doesn’t give me time to react. His lips graze mine in a kiss that lasts just a fraction of a second, but leaves me desperately wanting more.

“I’ve got to go,” Charlie mutters. I’ve still got the taste of him on my lips. Mixed with blueberries, it’s kind of nice. “The meeting.”

“Oh.”

Charlie plucks the knife and fork from my fingers, cuts a quarter of the stack and impales it with the fork. He lifts it, dripping with glistening dark maple syrup, and holds it an inch from his lips.

“What about you?” He asks. “I’ll be back around lunch. But you can do anything you want in the meantime. If you want, I’ll get Nolan to fire up the heli –”

I shake my head while Charlie’s still speaking. The idea of having a man fly me wherever I want is alluring, but it’s also intimidating. I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not yet.

“I’ll manage,” I grin, “somehow. No – I need to head home, pick a few things up.”

A droplet of maple syrup falls from the morsel of pancakes on Charlie’s fork and against the marble counter. “A car, then?”

“Eat your damn pancakes, Charlie,” I grin. “I’m fine. I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

Charlie shrugs, as if to say have your own way. He stuffs his mouth with a teetering stack of pancakes that’s way too big to chew. As he’s struggling through it, I stand up and plant a gentle kiss on his lips. He tries to respond in kind, but only ends up spluttering. I can’t help the deep belly laugh that rips out of me.

“Oh, and Charlie,” I whisper. “Thanks for breakfast.”

I walk back to my room, still tasting the blueberries.

Chapter Thirteen

Penny

I ride the B-line what seems like a hundred stops all the way down to Prospect Park. After the luxury I’ve been submerged in over the last few days, the subway carriage is a shock. The windows are scrawled with graffiti tags I can’t decipher, and it smells faintly of stale urine.

The sudden change feels like hopping out of a sauna into a snowy field. It hits me right in the face.

“Hey, girl,” a bum grunts. He shuffles down the platform holding a liquor bottle wrapped in brown paper. “You look like you need a drink.”

“I’m good, thanks,” I reply – realizing even as the words leave my mouth that I’ve made my first mistake.

Rule number one in New York, or any big city, really, never ever engage a stranger. Sometimes I daydream about what moving to a small town would be like. Somewhere out in the Midwest, maybe. I’ve only ever lived the rat race, crammed into Big Apple apartment blocks that were meant to house hundreds but ended up with thousands.

I want space.

I want a big garden, with plenty of green grass. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I felt fresh blades of grass beneath my toes. I wonder what Charlie would say if I suggested a picnic down in Central Park.

“Aw, girl – don’t be like that,” the guy says. I shake myself back to the present. This guy doesn’t worry me, but I know better than to daydream at a time like this. “Just a sip.”

The subway car slows. The wheels beneath us rattle, and the tunnel lights up as an electric shock discharges.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “This is my stop.”

The guy throws a slurred insult at my departing back, but it bounces off me. I thought it a thousand times, and I’ve heard it a thousand times worse.

I make it out of Prospect Park subway station without further incident, through the barriers, and into a slight morning chill. I’m wearing what little I packed with me when I moved into Charlie’s apartment.

His penthouse, rather.

I can’t exactly walk around in my old Brooklyn neighborhood wearing the brand-new two thousand dollar coats that have begun to fill my closets. I don’t know where they are coming from, or who Charlie’s sending out to get them – or even if he’s behind it at all. Maybe little things like clothing are just one of the perks of being a billionaire – they just appear like magic.

Walking the streets of my old neighborhood feels strange. It’s only been a few days – yet everything’s changed.

I walk swiftly, and my favorite pair of studded black leather boots jangle and click against the sidewalk. I love the shoes. They’re my bad-bitch-on-business boots. They don’t exactly fit with the swanky outfits in my closet, but I don’t care. They are the little bit of homeless Penny that I’m bringing with me.

It’s not long before I’m back at my apartment block.

I look up at the brick edifice. It punctures the air like a rotten tooth. The bricks – once a dark red are now blackened by years of pollution. It’s easier to count the windows that aren’t boarded up than those which are.

“Home sweet home,” I mutter.

The elevator’s broken, because it’s always broken. I don’t like taking it anyway. This place is full of junkies and thieves. Not the kind of people you want to get stuck between floors in a metal box with, if you know what I mean.

Anyone who can afford not to live here doesn’t. I wouldn’t either, but it’s all Robbie and I could afford when we signed the lease.

Eighteen months later, we’re still here. At least, Robbie is. My circumstances have changed, just a little.

I haul myself up half a dozen flights of stairs. I’m panting slightly by the time I make it to the top. It’s another reminder that I need to get back to the gym. I’m still recovering when I get to my front door.

It’s ajar.

My heart beat kicks into overdrive. The breath catches in my chest. If the urine in the elevator, the cigarettes stubbed out on the fire escape stairs, and the smashed up windows didn’t give it away – I’ll just come out and tell you. This isn’t the kind of place you want to leave your front door open.

I don’t.

Even Robbie’s not foolhardy enough to think that this is a good idea. We’re deadbolt and chains kind of roommates. Not in a kinky way, but for survival.

I press my chest up against the hallway wall and calm my panting breath. I listen out for any sign that someone’s inside.

Nothing.

I push the door open, moving as slowly and carefully as I can. Even so, it shrieks. I wince. I’ve been meaning to oil the hinges for weeks, but obviously never got around to it.

“Robbie?” I whisper. “Are you there?”

Nothing: no sign of Robbie; the longer I’m here, the less I like it.

Our home is a – probably illegal – subdivision of what were once two decent-sized apartments. A small, cramped hallway leads to an equally small, cramped living area that doubles as Robbie’s bedroom. Coat racks hanging off either wall, stacked high with piles of coats. We might be poor, but we’re still girls.

But that means is even less space in the hallway than that otherwise might be. I don’t normally feel claustrophobic, but I’m feeling it now. It’s a pulsating sensation, like a throbbing headache. My palms are wet and sticky with sweat.

I should run.

I crouch down and go for the nearest weapon I can find: a croquet mallet. Don’t even ask me why we have it – it was a Robbie thrift-shop purchase. It was only two bucks, but I still think she got over-charged.

Even so, I’ve never been more grateful to see the big old wooden hammer that I’ve been stubbing my toe on it for the last six months. The wooden handle is comfortingly smooth in my hand. I promise myself that if I make it out of here, I’ll never moan at Robbie for cluttering our small apartment again.

“Is – Is anyone here?”

My voice is still faint and nervous.

I’m breathing heavily now. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. My legs are jittery from the chemical, but strangely the desire to get the hell out of here has faded away.

No – I feel angry. The more I think about it, the stronger the feeling gets. Someone’s been in my home, and I’m pissed off.

Run? Hell. I’m going to fight.

I knock into a coat off the rack to my right, and it causes an avalanche: like a rockslide, only made out of moth-eaten thrift-shop coats. Well the element of surprise – now gone.

I charge around the corner into the living room, wielding a threatening mallet in my hand. My heart is pounding like it never has before. I’m terrified, and yet for some strange reason I’m charging forward into danger.

Someone’s been here, I’m certain of it. I can smell it.

I come to a sudden and immediate stop. The sight before my eyes hits me with an almost physical punch.

“Oh my God,” I gulp. Someone’s been here, all right; and destroyed the place.

Robbie’s room is in tatters. It looks like someone’s torn through it searching for drugs. The foldaway bed she sleeps on is lying on its side. Someone’s taken a knife and ripped through the upholstery, then dug in and torn it out.

“Robbie –?” I call.

I hear a thundering in my ears. It’s a mixture between short, shallow breaths and a heartbeat pounding like drums. I’m dreading what I might find. If Robbie was here when this place was ransacked, then –

Don’t think about it.

The living the room is small enough that it doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds to find out that Robbie’s not here. The floor is covered with our – now smashed – DVD collection. Shards of glass coat the floor from a collection of half-burnt Yankee candles…

…also smashed…

…Obviously.

My blood boils. I don’t know who did this, but I want to find them. And when I do, I’ll squeeze their balls until they squeal.

Who breaks into a place like ours? There’s no cash to find. The furniture’s been rescued from besides dumpsters, the decorations all home-made.

I hear a screech: a thundering: a clattering; a cry of pain.

I spin. My heart beat rises to unexplored levels: beating so fast I worry it will stretch too far. The mallet slips out of my hand, thudding against the floor.

“Shit,” I gasp.

It’s a pigeon: a fucking pigeon. Two, actually; fighting on the window ledge. A flurry of feathers explodes up; then swirls lazily down once they get caught on the breeze. I run my hand through my hair and close my eyes briefly as I recover from the shock.

“Jesus,” I whisper. “I do not need you guys in my life right now.”

Once I’m recovered from the panic, I pick my way through the rest of my shattered apartment. It only takes a couple of seconds to reassure myself that Robbie’s not here. But someone has been; and whoever that someone was, they picked through every last inch of our apartment.

My fear for Robbie’s safety has faded. But it’s been replaced by a less acute, yet no more serious worry.

Who did this, and why? They’ve been through the bank records I keep under my bed, my high-school transcript, everything.

This wasn’t a thief. Thieves don’t rummage through middle school report cards, especially not in this part of town. They are looking for something they can flip quickly, something to get them their next fix.

No, it’s obvious that this is a private investigator’s work. The question now is; who’s paying them; and is it Charlie Thorne..?

* * *

The ride back uptown seems to take twice as long. I scrunch my clothes in my hands, trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.

If Charlie really is having me followed, and getting people to go through my house, then I’m in trouble. I have a strange mixture of feelings toward him. On the one hand, I feel betrayed – betrayed that he doesn’t trust me, betrayed that he would do something this drastic.

But on the other – I can’t blame him. After all, he’s right not to trust me. I entered his life with the intention of stealing from him. It doesn’t matter that I’m beginning to doubt I can go through with it.

“C’mon, Robbie,” I mutter. I must have tried Robbie’s cell phone a hundred times since tearing out of our apartment so fast it was like I had hounds from hell on my tail.

Seeing our place in tatters like that terrified me.

It made me realize that nowhere is safe: not even our own home. I’ve never been burgled before – never had anything worth stealing – but I imagine that it feels the same way: shocking, like someone’s reached into your life and violated the things you hold most dear.

My cell phone beeps for the hundred and first time, and I throw it grumpily into my purse. I’m sure Robbie’s fine – just sleeping off a hangover somewhere – but until I know for sure, the panic runs riot.

The last leg of the journey takes me through Central Park. I see Charlie’s penthouse from what feels like miles away. It gives me time to think.

“Why do you have to be such a good man, you asshole?” I groan. A couple of mothers pushing strollers look at me out of the corner of their eyes, and quickly divert around me.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Charlie Thorne was supposed to be an amoral, heartless, ruthless businessman. I was supposed to rip him off and feel good about it – not like this. Now I’m scared, conflicted – and not a little lost.

But what the hell am I supposed to do?

Get a divorce? I’ve only been married a couple of days!

Come clean?

The thought strikes me like a thunderbolt. Once it enters my mind, it’s all I can think of. I wonder what Robbie would think. Hell – I don’t need to. I know exactly what my best friend would say if she could hear my thoughts. She’d chew me out!

In no time at all, I find myself back at Charlie’s apartment building. I greet the doorman with a tight-lipped smile. He’s a nice guy, and deserves more than that, but right now I’m too stressed out to give it.

I ride the elevator up. The higher it climbs, the more the guilt rises in my throat. Trepidation builds in my stomach, but I know what I’m going to do. It’s the only thing I can do.

I’m going to confess everything to Charlie. I’ll throw myself on his mercy.

Maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to work things out. Because the truth is – I never thought I would say this – I’m beginning to like him.

And I’ve never met a better man.

As the elevator doors slide open, I hear Charlie’s voice in the distance. I don’t know why, but I feel almost as though I’m eavesdropping. Then I can’t help myself.

I freeze, and listen.

Chapter Fourteen

Charlie

I tap a button on my iPhone, and a familiar cascading chime plays on the apartment’s surround sound speakers. I press another button – this time on a wall console – and a set of shutter blinds descend from the ceiling to block out the lunchtime sunshine.

“Hey, baby, can you hear me?” I ask.

An image of my daughter flashes up on the huge wall-mounted television: kind of, anyway. At the moment she’s as stretched and distorted as an abstract painting. Electronic static crackles through the speakers, causing me to wince.

“Tilly?”

The feed settles down a second later – but my daughter doesn’t. As always, she grabs the iPad, and I go on a little dance with her via the magic of Face Time. I’m half-dizzy by the time she has settled down on the bed, lying on her side.

I don’t mind.

It’s just nice to see her face. This hockey trip to Europe is the longest we’ve ever been apart. I know it’s only seven days, but it feels like seven months – at least to me.

“Hey, daddy!” Tilly says.

She’s still wearing her sports clothes – the striped green and purple bands of her exclusive preparatory school. I notice a streak of mud on her cheek, and I’m forced to hide a smile.

My daughter is one of the most mature eleven-year-olds I’ve ever met – but still, she’s only eleven years old. She’s just coming up on that treacherous age all girls are forced to encounter: a self-conscious time when the last thing they want is for their dad to point out they’ve been walking around for hours with mud on their face!

“What time is it over there?” I ask – even though I know exactly what time it is in England. I’ve been waiting like a hawk, ready to call the moment I knew she’d be back at the hotel.

Tilly glances somewhere off-screen. “Um, like, just past three in the afternoon,” she says. She stifles a yawn with the back of her hand. “I’m still not used to the time zone over here.”

“Are you sleeping okay?” I asked anxiously. “You know what I’ve told you –”

Tilly cracks a long-suffering smile, and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, daddy, I know. Don’t use my iPad before bed, turn off the lights… It’s okay, I’ve been reading.”

I fake a cough, but mainly because my throat’s closing up with emotion. Tilly’s about the most perfect kid that any dad could ask for. Even – no, especially – after everything we’ve been through. I’m only a month shy of my thirtieth birthday – and Tilly’s only a couple of months off her twelfth. That should tell you everything you need to know.

Tilly’s face creases, and her hand darts forward to block out the camera. “Dad –? You still there? Hold on, I think maybe the Internet’s –”

“No,” I croak. I clear my throat. “I think it’s all okay now.”

Tilly frowns, and. “You weren’t tearing up on me, were you daddy?”

I tap my chest with mock-indignation. “Me? Nah, you know I don’t cry. Must’ve been the connection…”

More eye rolling. “Sure thing: don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone; it’s our little secret.”

“How is England, anyway, Tills?” I ask. “Where are you right now, is it Manchester?”

Tilly corrects me. “It’s Man-chester, silly, not Manchester.”

“Tomato, tomato,” I grin, saying both words exactly the same. “All sounds the same to me. But if you’re done making fun of me –?”

“I’m not making fun!” Tilly protests. “Okay, maybe just a little bit…” She winks, but on her little face it’s more of a blink.

“Still can’t wink, huh?” I grin. “Guess your daddy’s still got a few tricks up his sleeve.”

“I can too wink,” Tilly frowns. She tries again. And again, both her eyes scrunch shut.

“That’s just twitching,” I say. “Anyway, I asked you how Man-chester was. Stop beating around the bush!”

Tilly looks away, perhaps out of the window in her hotel room. She scrunches up her nose. “The people are nice,” she allows. “But it hasn’t stopped raining since we got here! I don’t know how they manage like this. They should start growing fins!”

“Fins?”

“You know,” Tilly giggles. “Like fish.”

I laugh along with my daughter, and then go quiet.

“Daddy; are you okay? You’re not going to start crying on me again, are you?”

“I told you already kiddo, daddy doesn’t cry.”

Tilly opens her eyes wide. I stifle a grin. It’s the exact look I get on my face when – infrequently – I tell her off. “I thought we didn’t lie to each other, huh?”

I hold my hands up. “Okay, okay – you got me. Listen, Tills, there’s –There’s something I need to tell you.”

My throat closes up again.

I know it’s not fair to me to be putting issues this heavy on my daughter’s shoulders. But I made a promise to her a long time ago – to treat her like an adult, and I’m going to keep it. There are some things, loads of things, I keep from her. Things Tilly doesn’t need to know.

But unfortunately, Penny isn’t one of those subjects. Since Tilly’s going to return to New York in a couple of days, my new wife is definitely “need to know” – and Tilly needs to know.

“Daddy?”

“Sorry.”

“What is it?”

“Promise you won’t get mad?” I say. I feel like the kid, right now, not Tilly!

Tilly nods.

“There’s going to be someone here when you get back: at the apartment.”

“You mean,” Tilly says, scrunching her nose, “like a new chef, or something? What happened to Francisco?”

I shake my head. “No, not like a new chef. Don’t worry, Frankie’s not going anywhere.”

“Good. Then what?”

I tip my head back and let out a small, frustrated sigh. I know what it sounds like – that I’m dragging the revelation out, but I simply can’t find the words. I’m coming up against a wall of resistance. I don’t want to see the look on my daughter’s face when I tell her I’m shacking up with a girl only eight years older than she is!

Tilly has always looked up to me, loved me like a brother as well as a father. I don’t want to see judgment written on her innocent face.

I hear a bustling noise on the other end of the line: then a knocking; next the faint sound of a woman’s voice. Tilly looks away again, and the camera fills up with a view of her neck.

“Daddy, Mrs. Noble just called, we’ve got to go to dinner, and I need to shower, and –.”

I smile sadly and blow my daughter a kiss. She catches it, and then throws it right back. “It’s all fine, baby, this can wait. You do you.”

“Bye daddy,” Tilly says as she kills the video call. “I miss you.”

“I miss you more,” I whisper.

The television on the other side of the room goes black as the call ends. I’m lost in darkness – the window blinds block out every last scrap of light. I sink into the gray suede couch and cover my face with my hands. I don’t know what I’m going to do about Tilly. She’s got two days left in England, and after that she’ll get on a flight back home.

How am I supposed to tell her that she’s got a new mom?

A sound behind me startles me. I flinch and spin.

Penny clears her throat. “Hey, Charlie.”

I’m instantly rocked back on my heels. How much of that did she hear? I don’t know why, but I don’t want Penny to have heard that conversation. It’s almost as though I consider it an intrusion. For so long, this apartment was our space – Tilly’s and mine.

“How long have you been here?” I ask. I don’t like the sound of my voice – it comes out harsh and inquisitive.

“Not long,” Penny replies. She bites her lip. “Was that –”

“My daughter,” I growl.

Fuck, I shouldn’t take this out on Penny. It’s not her fault I got lost in my own thoughts. It’s not her fault that I was happy to go along with this marriage ruse when I could have shut it down: should have shut it down.

“She’s beautiful,” Penny says. She smiles with such a disarming honesty that it’s hard to stay angry with her.

That’s the thing about being a parent that I never understood before I had Tilly. It’s not just okay for you to love your kids; you feel a need to show them off every second of every day, because you made this thing, this perfect, precious, sweet little thing.

That’s the way it is for me, anyway.

I let out a sigh, and my shoulders relax. “She is,” I agree. “I don’t know who she takes after, because it sure as hell isn’t me.”

Penny frowns. “What happened to her mom?”

I grimace, and Penny flinches. “You don’t have to tell me anything, not if you don’t want –”

I wave my hand. “No, it’s fine. I guess if we’re going to live together for the next year, I better tell you a little about me.”

I don’t know if I’m overthinking things, but I swear Penny closes her eyes when I say that. She sucks in a breath.

I shake my head. I’m probably reading too much into it; too much into her. Penny has that effect on me whenever she’s around: I can’t stop drinking in every inch of her skin; or studying her like she’s an exquisite painting in a gallery.

I slump back down on the couch and gesture for Penny to join me.

“I had Tilly young,” I say. “But I guess you already figured that.”

Penny curls up on her legs, but keeps a short distance between us. I can’t rid myself of the lingering suspicion that something’s on her mind. But now that I’ve started talking, I don’t want to stop. I’m not the kind of guy who does therapy – but I’m sure there’s a whole river of shit in my mind just waiting for an excuse to escape.

“Yeah.”

“How much do you know about me?” I ask. I narrow my eyes and study Penny’s reaction.

Penny’s voice jumps an entire range of octaves. “About you? What do you mean?”

I smile to put her at ease. I realize how I must be coming across – almost like I’m pumping her for information. That’s not what I want – nothing could be further from the truth.

I want Penny to understand why I’m the way I am: intensely private, ambitious, and protective over my daughter: maybe too protective. So protective that marrying a woman I’ve never met to save Tilly from CPS’s clutches made sense at the time.

“Relax,” I smile. “You ever read an interview with me? In Time Magazine or the New York Times?”

Penny shakes her head. Her face is still drawn and tense. “No,” she admits.

“That’s because there aren’t any,” I reply. “I like it that way. I don’t see why people out there need to know anything about my life. I’m just a guy – a guy who works extremely hard, and a guy who’s been very, very lucky.”

Penny’s expression shifts. It’s a tiny change, and one that I only pick up because I’m losing myself in her eyes. A second ago, I thought I saw distrust on her face. Now it’s interest.

“Lucky?” She whispers. “That’s interesting. Not a lot of men in your position would admit that, I don’t think.”

“What?” I chuckle. “Like Landon Winchester? I swear, in that guy’s mind he’s the Son, the Father and the Holy Spirit all rolled up into one blonde haired, blue-eyed model’s body.”

“He’s an asshole,” Penny spits with surprising venom.

“I’m glad you agree. The way Landon sees it, every bit of success he’s had is his right. It’s not about luck with him, it’s that he’s worked hard, and that the people he ground into dust beneath him deserved to fail.”

“And you?” Penny asks.

I shrug. “I’ve been lucky,” I say freely. “I’ll admit that to anyone who asks. You don’t make it to where I am in the world without more than a ladle-full of luck. I’ve had more than enough for a hundred men.”

Penny relaxes a little. “So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Lucky.”

I do. I don’t know why, but I do. I open myself up in a way I’ve never done before – not with anyone. When you get to where I have in the world, you have to close yourself off, or open yourself up for attack.

“I was a wild child,” I say. “I grew up on the streets of New York. My mom and dad didn’t check in on me much. They died in a car wreck when I was about twelve years old, but I wasn’t upset.”

Penny flinches.

I hold my hand up, thinking I know why. “We weren’t close,” I say. “They didn’t care much about me, not beyond the checks they got from the state, anyway.”

“It’s your family, I guess,” Penny says doubtfully.

“So this foster family took me in – an Irish couple, as Catholic as they were generous. They raised me from twelve to eighteen.”

“And they changed you? Helped you settle down?”

I let out a deep, booming laugh. “No way. I swear; I tested mom’s patience to the limit. My foster mom, I mean. She was in and out of the principal’s office more than his damn secretary!”

“Then … what?” Penny frowns. “How did an orphan kid from the streets of New York end up as one of its most powerful men?”

I close my eyes. “There was this girl,” I say. “Molly. God, for a troubled kid like me, she was like cocaine. She had tattoos all down her side, a lip piercing, silver bars through both nipples –.”

Penny clears her throat.

“Sorry –,” I say hurriedly. “But you get the picture.”

“I think so,” Penny smiles uncertainly.

“Anyway,” I said. “Molly Jones was the business. Let me tell you, I’ve rarely met a girl like her.”

Penny’s eyes cloud over, but I wave the thought away. “I wouldn’t worry,” I say. “She was off the rails. We drank together, smoked together, fucked all over town. She was the last thing a kid like me needed. We played hooky, we rode the subway without paying, shoplifted, drank some more. You get the picture.”

“You already said that…” Penny says, but she can’t hide the interest in her eyes. She shifts her weight forward.

“And then…” I say, losing myself in the memory.

“Molly disappeared. Just like that,” I click my fingers. “She was gone. Fuck, I’ve never missed a girl like I missed her. I didn’t see her for seven months. I got a job – dead-end kind of thing, behind a register, but it didn’t last long. None of them did. I started messing about with computers. Didn’t try hard, but goddamn I was good.”

“And then?” Penny whispers. I can tell she’s figured out – most of it, anyway.

“I never did see Molly again. But one day mom rang me, told me I needed to swing by the house. I’ve never heard her voice like that. Let me tell you, you don’t mess with an Irish lady going through the menopause…”

“And that’s when you found Tilly,” Penny whispers.

I nod. “She was wrapped up in some ratty old thrift-shop baby clothes. Molly dropped her off with mom and dad; then she ran. But I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Tilly’s face in my entire life.”

I look up. Penny’s face is suddenly just inches from mine. She looks entranced by the story, spellbound by my words. She bites her lip.

Then I do something I don’t regret one little bit.

Chapter Fifteen

Penny

Charlie leans forward and kisses me. I’m asking for it. I really am. I’m leaning forward, practically vibrating with energy.

I wish I knew whether this man has any idea what effect he has on me.

He winds me up and flicks me out like a freaking yo-yo, then pulls me back in when I least expect it. I’m charged with electricity. This whole room is charged with electricity. I feel like whatever I do, something’s going to spark. Something’s going to burn.

I think it’s going to be me.

I kiss him back. I kiss him like he’s the last man left on earth, the only man I’ve ever wanted to taste. In truth, he is.

Maybe I needed to walk a mile over hot coals to discover the man who’s lurking inside. Maybe this – this kiss – means more because of what it represents.

Charlie pulls back.

He takes my bottom lip with him, scraping his teeth on it before letting it go. It hurts, but it’s a good kind of pain. I brush my lip with my fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve asked.”

I sit there, still vibrating. That kiss did nothing to calm the flames burning inside me. Charlie lit the match, and then turned away – not bothering to look at the explosion.

My chest heaves and falls. My breath is ragged. I press my legs together.

Suddenly there’s only one thing on my mind, and it isn’t telling Charlie why I came back. All conscious thought disappears from my mind. It’s replaced by pure, unadulterated lust. I can’t help myself. I become more than a girl and less all at once. I’m driven by sex: by the smell of Charlie’s cologne, by the taste of him that lingers on my lips.

“Don’t apologize,” I say. My voice is hoarse and longing.

“But after last night –,” Charlie says.

I squeeze my eyes shut. God, this man couldn’t be more perfect. It’s as if someone went into a lab and combined every element of perfection into one man.

“Last night was different,” I whisper.

“Different how?” he murmurs back.

Different because I wasn’t ready, I don’t say.

But that is the truth. Right now I feel different. I don’t believe Charlie is the one who ordered the surveillance on me. If he is, then he’s an incredibly impressive liar. But I don’t detect any hint of malice in him.

I’ve barely met the man, and yet I know him. After hearing him talking to his daughter, just now, I know he wouldn’t do a thing like that. One question lingers in my mind: if not Charlie, then who?

But that’s a question for another time. Any time, really; just not now.

“Stop talking,” I growl.

I lean forward, and bring my lips to his. I trace my tongue along Charlie’s bottom lip, and cling to his body. He tastes like cinnamon and brown sugar.

But he doesn’t kiss me back.

“Penny –,” Charlie says.

He’s holding back, I can feel it. He’s quivering with excitement, and yet somehow he’s exerting a level of control over his urges that is completely beyond me. I’ve given in to my lust. I let it wash over me like a wave at the beach.

It’s irresistible, not that I tried.

“Charlie,” I say, and bite his lip. Hard. It’s payback, but of a kind that’s carefully calculated to push him over the edge. “Shut up and fuck me, will you?”

Charlie freezes.

I press my body against him, and I feel his heart beat thud inside his chest. I feel the outline of his thick chest muscles against my breasts; I feel the heat of his body rippling against me. If I died here and now, I’d die happy.

“You’re sure?”

I shake my head. I look Charlie in the eye, and I don’t let go.

“I’m not sure. I’m ready.”

I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’m more than willing to surf this wave. I’ve lived a lifetime of unhappiness in only nineteen years. I’ve lived through family illness, and huddling on a sidewalk.

I’ve seen men give in to drink, and women to drugs. I’ve seen human beings copulate like animals beneath an underpass. All that time, I held onto the one thing that was mine – and mine alone – to give –

– my virginity.

“Jesus, Penny,” Charlie groans. “You’re something, you know that?”

Apparently what I said was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Charlie grabs me and rolls me over, so that he’s on top. The blinds over the windows are still pulled down low, and the room’s only lit by the dull glow from the idling television. It’s the only light we need.

Charlie caresses me with rough hands. He unbuttons my top, and in seconds it’s on the floor. Suddenly this is moving faster than I could have anticipated.

It’s faster than I can stop. But I don’t want to.

My skin is on fire. It feels like waves of flames are rippling against me, like hot wax is dripping down from above. Charlie layers a stream of kisses down my front. He starts at my lips, circles my neck, and kisses his way down my stomach.

I flinch. God, it feels so good. I want to give in. I want to feel Charlie’s tongue between my legs. I want to feel those things I’ve dreamt about for so long.

“Charlie,” I whisper. “Wait…”

Charlie pulls back, concern pooling in his icy gray eyes. Except, right now, they aren’t icy. They are burning up with desire: for me.

He steals the breath clean out of my lungs as I meet his gaze. I’m struck dumb. I can’t speak, think, or even breathe for the sight of him.

“What is it?” Charlie asks.

He speaks in a throaty, concerned voice. It’s the strangest thing – he makes me want to strip the clothes from his back, to leave red scratch marks down his spine… and it also makes me melt inside.

“Just –,” I stammer. “Just go slow.”

Charlie doesn’t reply. Not with words, anyway. His expression changes back from worry to lust. He pushes me back down against the sofa, straddles the top of me.

“I’ll go slow,” he growls. “So slow you’ll beg me to stop torturing you. So slow you’ll press your legs together to try and hasten your orgasm, and I’ll tear them right back apart. You’re going to come, Penny. Come so hard you won’t be able to walk straight for a week.”

“Yes,” I murmur. “Please.”

Charlie’s words fill me with a thrill I’ve never experienced. He makes me feel dirty, wanton – makes me desire nothing more than to be used.

I don’t feel clean, not after what I’ve got planned for Charlie’s fortune – whether I go through with my theft or not. In a way, this is like punishment for something I’ve not even done.

I deserve it.

I deserve everything he’ll give me.

And none of it.

Charlie’s hands drop to my waist. He unbuckles the woven belt that circles my hips, and whips it out of the loops that hold it, one arm bulging beneath his crisp white shirt.

“Tell me what you want first,” Charlie says. His eyes surf my skin. I can feel the heat of his gaze – and the weight. It’s like a herd of charging buffalo riding my skin.

“What?” I pant.

“You heard me,” he says. “Tell me where you want me to touch you.”

Charlie speaks with rough, forceful sincerity.

It’s hard – but it’s also terrifying. He’s making me someone I’m not – not yet, at least. He’s making me his little slut. I know that Charlie Thorne would never put it that way. In his perfectly tailored suits and his crisp white shirts, those kinds of words would never roll off his tongue.

But it’s the truth.

And it’s what I want.

“I want you inside me,” I moan as Charlie drags his fingernails down the front of my body. “Now. I don’t want anything else.”

That’s a lie. I want so much more than that. I want everything that Charlie can – and will – give me. And I want it now. I don’t want his tongue between my legs, his fingers. I’m soaking wet already; as wet as I’ve ever been – no, make that more.

“You’re the boss,” Charlie smirks.

He pulls my jeans down my legs, ripping them past my ankles. I have the craziest thought out of nowhere.

Maybe I could hire Charlie full-time to undress me – not for sex, just when I struggle to get out of my jeans, and have to hop around on one foot. It would save me minutes every day: hours every week; days every month;…

And then the heat between my legs sweeps the silliness from my mind.

Charlie grabs me by the back of my neck and pulls me up. He slips his other hand around my torso and unclips my bra. It joins the quickly growing pile of clothing scattered around the penthouse floor.

The air kisses my skin, and then Charlie does as well. I moan with approval.

Charlie drags my panties off. I need to buy something sexier, something that doesn’t scream Plain Jane, but now’s not the time. I press my legs together, trying to hide the fact that I still haven’t shaved the red bush between my legs.

I’m not used to this new world where I have to keep myself trimmed. I went nineteen years without anyone ever seeing me naked – anyone other than me, anyway. It’s hard to get my head around.

“Don’t do that,” Charlie growls.

He drags his finger up my soaking slit, then brings it his mouth and tastes it – looking me directly in the eye. “I want you – all of you. Don’t fight me.”

After hearing those words, I melt. How can I do anything else? The embarrassment about my landscaping fades away, replaced by a surging tidal wave of desire.

Charlie pushes me back.

I collide with the couch, and the air gets forced out of my lungs. I struggle for breath, but Charlie doesn’t give me a chance to recover. He leans forward, pressing his mouth against mine, and pushes my legs apart with his free hand.

He enters me with one long, thick finger. I tip my head back and moan, Charlie doesn’t stop. He lays a trail of kisses down my neck.

“Jesus, you’re wet,” he says with pleased surprise.

“For you –,” I whisper.

I don’t even know what I’m saying. Nerve endings are firing pleasure at me from every inch of my body. Not at once, but from every place Charlie’s hands roam: which is everywhere; and, all at once.

“Unbutton my shirt,” Charlie commands.

I hesitate before doing exactly as he orders. I swallow, and reach up, tussling clumsily with the ivory buttons. I gasp as I reveal Charlie’s chest. It’s as perfect as I remember: maybe more so.

He shrugs the shirt off, and unbuckles his belt himself. He levers his body up, and I finish the job by kicking his pants to the floor. His cock hangs between us. It’s thick, thicker than I ever imagined possible, and long.

“Can I…” I whisper. “Can I touch it?”

Charlie beams, as though I offered him the greatest present in the world. “You’re the boss,” he says again.

I reach out and touch a man’s penis for the first time in my life. It’s not what I expected. I don’t know what I did expect, but it wasn’t this. Charlie’s cock is rock hard, and burning hot. I play with it with wondrous desire.

“Softly,” he whispers, closing his eyes. I do as Charlie orders, tracing my fingers up and down his shaft.

“You like it?” He growls. His eyes spring open. I nod wordlessly.

He smirks. “It likes you.”

Charlie presses his mouth on mine one last time, and lowers himself toward me. I hear a crinkle, and a condom appears from God knows where. I’m glad. I didn’t want to have to ask. But Charlie’s clearly an expert. That’s good, I think.

My chest rises and falls quickly. I can’t claim that I’m not nervous, not anymore. I’m practically sweating!

“I’ll stop the second you tell me too,” Charlie says.

Then I feel the heat of his fingers on my inner thigh. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip. All of a sudden I’m stricken with worry. What if there’s something wrong with me? What if it hurts too much? Maybe I should tell Charlie to stop… Say I’m not ready?

“I’m nervous, Charlie,” I whisper.

“I know. It will be worth it, I promise.”

“It had better –”

It is.

I moan. “Be…”

I feel the heat radiating off Charlie’s cock between my legs. It’s like an iron taken straight out of the fire. He pushes into me – just an inch – not even: a fraction of an inch inside me. I don’t know where Charlie’s heat ends and mine begins.

It feels amazing. He feels amazing.

Charlie’s barely inside me, and yet this is already better than I could have imagined. Better than I ever dreamed.

And then Charlie’s huge, thick cock meets a resistance inside me. It’s just a pressure at first, and then my eyes spring open as I realize what’s about to happen. I’m about to lose my virginity – for good. Once Charlie takes me, I’ll never be able to go back to the girl I was.

I search Charlie’s face, and see a look of pure, unadulterated lust. For a second I don’t know whether he’ll succumb to his deepest desires, and use me, then leave me. I don’t know where the fear comes from – perhaps the deepest part of me.

But Charlie’s not like that.

“Are you sure you’re ready?” He says. His voice is low, gruff – a throaty growl that has me purring with delight.

“For you.”

I am. It’s true. I’m finally ready for a man to take me, to make me a woman. And not just any man. Charlie Thorne. My husband.

“Look at me,” Charlie whispers. He rests his palm on my left cheek and stares me directly in the eyes.

I do as I’m told.

I could get lost in Charlie’s eyes, wander them forever –

Except this is the moment. My eyes water and I bite my lip. A tear blurs my vision. Charlie pushes through the barrier inside me. He does it slowly, never looking away, sharing the pain with me.

“Don’t stop,” I moan.

Not because it feels good, because in truth, it hurts like hell; but because I want to rip off the Band-Aid. The heat inside me, the lust that’s driving me on, that’s not going away. I need to get past this.

And I do.

Charlie groans as his hips meet mine, as he buries his cock as deep inside me as it will go. “Jesus, Penny,” he growls. “You’re so freaking tight.”

My head tips back as my nerves jangle one last time. “Thanks,” I hiss. “I guess…”

“How are you feeling?” He asks anxiously. “Sorry – I forgot. It – you – just feel so goddamn good.

“How do you think I’m feeling?” I whisper. I’m drowning in Charlie’s eyes. The big, loving gray orbs glisten as they look down at me, looking for all the world like huge gas giants floating through space.

Charlie looks down at me sadly. “You want me to stop?”

“After getting this far?” I growl, this time. “Hell no.”

That’s all the encouragement Charlie needs. He goes slow, grabbing my shoulder and using it for leverage as he thrusts inside me.

I whimper with every stroke. It hurts, and yet it doesn’t. It feels incredible, like nothing I can ever dreamed, yet that pleasure is laced with pain.

And then the pain begins to fade.

And then it’s fireworks.

My fingernails bite into Charlie’s back, clawing deep, red lines as he pushes into me, as my entire body rocks with the force of his thrusts. Every time I scratch him, he growls, but the pain seems to drive him on.

I love it.

I need it.

“Charlie, I’m –”

Coming.

The realization hits me with the force of a ship running aground. It rocks me back. For a second, I’m stunned. This is it. It’s happening.

And then the blackness sets in on my vision. I try to clench my legs tight, doubling the pleasure building between them. My fingernails dig into Charlie’s skin, I bite his shoulder, and I feel his heat explode inside me.

My orgasm is beyond anything I could’ve imagined. It’s an explosive pleasure that rolls around my body like a storm of fireworks.

It’s perfect. He’s perfect.

“You know, girl,” Charlie whispers into my ear, panting as he lowers himself down. “You’re worth every penny…”

Chapter Sixteen

Charlie

I reach down and run my fingers through Penny’s flowing red hair. I don’t remember feeling this content, not for a long time.

We’re lying on top of the bed, still slightly sweaty from sex, and I can’t tell if she’s awake or asleep. Her chest rises and falls gently, and my eyes are drawn to her nipples. One of her breasts is half-covered by long strands of hair, but the other stands proud and free.

I feel my cock responding to the sight.

Penny moans, rolls her neck and looks up at me. She winks at me when she notices my growing cock. “Like what you see?”

I glance down. “I could say the same to you…”

The thing is Penny is right. I’m just shy of thirty years old – hardly an old man – but I can’t remember the last time a girl had this kind of effect on me. I’m not saying I’m a two pump chump – I can outlast the best of them – but it’s hard to remember a time when I was ready to go for round two so quickly.

Penny rolls over, and combat crawls her way up my body. She rests her head on my chest, and now her hair falls down and covers my eyes. I scrunch my face up and blow it away. Penny giggles. It’s a delightful, innocent sound.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

I’m not an idiot. I know that Penny will remember what we just did for the rest of her life. Not because I’m a demon in the sack, but because no girl ever forgets losing her virginity. I saw the way Penny hid a grimace as I entered her, the way she bit her lip and hissed to mask the pain.

Penny cranes her neck until she meets my gaze. “What, you mean down there?”

I nod. “Did it hurt?”

Penny laughs out loud. “Are you kidding? With that thing between your legs? What do you think…”

It’s hard to hide the smug smirk that creeps onto my face. I don’t know what it is – maybe it’s just a guy thing – but any time a girl complements the size of your cock, it makes your day.

“I take it that’s a yes?”

Penny’s eyes widen. “I won’t walk straight for a week.”

I laugh. “I’m not sure I will either. You’re… You’re something else, Penny Thorne.”

Penny arches eyebrow. “I know,” she says. “But trust me, Charlie. However blue your balls are getting right now, it’s not even a percent as painful as –.”

She blushes.

“– Ah, hell: I guess there’s no need to be shy anymore, is there; as my vagina right now.”

I hold my hands, and pull my head slightly off the pillow. “Hey, you asked for it…”

Penny pouts. “I guess. But you didn’t have to be so –”

“Enthusiastic?” I ask.

I trail a finger down Penny’s perfect, almost virginal pale skin.

I do it with a sense of pride, of ownership. I’ve done something of incomprehensible importance – something I’ve never done before. I took Penny’s virginity. She gave me the greatest gift that any woman can give. She trusted herself to me: so completely, so utterly, that she gave me her most vulnerable moment.

I don’t know what I can do to repay her, but whatever it is, I’ll give it.

“That’s one word,” Penny grunts. I blink, and shake myself out of this train of thought.

“I think it fits,” I interrupt. “Besides, how could I not be enthusiastic?”

“What do you mean?” Penny says. She looks a little uncertain, now, as if she has no idea where I’m going.

I straighten my finger, and drag my fingernail down Penny’s breast. I stop an inch above her left nipple, knocking the fiery strands of red hair away, and start to circle the dime-sized patch of darker pink skin.

Penny hides a little gasp. Goosebumps breakout on her skin, and her arm hairs stand on end.

“You know what I mean,” I whisper.

I do it so that Penny has to strain to hear the words coming out of my mouth. So that she’s forced to move her head closer to mine. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

Penny nods, and her soft, conditioned hair strokes my skin. I resist the urge to shiver with pleasure.

“Okay. You’re irresistible, Penny. Even if you hadn’t interrupted that meeting, I don’t think that I would have been able to stop myself. I’d have locked the doors to my office and seduced you.”

“What makes you think –” Penny whispers.

“– That I could?” I chuckle. I lean forward and nibble on Penny’s right earlobe. She closes her eyes and opens her neck up to me.

“Don’t deny it, Penny. I saw the way you looked at me the second you walked into my office. You couldn’t keep your eyes off me.”

Penny drags an uncooperative tongue across painfully dry lips. She seems to shiver as I speak. “That’s not how I remember it…”

“Oh, sure,” I say. I pinch her nipple between my fingers, and her eyelids flicker shut.

“I was looking at you as well: from top to bottom, Penny. Wondering what was underneath that sexy little skirt, wondering what the slit between your legs would taste like. Wondering how you’d moan when I lay you down on your back and fucked you on my desk.”

Penny pants. Her cheeks redden slightly, and I see her hand drift downward from where it’s resting on her belly. It’s an automatic, instinctive reaction. It crests the mound of her pussy before she realizes what she’s doing and drags it away.

I laugh. “Touch yourself, if you want,” I say. “I won’t judge you.”

Believe me, I won’t judge you.

In fact, suddenly it’s all I want to see: Penny on her back, probing her wet folds while I play with her breasts. I want to order her to touch herself. I want to see the look on her face when she agrees, when she fulfills her filthiest fantasies with me urging her on.

But Penny shakes her head. “No,” she pants. “I can’t. It still hurts.”

I lean forward again, and graze the topmost section of Penny’s ear with my teeth. “Still think you could have resisted me, Penny?” I whisper: “because I wouldn’t have stopped. You know I wouldn’t. I would have kept going until you stripped for me: until I got to cradle your perfect tits in my hands; until –.”

Penny sits up, startling me out of my train of thought. She has a wicked look on her face: the expression of a woman with a plan. I don’t know whether to be excited, or afraid …

…Very afraid.

“Can I touch it?” She asks, looking at my cock. It’s lying on my stomach, half-erect.

I’ve seen that thing every day of my life. It just hangs there, in between my legs. Sometimes it gets hard, and sometimes not.

Hell, I think it’s got a mind of its own. My cock long ago stopped being interesting to me. That’s not to say I don’t remember it from time to time – especially when I’ve got a Grade A girl like Penny riding it.

What I mean to say is, most of the time, I just ignore it.

But Penny doesn’t.

She’s got a look of wonder in her eyes. It surprises me, for a second, until I realize why. She’s a virgin – or at least, she was until recently – about as recent as it’s possible to be without it being now.

“Go to town,” I say. My cock is your oyster.”

That sounded better in my head.

Penny fixes me with an unimpressed stare. “Well, Mr. Big Shot, you better not expect me to swallow it…”

I tip my head back, and a frustrated sigh escapes through my teeth. I didn’t expect Penny to swallow anything. But now she’s suggested it, all I can think of is my cock disappearing past those perfect lips: the touch of her tongue on my shaft; the feel of her hands cupping my balls.

I know I can’t expect it to happen. Penny’s new to all this, she’s innocent – that’s what I like about her. I like that I get to show her the ropes, teach her how to love a man. Teach her how to pleasure a man.

I know all that.

But my body thinks differently. All it knows is pure pleasure. My whole life, it has had what it wants. My cock stiffens – just a fraction.

“Don’t do anything you don’t want to,” I say.

My voice cracks. I sound like I’m going through puberty in reverse.

Penny’s eyebrow arches. “Trust me,” she says. Her tone leaves me under no illusions. “I won’t.”

Still, Penny’s hands creep forward. She’s sitting on her knees now, leaning forward, shoulders hunched as she stares at my thickening cock with delight. As she folds over, her tiny, pert breasts scrunch together. The cleavage carves a delectable furrowed down her chest.

Penny bites her lip. “Maybe I should start charging,” she says; “a buck a look.”

I rake her body shamelessly from the bottom to the top. My eyes linger once again on her perfect chest. It draws me in, draws me back, every time.

“Don’t you dare undersell yourself,” I groan breathlessly. “You’re worth a hell of a lot more than that.”

Penny’s forehead furrows. “You’re the one paying…”

“Don’t forget,” I smile. “I can afford it.”

Penny does something I don’t expect. She punctures my bubble as effectively as if she’d drawn out a needle. She scrapes her fingernails on my balls. The sensation is so unexpected I jump, and my mouth drops open.

Penny giggles.

“I wondered what would happen if I tried that,” she says.

“I guess you got your answer,” I reply.

I swallow hard. My mouth is suddenly dry, and I’m looking at Penny in a different light. She doesn’t seem nearly so innocent anymore. She’s a minx, and a troublemaker, and all of that’s hidden in a perfect, angelic, virginal body.

“How does it grow like that?” Penny asks. She stares fascinated at my cock, which is quickly becoming fully erect. “Are you doing that?”

I shake my head. I’m tingling. I wonder what would happen if I told Penny to taste it. Would she? Or would she run a mile instead?

“No,” I growl. “You are.”

Penny looks up. A slow, delighted smile creeps across her face. “I hope so.” She says.

She leans forward, never breaking eye contact with me. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like Penny’s a seasoned pro, not a girl who lost her virginity just minutes ago.

She’s playing me like an expert. If she asked me to jump right now, I would ask how high. If she asked me to hand over my bank cards, I’d do it without another thought. She’s got me under her spell.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

I need to know. Desire is surging through me like burning lava. My skin is on fire; my breath is ragged in my chest. I’ve never felt like this around a woman before. But Penny’s different. She’s not just a woman – she’s so, so much more.

She places one finger on her lips to silence me, and I do, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the scene that’s unfolding in front of me – on top of me.

Penny plants a kiss on me: on my cock; right on the tip.

I let out an involuntary moan. I can’t help myself. Everything she’s done, it’s been building up to this. All the tension, the erotic excitement, it’s beginning to overflow.

“Please…” I whisper, unbidden.

Penny stops. Her voice is hard. “Please what?” She asks.

How the hell am I supposed to answer that? What does Penny want from me? It’s obvious what I want: what I need. Pleasure: release; to lose myself entirely in the blackness of orgasm.

“Please,” I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut. “Please taste it.”

“Better,” Penny says.

She takes my cock in her hands. I don’t know how, but it’s like Penny knows exactly what she’s doing. She manipulates it with soft, careful strokes. Some women treat a penis like it’s the handle of a hammer, but not Penny.

She caresses it, spoils it.

“It’s so thick,” Penny gasps.

The crack in her breath breaks the façade she’s putting on – the display of arrogant competence, but I don’t care. Like I said, compliment a man’s cock and he’ll be like putty in your palm.

I nod. The noise my hair makes scratching against the pillow sound as loud as a jet engine in the quiet of my bedroom.

Then she does it.

Penny takes me in her mouth. She caresses my cock with her tongue, spins it around the tip until the first shoots of fire speed through the nerve endings on my skin.

Penny’s inexperienced, but it doesn’t matter. There’s something about her that turns me on like no woman ever has. It’s the naivety, and the innocence – but it’s not just that. It can’t be. It’s that around her, my drive quiets down. My endless restlessness seems to fade away.

I can be me.

I thread my fingers through Penny’s hair, and scrape the soft skin at the back of her neck. She feeds my cock deeper into her mouth, and moans around it. It’s the most erotic; the most exciting; the most achingly perfect sound I’ve ever heard.

I feel the telltale signs of orgasm beginning to grow: a tightness in my balls; a longing ache in my stomach. The details don’t sound that sexy, but right here – in the moment – I promise you that I’ve never felt anything like this.

“Jesus, Penny,” I groan. I’m going to –”

Come.

Penny nods her head as though she knows exactly what I’m about to say. There’s nothing like coming in a woman’s mouth – especially one like Penny. One you’re beginning to feel things for; things that go beyond just pure lust.

The fact that this girl, this perfect, angelic girl would do this for me blows me away. I close my eyes; my chest falls up and down with heavy strokes. My hand scrunches tight into Penny’s hair, the other one more firmly into the sheets.

I feel it surge. I feel the explosion deep down low. It’s like nothing I’ve felt before. Stars explode behind my eyelids, my buttocks tense, and an unbearable tightness releases inside me.

I lose time. I lose conscious thought. I lose any sense of where I am or what’s going on.

And I don’t care.

Penny doesn’t stop, even when my seed fills her mouth. She keeps going, milking me dry.

But enough remains of me to consciously promise one thing: when I recover from this, I’m going to give Penny an orgasm like she’s never experienced before. I’m not going to stop until her legs clench around my head, until her back’s arched against the bed sheets, and until she’s screaming my name.

* * *

While Penny’s brushing her teeth before bed, I grab my phone. I navigate to an entry in my contacts.

Harper Cole.

I compose a message. “Harper, call off the dogs. Penny’s clean.”

I don’t feel good having my lawyer continuing to dig into Penny’s background. Not after what just happened. If this girl’s conning me, then I deserve everything I get.

I hear the sink drain away in the bathroom, and Penny appears, a bathrobe wrapped around her body.

“Are you ready for bed?” I ask with an eyebrow raised.

Penny rolls her eyes. “For sleep, this time.”

Chapter Seventeen

Penny

I wake to loss. It’s an unbelievable, aching feeling. It rips at me until I open my eyes and jolt back to my senses. It’s still dark outside – the middle of the night. I reach over and turn on a bedside lamp.

“Charlie?” I whisper.

The memory of the pain takes a few seconds to fade. I can still feel it – tearing at my stomach, squeezing down on my lungs. Then it’s gone – as though it were never there in the first place.

I pat the bed to the left of me. It’s empty, but still warm. I look up, searching for a crack of light underneath the bathroom door, but find instead that it’s empty, and the light is off.

That clears one thing up, anyway. Charlie’s not here – but wherever he is, he only just left. But where would he disappear to in the middle of the night?

I sit up in bed. Charlie’s silk sheets pool around me, and I toss them off, swinging my feet out from the low-set bed and onto the floor.

I pause, and examine my assumptions. Why am I so sure that something’s changed? Why am I so sure that Charlie’s gone somewhere? He might simply be getting a glass of water.

But he’s not.

I’m sure of that.

My eyes pass over Charlie’s nightstand. I distantly remember him slipping his watch from his wrist and settling it there – but the leather banded wristwatch has disappeared. That settles the argument.

Charlie’s gone.

As I stand up, I distantly recall the contents of my dream. It was a cold, damp dream, like swimming in a garden pond in the depth of night. I was at dad’s hospital. They were giving me the news – the news I’ve dreaded for months, years even.

They give me the news that he’s passed away: that the cancer got the better of him; that I’ll never hear him speak again –

– that I was too late.

“But it’s not true,” I whisper.

I might whisper it, anyway. I’m not sure whether any words actually escape my mouth. Maybe the dream’s just my brain’s way of communicating something to me. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything about dad, but Charlie, instead …

… about where he’s gone.

I slip out of a pair of silk pajamas. Like everything in my new wardrobe, they are way out of my price range, and they appeared in exactly my size. I step out of them, and grab my favorite pair of worn jeans instead.

There are piles of new – brand-name – denim in my room, but none of them fit right. They just aren’t me. These, however, are. They are “thrift shop” finest, and they fit my body down to a T. I leave my pajama top on, and walk into the penthouse’s lounge.

It’s quiet. I barely hear a sound.

Until I do.

It’s so faint I barely catch it. The elevator doors sliding closed, and the dampened mechanism whirring as it sends the metal box inside dropping forty floors.

The hell?

A cold shiver runs through me. I don’t know why – call it woman’s intuition, but I feel that something’s wrong; in my bones. I know it’s an overused phrase, but it’s the only way to describe how I’m feeling.

Uneasy: like my lies are about to be discovered.

I hate this: this powerlessness. I want to – need to – know where Charlie’s going. More importantly, I need to know whether it has anything to do with me.

Maybe I’m just being dramatic. Maybe he’s gone to –, to –. Hell, I don’t know where he could possibly be.

Charlie slipped out of our bed in the middle of the night.

Why would a man do that?

I can think of only two explanations: neither of them is good. One: Charlie has suspected me from the start, and he’s gone somewhere to confirm his suspicions. Or two: and strangely, this is the thought that truly scares me, he’s gone to meet another woman.

Have I just given my virginity to a man like that?

“You’re just jumping to the worst possible option,” I tell myself. My voice seems to echo around the empty penthouse. I bite my lip, and before I know it I’m doing it hard enough that my eyes begin to water.

Jealousy rages inside me like a wildfire: jealousy and suspicion. I know that I won’t get another wink of sleep tonight unless I get an answer. I need to know where Charlie’s gone, and what he’s doing.

My feet start moving instantly. I grab a tattered leather jacket that goes well with my tattered denim jeans and throw it over my shoulders – and over my pajama top. I button it up so that no one can tell. Next I grab my favorite pair of studded leather boots and slip them on.

I glance at myself in the dark reflection of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I nod, like a Jersey dude checking himself out in a nightclub mirror.

I’ve got bad bitch mode on.

Whatever Charlie’s up to, I’m going to find out. If I need to run, then I’ll be gone before he knows to stop looking. If he’s sleeping with another woman with my scent still on his cock, then…

Hell, I don’t know what I’ll do.

But he won’t like it.

My fingers stab the elevator call button, and just seconds later it slides into position. I step in, and follow Charlie down. Who knows, this might all just be a wild goose chase. Charlie might have popped out for a snack,

God, I’m a jealous girlfriend: no – a jealous wife.

That label seems to make it better. I am Charlie’s wife for better, or for worse: no matter how shaky our foundations. No matter that he does the slightest little thing and I apparently fly off the handle. Not just a bad bitch, but a crazy one.

“Can I help you, Miss Thorne?” The doorman asks as I step into the marble lobby.

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

The cool air of a New York night greets my skin. I look left: then right; just in time to see a limousine with blacked out windows drive off and merge into the traffic.

“Shit,” I groan.

I hadn’t thought this far ahead. I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do now. I pat the pockets of my jacket down in a half-frantic hurry. My breast pocket clinks, and I shove my hand inside to find a stack of coins in a couple of dog-eared, filthy twenty dollar bills.

Good enough.

I throw myself to the edge of the sidewalk and hail down a pulsing yellow cab. It screeches to a halt, and I climb inside, slamming the door behind me.

“Follow that car,” I pant. I point at Charlie’s departing limousine.

“Hey, lady,” the driver says in a thick New York accent. “This isn’t the movies. I ain’t doing anything illegal, you hear?”

My balloon popped, I grimace. “Fine; but can you go already, we’re losing him!”

The driver huffs, but does as I ask. In the end, I can’t fault him. He pulls out into traffic – indicating, definitely not like in the movies – and merges with the river of cars flowing in our direction.

My driver, for all his protestations, seems to have an excitable glint in his eyes whenever I catch them in the rearview mirror.

“Two cars back,” he says.

I’ve got my cheek pressed right up against the glass of the window, so I miss what he says at first. “Huh?”

“Distance,” he says, glancing up at me in the mirror. “You’re supposed to keep two cars in between you and your target. I learned that on The Wire.”

“I haven’t seen it,” I say.

“Girl like you,” the cab driver says, “wouldn’t be able to understand a word of it. Hell, my daddy grew up around Baltimore, and even I had to turn the subtitles on.”

I pout, but don’t reply. My eyes are scanning the traffic. I remember Charlie’s bodyguard saying something about pursuit cars, and my eyes are peeled for them. I don’t see any. Maybe Charlie decided to travel light.

My stomach rumbles at the thought. I don’t like it. Why would he need to hide what he is doing – and where he’s going – from his own men?

Yet again, my driver breaks his silence. For a man who was grumpy as hell when I climbed into his cab, he sure likes to chat. “I’m Goldie, by the way. They call me that because of the rings.”

He takes his hand off the wheel and waggles four fingers and a thumb that are encrusted with gold rings at me. “You like ‘em?”

“Sure,” I reply.

“So who is this guy, huh?” Goldie grunts. “He cheat on you or somethin’? Or are you one of those sugar babies I’ve been reading about.”

“What?”

“Sugar babies,” he grunts again. You don’t need to be offended or nothing. I know how it is. Girl’s gotta make a living.”

I shake my head. “No, I just don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Goldie pauses for a second, indicates left and turns with Charlie’s limousine. At this time of night the streets are quiet. The traffic thins out, making it harder to follow without being caught. Still, it sets my mind at ease; I don’t see any evidence of other cars turning with us.

I sit up straight, eyes narrowing. I know where we’re heading: the Bronx.

Now why the hell would Charlie want to come here?

“Ladies,” Goldie starts.

He glances at me in the mirror, and I can’t tell whether he admires what he sees. I know I’m not exactly dressed to impress. “Who like to maintain a certain standard ‘o livin’, if you know what I mean.”

His meaning began to dawn on me. “I’m sure I don’t.”

“Ack, don’t be like that. I ain’t saying you screwing the guy or nothing; nothing wrong with it anyway. Like I said; girl’s gotta make a living.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t make mine on my back,” I mutter, flustered.

Goldie laughs. “Ain’t no shame in it, girl. I make mine sitting on my ass, don’t I? Hell, if I could do it on my back on silk sheets, maybe I would. Hold up –”

At first I’m just relieved that my driver has given up talking about me selling my body for cash. Maybe I’m only this happy about it because his comments hit so close to home.

But then I glance up.

The change in Goldie’s tone hits home – even if it is slightly delayed. I feel the tired, old yellow cab’s engine cough, and a rattle transmitted through the chassis and right up into my ass cheeks. The car slows, and bounces over a pothole that feels big enough to swallow both cars up.

“He’s stopping,” Goldie says.

The big man with the gold on his fingers swivels in his seat as he brings the cab’s protestations to a halt and kills the lights. As he turns, I notice his neck is ringed with golden ornaments as well.

“You sure you’re going to be all right around here?” He asks. “Pretty bad neighborhood for a pretty girl like you…”

I ignore Goldie’s mild chauvinism, and his insinuation that if I wasn’t a pretty girl, it wouldn’t matter. I don’t even take issue with his calling me pretty. I know he only means well.

“Where are we?” I ask quietly, as if Charlie might be able to hear me.

My eyes flicker around the dark neighborhood. Half the streetlights are out, and the other half look like they need their bulbs replaced: throwing out dull, useless light.

“Woodlawn,” he replies. He lowers his voice as well. I feel like I’ve stumbled into a cop move. “The Bronx: it’s an Irish neighborhood.”

I watch, transfixed, as Charlie’s limousine’s passenger door opens, and he steps out. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt pulled up over his eyes. The drawstring cords are cinched tight – he’s barely recognizable. I wonder if that’s his intention.

“Irish,” I whisper.

I don’t know why, but that word rings a bell. Something Charlie said, maybe. But no sooner does the thought enter into my mind, than it’s gone. I curse my useless brain.

“I didn’t catch that,” Goldie says.

I don’t reply. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out forty bucks and change. “Keep it,” I mutter, kicking the door open and stumbling out into the cool night breeze. Goldie’s worried protestations for my safety die the second I slam the door closed.

The Bronx smells like you imagine a city should smell: of fryer oil carried by the wind, and rotting food round the back of a Chinese restaurant. It sounds like one, as well. I hear sirens, and the incoherent mumbling of drunks stumbling down the sidewalk.

Most other women would be terrified here. I kind of like it. It reminds me of where I grew up in Brooklyn.

My heart beat thuds in my chest. I have that bitter taste of adrenaline on the back of my tongue. My face scrunches up as I try to wash it away.

I stick to the shadows as I follow Charlie. The limousine’s parked exactly where he left it. I wouldn’t want to be the driver; not in a neighborhood like this. I don’t give that fancy car ten minutes before someone puts a brick through the windshield. What the hell’s Charlie thinking?

Charlie walks to an underpass. He slows as he approaches an old, beaten-up van. I watch as he pulls his hands out of his pockets.

What are you doing?

Conspiracy theories flood my mind. Charlie must be coming here to buy drugs, or else inside information – or something –

– anything, in fact, except the real explanation.

He makes a fist and bashes the rear panel three times, hard. The sound reverberates around the neighborhood, echoing around the underpass’s walls.

“Hey, Tommy,” he shouts – though I swear his voice is suddenly New York Irish. “It’s your brother: time to get to work.”

Curiouser and curiouser.

The van’s rear doors open from inside and swing out, missing Charlie’s nose by inches.

“You’re late,” a man grunts. I inch forward, straining my ears to make out the conversation.

“I had… Business to attend to,” Charlie says.

Business – He means me.

“Sure you did,” Tommy says. Charlie’s brother, Tommy. I didn’t even know he had one.

“Where is everyone else?” Charlie asks, hopping into the van. Both men disappeared into blackness. I hear rummaging, then the thud of something heavy falling against the van’s metal floor.

“Careful, asshole,” Tommy chuckles. “This shit doesn’t pay for itself…”

I can almost hear Charlie rolling his eyes. “No. I do…”

Both men back out with wheeled trolleys, stacked high with cardboard boxes and… Cabbages?

I blink twice, just to be absolutely certain I’m not making this up. It’s been a long night. But no, I’m right. Charlie’s come out to the Bronx to wheel cabbages around with his brother.

I stay thirty yards back, following the two men as they disappear around the side of a railway bridge. I’m barely breathing. I feel like I’m going to get jumped at any second. I slow down before I round the corner, and notice light flickering on the brick wall of an abandoned factory.

Fire light.

I stick my head round the corner, inching forward so I don’t get caught.

Never in a million years would I have guessed what I see. Charlie’s walking into a homeless encampment, Mary as you like. Old, rusted oil barrels – four of them – provide the light, and act as makeshift barbecues.

“No way,” I mouth silently to myself.

I can’t hear what he’s saying from this distance, but I watch as Charlie waves to an older, white-haired man. He looks up, and then hugs Charlie, almost like a…

… father.

I don’t know how much longer I stay there. Half an hour? An hour? Maybe more. Time doesn’t seem to matter. Not now.

I watch as Charlie, and what appears to be his foster family, unpack huge cardboard crates of food, and start to cook full meals. I watch as he ladles out portions, and then goes around chatting to different families in turn, even to the old guys sitting alone.

Shit, I even watch as he grabs toys from a pack and hands them to a family with kids.

I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. Even now, I expected the worst from Charlie Thorne, when all he’s shown me is the goodness inside him.

I stumble away, hot tears filling my eyes. I reach for my phone. I compose a text through blurred eyes.

To Robbie.

“It’s over.”

Chapter Eighteen

Penny

The next couple of days are different.

It’s like Charlie and I finally relax around each other. We become… an “US”. I don’t know what’s behind his change in attitude, but my own reasons are clear enough. I can’t keep thinking the worst of him – not after I watched the goodness.

I went straight back home, ignoring Robbie’s increasingly irritated texts: her demands to meet up: immediately. I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to whip my addled brain into some sort of shape.

I feigned sleep when Charlie returned, as the dawn light tickled the sky. I pretended not to notice when he kissed me on the forehead, showered, then lay down next to me.

Still, I can’t help but feel that this is the calm before the storm. No matter what happens, everything is going to change. Everything is going to change because Tilly is just hours away from returning from England. I don’t know if the change will be for good or bad, but I know it’s coming.

“Hey, angel,” Charlie says on the second day.

He puts his paper down and rests it on the mottled black marble top of the kitchen island. He’s wearing a perfectly-tailored, slim fitting gray suit that looks like it was sprayed onto his rippling muscles. The kitchen top is stacked high with newspapers and breakfast items: blueberries, strawberries, blackberries – hell, every type of berry you can imagine.

“Don’t call me that,” I pout, sticking out my tongue. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” Charlie grins. “OJ?”

“I just brushed my teeth,” I groan.

I mean it, too.

I don’t know where Charlie’s getting these oranges flown in from, but I’ve never tasted any orange juice like it. One of the little perks of being a multi-billionaire, I guess. Like silk sheets that are almost enough in their own right to send me into orgasmic delight when they brush across my body. Like chefs who rustle up Michelin star cooking at every meal and maids who keep the penthouse shining, but who are never seen.

I walk toward Charlie, sashaying my hips and placing one foot in front of the other like I’m living a perfume commercial.

He licks his lips, watching me approach. “Did I ever tell you how hot you are?” he groans.

I walk right up next to Charlie, slowing my pace as I finally reach him. I lean in and nuzzle my face against his. “Once or twice,” I whisper. I nibble his earlobe. “But it doesn’t get old.”

Charlie pushes his stool out a few inches, and I hop up onto his lap. His thigh is tight and firm underneath me.

I giggle. “Just pleased to see me, or is that…”

“It can be, if you want it to,” Charlie growls. I close my eyes, just as a heat starts to bloom on my cheeks.

“I’m not –” I whisper, tipping my head back as Charlie kisses at my open neck.

“– ready, I know,” he growls. “I saw the way you waddled over…”

My eyes spring open, and I turn to face him with outrage burning in them. “What did you just say?”

A broad grin pushes across Charlie’s face. “I told you; you wouldn’t walk straight for a week,” he winks.

Charlie Thorne’s humor kills me.

In truth, I like it. He’s got a happy-go-lucky, lackadaisical attitude to the world. Even when he’s stressed, he doesn’t change. He doesn’t withdraw from the world like so many other men; he confronts his problems straight on.

I wiggle in my seat: his lap. I press my ass right up against Charlie’s cock. It’s thick and firm, but not erect.

Not yet, anyway.

I bite my lip and flutter my eyelashes, sucking Charlie into my blue doe eyes. He’s a sucker for them, and a sucker for that look.

“You like that?” I croon.

Charlie tries to keep his poker face on, but the muscles in his cheeks flinch, betraying the pleasure I’m inflicting on him.

I say inflicting because that’s exactly what I’m doing. Charlie Thorne is about to find out that his wife’s no pushover.

I hold the marble island for support and hike my ass up, so it’s pressed more against Charlie’s thick, flat stomach than anywhere else. He groans with disappointment.

“Don’t worry, baby,” I say. “I’m not done.”

I see myself in a plate glass window reflection. It’s like looking through someone else’s eyes. I want to stop and ask what happened to the naïve, innocent Penny I was only a couple of days ago. I wonder if that’s all changed, or whether this Penny was in there the whole time, just waiting for an opportunity to escape.

I reach down.

I place my hand on Charlie’s right thigh and extend my fingernails. I feel his hot, heavy breath on my neck. I feel how it catches when I shift the position of my ass, read his excitement through the stiffness of his body like a long-lost alphabet.

“How’s work, baby?” I ask. I artificially make my voice higher-pitched, younger, somehow: like a bimbo. I play into the sexy secretary fantasy.

“Work’s… It’s great, honey,” Charlie groans.

I walk my fingers up his inner thigh, scraping my fingernails against the soft fabric of his woolen pants.

Now I feel Charlie’s cock thicken underneath me. I feel it pressing into my ass. I feel him shift on his stool and press it against me. A wicked smile creeps across my face.

Men.

When it comes down to it, they are all the same.

Still, I can’t help but marvel in the power I have over Charlie Thorne right now. I have no doubt, that if I ask, he’d sign away the rights to all of his businesses in return for the touch of my lips on his burning cock. Lucky for him, I’m not that kind of girl.

Not anymore.

“You sure, honey?” I ask, putting the voice on once again. “You sure you’re not stressed? You sure there’s nothing I can do to…” I turn and lick my lips. I flutter my eyelashes once again, for good measure. “… Make you feel better?”

“Oh, my God,” Charlie pants, “Penny – you’re something else.”

This time, my smile is utterly genuine. I hide it, though. I’m not giving into Charlie’s charms. Not this time. I’ve got another plan on my mind.

“I know.”

My hand walks the last few inches down his inner thigh, and I press it against his cock. I feel a shiver running through Charlie’s entire body. His thighs tense, and he loops one of his thick, muscular arms around me, clenching me tight to his body. I giggle.

“You like that?”

Charlie’s mouth goes dry. I know it does because I hear him swallow before he speaks. “God, yes,” he says in a voice that’s hoarse with desire.

I massage his cock. I feel it stiffening until it can’t get any harder, can’t get any thicker. His heat burns through the fabric of his pants. It burns so hard I’m almost tempted to give up on my plan and undress him right here and now.

I bite my lip to regain control over myself.

“Shame…” I whisper.

“What is?” He groans.

“Shame that I can’t,” I turn my head and flash him a wicked grin. “Walk straight…”

I shift forward, remove my hand from around Charlie’s cock and rest my elbows on the marble unit. I don’t have to look around to see the look of shock as realization dawns on Charlie’s face. I feel it. I feel it in the way his body deflates like a popped balloon.

I feel it in the way he presses his cock against me with one last, hopeful – but ultimately doomed – attempt.

“So, what’s for breakfast?”

“Forget what I said,” Charlie pants. He leans forward and bangs his head against my back with disappointment. I laugh.

I reach forward and grab the corner of the newspaper, smoothing it out, and folding it back to the front page.

“Charlie,” I say, games forgotten. “You’re –.”

“On the front page of the New York Times,” he says. “I know.”

The headline blares: Thorne in Thicket, like the Times has turned into a tabloid rag. My eyes scan the sub- headlines in the first few paragraphs of the story. I don’t have to delve deeper into it to understand exactly what’s going on.

“Landon,” I say. I slipped off Charlie’s lap and land lightly on my feet. I feel heavy, though; heavy with apprehension. “He’s behind this, isn’t he?”

Charlie nods. His dark hair is slightly curly today, as though all he did after getting out of bed was run his fingers through it. Actually, knowing him, that’s probably exactly what happened.

“He’s shorting Thorne Enterprises’ stock. Down 15% already since the markets opened this morning.”

“What’s going on?”

“The merger –” Charlie says with quiet fury. I doubt many people would even know he was angry, but I do. I see the telltale signs: the tightening of his cheeks, the fact his lips turn into thin, white lines on his face.

“Hostile takeover,” he says, correcting himself. “It’s happening.”

My eyes pass over the rest of the kitchen. Newspapers are stacked three high further down the marble. I feel like I’m in an old TV show – and Charlie’s the man of the house, leafing through the news on a Sunday afternoon.

The topmost of the newspapers is the Wall Street Journal. I can’t make out the headline, but Charlie’s portrait on the front cover is impossible to miss.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

I feel like everything’s happening in slow motion; like I’m walking through quicksand. Somehow, though, Charlie doesn’t seem as affected as me; even though it’s his company!

He looks at me, forehead furrowing for an instant before he states what – to him, at least – seems like the most obvious plan in the world.

“Fight, of course.”

Charlie steps up from out of his stool. His woolen pants bunch around his thick muscular thighs, and he smooths them down.

I can’t help but laugh. “Your bulge is showing…”

Charlie just looks at me. He rakes my body up and down with that impossibly thrilling gaze – his ice-gray eyes simultaneously chilling me and setting me on fire: “and?”

He takes a step toward me. I shift my balance, and my right foot goes backwards, behind my left. Yet I don’t retreat from Charlie Thorne. His eyes are burning a hole through my pajamas. Or maybe those are my nipples, which are now standing straight out.

“Climb up,” Charlie says. He pitches his voice so quietly it’s almost impossible to hear him. I’m forced to lean forward and strain to catch every last word.

My forehead furrows with confusion. “What?”

Charlie pats the marble kitchen unit. He sweeps the newspapers aside with one arm. “Here.”

“Why?” I ask.

A shiver of excitement runs down my spine. I love it when Charlie orders me around. I don’t know what it is exactly – the tailored suit, perhaps, or the age difference between us – but it’s thrilling.

“Because I said so,” Charlie says as if it’s the only explanation I’ll ever need.

I wait.

Charlie sighs lightly, but the look of excitement in his eyes – and the bulge in his crotch which shows no signs of disappearing – tells me he likes it when I play mouse to his cat.

“And because we can’t have sex yet – right?” He says.

I flinch, thinking of the aching pain between my legs. I don’t understand how something as beautiful, as perfect as losing my virginity to Charlie can end up in such raw discomfort.

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

“But you want to, don’t you?”

It’s like Charlie Thorne can read my mind. Heck, maybe I should let him take me right now.

“Climb up,” he repeats.

I do as he asks this time without complaining. The marble is cool against my thighs.

“Lie down.”

Again, I obey him.

“Unbutton your top.”

“Charlie –!”

“I said,” Charlie growls in a threatening, challenging tone that sends a whisper of fire coursing through my core. “Unbutton your top!”

I obey him. How can I do anything else? I’m carried along on a tidal wave of anticipation that drowns any protest I might be able to put together.

I’m not wearing a bra. The lightest of breezes from the penthouse’s AC system dances across my chest, and my nipples harden on my chest.

“Better,” Charlie whispers with excitement.

That sound excites me more than anything. I’ve stolen this man’s – my husband’s – breath away with nothing more than the sight of my skin.

Charlie tugs the pajama bottoms down my thighs. I’m not wearing underwear, but this time, my pussy is completely hairless.

“When did you do that?” Charlie asks in that same breathless voice.

I squeeze my eyes shut to hide from the embarrassment creeping onto my cheeks. “It was a surprise,” I say. “I was going to wait for a special occasion before I showed you.”

“This seems plenty special to me,” Charlie says.

I’m naked now, except for the pajama top still hugging my shoulders.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Charlie orders. He lifts me up and frees me from the top, before gently laying me to rest on the marble. Goosebumps break out on my skin as it comes flush with the cool stone.

“Why? What are you doing?”

I want to open my eyes more than anything. I want to watch Charlie. In the darkness, every sensation seems multiplied a thousand times. I don’t know where Charlie is, but I can hear him pacing around me. I hear the rustle and clink as he moves items around; the clip of his leather soles against the floor.

“Wait and see.”

Charlie scrapes his fingernails down my naked belly. He does it slowly, so that my back arches as the anticipation builds. I feel the heat growing between my legs – and he’s barely touched me!

“Lie down and stay completely still.”

I press the small of my back against the marble and wait.

And wait.

Charlie holds completely still. He does it for so long that I begin to wonder if he is even there at all – but I know better than to open my eyes. The excitement courses through my body. My heart beat is rapid and irregular, the breath ragged in my lungs, the flash of heat burning between my legs like a volcano.

Something touches me, just above the bellybutton.

“What’s that?” I whimper as the unexpected sensation tickles me, adding to the pleasure building throughout my body.

“Lie completely still, I said.”

I do, but god I don’t want to.

Whatever it was, it’s still there. It’s tiny and circular. I feel it dancing on my skin every time I breathe.

Charlie touches me again, an inch lower. Again, he leaves something behind, and again it tickles my skin.

Again and again, he does it. He leaves a trail of – something – up and down my body, from half an inch above my hairless pussy to the very top of my cleavage.

“Open your mouth,” Charlie orders. I do as he asks, but it’s hard to concentrate. My skin is on fire, and yet at the same time, a forest of goose bumps is growing on every inch of me as the penthouse’s cool air passes across my skin.

“Wider.”

I do it. I can’t imagine what I look like, mouth wide open like a suckling pig, but I do as Charlie asks regardless. My body is definitely on fire in certain places: between my legs, and…

… my cheeks. I can’t imagine what I must look like: naked and decorated with God only knows what.

Charlie lowers something into my mouth. It freaks me out, but I don’t let the panic show. like It feels like textured bark, whatever it is.

“Now bite.”

“I can’t,” I whimper. I’m afraid.

“Do it,” Charlie says. His voice is firm and holds no prospect that I can ignore him.

I summon up every last inch of courage in my entire body. My jaw trembles, but I do as Charlie asks. I bite down – tentatively at first.

And – my incisors scythe through a strawberry. The sweet juice drips down my tongue. My head tips back against the marble and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Not what you expected?” Charlie asks; his voice laced with humor.

“Better.”

“Just you wait.”

I do, but not for long. Charlie’s lips brush mine in an upside down, Spiderman kiss. I feel his heat travel lower. I feel his breath tickle my skin.

His tongue darts out, his lips graze my upper chest. “Blueberry,” he whispers.

What the hell?

Charlie kisses me on the lips once again. And then I taste it: blueberry. That’s what he’s been leaving on my skin: berries!

Charlie goes lower, building the anticipation, eating the various flavors of berries that are balanced precariously on my skin. Every inch of me is on fire now, burning up for Charlie’s touch.

Every time his lips graze my skin, I flinch.

My nipples are as sharp as needles, as hard as diamonds. I press my legs together as the pleasure between them begins to grow. And all the while, Charlie eats his way down my body.

“Blackberry,” Charlie whispers. Then I taste it.

“Cranberry,” he says at the last. I don’t even know what a cranberry is! It’s sweet and sharp, all at once – at least, it is on Charlie’s lips.

Then, with a start, I realize where Charlie is: an inch from the slit between my legs. He blows a thin funnel of air between my legs, and my back arches.

“Please…” I whisper.

Then he does it. He spreads my legs wide and kisses me between them. I bite the inside of my lip, and push my hips toward him. Sparks crackle between my eyes, and my hands scrunch against newspaper in my desperate attempt to find something solid to hold.

“Don’t stop,” I moan.

Charlie doesn’t.

Chapter Nineteen

Charlie

I pull the black limousine into the ‘arrivals’ terminal at JFK airport. The suit I’m wearing itches uncomfortably at the neck, and my white shirt billows around my toned stomach. Neither the cut nor the quality is what I’m used to.

I make a note to myself to provide a clothing budget to my drivers. I’ve never noticed them looking unkempt before, but now that I’ve felt what it’s like, I’ll never be able to forget it. That’s just the way my mind works.

So what if it costs a few thousand bucks?

Well – a few tens of thousands of bucks, by the time I’ve kitted them all out…

It doesn’t matter. As long as they represent me – which they do – they deserve the best.

I shake my head, freeing myself of the distraction. Sometimes I wonder why my brain is the way it is: constantly searching for problems to solve. I guess it has to do with how I made it so far up the slippery pole of capitalism.

I signal right and duck into a parking bay.

Well, with a twenty foot-long limousine it’s not exactly ducking, but you get my drift. The thing lumbers like a pregnant Panda, and I have a newfound respect for my driver. I’m so used to getting behind the wheels of two hundred thousand dollar sports cars that this is like taking the reins of an overweight elephant.

I pull the driver’s cap down low over my face. Over the last couple of days – for the first time in years – I’ve allowed a little bit of stubble to decorate my cheeks. To my horror, and Penny’s delight, the black hairs are speckled with gray.

I relax back into the seat and wait.

The covered ‘arrivals’ area quickly fills with high-end sports cars, and more than a dozen black limousines just like mine. The great and the good of Manhattan have turned out in numbers to pick up their children from the hockey tour.

Well – to be more accurate, I should say that their drivers have.

I look around. Sure, a couple of open-shirted hedge fund managers have taken the day off, still hooked to the latest feeds from the market on their phones.

But mostly the cars are driven by staff.

My lip curls with distaste. I promised Tilly right at the start that I wasn’t going to be one of those dads. No matter how much success I got – or didn’t get – I promised I’d always be there for her. I said that right at the start, and I’ve never broken my word.

A few minutes later, the girls start streaming through the airport’s sliding glass doors. The staff comes first, with harried, exhausted looks on their faces. I don’t blame them. I’m not sure I’d take a pack of eleven-year-old girls across Europe for a week.

I’m not sure I’d survive…

I reach over to the passenger seat and pick up a wipe clean whiteboard. I hurriedly scrawl “Thorne” on to it, and kick the door open.

Before leaving the limousine, I check my face one last time. I got Penny to apply a touch of makeup – just a little – just enough to darken my eyes, and to deepen some of the crow’s feet beginning to mark my skin.

I grin.

Penny did a damn fine job. Between the suit, the driver’s, the half-beard and the makeup, I look like a different person.

I’ve no doubt that Tilly will see right through the disguise. She’s the smartest kid I know, but I hope it’ll hold out for a while: enough to draw a smile.

I knock the limousine’s driver door closed with my foot, and go stand amongst the gaggle of drivers ringing the glass doors, purposefully slumping my posture. The kids are starting to stream out now, dragging huge, heavy suitcases behind them.

“Come on, Hailey,” a stressed-looking executive grunts. “You can say your goodbyes another time. I’ve got to get back to the office.”

Some hello that is…

The worst bit is, Hailey doesn’t even argue. I get the sense that the kid has been through this a hundred times before. She waves sadly to her friends, and takes off after her father, still dragging her own suitcase behind.

The scene is repeated half a dozen times, though with less intensity. The pile of schoolgirls: all of them dressed in unkempt gray, and purple-hemmed uniforms; all the worse for wear after an eight hour flight from London; begins to winnow away.

Still no Tilly…

It’s just me and a few other drivers now. I grimace. If she sees me here, standing alone, there’s no way my cover will fly. I spin, looking for inspiration.

And I find it.

“Hey, dude,” I say to a passing traveler, dressed in floral-print shorts and flip-flops. “Can I bum a cigarette?”

“Sure, dude,” the man says in a drawn-out California drawl. “You look like you could use it…”

I grimace. Not exactly what I want to hear. “Thanks.”

“You need a light?” ‘Floral-print shorts’ asks.

I don’t smoke.

I shake my head, and pat my breast pocket as if to indicate I’ve got a zippo lighter stashed away. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks buddy.”

He shrugs and carries on. I put the cigarette in my mouth, and leave it hanging there. Next I loosen my tie a little, so it’s hanging around my neck somewhat like a noose.

Better.

Then I see her –

– Tilly: my daughter.

She’s still the most beautiful, most incredible person I’ve ever seen in my life. I can’t believe that a part of me is in her; that I helped make something so special. I didn’t realize quite how much I’ve missed her while she’s been away until now.

She’s got both arms behind her back, and she’s dragging her suitcase on its side, rather than by the wheels.

I start walking forward.

“Darn,” she mumbles, looking back. She turns around to right the case, and I approach her quickly while she’s distracted.

“You Tilly Thorne?” I ask. I affect a thick, rough, smoker’s voice, and cough a couple of times into the back of my hand for good effect.

“D’you need me to grab that?” I grunt, jerking my head at the suitcase.

“No, don’t worry,” Tilly says – still focused on the case behind her. “I’ve got it.”

My heart swells with pride when I hear her say that. I just watched dozens of spoiled kids clicks her fingers and watch their parents’ driver jump, and I’m so glad that Tilly’s not like that.

“Are you sure?” I ask – in my normal voice this time.

“Seriously,” Tilly replies, huffing – with effort, not attitude – as she kicks her suitcase back onto its wheels. “It’s cool. I’m stronger than I –”

Tilly freezes.

She turns her head slowly, as if she doesn’t believe what she’s seeing. Then she drops the suitcase entirely and comes running towards me.

“Daddy!”

My daughter throws herself into my arms from a running start. She’s captain of the hockey team, and she’s already well past my waist – taller than a girl her age has any right to be. She knocks the air clean out of my lungs as she collides with me, but I don’t care.

I can’t hide the smile that grabs hold of my face.

“Tils,” I smile, nuzzling her hair. “I was beginning to think maybe you didn’t make it on board at all…”

She squeezes her arms around me. When she pulls her head back, I swear I see tiny glistening tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes.

“Shurrup,” she says in a muted voice. I can tell that her throat and chest are all clenched up with emotion.

“I was about to send the jet,” I wink. “To make sure you didn’t get lost on the way!”

I set Tilly back down on the ground.

“It was my bag,” she says. She wrinkles her nose at the offending suitcase. “It kept tipping over.”

I cast my eyes over it. The item in question is bulging in all the wrong places. “Looks over-packed to me,” I grin.

Tilly puts her hands on her hips. “I wasn’t looking for your opinion, daddy,” she says.

“Want me to carry it?” I ask.

Tilly frowns. I can tell she wants to say yes, but she’s standing on her pride. I like that. It’s exactly the kind of bloody-mindedness I want to see in my daughter.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I’ve got it.”

I walk over toward the limousine with my daughter my side. I’m so happy to have her back I can’t help the smile that keeps breaking over my face like the dawn sun peeping through bothersome clouds.

We heave the suitcase into the back – together – and climb in.

“How was it then?” I ask, reaching over and tousling Tilly’s hair before I put the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles on, and I signal to move out into the slow flow of traffic.

Tilly looks exhausted. She’s never flown commercial before this trip – only on my jet. I offered – half-jokingly – to fly the whole school over on it, but Tilly declined with a look of horror on her face.

“No way!” she protested. “I’m not a show off, daddy!”

More pride. So much pride I wonder sometimes if I might just explode.

“It was amazing,” Tilly says, her enthusiasm racing through the exhaustion. “I mean, wet. Really, really wet. It didn’t quit raining all week, but otherwise it was incredible. We went to Buckingham Palace, and Windsor Castle, and to Stonehenge –”

“How was that?” I interrupt.

“Stonehenge?” Tilly chews her lip. I know that look. It’s when she wants to say something, but worries people will look at her the wrong way for it. “To be honest…”

“Always,” I say, turning onto the highway.

She giggles. “It was just a pile of stones in the ground. And busy, so, so busy! The museum was closed for some reason, so we had to look at it from the road.”

I make a face. “Oh.”

“But the rest of it was amazing. I can’t wait to show you all the pictures I took.”

“I can’t wait to see them,” I say.

There’s a short silence, interrupted only occasionally by the sound of a stone ricocheting off the limousine’s chassis. My mind travels back to the topic that has been attacking it all week. How the hell am I going to tell her about Penny?

“Is everything okay, daddy?” she asks. Damn. I forgot how smart this kid is. I can’t hide anything from her; never have been able to.

“Listen, Tilly,” I mumble, chewing my lip. “There’s something I need to tell you…”

Tilly glances at me, and I meet her gaze. She’s got the same eyes as me: gray, except hers have a hint of hazel as well, sparkling like shards of glitter. She’s so freaking young and innocent, my heart feels ready to explode.

“Is this the same thing you were going to tell me on Face Timevvvvvvvvvvv?” She asks.

“Did I ever tell you you’re a smart kid?” I reply, dancing around the question.

“All the time, daddy,” Tilly says. “Now spill. We don’t keep secrets, remember…”

I let my head tip back onto the seat rest. A little hiss of air escapes my lips. I don’t know why this is so hard. I can sit in a boardroom and make decisions that affect the lives and jobs of thousands, yet struggle here, when it’s just me and my daughter.

“Tilly, I –”

I pause.

I’ve had all the time in the world to figure out how I’m going to say this, but still I come up short. Because in truth, what can I say? “Tilly, I’ve moved a woman into the spare bedroom. You can call her mom…”

No, I didn’t think so.

“I think I know what’s going on,” Tilly interrupts.

I frown. “You do?”

Tilly nods seriously. She’s got an intense look on her face, and she mirrors my frown. “Yes. You’re dating someone, aren’t you? That’s what you want to tell me. Well, daddy…”

I hold my breath.

“… It’s about time!” Tilly beams.

I croak, mouth suddenly dry. “Wha – What?”

“I mean it. I’ve been telling you to start dating for ages, haven’t I? You need to. You’re only in your prime for so long, you know, daddy?” Tilly nods seriously. “If you let it go too long, it’ll be too late…”

I cough, and splutter all over the steering wheel.

“My ‘Prime’?” I say. “What are you talking about? Who told you about all this?”

“I’m eleven, daddy,” Tilly says. “I’ll be dating soon; that’s just how it is. It’s not like how it was in your day…”

My mouth is now almost permanently stapled in an open, shocked position. I’m going to need to talk to Tilly about what she just said. There’s no way she’s about to start dating – over my dead body! But first thing’s first. I’ve got to deal with the Penny situation before anything else.

“Listen, Tilly,” I say. “You’re –”

“Right, I know I am,” Tilly smiled. “What do I win?”

“You’re kind of right,” I say, directing her. “But there’s a whole lot more to it than that.”

“Like what?” Tilly frowns.

I sigh. “I wish I didn’t have to talk to you about this,” I say. “It’s not fair. You’re too young.”

Tilly sets her jaw, and presses her lips together obstinately. “I’m eleven, daddy,” she repeats. “Not nine. And besides, we tell each other everything – don’t we?” The look she gives me fizzles and crackles with intensity.

As if there’s a difference. No matter how tall Tilly grows, she still looks as tiny to me as she did the moment I first held her in my arms.

“We do…” I groan. “Okay. I’ll tell you.”

And I do.

Everything.

I don’t hold back, and the intensity of the emotion surprises me when it pours out. I talk the whole way down the highway, all the way back to 220 Central Park. I’m still talking when I step out of the limousine, when I tossed my hat and keys to the doorman, Frederick, and toss him a tip.

“Are you sure about this?” I ask, crouching down in front of the bank of elevators. I hold Tilly by her shoulders, and look her directly in the eyes.

I’ve met women four times my daughter’s age, and I’ve still to find anyone nearly so mature. She took the news about Penny like a champ. She understood exactly why I did what I did.

And why – if anyone asks – she needs to tell CPS that Penny’s her mom.

“I’m sure, daddy,” Tilly says for the thousandth time. If anything, she’s beginning to look bored by having to repeat it. “You don’t have to keep checking, you know. I’m perfectly grown-up.”

“I know,” I groan. “And I hate it.”

The elevator pings open, and Tilly steps in, grinning wickedly at me. “Let’s go meet her, then,” she says. “I hope she’s as pretty as you say.”

Chapter Twenty

Penny

I flinch.

I’ve been waiting for the distinctive ding-hiss sound of the elevator arriving all day, and still, I flinch. This is it. I’m about to meet Tilly Thorne for the first time. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to act.

I stand in front of the elevator doors, twisting my fingers around my left wrist with anxiety.

Tilly Thorne steps out.

She’s a beautiful kid. That much is obvious right from the get-go. I’ve seen her pictures all around Charlie’s penthouse: photographs that chart her progress from a red-cheeked baby through to now; playing tennis in summer; hockey in winter. But they don’t do her justice.

Not even close.

I’m tongue-tied. What’s the right way to act in a situation like this? Maybe a high-society girl would know how to react, but I’m no high-society woman. I’m from the streets, about as low as it gets.

“Penny…” Charlie says, “This is my daughter, Tilly.”

Tilly Thorne wipes her palms on her purple-hemmed school skirt and steps forward. Her school uniform is messy, her shirt untucked. She gives off every sign of being a normal kid, except when she looks at me.

Her eyes are just like her dad’s, except hers glitter; but they share the same fiery intelligence, the same burning curiosity.

I know she’s only eleven years old, but she seems older: much older. Tilly regards me with the kind of maturity I’m not even sure most girls my age are capable of.

“She is pretty,” Tilly says, glancing at her father. “You did good, daddy.”

Charlie keeps his mouth shut: the traitor. If I survive Tilly’s inspection alive, I’m going to have words with him for that!

“Thanks…” I murmur. “I guess.”

Tilly takes three strides forward, on legs that are just about too short for her body. I stifle a smile. At her age, I had the same awkward body. Like Britney said: not a girl, but not quite a woman. She’ll grow into it in time.

Tilly thrusts out her hand. “I’m sorry. Daddy calls me precocious.”

Charlie’s eyebrow arches. “Precocious? That’s not exactly what I called you, Tills. Besides, I wouldn’t use a word like precocious. You know me better than that…”

Tilly shrugs with a wicked – precocious – smile on her face. “I know, daddy. I was trying to be kind.”

I’m stuck in no man’s land. I peer at Tilly’s outstretched hand as though it belongs to an alien, and suddenly realize I’m supposed to shake it.

“Sorry,” I say, my heart racing. “I’m not used to all this yet, I guess.”

Tilly shrugs again, as we shake. “Who is; right?”

“Right,” I say, withdrawing my hand: shakily.

I hate how awkward I’m acting. It’s like one of those moments at school when you hang around on the outskirts of a huge group. I’d been in that situation so many times when I was in school. I wasn’t exactly a popular kid; that was impossible to do, what with my cast off sneakers and tattered clothes.

But this is worse.

This isn’t just a group of popular kids in school: this is Charlie and Tilly Thorne. It’s been just them against the world for eleven years now. Now there’s me. Stumbling in, trying to break up their family dynamic.

I’m tying myself in knots.

Tilly cocks her head slightly, and narrows her eyes. The whites disappear beneath a thicket of eyelashes. “So, like, are you my mom now?”

The idea punches me in the gut. My face goes white, drained of blood: I feel the skin freezing as I stand. I want to double over, vomit, then run somewhere and hide.

A peal of laughter splits the penthouse’s lobby. Charlie rolls his eyes, and then looks at me, and mouths an apology for his daughter’s sense of humor. I don’t blame him: he told me how much of a prankster his daughter was. I just wish I’d believed him!

“I’m just kidding,” Tilly says when she regains control of herself. “Oh my God, you should have seen the look on your face.”

She hits her thigh. “Darn, I should have recorded you guys for Snapchat…”

“Tilly,” Charlie chides his daughter. “You know you can’t do that. We’ve got to be –”

“– ‘secret’, I know,” Tilly says.

“– Under the radar,” Charlie finishes. He shrugs, rolling his eyes for a second time. “Your way works too, I guess.”

“Better,” Tilly winks. “It works better.”

She claps her hands together, and a smile – a smile I think I might learn to fear – creeps across the face. “So …what’s the plan?”

Charlie cocks his head. “Plan?”

“What are we doing today?”

Charlie frowns. “I thought … I thought you might be tired after the flight.”

Tilly’s face scrunches up. “It was ‘business class’, daddy, not prison. I slept the whole flight.”

My mouth drops open. I don’t know why this surprises me, not after everything I’ve seen, but it does. The idea of two dozen eleven-year-old schoolgirls all flying business class… I wonder if the teachers get to ride up front, as well, or whether they fly ‘coach’.

Tilly’s eyes breeze over me without stopping. Am I imagining things, or do I detect another wink? I can’t be sure.

“Okay, kiddo. Then what do you want to do?”

Tilly pouts. “That’s your job, daddy. I’m only eleven. I can’t do everything for you.”

“Don’t you daddy me,” Charlie grins.

I know he doesn’t mean it. His face lights up every time Tilly calls him that. I can’t help but think forward – years – to when Tilly’s all grown-up. Will she still call him that?

“Why –” I swallow. “Why don’t we go and do something, Tilly? Together.”

The room goes quiet. I start to wonder if I said the wrong thing. Charlie’s eyes pass from me to his daughter. He looks at her with such love I wonder if he’ll ever feel the same way about me.

It’s hard to imagine. Still, a girl can hope.

“Tilly?” Charlie prods.

She nods – slowly. It’s as though she’s judging me, picking me apart. “I think I’d like that.”

* * *

Tilly flies out of her bedroom. She puts the brakes on just in time to avoid colliding with the hallway wall. I catch the whole affair from the corner of my eye. This kid’s a bundle of energy. I’ve never seen anything like it, like her. She’s her father’s daughter, that’s for sure.

I’m so out of my depth it’s not even funny.

“Ready?” She says, jogging toward me. She’s wearing her hair in neat pigtails, finished with red hair bands that perfectly match a Little Red Riding Hood-style thin spring coat.

“As I’ll ever be,” I say in a voice that betrays my nerves.

“Come on,” Tilly says, punching me lightly in the arm. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

My forehead wrinkles. “Stick in the mud? When were you born, the fifties?”

Tilly grins. “I’ve just been to England, remember? The whole country’s stuck in the 50s.” Her forehead knits together. “Not that I would know, I guess.”

I grin, and it feels like the first rays of spring sunshine are thawing the ice between us. “Me neither. Your daddy on the other hand…”

Tilly grins back. “Right!”

“So what’s the plan, kiddo?” I say. “Anything you’ve been dying to do while you were away?”

I see Charlie emerge from his – our? – bedroom. His tight-fitting white shirt is untucked, and he’s not wearing socks. He walks toward us slowly. I can tell he doesn’t want to disrupt the conversation. He’s letting us get to know each other.

Tilly nods. She hasn’t caught sight of Charlie yet. “Ice-skating,” she says. She sounds innocent and childlike for the first time since I’ve known her: excited; excitable.

“Skating?” Charlie grins, crouching down and pinching his daughter’s cheek; “without me?”

“You can come if you want?” I say, breathless. Suddenly I’m nervous of taking Tilly out alone. For my whole life, I’ve only had to look after number one. The responsibility of taking care of someone else dawns upon me like a hammer smashing against an anvil.

Charlie hops up and shakes his head. “Hell no: I know better than to interfere with a girl’s day out.”

“Swear jar, daddy,” Tilly chides.

“I know, I know,” my husband grimaces. “Sorry, kid.”

“Just don’t let it happen again.” She looks at me. “Are you ready to go?”

“Why don’t you meet Penny at the elevator, kiddo,” Charlie says.

“You’re going to kiss her, aren’t you,” Tilly groans. “Gross!”

We both watch as Tilly scampers off. I can’t help but think that she’s one of the most intelligent young girls I’ve ever met; precocious doesn’t even come close to describing Tilly Thorne. I’m going to have a hell of a job on my hands this afternoon…

“Are you feeling up to this?” Charlie says quietly. He reaches out and grabs my hands.

A lump the size of an apple seems to appear out of nowhere in my chest. “I guess I’ll have to be,” I say.

“You’ll be fine,” Charlie says. He pulls my hand up and kisses the back of it. “She’ll try and get away with murder. Just remember – you’re in charge.”

“I should go. She’s waiting.”

Charlie releases me. He waits until I’m almost around the corner before he pipes up. “Crap – did I tell you about her allergies?”

Panic threatens to overtake me. How did I ever think that I was going to be cut out for this? A week ago I was just an untried con girl. Today I’m looking after a billionaire’s kid. And not just that – I think I’m falling for her father.

“Allergies!”

Charlie winks at me. “Yeah, she doesn’t have any.”

A wave of relief sweeps through me like a head rush. My mouth twists into a sour grimace, disguising the emotions under the surface. I turn and throw back, “Ass.”

“Swear jar…”

I don’t cast Charlie another look.

* * *

The skating rink isn’t far: just on the opposite side of Central Park.

“You think it’ll still be open?” Tilly asks. She’s already taken off her jacket, and it’s slung over her shoulder.

“The ice rink” I ask as I glance around? Early blooms are beginning to decorate trees all around, and I’m uncomfortably warm under the collar as well. “That’s a good point.”

“I’m full of them,” Tilly grins. “Hey – do you even skate?”

I shake my head. “Not really. I never got the chance as a kid. My parents never had the money.”

Tilly goes quiet for a few seconds. She looks so much like Matilda from the film, well, Matilda, that I think I’m seeing double: almost. Though, if I remember rightly, Matilda’s parents were broke crooks. Charlie Thorne couldn’t be more different if he tried.

“Shit,” I groan.

Tilly looks up, only to see what I’m seeing: an ice rink broken by puddles of melting water. “Swear jar,” she says automatically. Then, “oh…”

“Oh,” I agree. “What now?”

But Tilly doesn’t answer. When she finally speaks, her tone is so different from that of the energetic young girl I’ve come to know that I glance at her, frowning.

“Penny,” she says quietly. “Do you think I’m spoiled?”

“I don’t even know you, kiddo,” I say, parrying the question. There’s a park bench next to us, and I jerk my head at it. I’ve got a feeling this conversation’s not done. “Come on, let’s it down.”

“But you’ve seen where I live, right?” Tilly mutters, chewing her bottom lip as we sit. “I mean, take the swear jar for example.”

“I haven’t seen it,” I say. My brow furrows as I try and picture a glass jar full of dirty pennies somewhere in Charlie’s stylish penthouse.

“That’s kind of the point,” Tilly mutters. “It’s a Swiss bank account.”

“A Swiss –”

“Yeah,” Tilly agrees. She’s wearing an almost apologetic look on her face. “Every time daddy messes up, he puts a few grand into –”

“– a few grand?” I choke.

“– A fund for building a school, or something,” Tilly finishes. Her serious Matilda-face is all wrapped up in knots. I get the feeling that she’s been asking herself this question for a long time – and now that she’s got the chance, it’s finally spilling out.

“Why are you asking me, Tilly?” I ask, even though I think I know.

Tilly’s face pinches. Her tongue – just the tip – darts out of the corner of her mouth. She’s considering my question to a degree I didn’t intend.

“Because you’re different,” she says.

“Different?”

Tilly’s gray eyes – the same gleaming, intelligent eyes as her father – glitter as she studies me. Suddenly I feel like I’m on trial, like I’m sitting a test for this girl. I try and remember what I was like at eleven: about to hit puberty; confused about my place in the world.

I probably dreamed of being a billionaire’s daughter. Figured it would be a life without care, without strife, without worry.

Maybe it is; or maybe there’s a different kind of struggle. A struggle to know who exactly you are, and what defines you, when you’ve known nothing but privilege. It’s not exactly starving in Africa, but for an eleven-year-old girl, already experiencing huge changes in her life, I get it.

“Different,” Tilly nods. “All my friends, their parents, they’re all the same. They all look the same, own planes and yachts. They all have the same opinions, you know?”

“I guess.”

“But you, you’re different. You’re –.”

“Poor?”

Tilly’s hands jump to her mouth, and her face goes deathly pale. “I didn’t mean it like –!”

“– that,” I grin. “I know. No, Tilly. I don’t think you’re spoiled. You’re a smart kid, you know that. You get to make your own choices. There are plenty of rich assholes –” I catch myself, grinning. “– Swear jar, I know.”

“I’ll let you off this time,” Tilly mutters shyly.

“Plenty of rich people out there who act like –. Act unpleasantly, you know? But you don’t have to be one of them. You get to make your own choices in life. Don’t let anyone define you but you.”

Tilly reaches over and grabs my hand, squeezing it. We both fall silent, and I consider my own words, replaying them back in my mind. Hell, I sounded kinda wise! Don’t let anyone define you but you.

I need to put that into practice.

“Can I ask you something, Tilly?” I say.

Tilly looks up at me, and smiles a small, friendly smile. I breathe a hidden sigh of relief.

“Shoot.” She says calmly.

“Why aren’t you more freaked out?”

“By what?”

“By all this,” I say, “by me. I’m suddenly in your life and you don’t even know who I am.”

Tilly considers my question for a long time before answering. “I do.”

“How?”

She shakes her head. “I mean, I know who you are; not where you came from, or anything like that. But you’re nice. You’ve got a good heart. Like I said, daddy chose good.”

I bite my lip.

My eyes are tearing up. I didn’t expect this afternoon to turn into a comfort cry, but it’s quickly going that way. I reach over and loop my arm around Tilly’s shoulders.

“Thanks, kid,” I mutter. “You’re not so bad yourself…”

Chapter Twenty-One

Charlie

Penny’s out shopping. I told her she couldn’t keep wearing clothes that Ella picked out for her forever… Today is just me and Tilly.

“How long’s it been since you got back from London,” I ask, even though I know the answer down to the hour, “a week?”

My stomach lurches as the elevator from the penthouse carries us down forty floors in a matter of seconds.

Tilly squints at me. Her gray eyes look too big on that serious-looking face. It doesn’t seem right that she can have a button nose and dimples on her cheeks, yet also have a woman’s eyes.

Which she rolls at me…

“Get to the point, daddy,” she says.

“I can’t slip anything by you, can I?” I groan.

It’s six days, actually. Not a week. It’s only been six days since Tilly got back from her hockey tour; six days that the three of us have been living together like a family; six days of… happiness.

No matter what’s going on with the business, and all these rumors of Landon Winchester’s imminent takeover attempt, I can’t remember being this happy. It’s like Penny completes me – us. It’s like she’s the missing leg our stool needs to stay upright.

Okay, that’s a crappy metaphor, but you know what I mean.

“Not anymore,” Tilly confirms. “So what are you really asking, daddy?”

I let out a sigh. “When did you get so smart? And don’t roll your eyes! What I’m asking is – are you okay with all of this?”

“All of what?” Tilly asks with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

I groan. “You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you?”

Tilly nods, but doesn’t say a word. A wide grin splits her face.

I punch her lightly on the arm – far from hard enough to hurt. “You’re an –.”

Tilly’s eyes widen. I know she’s just waiting for me to say it: ass. But not so fast, I’m not going to the swear jar, not this time.

I recover quickly. “– Irritant,” I say, narrowing my eyes at my daughter. “Yeah, that fits.”

“Get to the point, daddy…” Tilly pouts. We step out of the elevator into the lobby, and walk straight forward toward the waiting black limousine.

“I want to know if you’re okay with all of this. I know I’ve kind of changed everything on you, and I need to make sure you’re okay with it; with Penny. You don’t need to humor me, you know. You always come first.”

“Do you like her, daddy?” Tilly asks as the limousine’s doors slam close around us, sealing us into a calm, polished quiet. As usual, she cuts right to the chase.

My eyebrows kink with surprise. “You know, I’m not sure that’s any of your –.”

Tilly cuts me off. “This is family business, daddy,” she nods seriously. “I’m not asking for myself, of course.”

“Of course.” I say.

Tilly makes a kind of upside down smile with her lips, and leans forward inquiringly. “So?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I like her. I like her a lot.”

The realization comes to me slowly, but hits me with the force of a heavy weight punch. I really do like Penny: quite a lot.

In fact, I think I’m beginning to fall for her – and fall hard. This might all have started as a ruse, but it’s turning into something much, much bigger than that.

“Then that’s enough for me,” Tilly says matter-of-factly.

“Are you sure?”

“Weeell,” Tilly says, stretching out the word. “You know what could make me more sure?”

“What?” I recognize the tone Tilly’s using. It’s the one she always uses when she wants something… Of course, I’m a sucker. I can’t help but give my daughter whatever she asks for.

“Ice cream.” Her eyes glitter with mischief.

The limousine’s engine growls and we merge into traffic. I lean over and ruffle my daughter’s hair. “Come on. Let’s go get your ice cream.”

* * *

With the ice cream in question acquired, we hop back into the limousine – and quickly get stuck in Manhattan traffic. A couple of slow, lazy turns later, the glitzy shop fronts of 5th Avenue glitter in the late afternoon sun.

I’m lost in my cell phone dealing with urgent work requests. They are all urgent when you own a company the size of Thorne Enterprises. Even so, I know I shouldn’t be acting like this. This is daddy/daughter time.

It should be sacred, not wasted.

“You should do something nice for her, you know daddy,” Tilly says in between long licks of her chocolate and vanilla double-scoop cone.

“Who, kiddo,” I ask, distracted.

“Eyes front, daddy,” Tilly says. She uses another voice this time – the one when I know I’m in trouble. “You spend too much time on that thing.”

A pang of sadness flows through me when I hear her say that. I instantly kill the screen and toss my phone onto the opposite row of seats. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

“So?” She says, raising her eyebrow.

“So what? Oh, Penny.”

I pause for a few seconds, studying my daughter intently. She looks so damn young and innocent, yet beneath that front she hides a fiery intelligence. I know that she’s a whole lot more than she seems. It impresses me, but it doesn’t surprise me. I always knew that Tilly would turn out this way.

Then again, maybe all dads think like that. Still, I don’t know about their kids, but I know that my Tilly’s special.

“What do you know about relationships, kiddo?” I ask, grinning.

I cuff her gently around the ear, sending her face flying forward into the ice cream. Tilly rears back with outrage on her face – and white and brown ice cream smeared all over her little button nose. I can’t help but laugh.

“I’m a girl, daddy,” Tilly grumps. “I know more than you do, that’s for sure. You should do something nice.”

“Like what?”

Tilly frowns. “She’s your wife.”

I grin. “Well you’re the expert… supposedly.”

“I can’t do everything for you, daddy. But Penny’s been amazing all week. I’m not an idiot, daddy. I see how hard she’s trying. She deserves it.”

“Swear jar,” I mutter absently. But my heart’s not really in it. My mind’s somewhere else. Tilly’s right, I haven’t been neglecting Penny, necessarily – but she’s been so much more than I could ever have expected, slipping seamlessly into the family life as though she’s always been.

The limo chugs forward another couple of slow, quicksand inches, and a familiar turquoise store comes into view.

Tiffany’s.

Perfect. I’ll buy the whole damn store if I need to.

I lean forward and knock on the privacy partition that separates the passenger cabin from the driver. Not a second later, it hisses down.

“Everything okay back there, boss?”

“Everything’s fine, Tim. Just – I’m going to get out here. Can you get Tilly back home safely?”

“Don’t blame you, boss; traffic’s murder today.” Tim jerks his head forward at a line of stationary cars, all pumping out thick, steaming exhaust. “You can leave Tilly with me. We know how to have fun, don’t we kid?”

Tilly giggles in response.

I ruffle Tilly’s hair one last time, and wipe a stray smudge of ice cream off of her cheek. “Stay safe, kiddo.”

As I’m closing the door behind me, I hear Tim ask, “what’s it gonna be, kid: rock or hip-hop?”

My daughter’s in safe hands.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Penny

A courier hand delivered the mysterious package. It was addressed to Penny Thorne, but handed to the doorman.

“Mrs. Thorne?” He said over the intercom. I see his gray-haired face on the little screen – at least, his cheek, as he stares into an unseen camera. When he backs up, he’s wearing a quizzical look, as though he’s not quite sure he’s following protocol. “There’s a package for you. There’s no return address.”

He comes up in the elevator and delivers it to me himself. I’m alone today. Tilly’s at school, and a ballet class later; Charlie’s at the office.

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”

Frederick Johnson grins. “Just call me Fred,” he says. “I’m just glad that you acknowledge I exist at all. Most in this building don’t…”

My forehead wrinkles.

“Not your husband, of course,” Fred hastens to add. “He’s always been kind to me, he has.”

Then I’m left alone, with just a ribbon-wrapped black box for company. It’s about ten inches deep, and fifteen inches wide. I shake it, and get the familiar crackle-hiss of giftwrapped clothing.

I sit down on a chaise lounge that’s pressed up against one of the plate glass windows, rest my back on the cool glass, and open it. My nimble fingers dance around the ribbon and pull it open. I lift the lid, and place it to one side.

An envelope nestles on the top of – something – wrapped in black tissue paper. The white envelope is open. I slide a cream-colored card out of it. It’s embossed with gold ink.

Penny, it reads.

I know the last few days have been awfully busy. Since Tilly arrived home, we’ve barely had a moment to ourselves. I want to change that: tonight. A car will pick you up at 6 PM. Wear what you find in the box.

Your Charlie.

A thrill runs through me as I read Charlie’s message. It’s strange – when he kissed me goodbye this morning, he never mentioned a surprise. He could have had me on tenterhooks all day, guessing his true intentions, but he chose not to.

Heck, he didn’t give me so much as a hint.

I run my finger across the embossed lettering one last time, feeling as well as reading Charlie’s name. It strokes my finger, just like he does.

I put the card to one side, and attack the tissue paper with excitement bursting out of me. I can’t wait to see what’s inside.

“Jesus, Charlie,” I mutter, biting my lip.

I lift a set of gossamer thin panties from the box. The lace is so delicate it almost feels as though it might disintegrate in my hands. For a girl who only lost her virginity a few days ago, it’s pretty racy. The bra is equally skimpy. I don’t know that I would wear the lingerie set for any other guy – but what Charlie wants, Charlie gets.

He deserves it.

He’s been nothing but kind to me, a gentleman when I deserved anything but. I’m not sure I feel comfortable wearing something so revealing, yet I know that when I put it on, I won’t see judgment in Charlie’s eyes.

I won’t see laughter; just desire.

That’s enough for me.

Even so, I’m a little surprised that Charlie bought something like this for me without so much as a hint. He’s been perfect at respecting my boundaries – pushing me when I ask for it, and stepping back from the brink when that’s exactly what I need.

Unless, I grin, this is just one of Miss Casey’s cruel jokes…

I shrug, concealing a little shiver at the thought, and set the lingerie aside. I tear through another tissue paper barrier, and reveal a black cocktail dress.

The silk is like nothing I’ve ever felt. Soft, so delicate I worry it might blow away. The sight steals the breath from my lungs. I press it against my body and stumble over toward the mirror to check myself out.

“Jesus, Charlie,” I say again. Except, this time I’m not startled – I’m impressed. He’s outdone himself. Even without trying it on, I know it’ll fit me perfectly.

I close my eyes and take a moment for myself. I got a funny feeling that whatever happens tonight, it’s going to test my boundaries in a way I can’t imagine.

Truthfully? I’m fine with that. Because whatever happens, Charlie Thorne would never do something he didn’t think I was capable of handling.

So I’m going to surprise him.

“You’ve grown up, Penny,” I say quietly to my reflection, shaking my head wryly, “and filled out.”

For the first time, I see myself the way Charlie sees me. I see my curves and lumps and bumps for what they are – desirable, not disgusting.

I realize that I’m comfortable: comfortable in my skin; comfortable in my sexuality; comfortable with my body.

Tonight, I’m going to give Charlie Thorne exactly what he deserves. I’m going to give him a night he’ll never forget.

* * *

The car arrives exactly on time. I get in at precisely 6 PM, am driven for only a few blocks through only a smattering of traffic, and get out here: the front steps of the American Museum of Natural History.

“Are you sure?” I say to the driver. It’s not one of Charlie’s usual stable, I don’t recognize him. He’s got dark hair and a squat, stub-nosed face.

“I just go where they tell me,” he shrugs. “But this is the right address. Good luck.”

He drives off.

I tussle awkwardly with the hem of my silk cocktail dress. It keeps riding up and revealing my legs. I wonder if that is exactly what Charlie wants. I close my eyes and imagine the look on his face when he sees me like this.

I look good, and I’m not just saying that.

I might just look hotter than I ever have in my life. Not just because of the dress, but because Charlie Thorne’s given me confidence I didn’t know I possessed.

He’s given me the confidence to wear a ten thousand dollar supermodel’s dress, and not even feel out of place:mostly…

“Well, what the hell now,” I mutter.

I catch a couple of passers-by staring at me, and I don’t hide, even if their gazes burn against my exposed legs.

“Pick a door, any door,” I say, scanning the area.

My eyes settle on an open side-entrance to the otherwise dark museum. Every other door is firmly shut. This one is conspicuously not – almost like an invitation. I take it.

My heels click against the stone as I climb the steps out front. I halt nervously in front of the open door, wringing my hands.

“This better be worth it, Charlie,” I groan. Then step through.

What happens next is surreal. A white-jacketed waiter hands me a glass of champagne, and I enter a whole different dimension of the world. “Mrs. Thorne,” he says. “Your guest is waiting. Please follow me.”

“Um… Okay?” I say.

Mostly my mouth is open wide.

I don’t know what the hell’s going on. None of this makes any sense. Especially not the pathway of red rose petals, that stretches across the museum’s flagstones. Oh – and did I mention that the whole place is lit by freaking candlelight?

Yeah.

This is so not Charlie’s style. Sure, he likes a grand gesture as much as the next guy, but I know him. At least, I know him as well as anyone, who’s been his wife for a couple of weeks, has any right to…

The Charlie Thorne that I know is quiet and humble, even though he’s worth more than almost anyone alive. He’s aggressive and arrogant – but only in the boardroom and the bedroom, and only when I ask him to be.

So this whole set up? This doesn’t make any sense.

“Tonight’s the night,” I mutter to myself. “You can do it.”

“I’m sorry,” my guide says, squinting back at me. “I didn’t catch that.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

A few seconds later we come to a stop in front of a giant statue of a woolly mammoth. I can’t for the life of me figure out why Charlie has organized a date here. I rack my brain to try and figure out whether we’ve ever talked about this place before, but I come up short.

“Please, sit,” the waiter smiles, gesturing at a small circular dinner table.

Set for three.

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Where’s Charlie?”

The waiter shrugs, crisply opens up a white cloth napkin, and lays it on my lap. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he says. “I just do what they tell me.”

“You and everyone else,” I growl.

The waiter’s leather soles click against the museum’s stone floor. In a few seconds, he’s gone. The oppressive silence of the huge, high-ceilinged museum begins to beat down on me. My stomach falls as though I’m in a plunging, out-of-control elevator. I take short, nervous breaths.

I might not know exactly what’s going on, but I know something’s not right.

I hear something: leather on stone. My head jerks, even though it’s probably only the waiter on his way back.

Except … it’s not.

It’s Landon fucking Winchester. He’s got a smug smile on his face. He looks like he’s won the lottery.

My eyes widen, my mouth drops open, and my heartbeat doubles. I scramble backward, kicking my chair out from beneath me. It clatters against the ground.

“You!” I say in a choked, strangled voice. “What the hell are you doing? Why am I here?”

“Penny Thorne,” Landon smiles. It’s an evil, wolfish grin that distorts his features. “Or should I say, Penny Walters, born on the nineteenth of April, 1998.”

“Is –,” I croak. “Is that supposed to impress me?” You are nothing more than a stalker, you fucking creep.

“Calm down, Penny,” Landon says.

He walks over to me, passes behind me while I’m still fixed in this exact spot, unable to move as shock wallows around me. He picks up my chair, and then pushes me gently into it. The touch of his fingers – even through the silk of my dress – makes my skin crawl.

I twist my body and look up at him. “Why should I? Why should I trust anything you say?”

Another thought enters my mind. It fills me with dread. “What –,” my voice catches. “What are you planning on doing to me?”

“Penny,” Landon chuckles. “Just relax. I’m not going to do anything to you. In fact, I’m going to make you an offer.”

“An offer?”

The two words hang in the air as Landon walks around the dinner table, his heels clicking. My eyes trace his path. The chair squeaks a little as he settles into it.

“Precisely.”

The waiter returns with a single champagne flute and fills it, before handing it to Landon. He tops up mine, and disappears silently into a side door.

I close my eyes, and my mind races. I feel like a circus performer up on stilts, and someone’s just kicked them out from beneath me.

“Enough,” I mutter. “You tell me what’s going on right now, or I walk out of here.”

The smile sits uneasily on Landon Winchester’s face. By any measure of the word, he’s a handsome man.

Yet handsome is the last word I’d use to describe him. He’s creepy, plain and simple. If Charlie’s the Beauty, then Landon’s definitely the Beast – and I don’t see a happy ending to this story.

He runs his fingers through his wispy blonde hair. “Fair enough,” he says, settling back into the chair. “I suppose you deserve to know.”

I twist the champagne flute anxiously in my fingers as I wait. The museum is cool, and goose bumps break out on my legs. The silence starts to weigh heavy on my shoulders.

“You see, Penny – I know you.”

“Know me?” I croak, squinting.

Landon nods. “We’re the same, you and I.”

“We’re nothing alike!”

“Tell yourself whatever you want, Penny Walters,” he says, deliberately using my maiden name. “But we both know the truth.”

I freeze. Landon’s manner is too easy, his posture too aggravatingly self-assured. He’s holding an ace in the hole – or he thinks he is. Either way, I don’t like it.

“I’ve studied your file, Penny,” he says.

“My file?”

“I had my men follow you: quite a few men, actually.”

“What?”

Landon smiles: the cold, mirthless expression creeps onto his face like a reptile. “I had to pay the best. After all, it wasn’t just me who was following you…”

“What are you talking about?”

Landon laughs: the cold, calculating sound bounces off the stone arches that surround us. I flinch as the noise echoes back. “He didn’t tell you? Of course he didn’t. Everyone thinks he’s a saint, but we know the truth, don’t we, Penny?”

I close my eyes, stunned, and whisper my lover’s name. “Charlie.”

“Charlie,” Landon confirms. “Picture-perfect Charlie Thorne,” he spits. “Although it was probably that attack dog of his: Harper whatever. I’m sure Charlie wouldn’t want to get his own hands dirty.”

“My apartment,” I gasp, jerking my head up and staring directly into Landon’s gaze. “Was that you, or –”

“Me,” Landon smiles. “My men are very… Efficient.”

I take a second to collect myself. Suddenly I feel exactly what I am – a nineteen-year-old girl who doesn’t know how to operate at this level. I feel like I’m battling a chess grand master, only I’m blindfolded, and I can’t even play checkers.

“So what do you want?” I ask.

My mind races through the shock. Whatever happens, I know I need to protect Charlie – and Tilly. I made the decision days ago. I created this mess by attempting to steal from Charlie. The least I can do is try to fix it.

“It’s not about what I want, Penny. It’s about what I can do for you.”

I fix him with a cold, hard – yet uncertain – stare. “What do you mean?”

“Your father, Penny; he’s a very, very sick man, isn’t he.”

My blood runs cold inside me. In fact, the whole room seems to drop half a dozen degrees. I leap to my feet, and for a second time the chair tumbles back behind me. “You stay away from him!” I yell.

“Relax, Penny,” Landon says, waving his hand. “Despite what you may think of me, I’m not a terrible man.”

“So you say,” I say.

“So I say. Besides, Penny, I don’t need to do anything to your father. I can just sit back. The tumor will take him soon enough.”

I stumble backward. A sick sense of dread coagulates in my stomach: like clotting, dying blood.

“Unless…” Landon whispers, dragging out the word. “There was a treatment.”

I’m locked in place. It feels like my feet are wedged in dried concrete. “There isn’t…” I mumble.

“Oh, but there is,” Landon says, letting out a short burst of the cold, mirthless laugh. “And you know there is, Penny. After all, my men found the pamphlets on your bedroom floor…”

“I’m done, Landon,” I yell. “You’re sick. I’ll go to Charlie, tell him everything –.”

Landon stands up. The champagne ripples on the table in front of us, and the three sets of cutlery rattle against one another.

“You won’t,” he growls. “Penny, listen to me. I’m offering to pay for it – all of it. Your father will be well again. I’ll pay for the best doctors: the best hospitals; get him out of that hell hole he’s in.”

Tears burn their way down my face. The salt stings my pores. Landon Winchester is offering me everything – everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ve got a choice ahead of me – a horrible, awful choice. Betray the only man who’s ever loved me – and his daughter as well…

Or let my father die.

I close my eyes, hiding in the darkness. I hope to find an escape from the guilt creeping over me, but I don’t. If anything, it’s worse.

“And what do you want in return?” I whisper.

Landon doesn't answer. Not right away, at least. He fishes a cell phone out of his suit jacket. He lifts it to his mouth and murmurs into it. “Send her in.”

There’s a pause, then a heavy wooden side door swings open, filling the quiet hall with the groaning of under-oiled hinges. A woman’s stiletto heels click against the flagstones, and she emerges from the darkness.

She smooths down a gray pencil skirt there’s no way she can afford on a public servant’s salary and smiles.

“I think, Penny, that’s where I come in.”

Landon smiles, and gestures at Ms. Winters’ seat. “Penny, Carol, I understand you’ve both met. Please, sit. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Charlie

It’s a few minutes past closing time, and I can tell that the Tiffany’s saleswoman just wants to close up for the night and head back home.

Her name tag reads: Susan. Susan’s probably got kids to feed and wash and get into bed, before grabbing an hour of alone-time before she needs to fall asleep. The last thing she needs is a customer like me wasting her time…

“Excuse me, Mister –?” She says.

“Thorne,” I mutter, distracted. My eyes scan the glass cabinets. Each one contains tens of thousands of dollars of glittering jewelry. Each one lies open.

“Mr. Thorne, then,” she says, sounding awkward. “I really must ask you to hurry up. Only, it’s closing –”

The woman falls silent, making a strangled noise as she cuts herself short. I glance up, and see that her expression has changed. Her face is tight and drawn, almost as though she’s scared.

I pause to wonder why, but I don’t have to wait long to find out. In a glass sheet behind her, I see her manager’s reflection. He’s a portly man, and he’s making a cutting motion at his neck.

It doesn’t take me long to piece together what’s going on. The manager has figured out who I am, even if this girl hasn’t. The last thing he wants is for one of his employees to scare me off.

In the New York retail scene, I am known as a “whale”. One visit from me, or any of the other dozen men and women – whose net worth is high enough to live in my ZIP Code in the city – and a quarterly bonus is guaranteed.

“– Time,” Susan mutters, eyes twitching left and right. “In fact, don’t worry about it, sir. Take as long as you need.”

I hold her gaze until her eyeballs finally quit dancing. I feel bad for putting her in a spot like this. My eye is drawn to movement in the pane of glass behind her, and I watch as the store manager sidles up.

“Mr. Thorne,” he simpers. His voice is high-pitched and reedy; not what I’d have expected from a gentleman of his enormous bulk. “What brings you to my store? I can help you choose, perhaps?”

I glance up, and see that Susan has a tight, pinched look on her face.

“Actually,” I say, “Susan here has been nothing but helpful.”

“Is that so?” The manager says with a disdainful look on his face. He makes a tiny, hidden shooing motion with his fingers. It’s not meant for my consumption, but I don’t miss much. “Well, I’ll be pleased to take over –”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” I say firmly. “Susan and I are just finishing up, aren’t we?”

“Really, it’s no bother,” the manager says.

He has that tight, white-lipped grimace on his face that so many people get when I dismiss them. I learned long ago that most people only want to be around me because of my money.

That’s what makes Penny so special.

She never gives any indication she wants my money. I swear she doesn’t even like the high-price designer labels I keep filling her closets with. She still wears those clunky studded black leather boots that look like they once marched into Iraq during Operation Desert Storm.

“We’re fine,” I say, turning away. I watch as the manager puffs out cheeks that are turning beetroot red before turning away.

“In fact,” I say, calling him back briefly. “Who’s your boss?”

“I’m the manager of this –.”

I flick my fingers dismissively, copying the man’s gesture from earlier. “No. Your boss: the CEO.”

The manager’s cheeks quiver as he processes my question. “Michael Kowalski,” he says. “Why?”

I look back at the saleswoman. She looks like she’s doing her best to shrink into the floor; as though there are a thousand other places she’d rather be, as long as they weren’t right here, right now.

“Ah, Michael,” I nod, as if I’ve got any idea who he’s talking about. “How could I forget?”

“You know him?” The manager asks, his eyes gleaming with interest.

“He knows me, anyway,” I say, flipping the question in an unnecessary power-play that doesn’t fail to bring a small smile to the corners of my lips. “I think I’ll drop him a note, commending Susan for all her hard work.”

The manager’s fists ball up at his sides as he grapples with the idea that Susan, not he, will get all the credit. The idea fills me with happiness. I don’t know why, but something about this man has me all riled up inside.

“Thank you, sir,” he says. He gives me a slight nod before turning away, bristling with irritation.

I take a second to compose myself so I don’t burst out laughing, and then turn back to Susan. “I’ll take it,” I say, pointing at a diamond necklace set into a gorgeous, thin platinum-gold setting that’s going to look stunning draped around Penny’s neck, dangling between her perfect, perfect breasts.

Susan’s fingers quiver. She clears her throat nervously. “Of course, sir.”

All of a sudden, Susan’s gone from impatient to all kinds of nervous; and I think I know why.

“Can I let you in on a secret?” I ask as she brings up the purchase. I lean forward conspiratorially.

“Of course, sir,” she says as four thousand dollars flashes up on the register.

“I’ve never met Michael Kowalski,” I grin, handing over my AMEX. “I just wanted to take that pompous ass down a peg.”

The worry seems to drain out of Susan. Her shoulders relax forward and she lets out a deep breath she’s been holding onto.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling shyly. “It’s just – I really need this job. I’m still on probation, and Tony – the manager – is kind of,” she looks around, searching for the right word: “Creepy.”

I file the man’s name away. The thing about having friends in high places is that it’s easy to do good things in the world.

I slip the necklace box into the inside pocket of my suit jacket, pull out a small wad of notes and pick out about a thousand bucks. I don’t count it.

“Here, take this,” I say, handing it over. “Take your kids out for dinner.”

Susan’s features crinkle with disbelief. “How did you know I’ve got kids?” She gasps.

“I’m perceptive.” I grin, and turn to leave.

“Thank you…” She whispers.

I step back out into the crisp cool of a New York springtime evening. The sky is now blood-red, and glitters off the acres and acres of panel glass that stud the skyline.

I start walking, feeling upbeat. I swear, sometimes giving a gift makes the giver feel better than the receiver. That’s certainly the case for me.

Of course, it doesn’t take long for all that to come crashing down.

After less than fifty paces, I stop dead in my tracks in front of some PR agency’s offices. Hell, it might even be one that Thorne Enterprises keeps on retainer. The lobby is filled with TV screens, all displaying the same cable news channel.

The ticker at the bottom is what catches my attention. It reads, “Wincorp Merger Announcement”. I step forward until my nose is practically pressed up against the office window. I feel like someone’s sucker-punched me. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s blowing up with alerts.

Landon Winchester’s holding his goddamn press conference on the steps of some fancy museum. It’s not just a press conference, either.

It’s a fucking ambush. He’s trying to take my company without even giving me the courtesy of a damn phone call.

Prick.

But if that wasn’t enough, as I watch him walk down the stairs like some minor European royal, toward the baying press pack, I see something on the screen that fills my stomach with twisting anger. It attacks my stomach lining like acid.

Penny: dressed to the fucking nines; disappearing around a corner. I know it is: I’d know that body anywhere.

“Six billion dollar bid,” the ticker reads.

It’s a fucking insult of a price for a company that’s worth twice that, but that’s not what has me so fucking pissed off. No, suddenly I realize – at least, I think I do – why Penny doesn’t care about my money.

It’s because she already has Landon’s.

Then my stomach twists further. I figure out that if Penny was his weapon – digging dirt on me from the inside – then it’s not just Thorne Enterprises that’s at risk.

It’s Tilly, too. And my daughter doesn’t have a price. She’s all I’ve got. I swear, if Landon Winchester does anything to hurt my family, I’ll rip him apart: literally.

I start moving on instinct, fishing my cell out of my pocket.

“Harper,” I growl, pressing it to my ear. Waves of anger wash through me. The charitable side of me – the bit I exercised only a few seconds ago – suddenly feels small and shrinking fast.

“Tell me you didn’t stop digging.”

* * *

“Charlie, are you still there?”

I blink twice, staring out at the twinkling lights of nighttime New York. I’m back at the penthouse, listening to the sound of Tilly singing along to corny pop music while pretending to do her homework. I should tell her to go to bed, but right now I can’t.

I feel numb, broken by today’s events.

I’m also in Penny’s room: the room that was hers, anyway; before she started creeping into mine. I scrunch my free fist into a ball, so tight my knuckles go white.

“Say that again,” I order Harper, my lawyer: and friend. I press myself and harder against my ear.

When she speaks, Harper’s tone is soft. She really doesn’t want to hurt me. But protecting me is her job, and one I should have let her do probably the first time.

“My operative didn’t tell me this at the time,” she says. “After you ordered me to kill the investigation, I took you at your word.”

“Harper, I get it,” I growl. “I messed up. I shouldn’t have let this girl get so close.”

“We all make mistakes, Charlie,” she replies, her voice devoid of judgment. “It’s just that you’ve got a hell of a lot more to lose than most people.”

“I don’t care about the business: just Tilly. She’s all that matters. What did he find?”

“Nothing conclusive,” Harper replies in that giveaway lawyer’s tone.

My old friend likes to present open and shut cases. She likes to have every piece of evidence double, then triple-checked – and then once more – just for safety’s sake. With Penny, everything’s up in the air. As far as we can tell, she didn’t have a record before about two years ago. So Harper’s flying blind – and she hates it.

“But my man found evidence of searches from her roommate’s phone,” I hear the rustling of paper down the line. “A Roberta –”

“– It doesn’t matter who she is,” I mutter.

“Sorry. Anyway, we hacked into this girl’s phone. It was almost clean, but we scraped a few cookies, a couple of packets of data –”

I interrupt her again. “Is that legal?”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “As your lawyer, I’d advise you not to ask me that question.”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “But this time only; I don’t work like that, Harper; you know that. We’re the good guys.”

“Deal: so here’s the rub; we found data that indicated this girl had been searching your name before Penny started at Thorne Enterprises. Digging deep. This isn’t just pre-job Googling, Charlie.”

The sound washes over me, like surf meeting a vicious cliff; except instead of rock, I’m burning, seething with fire. “She did what?” I growl. “You said before?”

I can hear Harper nodding. “Yeah. In my opinion, Charlie, it’s as bad as it looks. The evidence is flaky, I know that, but if it looks like corporate espionage, and smells like corporate espionage…”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “You’re right.”

There’s another pause.

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“How are you holding up?”

How the hell do I answer that question: with the truth? That I’m as angry as I’ve ever been; that I want to hunt Penny down and crush her; not for breaking into my company, but for breaking my heart.

I catch myself: my heart? That’s strong for a girl I’ve known all of a couple of weeks…

I hear the click of the door opening behind me.

“Harper, I’ve got to go,” I grunt.

“Charlie –”

Then the phone’s gone from my ear.

I watch as Tilly’s reflection wanders into Penny’s old bedroom. “Hey, daddy.”

“Hey kiddo,” I say.

I scrunch my eyelids closed – tight – biting back something that’s not quite a tear. How the hell am I supposed to explain what’s happened to this kid? That I’ve let her down as a father: by bringing someone like Penny into our lives.

“What’s wrong?” She says. The reflection – all three feet nothing of it, dressed in pink polka dot pajamas – gets closer, and then hugs my leg.

“Nothing’s wrong, kid.” I ruffle her hair, smiling down. My throat’s all clenched up. Maybe I don’t need to tell her tonight – but soon. She’s a smart kid. She’ll work out that something’s wrong.

“Don’t lie to me, daddy,” she says. She tugs my arm so that I’m forced to hold her gaze. “We don’t lie, remember?”

“How can I forget with you around?” I say, dropping to one knee. “You’re a hard task master…”

I close my eyes, and rest my forehead on hers, just drinking in the moment. Tilly’s the one girl in my life who will never leave me: and the one person I need to protect more than anything else in the world. She’s bigger than me: my company; even the women I choose to bring into my life.

“So don’t, then,” she says simply.

I feel a couple of little fingers on my face, and suddenly my eyelid is being forced open, and I see Tilly’s grinning face peering in. I jerk my head backward, and pull a face.

“Hey!”

Tilly crosses her arms. She cocks her head to one side like a woman twice her age. “So?”

“Where did you catch that attitude, Tills?” I groan. I hold my tongue for a second, and then I realize I need to stop procrastinating. “Listen, kid – there’s something I need to tell you.”

She rolls her eyes. It’s hard to reconcile something so cute being in front of me when I’m so angry inside: angry at Penny’s betrayal; even angrier at my own failure.

“Is it about the merger?” She asks.

My forehead wrinkles. “How did you hear about that?”

“Come on, daddy,” she says with time-worn impatience. “It’s everywhere!”

“Fair enough,” I allow. “But no, it’s not about that. Daddy’s going to deal with smelly Landon Winchester, let me tell you that!”

“Then it has to be Penny,” Tilly says matter-of-factly.

I don’t bother trying to hide it. “How did you know?”

She has her hands on her hips this time. “Daddy, it doesn’t take an expert. You’re in her room, and your eyes are all teary. What happened? Did she dump you?”

I shake my head, I cough, and sneeze all at once – and it’s pure emotion coming out, nothing else. I lean forward and pull Tilly in for a hug. “No, kiddo, it’s –”

I bite my tongue, thinking. But my kid, who’s smarter than a dozen women three times her age, cuts that short as well.

“Don’t try and hide it from me, daddy,” she says.

“I fu–,” I catch myself.

“I screwed up, kiddo. Penny … she wasn’t a good person. She came into our family to steal from us. Maybe not money: but something; she was here to hurt us. I’m sorry I let it happen. I’m sorry she tricked me so bad. I thought she was a good person, but I was wrong. I don’t know how, but I promise you I won’t let it happen again.”

My confession is heartfelt. I feel stupid admitting all this to an eleven-year-old, but there’s no way to hide it from Tilly.

Her face scrunches up. She looks confused. And then…

“No.”

“‘No’ what?” I ask in confusion.

“No. I don’t believe it.”

I squeeze Tilly’s tiny body once again, hugging her with all my might. “I’m sorry, kiddo. It’s true.”

She breaks free of my hold.

“No, daddy, it’s not. And don’t you dare try and tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about! You did fuck up,” she says – to my open-mouthed shock. “Not just screw up. Trust me on that, daddy.”

Then she runs out of the room, leaving me angry and hurt and embarrassed and numb. I drop down to my knees, staring out at the twinkling streetlights of New York.

Whatever I’m feeling, it’s a mess. Then – still numb – I do something. I reach for my phone. I dial a number, and it goes to voicemail.

I bite my lip one last time. I can’t believe I’m about to do this – and all on the word of an eleven-year-old.

But I do it anyway.

“Harper. I want to speak to the man you had follow Penny. Don’t give me any shit about plausible deniability. Just make it happen.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Penny

The silenced TV in dad’s hospital room flickers, filling it with a ghostly blue glow. The images from Landon Winchester’s press conference are still flashing on the business segment on the nightly news. I think about asking the nurses to change the channel, but I don’t have the energy.

Besides, I’m not a virgin anymore.

Not in life, and not to Brookdale University Hospital – a place where happiness goes to die. Asking the nurses to do anything around here – even provide basic medical care – is a fool’s errand.

Carol Winters’ words echo in my mind. “There are foster homes, and then there are foster homes, Penny,” she says.

“We both know you lied about being Charlie Thorne’s wife. The State will discover the truth eventually, Ms. Walters. Make the right choice. Come clean, and I’ll place Tilly in a pleasant, safe family: somewhere on the Upper East Side, maybe. I’m sure there’s a hedge fund family out there who would jump at the chance to take the mighty Charlie Thorne’s daughter. Or don’t… and maybe I won’t be so generous.”

“I’m sorry, dad,” I whisper. “I tried. I did everything I knew how to do. I know you won’t be proud of me, not after the things I’ve done. I lied, I cheated. But it was all to help you. Or to save you –”

My voice disappears, and my throat chokes up. I kick off the heels that Charlie – no Landon – sent me, and climb up onto dad’s hospital bed. I curl up next to him.

I remember a time when the difference between my petite frame, and daddy’s strong, broad shoulders was almost comical. Now, though, after years of cancer and hospital treatments, dad’s once proud frame has almost completely withered away.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Maybe I should have done it, dad,” I say. “I could have saved your life.”

But then I would have thrown away every last scrap of my honor.

Now I’ve opened the floodgates, I’ll never be able to stop. The emotion floods out of me, carrying words that jumble against each other in my depressed eagerness to come clean.

“That woman, Carol Winters,” I continue – even though my dad’s in a medically induced coma and can’t hear a damn word I say.

“She showed me her fancy Italian designer clothes, her purse – everything – thousands of dollars’ worth. She outright admitted Landon paid for them with bribes. She offered me the same. I don’t get it, dad. What happened to her? She must have been a good person, once. Who goes into social work if they don’t care? Who could threaten a child like that?”

Tears burn as they streak down my cheeks. I don’t bother wiping them aside, and they fall onto the musty hospital blanket.

“But I could have saved you, dad. If I had taken her offer – their offer. Landon, he would have paid for everything: all your treatment; whatever it took to get you better.”

I strain to open my eyes, and look at dad’s face. His hair is thinning from all the drugs, and his skin is pale and sallow. He’s hooked up to a feeding tube, as well as another dripping hydration in through the top of his hand.

I hate to see him like this, and to know that I could have done something to prevent it.

“But you wouldn’t have wanted that, would you dad?” I whisper.

The monitoring machines on a trolley by the hospital bed blink and moan, but every line stays straight and placid. I stare at them through blurred eyes, waiting for any sign that dad can understand what I’m saying – that he can hear me from somewhere inside his coma – but there’s nothing.

I’m just hoping beyond hope.

I know it’s not possible.

I swallow. My throat hurts from crying, and it shoots a pang of pain down my front. I deserve it.

“I failed you, didn’t I?”

The tears are now streaming down my cheeks in quantities large enough to soak the silk cocktail dress that still clings to my body. A digital clock mounted high on the wall shows that it’s past three in the morning.

I don’t know where the time went.

“I know you wouldn’t have respected me, and I would deserve it. You wouldn’t have wanted me to con Charlie. I knew it even when Robbie convinced me into doing it, but I told myself it was okay. I said I’d do anything to save you. Only…”

My voice cracks and I close my eyes once more, swaddling my face in my hands. My stomach is exhausted and tender from hours of sobbing.

“… Only it’s not true. I won’t. I couldn’t take that bitch from CPS’ offer. I couldn’t throw Tilly under the bus like that. Or Charlie…”

Dad’s heart rate monitor bleeps once. I don’t register the sound at first. I’m too bound up in my own problems: too worried about dad’s health to notice as it dwindles away right in front of me.

Then there’s another beep.

My eyes burst open, I look up. Dad’s face – already pale – is now white and ghostlike. Something’s wrong.

I scramble to my feet, moving too slowly. I’m numb. Everything feels as though I’m stumbling through quicksand.

“Help,” I say. But my voice is quiet, way too quiet to be heard. “Help!”

Then all hell breaks loose. The line on dad’s heart rate monitor spikes: climbing; climbing; climbing. It’s at ninety-five, then a hundred, then a hundred and ten, and then another spike, and then it’s past a hundred and fifty.

I’m no medical professional, but I know that he can’t bear this kind of pressure for long. He’s too frail, his body too fragile.

And his mind –

– After months in a medically induced coma, I don’t even know if there’s anything left of dad and the man he was to carry on the fight.

The hospital room door clatters open. Things start to operate at a different speed. A nurse in blue scrubs runs in.

It’s strange what your mind focuses on at times like this. I see the spectacles dancing on a string around her neck. I see her hair switching from side to side – almost in slow motion.

“You: move,” she orders. It sounds slower, stretched out in my head.

“Move!”

Then it doesn’t. Then there’s another nurse, and another. After all I’ve said about Brookdale Hospital, I still can’t do anything but hope that I was wrong; that they are better at the job than I made out.

Because if they’re not; dad’s dead.

Finally, as though my body remembers how to reassert control, my feet start to move. I press myself against the wall; then inch out of the hospital room. I can’t see this. I can’t bear to watch my own father die in front of me.

The world is an explosion of bedside alarms, and nurses shouting orders at each other. I hear, “code!” It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what happens next.

Another nurse thunders past me. She stops, just in time – perhaps noticing my tear-streaked face. “Go to the waiting room,” she says. “You don’t need to see this.”

“Will –,” I croak. “Will he be okay?”

The nurse winces as I speak. She gives me a sad, tired frown, with sad, tired eyes.

“I can’t promise you anything, girl. Just go.”

I move in slow motion and I finally do as I’m told. The hospital smells on the way out, just as it did on the way in.

Through the hurt, through the pain – through the fear of what’s coming – another thought takes hold in my mind. It’s like a seed, germinating there, sprouting roots.

Once it has sprouted, it’s lodged there. Stuck. I can’t stop thinking about it.

I can’t save dad. But I can save someone else’s. I can’t let Tilly lose her father like I’m about to lose mine. Even if that means that I won’t be by my father’s bedside when he passes. Dad would understand. He’d want me to be the daughter he raised, not the girl I turned into.

I hope.

Because I know how to stop Landon Winchester.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Charlie

Tim, my bodyguard and driver of several years, taps his ear.

“He’s here, boss.”

“Send him in.”

We’re standing in the kitchen area of Thorne Enterprises’ HQ. Tim emptied out every last chef, leaving it strangely quiet – except for the bubbling over the sound of a forgotten saucepan of pasta.

It’s a strange place to meet – but it works perfectly.

This is the kind of meeting I don’t want on the record. I don’t want my guest caught on any CCTV cameras on the way in. I don’t want him signing for an entrance badge, nor do I want the prospect of a receptionist remembering him later on.

No, this way is better.

I hear footsteps from the corner, then watch as two burly men in ill-fitting suits – weapons strapped to their hips – lead a third man. He’s short, perhaps five foot seven, with scruffy black hair, tanned skin, and a salt-and-pepper beard.

“I’ll take it from here, boys,” Tim mutters. He holds his palm up, indicating for my guest to stop. The man does as he’s told, grimacing and holding his arms out, ready to be searched. Tim does the honors.

“He’s clean, boss,” Tim says as he finishes patting the scruffy-haired man down. “Want me to stay and –”

I shake my head. “Leave us, Tim. My guest and I will be fine, won’t we?”

Tim bites his lip before he says something he shouldn’t. I watch as his muscles twitch – his body fighting with the natural urge to disagree – before he acquiesces. He nods and departs.

“So,” I say. My voice sounds strangely quiet in the empty industrial kitchen.

My guest says nothing.

“You have a name?”

The mysterious guest holds his tongue long enough for me to wonder whether there was any point bringing him here at all. Finally, he breaks his silence.

“Jason.”

“Is that your real name?”

No answer.

I don’t suppose I’ll get a surname, and I don’t particularly care to ask. One of the more disagreeable aspects, of running a multibillion dollar corporation, are moments like this.

“You know why you’re here, Jason?”

No movement.

“I’ll do the talking, then,” I smile. “I understand Harper hired you to follow a young lady.”

“Your wife,” Jason finally grunts. He says the words without judgment – with almost complete disinterest. I guess if you’re a PI, or a corporate spy; meetings like this quickly become old news.

I incline my head in agreement: “My wife.”

Jason shrugs.

The cloth of his nondescript navy blue canvas jacket tugs against his body as he does so – revealing that despite his slight height, he has a more than muscular frame. The man radiates danger. I’m not surprised Tim didn’t want to leave me alone with him.

“Tell me what you found,” I say.

Jason doesn’t hesitate this time. “She’s got a father, late fifties, in the hospital. She was homeless for a bit. I spoke to a few people who knew her on the street –”

I feel like I might stumble at any moment. I pinch the bridge of my nose, and my forehead knits together. The idea that Penny – my Penny – could once have lived on the streets is shocking.

“Wait,” I say. “Her father: what’s wrong with him?”

Jason’s eyes flicker, almost as though he’s reading from an imaginary notebook. They go glassy for a second, and then he returns to life. I idly wonder whether he has a photographic memory.

“Brain tumor: operable, but not on his insurance.”

“She never mentioned,” I whisper.

Hell, I guess there was a lot Penny never told me about. Still, it hurts that a woman I allowed to get so close to me could hide something so terrible from me.

“That’s because you were her mark,” Jason says.

I’ve suspected this for a while, but to hear it directly from Jason’s lips, cold and impassionate, still hurts.

“Walk me through it. Don’t sugarcoat it.”

“We found the evidence on the housemate’s phone. They searched through a dozen different targets before settling on you. I guess she did it to pay for her dad’s treatment. Who knows? I can’t figure out why she married you, though. That bit doesn’t make sense.”

“It was never part of the plan,” I mutter.

The floor feels unsteady beneath me.

“Should I go?” Jason asks. He doesn’t try and comfort me – and to be honest – I appreciate it.

“Yes.” I mutter. I don’t much feel like talking.

“Jason, wait.”

I catch the private spy just before he turns the corner and leaves the kitchen for good. I have a sense that I might never see him again. I don’t know why I stop him – just a vague feeling that there must be something more. That Penny couldn’t have tricked me so easily.

“Was there anything else?”

Jason cocks his head, and his eyelids narrow – just a touch. From the look in his eyes, I wonder if he’s planning on holding something back from me.

He chews his lip; then seems to decide that whatever happens, it doesn’t matter a whole lot to him. “She was being followed.”

My head snaps in Jason’s direction. Any sense that my world’s falling apart flares, then dies away. Suddenly I feel like the old me – a predator on the hunt. This is the jigsaw piece that doesn’t fit. There’s no reason for Penny to have been followed, not unless something bigger lurks underneath the surface…

“Did she know?”

The spy shakes his head. “The guy was good; very good. He thought I didn’t spot him, but I don’t make mistakes.”

He pauses. “Will that be all?”

My mind whirls.

Suddenly the different parts of the puzzle start to fall into place. I haven’t got the whole picture – it’s like looking at abstract art through fog – but I’ve got enough. I’ve got enough to know that I want answers – and I want them from Penny herself.

“No,” I growl. “I’ll double your fee. Go find my wife.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Penny

I pull the sales tags off some hastily-purchased clothing, strip last night’s makeup completely off, and start again. For a second, I’m gripped by my reflection in the diner’s restroom mirror.

I look like crap.

I look nothing like Penny Thorne; the effortlessly stylish billionaire’s wife. I’m not sure if that description was ever true. If it was, it certainly isn’t now.

I look like exactly what I am: tired, scared, and ready to pass out.

“Pull it all together already,” I grunt.

Between the new clothes and the thick coat of makeup, I look more like a stripper than the naïve virgin I was just a couple of weeks ago. Okay, maybe not a stripper… but Robbie’s been urging me to take more pride in my appearance for months, years even.

Hell of a time to start.

I glance down at the cheap makeup kit that ate up the last of the credit on my card. Whatever happens now, I’ll be eating ramen for weeks.

I take a second to compose myself, closing my eyes and picturing Tilly’s cute, pig-tailed face. It hurts: reminding me of everything I’ve lost. That’s why I’m doing this – so that my mistakes don’t cost Tilly and Charlie their shot at life – their shot at being a family.

Then it’s time to go.

I slip my cell phone into the back pocket of my slightly-too-tight jeans, sweep the sales tags into an overflowing trashcan, and stride out of the diner.

It’s Saturday morning – early – and the city has barely begun to stir. I like New York when it’s like this. It feels warmer and less impersonal when it’s quiet. More like a little town out East, when it’s anything but.

I cross the road at the lights.

When I’m half way across the street, the imposing building, on the other side, blocks out the sun. I take a second to study it: my target.

“Hey, lady!” A yellow cab driver hoots. “Get out of the freaking road. You want to get yourself killed?”

The sound of the cab’s horn definitely breaks that particular ‘quiet’ fantasy. I wave my hand in apology, and hurry across the last few yards of asphalt.

Get it together, girl, I think.

This is about where my plan ends, and cold hard reality takes over. What’s that phrase? “No plan survives contact with the enemy?” Well – that presumes you actually have a plan.

All I have is an airy-fairy collection of hopes and aspirations… and I’m quickly beginning to think that won’t be enough.

A security guard dressed in a dark blue woolen jumper sits at the top of the steps. There’s no sign of the press conference that was held right here less than twenty-four hours ago. The Museum of Natural History isn’t even open yet.

I climb the steps regardless.

“You lost?” The guard grunts, barely looking up from the sugared doughnut occupying the majority of his attention, “– because, this ain’t a tourist office.”

I giggle. I hate the sound it makes: so fake. It’s not me, but right now, it’s ‘the me’ I have to be. “I was hoping you could help me…?”

The guard looks up: already grumbling; then stops dead. “Didn’t you hear me –?”

I bite my lip. Not in a nervous, inexperienced way – but an intentional, coy, sexy way. I remember the look in Charlie’s eyes when I did this, and even though I hate using my body like this, it seems to have the same effect on this security guard.

“Oh,” the man says, cutting himself off sharply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand…”

Understand what, you creep? That I was pretty?

Of course, I don't say that. “Oh no,” I giggle again. “That’s all right.”

“You needed help?”

I can’t help staring at the doughnut crumbs littering the man’s portly belly, nor the sugary smudges on his face. Still, I don’t think my obvious fascination with the man’s hygiene habits hurts my cause. The guard mistakes it for a sign of interest; fine by me.

I turn to leave, toying with a long strand of red hair. “I mean, if you’re busy…”

The security guard stands up so quickly I’m forced to hide a smile. “No! I mean… Is there anything I can do to help?”

I fake a sniffle. The man’s face wrinkles with concern. “Are you okay?”

I nod, allowing a tear – mostly fake – to crystallize at the corner of my eye. “To tell you the truth,” I say. “I’m not. I’m in a hole, and –”

My voice cracks; for real, this time.

“Hey,” the guard says, brushing my arm. “You need to sit or something? You look upset.”

No shit. My dad’s in the hospital, and I might have caused the man I love to lose his daughter. Other than that, my day’s going great. How about yours?

The fact that the guard has now graduated to stroking my arm doesn’t escape me. I don’t stop him. This is going exactly as I had hoped. Besides his beer belly, the man’s face is nothing to write home about. He’s only in his early 30s, but he looks a different species to Charlie Thorne.

“I’m okay, I’m okay,” I say. I fake a trip, and end up in the man’s arms.

“There, there,” he says, patting my back. His hug lingers long seconds – and my skin starts to crawl before he releases me. “Come on, girl –”

“Penny,” I say. “I’m Penny.”

“So what’s the deal, Penny?” He says. “Why’s a pretty girl like you got tears in her eyes on a fine morning like this?”

I stop myself from recoiling. The interest this man is showing in me is distasteful. It’s more than just gentlemanly; way past that, in fact. If anything, it’s predatory. He sees a crying woman, and his first thought is of conquest, not to help.

“You want the truth?” I say, making eye contact and holding it. “My husband –”

I see the light in the guard’s eyes die the second he finds out I’m “taken.” Then it roars back.

“– He’s trying to take my child in the divorce. I’ll do anything to stop it.” My teeth graze my lower lip again. “– Anything.”

The subtext is clear. So clear, in fact, it takes the security guard in front of me a couple of seconds to respond. He almost double takes before clearing his throat.

“What do you mean, ‘take your kid’?” He growls, suddenly flexing his chest. “That can’t be legal, can it?”

I shrug, playing the part of the naïve young girl to a tee. “I don’t know, he’s a powerful man, and –”

“Well, I won’t let him,” the security guard says. “I’m Kevin, by the way.”

I expect a handshake, and get a hug: of course; Kevin’s too hands-y for something as common-place as a handshake.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I whisper. “What could you do to help?”

“Anything,” Kevin declares as though it’s a declaration of love, “whatever it takes.”

I blink. “You mean it?” I ask, toying with my hair.

Kevin nods. “How could I say no to a pretty young thing like you?” He winks.

I conceal a shiver. I can think of a lot of ways… I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about Kevin that’s just a little bit off. Still, as long as I can work it to my advantage, I will.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I mean it – anything.”

“Do the security cameras in the museum have audio?”

Kevin’s forehead knits together. “The cameras –?” He grunts. I get the sense the question he was expecting was a little more personal. “I guess so. Why?”

I’m suddenly tongue-tied. In truth, I never expected to get this far. My plan was far-fetched at the start, and it’s only got more tangled the further I’ve gone down the rabbit hole.

Kevin reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, mistaking my uncertainty for hesitation. Yuck.

“Don’t worry. You can trust me,” he says.

“Okay,” I lie. “I believe you. I’ll tell you everything.”

“Good.”

“My husband brought me here yesterday. We haven’t –.” I break off, closing my eyes for show.

“I won’t judge you, Penny,” Kevin says, with his hand still on my shoulder.

“We haven’t had sex for months,” I say. Even though I’m lying through my teeth, I’m still awkward enough about sex that my cheeks bloom red with embarrassment.

The sound of the sudden gruffness in Kevin’s voice, the idea has a completely different effect on him…

“And how,” he says, as though he’s a cut-rate therapist, “does that make you feel?”

“Unwanted,” I whisper, barely holding in a burst of laughter. “And ugly…”

I can almost hear the gears whirring in Kevin’s mind. “But what do the cameras have to do with anything?” He says. Then, a thunk, as he has a thought.

“He didn’t force himself on you, did he?” The guard says, with almost lurid excitement. “Assault you?”

Why the hell would you want to see something like that?

“No. Worse,” I say.

I lean on the truth, this time: most of it. Of course, it wasn’t my husband who did all this, it was Landon Winchester.

“He threatened to take my daughter from me. Even brought a woman from CPS here, and bribed her to go along with it.”

The understanding dawns in Kevin’s mind. “And if you get the tapes…”

I open my eyes and flutter my eyelashes at Kevin. “I’m free…”

I have exactly the effect that I was hoping for. It’s crazy. I don’t understand when I suddenly became so attractive to men! Still, I’m glad of this unexpected development. For once my looks seem to be playing into my favor…

Kevin looks right and left, as if searching for his supervisor. “Come with me,” he says, a prison of nervous excitement on his face: and the bulge of something else at his crotch…

“Where are we going?”

“The control room,” he says. “If anyone asks, say you lost your –,” his brow furrows.

“– My purse,” I say, hurrying things along.

“Perfect.”

* * *

“That’s it!” I squeal.

Kevin manipulates the controls of the CCTV system until I see myself, Ms. Winters and Landon Winchester all on a cramped LCD screen.

“Who is that guy?” Kevin says. “He looks familiar.”

“Just some businessman,” I say with true disdain. “He’s a real ass.”

Underneath the video, dancing lines indicate the audio feed. Luckily, the video’s muted. If Kevin listens to it, of course, the ruse is up…

He reaches for the volume knob. I panic. I need to stop him. I move my hand forward, covering his. He flinches, and his head snaps back to look at me.

“Can I –,” Kevin says, his voice trailing off with nervousness.

Kiss me? Hell no. A girl’s gotta have standards!

“I’m –I’m just not ready. Yet,” I lie.

I’m ready, all right. Just not for Kevin.

“Can we go out sometime?” He asks, licking his lips.

Hell no.

I counter Kevin’s question with one of my own.

“Can you copy it for me, Kevin,” I say, stroking his upper arm. “And delete the footage as well. I’ll need it in court to be free of my husband. But then things will be different…”

I’ve never seen a man move so quickly. In seconds, the footage is in a flash drive in my hands, and the original is gone.

“Listen Kevin,” I say. I’ve got to go…”

His face falls. I search for a way to keep my lie going long enough that he doesn’t second guess himself.

“… to … court.”

Crap. I’ve got to throw this guy some kind of bone. I don’t feel right just using him like this, no matter how creepy he is.

“Give me your number, all right?” I say.

He scribbles it on a piece of paper. As he does, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. The jeans are so tight it’s hard to pull out. I checked the screen.

It’s Robbie.

Finally.

“I’ve got to take this,” I say. “But thank you, Kevin. I mean it.”

I step out of the cramped security booth. While Kevin I were busy inside, the museum opened. The first members of the public have begun streaming through the doors. I see a short, scruffily-dressed man with a beard staring at me – or the booth I’ve just exited. Just as I think he’s been staring for a second too long, he turns away.

Still, he unsettles me.

I answer the phone.

“Robbie,” I growl. “Where have you been?”

“Penny! Where are you?”

The panic in my best friend’s usually cocky, laid-back voice is evident, and worrying. “I’m at the hospital.” she continues.

Say whatever you like about Robbie, she’s always been there for me – and my dad.

“How’s dad?” I ask; my heart suddenly in my mouth. “I had to leave …I’m doing …”

Suddenly, my excuses seem like dust in the wind. My elation at getting the tape that proves Charlie’s innocence – and Landon’s guilt – seems so meaningless in the context of my dad in the hospital.

“That’s the thing, Penny,” Robbie yells down the phone. “He’s not here!”

An icy chill runs through me. “What do you mean, he’s not there?” I ask. “Is he in surgery?”

“He’s gone. That’s all they’ll tell me,” Robbie says. “He’s not in this hospital anymore. You’ve got to get down here, Penny. You’re family. They’ll talk to you.”

I don’t even answer before I start running. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the scruffy, bearded man following me. If it wasn’t for the emptiness of the museum’s lobby this early in the morning, there’s no way I would have spotted him.

Another emotion fills me. Fear, this time. The jigsaw pieces start to fall into place. The man following me, my father’s disappearance – it’s all got to be Landon’s doing. He’s coming after me.

I sprint.

The bearded man swears, and then breaks into a run. I ignore him. My arms pump at my side. I don’t care about my own personal safety – just about dad. I swear, if they’ve done anything to him…

I fly out of the museum’s entrance doors into the bright morning sunshine. And, a second later –I slam into a man’s chest.

The impact knocks me to the stone steps. I look up, but the person in front of me is drowned out by the brightness of the sun.

“Penny –?”

His voice is familiar. Still, in the depths of my panic, I don’t recognize it.

Then there’s another commotion behind us. I twist, stomach gnawing with worry. Two more men arrive, flying out of the museum: the bearded man, and…

Kevin.

“Who the fuck is that?” Charlie growls. Charlie!

I don’t know where to look. I don’t know what to say. How can Charlie be here, of all places?

“We’ve got to go, Charlie,” I say, panicked. “Now!”

He picks me up off the stone steps, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as Kevin rugby-tackles my bearded stalker to the ground.

“Shit,” Charlie growls.

My cheeks drain of blood. Everything’s just moving so damn fast. I can’t make head or tails of what’s going on.

“Wait,” I say as Charlie’s face finally comes into focus. “You know that guy?”

“Jason,” Charlie says, his jaw muscles tensing. “His name is Jason.”

My shoulders hunch over. “I thought –I thought he was following me.”

“He was,” Charlie says, “because I asked him to.”

Kevin and Jason tussle on the steps. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds before Charlie’s man gains the upper hand. He puts Kevin into a headlock.

“Run, Penny,” Kevin shouts in a gurgled yell. “Get out of here!”

An expression of incomprehension appears on Charlie’s face. “Seriously – who the hell is that guy?”

“It’s a long story,” I mutter.

Then, as the adrenaline begins to fade, the real reason I was running out of the museum hits me once more. I grip Charlie’s arm, terrified.

“Charlie – I don’t know what you must think of me, but I need your help. My dad – Landon Winchester’s got my dad!”

Charlie’s forehead wrinkles, and an awkward expression appears on his face.

“Actually, Penny,” he says, chewing his lip. “I do.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Charlie

I can’t help but cast an appreciative glance at Penny’s ass as she steps into my limousine. Even after everything that’s happened, the one thing that hasn’t changed is my wife’s stunning beauty.

“What are you looking at?” Penny mutters, casting an anxious glance back.

I make no bones about my interest.

“You,” I growl.

You know how they say you don’t know what something’s worth until it’s gone? That’s the way it is with Penny. I knew how much I liked her from the moment I made contact with her sizzling blue eyes.

But I didn’t realize how hard I’d fallen for her until she left.

Penny makes a strangled sound. “Oh.”

I climb in after her, and slam the passenger door closed. Suddenly the hustle and bustle of an awakening New York fades away. The privacy screen is up, and it’s just Penny and me – sitting across from one another. I have a burning desire to take her hand and kiss her, but I fight it off.

I can’t. Not yet.

“You need to tell me everything, Charlie,” Penny says. She’s calmed down since she ran straight into my chest, but it’s obvious that she’s still on edge.

“Why are you here? Why was that guy following me?”

I scratch the tip of my nose.

“I could say the same thing to you…” I grin. “Well, maybe without the following bit…”

Except that’s not true, is it, I think. This whole thing started with you picking me as a target.

Penny flushes. It’s obvious she can hear exactly what I’m thinking.

“I was going to steal from you,” she blurts out, “ten million dollars; that was the plan.”

The revelation rocks me back against the leather seat. It’s not exactly a shock – I knew all this logically – but there’s nothing logical in my mind when it comes to Penny Thorne.

“Okay,” I say, kinking my eyebrow, “nice to see you too.”

My lame attempt at humor ricochets right off Penny’s anxious face. If I was hoping to make her smile, I realize I’m going to have to try a damn sight harder.

“What are you doing with my dad?” Penny demands to know. “Where have you taken him? Charlie, I swear –”

I hold my hands up to cut her off. “Penny, wait.”

She gives me a hunted look.

“Your dad’s safe. The second I found out about him, I knew that he had to move. No one gets better in Brookdale. He’s being looked at by the best doctors in the city now. My guess is that they’ll have him in surgery inside a week. I’m covering everything.”

Penny stares at me, her eyes popping out, her jaw literally dropping open. “What –?”

I bite my lip; then decide to throw caution to the wind. As far as grand gestures go, paying for your woman’s dad’s healthcare has got to buy you a few brownie points.

I reach forward, and take Penny’s hand. I press it between both my palms.

“You mean everything to me, Penny. Whatever your name is, whoever you are – I don’t care.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Penny mutters. She squeezes her eyes shut, as though hiding from me, and a tear trickles out of the corner of her right eye.

I laugh. “Not a lot of people tell me that,” I say.

“Maybe they should,” Penny says in a strangled voice.

I can tell she’s beating herself up. Hell, she has every right to. The thing is this; I don’t hold a grudge against her. I really don’t. Penny might have intended to steal from me – but when push came to shove, she didn’t.

– Except my heart.

Only, there’s one last thing I can’t figure out.

“Penny,” I say.

Something in my voice causes her to open her eyes and look at me. Maybe it’s the raw honesty I feel pouring out of me.

“I’m falling –, no. I’ve fallen for you: hard. I’ve never felt like this about a woman before. Not Tilly’s mom, not anyone. Beat yourself up about what you did, fine. But don’t fight this. Don’t fight us. Don’t fight me.”

“How can you say that?” Penny groans. “After everything I’ve done. Everyone will know what I did. I can’t let you do it. I’ll ruin your reputation.”

“The hell they will,” I growl. “Besides – who cares? The dinner party circuit in this town is hella boring. You’ll be the most interesting girl in the room. Think about the kudos I’ll get – the billionaire who married the girl trying to rob him!”

I act on impulse, stand up, hunched over, and switch seats, so I’m sitting next to Penny. I’m still clutching her arm. I placed two fingers underneath her chin and lift it up, just a couple of inches. I stare directly into her eyes.

“And besides, Penny Thorne. You don’t tell me what I can’t do, you get that? Especially when that happens to be loving you.”

As the words leap from my mouth, my heart skips a beat. The clear, ringing truth in them startles even me.

Penny’s lips act out her killer goldfish impression. “You –”

I don’t give her a chance to finish whatever she was about to say. Still on my impulsive tilt, I lean forward and press my lips against hers. I loop my arm around Penny’s back and kiss her like she’s never been kissed before.

I bite her bottom lip, grazing it with my teeth. I don’t stop, don’t let up, don’t give Penny a moment’s respite.

I don’t want her to think this through. I want her to give in to what she already knows – that we are meant to be together. That it doesn’t matter how we met, or what.

“You used me, Penny,” I growl hoarsely as I pull back from the kiss.

Penny’s eyes flicker with shocked surprise. I don’t blame her. Her emotions must be on a bungee cord right now – or else in a washing machine, on spin.

“But I used you as well,” I say. “When you told that woman from CPS that we were married, my mind slowed down. It does that, sometimes – when I’m under pressure. I thought things through. I could have laughed what you said off as a joke, but I didn’t. I saw the opportunity to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, and I took it. You played me, but I played you right back.”

And then I’m out of words. It seems kind of anticlimactic to stop there, but that’s it. I’m done. I haven’t got anything else to say.

So I wait.

“Oh,” Is all I get in return.

“Girl,” I grin. “We gotta work on your vocabulary…”

Penny licks her lips.

“Charlie,” she whispers. “You said you loved me? You’re not… You’re not –?”

“Playing you right now?” I laugh, shaking my head; “Hell no. I meant what I said, Penny Thorne. Or Penny Walters, or whatever you want me to call you. I love you. I’ll shout it off the roof tops, if I need to.”

Penny’s lips form an ‘O’. I feel my eyebrows rising, and she must notice, because she jams them shut.

“You’re not going to leave me hanging, are you?”

Penny shakes her head, and then tears are glistening in her eyes. She sniffles and hugs me – as though a thousand emotions are surging through her all at once, and she doesn’t know where to look, or where to turn.

“No,” she sniffs. “No. Charlie, I don’t want to change a thing. I love you too: you, and Tilly, and everything. I know I shouldn’t, we shouldn’t. I’m so young, and –”

“Are you calling me old?” I grin, kissing Penny again just to stop the freak out that’s raging through her mind.

Penny’s eyes flare with apology. As she’s ramping up to say she’s sorry, I cut her off again. “Well, if I am, then I’m old enough to make my own damn mistakes. You’re a lot of things, Penny, but I know one thing for damn sure. You’re not a mistake.”

This time it’s Penny who kisses me.

Her kiss is different than mine. It’s soft, and tender. Her tongue probes my lips, gently forcing a way through. Her fingers stroke my cheeks; the lightness of her breath kisses me gently.

“You don’t know that,” she whispers. Just as I’m readying myself to assure her that I do, she cuts me off.

“But I’m glad you’re willing to find out.”

Because that’s the truth: I don’t know how this is going to go, or what’s going to happen between Tilly and Penny and I.

No one does. No one can. Life’s just a series of mistakes, and humans trying to muddle through as best they can.

“I want to muddle through with you,” I whisper.

Penny’s forehead kinks with confusion. “What?”

“Nothing,” I smile. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”

Penny looks at me with a hint of concern – as though she’s worried I’m about to pull the rug out from beneath her feet. She’s got nothing to worry about. I feel content right now: happy in a way I haven’t felt for years, not even with Tilly by my side.

Life’s a journey you’re supposed to traverse with kids – sure – but also with a woman by your side. Penny’s my woman: nothing’s going to change that. Not now.

“What the hell were you doing at the Natural History Museum?” I frown. “I found the box, Pen: in your room. I know Landon tricked you there last night. The second I found it, it all made sense.”

“The box…” Penny whispers, squeezing her eyes shut. “I forgot.”

I don’t stop. “But why go back?”

Penny’s eyes spring open. A strange, fiery smile stretches across her face. Combined with her glowing red hair, and even the tired redness to her cheeks, she looks downright scary.

“Because,” she growls, hefting her ass up in an awkward dance to get at whatever’s in the back pocket of her denim jeans, “of this.”

Whatever it is, she grabs it from the skin-type material and presents it to me triumphantly. She turns her fists over, and opens her fingers, revealing – something – on her flat palm.

“What is it?”

“A flash drive,” Penny grins.

“I get that,” I say. “What’s on it?”

“Watch it and find out,” Penny says, the satisfied smile lingering on her face.

I pluck the drive from her fingertips, withdraw my laptop from my briefcase, and plug it in. Penny leans over, fast forwarding a fairly dull clip of the museum closing up, then some workers sitting out what appears to be a drinks party, and then –.

And then my mouth falls open.

That bitch from CPS comes on screen. I knew she didn’t give a rat’s ass about children’s welfare the moment I met her.

“Take Landon’s money, Penny,” she says, with Landon fucking Winchester right there by her side. “Take the money, and the cash for your dad’s treatment, and run. Get the hell out of this city.”

“Or what,” Penny says.

“Or I’ll take Charlie’s damn kid from him, and there’s not a thing he’ll be able to do about it.”

My jaw drops open at that point. I can’t tear my eyes away from the screen. It is must-watch TV – and I watch the whole damn thing right through: twice.

“You’re incredible, Penny,” I moan. “This is it: proof.”

“Is it enough?” She asks with anxiety on her face.

I keep quiet for a second. “Do you know how they got Al Capone?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Tax evasion,” I crow. “The most psychopathic gangster in US history, and they took him down for not paying his taxes. That’s how we’ll get him, Penny. Not for the illegal shit he does in the markets. The SEC doesn’t come after rich guys like him –”

“And you…” Penny grins, rolling her eyes.

“And me,” I add.

“But the State takes a very dim view of people bribing public servants. A couple of easy leaks to the media, and they’ll bring him down. And it’s all because of you, Penny. You saved my family, and you saved my company.”

I lean forward, and I kiss her again. “You’re a goddamn hero, Penny Thorne.”

Penny smiles an exhausted smile. “I’m not sure I feel like one… yet.”

“What’s it going to take?” I grin.

“Landon Winchester behind bars,” she says.

It’s music to my ears. God, I can’t remember the last time I heard something that sexy.

“Then let’s take the motherfucker down!”

Epilogue - Penny

Two weeks later

“Come back to bed,” Charlie growls.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the plate glass window on Charlie’s bedroom wall. Our bedroom wall, now, I guess. It’s inky black outside, and New York twinkles beneath us.

I’m wearing one of Charlie’s white shirts. It drapes down past my thighs. I grab a black bowtie from the inside of a closet door that’s standing open, and loop it around my neck. I give it a twirl.

“What do you think?”

“I think,” Charlie’s throat thrums. “You look good. Damn good. But you know what?”

I bite my lip, and smile coyly at my lover. “What?”

“You look better in bed. Naked,” Charlie grins. “So get your sexy li’l ass over here: now.”

My phone buzzes on Charlie’s dressing table. I frown, and glance down. It’s blowing up. There must be at least half a dozen text messages and notifications, and more appearing every second.

“Penny…” Charlie groans. “Don’t leave me like this.”

“Just a second…” I mutter.

I pick up the phone, swipe it open, and my mouth drops – all in one. “Charlie,” I stammer. “Turn on the TV.” Excitement burns through me like wildfire.

“Are we making a sex tape?”

“I’m not kidding, Charlie,” I say, turning back to face him with fire in my eyes. “besides – that’s not how cameras work…”

Charlie winks at me, “You’re the expert…”

I grind my jaw together, but in truth, Charlie just makes me laugh. And if he asks, I probably would make a sex tape with him…

“Fine,” Charlie groans, reaching for the remote. “But –”

“Trust me,” I grin, walking back toward the bed. “You’re going to like what you see.”

Charlie punches a button on the wall, and the TV appears as if by magic from the foot of the bed. “Which channel?”

“News: it doesn’t matter which. It’ll be on all of them.” I say.

I jump into bed, and Charlie breaks his attention from what he’s doing for a second – just a second – to plant a kiss full on my lips. “I love you, you know that?” He mutters.

“Hurry up,” I say, winking at him, “because you’ll love me more in a second.”

“Not possible.”

A news jingle plays in the background as Charlie finally gets his act together, and he slumps back against the mattress.

“– Nightly news: bringing you stories from around the nation. Tonight’s breaking news –”

“No shit,” Charlie says. “It’s really happening.”

He sounds breathless with excitement.

I crawl up the bed and curl up next to my husband and lover. He’s entranced by the pictures flickering on the TV screen, but even so, he spares me a hungry look.

“We bring you this footage, live from Wincorp’s headquarters right here in New York City, where just minutes ago, CEO Landon Winchester was led off in handcuffs by the FBI. As you know, Katy, after the news broke last week of Mr. Winchester’s involvement in corruption at the highest levels of both state and city government, a veritable tidal wave of allegations against both Mr. Winchester and his company have come to light.”

“Thanks, Mike. Is there any news on possible charges?”

“That’s a great question, Katy. Nothing from the prosecutor’s office yet, but we’re expecting announcement on charges regarding at least a dozen crimes, and a minimum of a decade jail time.”

Charlie kills the TV.

“Hey!” I yell, slapping his belly lightly with dismay. “I was about to get the popcorn.”

“I’ve seen enough,” he says, his voice burbling with gruff delight.

It’s a sound that always brings joy to my heart, and a whole different feeling between my legs… I swear, it’s a miracle this man hasn’t left a trail of babies around New York City. He’s got a voice that could charm the pants off a pack of nuns.

Hell, maybe he has.

I really, really don’t want to know.

“So,” Charlie says. He rolls over, and rests his head on his elbow. “What now?”

“What about Thorne Enterprises?” I ask, still slightly anxious. “Are you in the clear?”

Charlie doesn’t answer at first. He leans over and grabs his phone. I hear a couple of clicks, and then he sets it down. “Pick a number between one and a hundred.”

“Mmmm – thirty.” I say, my forehead furrowed with confusion.

“Higher.”

“Fifty.”

“Higher.”

“Seventy.”

“Close enough,” Charlie grins. He leans over and grazes my lips with a kiss; “Seventy-two. Wincorp’s stock is down 72% since last week. It is down 30% today alone. Trust me; his merger attempt is dead and buried. Plus, you know what?”

“What?” I smile, feeling a huge sense of relief wash over me.

I hadn’t realized exactly how nervous I still was about what might happen with Landon Winchester. Knowing he’s going to jail smashes down the last brick in my prison of nerves. Charlie, Tilly and I are all safe.

“I’ll instruct Harper to file the papers tomorrow morning. Thorne Enterprises is going in for the kill. You know what reverse takeover rhymes with?”

I reach up and catch Charlie’s bottom lip between my teeth, dragging him down. “I don’t care,” I growl.

“That works too, I guess,” he moans.

Charlie’s lips meet mine with gentle, tender, yet loving intensity. The kiss might last seconds, or else it might last hours. I have no way of knowing. I close my eyes and give into the pleasure of Charlie’s lips nibbling mine –

– Of his fingernails raking up my naked thighs.

Of my neck tipping back as Charlie lays a trail of kisses down my burning skin.

Of his fingers unbuttoning my – his – white shirt.

Of goose bumps breaking out on my skin.

I cry out with pleasure as Charlie rakes his 5 o’clock shadow down my chest, between my breasts, gently teasing my stomach. It’s a slow, delicious, glorious sensation that’s somewhere between pain and pleasure.

But I can’t take it. Not this time.

“Take me, Charlie,” I moan. “I need you inside me; now.”

Charlie’s throat growls with approval. I close my eyes and let the sound wash over my body. I don’t know how to describe it – it’s the sound of being completely, utterly desired. Right now there’s no one, and nothing else on Charlie’s mind than me.

And that’s just the way I like it.

The way I like him –

– Mine.

Forever.

And then I hear a series of fast pops as Charlie rips the last few buttons on his three hundred dollar shirt open. The pearl buttons rain down on the bed around me: on my stomach, everywhere.

I’m not wearing underwear. I’m wet and ready, so ready for him that I feel a spark burning between my legs. Charlie pushes them aside roughly.

“Open your eyes,” he says.

I do exactly as my husband orders. There’s something indescribably exciting about being told what to do in bed. I never thought I was that kind of girl, but the truth is; I am. I dream of Charlie spanking my panties, of him –

“Look at me,” he says, his voice soft, yet with a hint of menace.

I do.

I watch as Charlie tugs off his T-shirt, as he throws it on to the floor and reveals his perfect muscular chest, and his ridged, washboard abs. I drink his body in, marveling that I’ve managed to fall in love with a man like this – and in turn he couldn’t help but fall in love with me, or so he says.

I watch as the fire burn in Charlie’s icy gray eyes. They warm up – but only for me. That’s a power in itself.

I watch as he knocks my knees inside.

I watch as he enters me.

And then I’m not watching anymore. The pleasure builds, it’s too much, and I tip my head back, biting my lip so I don’t come right here and now.

“I fucking love you, Penny,” Charlie growls as he pushes himself to the hilt.

I whimper with pleasure; “Me too.”

For the extended WEDDING VOW epilogue, and a kinky DELETED scene go to the Table of Contents!

Part One

Faking It Extra Content!

Chapter One

Extended Epilogue

Four Years Later

Charlie

“You look beautiful,” I whisper.

It’s true, she does. Fifteen years on, I still can’t believe that I played a part in making something as amazing as my teenage daughter.

Fifteen years! In my head, it was only yesterday that I cradled her tiny body in my hands for the first time. It was only yesterday I heard her burble her first word, and only yesterday that I watched her take her first tottering steps.

Tilly looks up at me anxiously.

She’s wearing a gorgeous, pastel-blue dress, and she wipes her palms on it nervously, smoothing creases that simply don’t exist.

“You think so, dad?” She asks, wringing her hands.

“Dad!” I groan. “Since when do you call me that?”

“I’m sorry,” Tilly grins – a flash of her usual, upbeat, tenacious self shining through. “Daddy.”

But just as before, my gorgeous daughter retreats into her shell. I take a couple of steps forward, my leather-soled shoes clicking against the flagstones. I kneel down in front of her, careful not to get my suit trousers too dusty.

Not today, of all days. Penny would forgive me – of course she would – but there’s no need for that.

“You aren’t growing up on me, are you kiddo?” I whisper. “I thought I told you to check with me before you did anything stupid like that…”

I have to.

Whisper, that is. My throat is closing up.

I feel like I only just closed my eyes yesterday, and yet four years has flown by. It was only yesterday, I’m sure of it! Except the proof is right in front of me. My gorgeous daughter, fifteen years old, and bearing the ring that Penny has been wearing for four years.

“You don’t understand,” Tilly groans.

She’s got that – now familiar – teenage girl moodiness on her face. Tilly never complains. She’s not one of those hell-raising teenage kids, in fact she’s a delight to live with. But I raised my daughter alone for eleven years. I know when there’s something up with her.

“Seriously – what’s wrong?” I ask, kinking an eyebrow. “You’re all mopey!”

“Dad –!” Tilly pauses, composing herself. “I mean, daddy. Have you seen that crowd?”

I stand up, open a well-oiled wooden door and peek my head into the church. It’s almost full, packed to the rafters with friends and family – and guests that I’ve known for years. Tilly’s right. I guess it is kind of an intimidating sight.

After all, I’ve never done this before. Tilly’s mother and I – we never officially married. And the first time Penny and I traveled down this rabbit hole, we did so in my office!

My lawyer and friend Harper Cole is as eagle-eyed as ever. She spots me from the crowd and throws me a happy wave. I return it. She’s got a gorgeous man on her arm. He’s got to be close to six and a half feet tall, giving even Harper a run for her money.

“So what’s the big deal, kiddo?” I ask, turning and looking quizzically at my daughter. “What’s on your mind?”

With a shock, I realize that Tilly is beginning to show the first signs of womanhood. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Maybe I’ve been putting it out of my mind. I should talk to Penny about it.

Maybe she’ll know what to do.

“Can I be honest with you?” Tilly asks, almost wincing at the prospect.

“Always!”

“I’m freaking out, daddy. How am I supposed to go out in front of all those people. You know how many supermodels are out there?”

I glance back out into the packed church. Now Tilly brings it up, I have to admit, there are a surprising number of stunning women in the crowd.

“So?”

“Daddy! I knew you wouldn’t get it.”

I close the church’s aged wooden door with a thunk, and hold up my hands. “I’m sorry, Tilly. I’ll listen. Try me.”

Tilly twists her hands anxiously. “Don’t laugh.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

“It’s just… Willow Winters is out there, daddy. She was on the front cover of Vogue last week! And there’s Alexis Abbott, she’s like the face of Gucci, or something, and KB Winters –”

I interrupt. “What kind of name is KB?”

If looks could kill, the look my daughter shoots me would turn sand into glass. “That’s not the point, daddy,” she groans. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

I walk over to my daughter. “No. I think I do, kiddo. You’re nervous, right?”

Tilly looks up at me with eyes that are prickling with tears. She nods. “Right.”

“You’ve got nothing to be worried about, kid. Trust me, every single eye in the place is going to be on you.”

Damn. Was that the right thing to say?

“All of those models, you know why they are here?”

“To see you get married?” Tilly asks.

I wink. “I’m already married, kiddo. Officially speaking, anyway… No. They are here to celebrate with us. With our family. They might be gorgeous, but you know what?”

“What?”

“None of them have got a patch on you. As far as I’m concerned you’ll be the most beautiful –.”

I catch myself just in time. If there’s one thing a man’s not supposed to say on his wedding day, it’s that there’s a girl out there who’s more beautiful than his soon-to-be wife. Or his already wife, in my case.

Even if that other woman is his own daughter!

“– Okay, maybe the second most beautiful girl in that room.” I grin. Finally I steal a smile from Tilly’s cheeks. “See – your daddy’s still got it!”

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” Tilly says, still downbeat. “I’ve got braces, and I know you can see the pimple that’s breaking out on my forehead, and –”

“And I don’t care about any of that,” I say seriously. “You’re a teenager – so what! Hell, you should have seen what I was like as a kid. Pimply faced, all gangly like you wouldn’t believe, and about as attractive as a wooden post –”

“No way!” Tilly interrupts, loyal as ever.

I chuckle. “Yes way, kiddo. And you better believe it. Trust me, you’ll grow out of it all.”

“You sure?” Tilly asks, glancing up at me anxiously. For the first time she sounds like the kid she still – mostly – is.

I shoot her a smile of reassurance. I know that my daughter isn’t really worried about her looks. She’s not that kind of girl. She’s worried about the crowd outside, and about messing up, and a host of other things. But I know she won’t. Because I know my daughter.

“Positive,” I say. As I do, the organ music starts playing.

Holy crap – this is it!

Ever since I first suggested renewing our wedding vows to Penny, part of me never really believed it would happen. I don’t know why. I can’t explain it. But now the moment is here, it’s me that’s nervous!

“You ready to do this?” I grin.

Tilly puts her game face on. She cradles the ring box in her palm, closes her eyes for a second to compose myself, then looks back up at me and smiles.

I hold up my fist, and she bumps it.

“I’m a cool daddy, right?” I grin.

Tilly rolls her eyes…

“Just don’t mess up,” she says.

* * *

Penny

“Robbie,” I murmur over the bouquet of flowers I’m holding at my breast. My best friend is fiddling with my hair.

The organ music is playing in the background. I know that in only a few seconds, I’m going to walk out of this little side door, and my dad’s going to walk me down the aisle. The doctors said he might not live five months, but it’s four years on, and there’s no sign of the cancer coming back.

Robbie’s tongue sticks out of her mouth as she concentrates on corraling a few rogue strands of my hair.

“Penny, I love you, but if this is about the boots –”

I hold back a laugh, glancing down at Robbie’s footwear. She’s actually wearing the pale blue bridesmaid’s dress I picked out for her. She didn’t even complain when I asked her to lay off the hair dye.

But I had to make one concession.

So Robbie’s wearing studded black leather ankle boots instead of heels. Maybe other brides would hate it, but I’m not them. I love it. Robbie’s bringing her own unique style to my wedding, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

“It’s not about the boots,” I laugh. “I swear.”

“Good,” Penny grunts. She pats at my hair. “There – Penny, you look beautiful.” She winks at me. “And I’m not just saying that because it’s your wedding day…”

I elbow her. “You better not be!”

Robbie glances through the side door. “Looks like we’re just about ready to rock ‘n roll. What’s on your mind?”

I consider holding onto the thought that’s on my mind, but then decide against it. Hell, if a bride can’t be a few minutes late to her own wedding, then what the hell’s the point in having it at all!

Besides: I’ve been waiting for this wedding for four years. Charlie can wait another few seconds.

“I just found out yesterday,” I say.

“Found out what?” Robbie says, dancing from one leather-studded boot to the other. She’s clearly uncomfortable with the delay.

“I’ve been feeling a bit queasy, you know. And I just sensed that something was – ”

Robbie’s mouth drops open, forming a perfect O. “No. Wait, are you serious?”

I nod, grinning from ear to ear. “Yeah, Robbie, I am. I’m pregnant!”

Robbie throws herself at me, stopping herself at the last moment. “Shit, you’re all made up. God, Pen, I want to hug you so bad. How? When? I thought you couldn’t have kids!”

“Just freaking hug me already,” I say. “I’m as surprised as you are. We’ve been trying for four years. On IVF the last two, like I told you. And nothing was happening. So, I don’t know.”

Robbie gives me the biggest bearhug anyone’s ever received. It’s times like this I’m glad I’ve got a tomboy for a best friend.

“You’re going to be an amazing mom,” she says. Incredibly, Robbie – the hardest girl I know – sounds like she’s on the verge of tears.

“I’ve got something to ask you,” I say, as the organ music reaches a crescendo. Robbie’s clearly forgotten her hurry from a few seconds ago.

“Anything!”

“Will you…” I whisper, my mouth suddenly dry. “Will you be my baby’s God mom?”

Robbie fall silent. Heck, I wish I could fall pregnant every week, if this is the reaction it has on her!

“You’re serious…” She stammers.

“Deadly,” I grin. “Sorry – bad joke. But seriously, if anything should ever happen to me and Charlie, Robbie – I can’t think of a better person – a better friend – to take care of my little baby.”

“I’m honored,” Robbie whispers, her hand pressed to her mouth. “Does Charlie know?”

I shake my head. “Nothing. Not even that I’m pregnant. I don’t know how the heck I’m going to get through the reception without so much as a drop of alcohol…”

“I’ve got your back,” Robbie says, stepping up immediately like I knew she would. “Knowing how expensive the hotel you picked is, I’m sure they can rustle up some non-alcoholic champagne.”

The organist is by now on his second rendition of the bridal march. I kink an eyebrow. “So – reckon we should get this show on the road?”

“I’ll go get Jack,” Robbie nods, hand still clapped over her mouth. “See you at the altar?”

I nod.

I love my best friend to the moon and back, but I can’t deny that she’s a gossip. I just hope I get a chance to tell Charlie my secret before she does!

Robbie does her job quickly. A few seconds later, dad opens the door to the church’s ante-room, and steps in.

“You look good, dad,” I smile. “Real good.”

Dad – Jack Walters to the rest of the world – does look good. He’s five years older than he was, and his hair never really recovered from the chemotherapy. It’s the same color as Charlie’s eyes. It makes me feel at home.

At least, he claims it was the chemotherapy’s fault. I’m not so sure…

“I’m an old man, Penny,” dad laughs. “You don’t need to lie to me. But you, you look wonderful, darling.”

I shoot him a knowing glance. “Been there, done that,” I whisper. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

Dad holds out his arm. “So – you ready?” He asks. “Because if not, I’ve got the car fueled. We could make a run for Mexico…”

I giggle. “I’m good, dad.”

We step out into the main section of the church. I lean into my dad’s arm. It’s hard for me to believe how much healthier he is these days, after I saw him withering away in his hospital bed.

He feels like a man again – all muscle and life.

The guests stand to the right and left of us as I walk down the aisle. There isn’t a dry eye in the house.

I look up, through my veil, and see my already husband is waiting for me, wearing an expression of joy on his face. Tilly’s just behind him, guarding the ring box like a guard at Fort Knox. People say that your wedding day is the happiest day of your life.

I never knew if I believed that.

But for Charlie Thorne, I know it’s true.

“I’m so proud of you, Penny,” dad whispers. “And I’m so happy how you turned out. Remember, I’m always here for you if you need me.”

He relinquishes me, and I kiss his cheek. “Thanks, dad,” I whisper. “I love you.”

I take my place in front of the minister. He begins immediately.

“Does anyone present know of any reason why these persons may not lawfully marry?”

I glance at Robbie, shooting her one hell of a look. She looks anywhere but me!

“That’s a relief,” the minister grins. Our guests titter in unison.

“The vows you are about to take to be made in the presence of God, who is judge of all and knows all of the secrets of our hearts; therefore if either of you know of a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now.”

Charlie glances at me, and we shake our heads in unison.

“Charles, will you take Penny to be your wife?”

“I will.”

“Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, and be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?”

“I will.”

“Penny, will you take Charlie to be your husband?”

“I will.”

“Will you love him, comfort him, honor and protect him, and be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?

“Then,” the minister smiles. “By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I hereby declare you man and wife. Charles – you may kiss the bride.”

Charlie steps forward. He turns to his daughter, plucks the ring from the box and slides it on to my finger. I’ve worn it for four years, haven’t taken it off since the day Charlie slid it on to my finger in his office.

This morning, my finger felt naked, hungry for the burden of love it has carried all these years.

“I love you, Penny Thorne,” Charlie whispers the second before his lips graze mine.

“I love you right back.” I say.

He kisses me.

* * *

Penny

I don’t care how many times it happens, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to climbing the stairs into a private jet.

Besides, Charlie’s – and my, I guess – plane is no ordinary beast. It’s not some dinky little Gulfstream jet with space for seven or eight passengers, and a little closet for drinks. Hell no!

It’s a freaking Boeing 787. They call it a Dreamliner, but I don’t know if that’s true. After all, I’ve been on my back in this thing dozens of times, and I’ve never caught so much as a wink of sleep!

When I met Charlie, he had a 737. I don’t know what it is with men and machines, but Charlie loves his jets.

We had only been married a couple of weeks before he was talking about upgrading. He claimed we need the extra space! I knew from the twinkle in his eye that space had nothing to do with it…

A tall blonde air stewardess greets us with the familiar hiss of the champagne cork leaving the bottle. Her hair is pulled back into a neat bun, and her uniform precisely tailored.

“Sir, Madam, welcome on board,” she says. “Would you like a glass of –?”

Charlie nods his head gratefully. “Please.”

I wave away the offered glass. It’s been a hell of a day. A cool glass of champagne is all I can think about, but I know I can’t taste it.

“Oh,” I add, turning back to the stewardess as Charlie and I walk arm in arm into our private cabin. “It would be a shame if it went to waste. Why don’t you have a glass?”

The stewardess – Marie, according to her name tag – shakes her head sadly. “I’m afraid I can’t, Madam. Safety regulations, you know?”

I grin back. “Ain’t that always the way! Tell you what – when we get to the Caribbean, we’re not going anywhere for a couple of weeks –”

“Months!” Charlie says, pinching my ass playfully. “If I have my way…”

“Ignore my husband,” I say, giggling. “There’s no way he’d stay away from his daughter that long.”

My husband.

God, it feels good to call him that. Of course, it has been technically, legally true for four years. But the buzz I get when I say – even think – it now is on a whole other level. It’s electric. It courses through me.

“Our daughter,” Charlie growls. “She’s as much yours as she is mine, now.”

Marie can’t hide the smile that greets her lips when she sees Charlie and I playing like this. She nods her head, and starts to make her exit.

“I mean it, Marie,” I call after her. “When we get there, you guys can use the plane, anything in the galley, whatever you want.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Thorne,” she says.

Charlie kicks the door to our private cabin closed with the underside of his foot.

“Did you mean that?” I whisper. I stroke away a tear that’s already beginning to form in the corner of my eye.

“Mean what?” Charlie frowns, taking a sip of his champagne. He gestures at me with his bubbling golden glass. “You sure you don’t want any? You haven’t touched a drop all day! Besides, it’s an eighty-seven…”

I close my eyes. The sight of the champagne flute is tempting – but nowhere near tempting enough. Not with the secret I’m hiding.

“Mean that Tilly is as much my daughter is yours?”

Charlie’s furrowed forehead creases yet more. He takes a step towards me. For some reason, the world seems to slow down as I wait for his response.

I watch as Charlie’s chest rises and falls in slow motion, as the tiny tuft of chest hair sticking out dances against his shifting open collar shirt.

“What the hell are you talking about, Penny?” He says, setting the champagne flute down on the nearest surface. Underneath us, the private jet’s huge engines cough into action, and the whole jet seems to rumble into life.

“I’m sorry –,” I whisper. “It’s just – nothing. I’m probably being emotional.”

Charlie takes my hands. He draws me close to him. I wriggle free of his interlocked fingers, and smooth down the collar of his crisp gray suit. Anything to avoid looking into my husband’s eyes right now! I’m overcome with emotion.

“Hell no,” Charlie growls. “You’re one of the – no, scratch that. You’re the most level-headed woman I’ve ever had the joy of knowing. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, the only one I ever wanted to settle down with. So you know what, Penny?”

“What,” I croak. My throat feels all closed-up.

“If you ask me, Tilly has been your daughter from the day you put your dad’s life on the line to save her. Maybe she’ll never call you mom, but that’s fine. You’ve got to know how much she loves you, Pen.”

“I wouldn’t want that, anyway,” I mutter. “For her to call me mom. I’m not, and I’ll never be that to her…”

It’s true. It wouldn’t feel right. Tilly and I have more of a – a little sis, big sis relationship going on.

“Pah,” Charlie says, flicking his fingers scornfully. “I don’t do labels, Penny. You know that. You’re as much a mom to Tilly as any woman in the world has a right to be. More. You’ve given everything for that girl.”

Charlie reaches for his glass of champagne. He lifts it into the air and toasts me.

“To Penny Thorne – the kindest, most beautiful wife any man has ever known, and the most caring mother – and big sister – any man could ask for. Whatever she wants to call it…”

Charlie holds my gaze with perfect stillness, raises the glass to his lips and takes a little sip. I watch, entranced by his glittering gray eyes. His honesty is palpable.

“I mean it, Penny,” he says on the way down. “Four years ago, I could never have imagined we’d end up so close. You’re the only girl I ever want in my life. You better believe that.”

“I do,” I whisper.

How could I not?

“Here,” Charlie grins. “It’s time we celebrated! We’re finally on our honeymoon!”

“Only four years late,” I grin.

Charlie pushes his champagne flute toward me. “Take a sip, and come play with me. You’ve been good for all our guests. It’s time to let your hair down…”

I bite my lip anxiously. This is the moment I’ve been avoiding for the last couple of days. I knew there was no way I could hold out for the whole honeymoon, but how the hell am I supposed to broach a topic like this?

“Charlie…” I say as the jet rocks.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thorne, if you could take your seats, we have been given clearance to leave, and will be lifting off in about thirty seconds. We’re expecting mild turbulence…”

I don’t hear the rest. My mind is roiling, thoughts swirling like a tropical thunderstorm.

My husband grabs my hand and leads me over to a comfortable cream-leather executive chair, and buckles me in side-by-side, next to him. How am I supposed to tell Charlie something this momentous when I’m not even facing him?

“There,” he says as his seatbelt fastens with a click. “Now – what is it you were saying?”

I groan. “I wasn’t exactly planning on telling you here.”

I’ve been picturing this in my mind for days. Standing hand-in-hand with my husband and lover, on a pearly white beach, the sound of surf hissing in the background. Instead, I get the rumbling of two jet engines!

“Telling me what?” Charlie presses.

He leans forward, takes my hands once again and gives me a kiss. I taste the bubbles on his tongue. It’s a reminder what – for the next seven months, at least – is completely off the table.

It’s worth it. I decide to go ahead and say it. Beating around the bush is only getting me more and more anxious…

“I’m pregnant,” I say.

Charlie doesn’t react. Not for a second, at least. It’s like the revelation simply bounces right off him. Then, like the sun dawning, realization breaks. He doesn’t know where to look, or how to act.

“Can you fly?” Charlie spurts out, his face suddenly drawn with worry. He goes into full-on protective dad-mode.

Half a dozen different anxious statements fallout of his mouth at once, each bumbling into the back of each other. His nerves are strangely charming.

“Wait – I’ll call the pilot. Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be back on the ground in ten minutes. Do you need a doctor –?”

“Charlie!” I yell, grabbing my husband’s hand. His fingers are already reaching for his seatbelt. His muscles are tense. His neck snaps to face me.

“What is it?” He says, flustered.

“You need to chill.” I say. I count the reasons why out on my fingers.

“One, we’ve been planning this honeymoon for more than a year. If you ruin it for me, I won’t forget! Two, I can fly for another four months yet. Three – I’ve seen a doctor. Three actually. If another forty-year old man puts me up in stirrups, I think I’ll slap him! And four…”

“Four?” Charlie repeats. Thankfully, the worry on his face is beginning to fade, replaced by a warm – if uncertain – pride.

I load my tone with as much innuendo, as much hidden meaning as I can muster. “It’s not whether I can fly I was hoping you’d ask about…”

“What do you mean?” Charlie asks. He strokes my arm anxiously, as though he thinks I’m made of china.

I bite my lip, and look longingly into my husband’s eyes. “Read my lips, Charlie,” I say. I move my hand, resting it on his knee. “You know what happens inside a pregnant woman’s body?”

“She gets –”

Charlie stops himself just in time, just before he says big. He knows better than that.

“No, not that,” I wink. “Not yet, anyway…”

Charlie breathes a sigh of relief.

“Something better,” I say. “My OB/GYN told me all about it. For the next few months, my brain’s going to be dumping hormones into my bloodstream. Anything it can get its hands on to convince the little kid to grow. You know what the byproduct is?”

My fingers creep up Charlie’s leg.

He glances down, licks his lips, then back at my face. The telltale bulge at his crotch tells me exactly what he wants. I admire his self-restraint. Just… It’s not his restraint I want right now.

It’s something bigger. Thicker.

I lean forward, and beckon for Charlie’s ear. Once he clocks what I want, he turns it toward me with the eagerness to please of a horny teenage boy.

“I get horny,” I growl, right as the private jet lifts off the runway. My stomach drops away, but my palm meets Charlie’s cock. I massage it, savoring it’s length, dreaming of its heat inside me. “Really, really horny. So what I’m asking, Charlie…”

“Yes?” Charlie breathes.

“Is when are you planning on doing something about it.”

My heart beats once, twice.

The seatbelt sign flicks off.

Charlie unbuckles his seatbelt.

I let out a breath.

Charlie lets me out of my seat.

My heart beats once, twice.

Charlie grabs me by the hips.

He carries me to the bed.

The plane vibrates beneath us.

“Charlie,” I moan. “Don’t you dare go slow.”

That’s the sound that breaks the camel’s back, or torpedoes the dam. Whatever your metaphor, Charlie’s resolve shatters into a thousand pieces, like shards of a tumbling mirror.

“It’s safe, right,” he moans as he undoes his fly.

“Perfectly,” I say. “I’m not some China doll.”

“Thank God for that.”

And then Charlie’s hands are on me. He undoes his shirt with one hand, my jeans with his other. I reach for his cock, and suddenly we’re lost in a tornado of fumbling hands and snatched kisses and flying clothing.

“God, you’re hot,” Charlie groans. “So fucking hot.”

“You won’t be saying that in a couple of months,” I say lightly. It’s a joke. Mostly. “Not when I get fat.”

Charlie gives up trying to unbutton my top and grips it off me. The three-hundred dollar shirt rips at every seam, and he tosses it carelessly onto the floor.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he shrugs. “Besides, you’re gonna need them, aren’t you?”

“I suppose.”

Charlie leans forward, dropping his lips to mine. “I don’t fucking care if you get fat,” he growls. “You could be any shape, any size, and I wouldn’t stop loving you. And you know what?” He growls.

I tip my head back as Charlie’s fingers start to explore my body. “What?” I moan.

“I can’t wait,” Charlie says, probing between my legs with his fingers. “I can’t wait till I can hold your tits in my hands like melons. Until your ass grows five sizes and I can use it like a fucking trampoline to bounce off.

“God, you’re wet –”

The offhand, almost surprised comment right at the end throws me off. I open my eyes, look at the expression of sheer lust on Charlie’s admiring face, see the honesty in his eyes, and I pull him down onto me.

“I’m not joking,” I whisper. “I want to feel your thick cock inside me. I want to feel the thing that got me pregnant. That’s an order.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but suddenly I’m talking like a foulmouthed pregnant sailor.

I’m delighting in being pregnant. It’s been four long years, four years of IVF and doctor’s appointments – of me crying that I wasn’t good enough, of Charlie holding me tight and whispering that he’s never wanted any other girl.

So now I’m finally pregnant, I’m going to yell it from 30,000 feet.

“Well,” Charlie grins. “If all your cravings are going to be so easy for me to satisfy, I guess it’s going to be an easy nine months…”

“Seven months,” I groan as Charlie feeds his cock into me. I keep my eyes open – somehow, grab Charlie’s shoulder and pull him into me. “Seven months of this, whenever, wherever I want. You understand?”

“Oh,” Charlie grins, grazing my lips with his. “I think I do.”

He grabs my hips and thrusts into me. Every time Charlie Thorne fucks me, I think I’m dreaming. His cock is so big it’s scarcely believable. As he pushes into me, every nerve ending in my body explodes, sending my brain little messages of pleasure.

“Believe me, Penny,” Charlie says. “I’ll never get bored of fucking you. I’ll never get bored of making you come. I’ll never get bored of feeling your cunt –,” he grins, daring me to take offense, “– gripping my cock like it’s got a mind of its own.”

“Shut up,” I moan. “Just shut up and fuck –”

And Charlie does. He flips me over in a motion I can’t figure out. Suddenly I’m on my front, and Charlie slaps my ass, and his cock explodes in and out of me like a jackhammer. It’s unbearable. My head tilts forward, red hair flowing like a fiery waterfall down to the white bedsheets.

I grip them – the sheets – holding on for dear life as the orgasm begins to crack across my body. I hear it, first – like thunder breaking at the leading edge of a thunderstorm. Then the lightning – electric shocks that singe my body, my skin, my nipples.

“Charlie,” I groan. “Charlie – I’m going to come!”

“That’s the point, Penny,” he grunts, squeezing my ass and thrusting as deep as he can get his cock. His pelvis meets my cheeks, and I groan, biting my lip as a blackness overtakes me.

The orgasm hits.

OmigodOmigodOmigodOmigod.

My brain stops working. I’m lost in a world of pleasure and pain and longing and desire. I feel Charlie’s heat bloom inside me, and then the world goes black.

As the waves of pleasure break over my body, Charlie leans forward and whispers into my ear.

“Now,” he says in a gruff whisper. “Let’s see if we can’t give our baby a twin.”

That’s not how any of this works. I know Charlie knows that. And I don’t care.

Because I want more.

Chapter Two

Deleted Kinky Scene

Hey girls!

I hope you enjoyed the Extended Epilogue. If so, and you STILL want more, then I’ve got a hot deleted scene for your enjoyment!

I’m calling this a “deleted scene”, but that’s not strictly speaking true. It’s not set in the same timeline as Faking It. I would say it probably happens about a year after the events set in the book. However, sometimes when I’m writing a story, I like to delve quite deeply into how my characters would react in a given situation.

Sometimes I might write a scene where they meet an old friend in a coffee shop, for example, and just see where the characters take me. This kind of thing never ends up in the final book. I’m not even sure anyone would want to read it other than me! However, they are really useful as writing exercises, and I definitely think they give the books added depth.

This particular scene struck me one afternoon.

Obviously Penny is a virgin at the start of Faking It. She’s awkward with her own body, and around sex. Who wouldn’t be! Nineteen isn’t exactly a crazy age to lose your virginity by any means, but given her background (growing up homeless), it’s probably a little unusual.

Maybe she felt embarrassed about it.

I wanted to know how a girl like Penny would react in some different situations. One I thought about – and really, really liked – was what would happen if Penny and Charlie decided to spice up their relationship!

I think we’ve all done this at one point or another in a long-term relationship. In fact, I think it’s a super-important part of a relationship with many couples. You don’t want to get bored! Anyway – I’m no agony aunt, so I’ll just get to the point. I decided to make Penny and Charlie try out a little light kinkiness. I hope you like what happened when I did…

So, without further ado, here it is:

Charlie turns his head slowly.

There’s a light in his eyes: a fire. I can tell what he’s thinking. Did she really just say that?

“Run that one by me again,” he says, eyebrow kinked. “Just so I know I didn’t hear you wrong.”

“You didn’t. I want to spice things up,” I say.

My cheeks immediately adopt their usual blushing heat. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over my awkwardness about sex. That awkwardness, though, is only skin-deep. The truth is, I’m mad about Charlie. I’ve never met a man like him.

Some couples claim they never argue. I don’t know if that’s true about Charlie and me. We argue. Sure, from time to time he does something that just grinds my gears.

But the one thing we never have is resentment. We argue, and then – like a spring squall – the irritation is gone, never to return.

And the sex.

Oh, boy – the sex.

I guess some girls like to shop around before they settle down with a man. The truth is that I never needed to. The first time Charlie Thorne made me come, I was already his wife. A year has gone by, and he still hasn’t stopped.

“No, really,” Charlie says, a slow grin beginning to creep across his face. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

I shoot my lover and husband a scowl. “Shut up. You heard exactly what I said.”

Charlie takes a step towards me. He glances over his shoulder, just checking that Tilly’s not about to walk into the kitchen and interrupt us. She’s in her room, packing her rucksack ready for a full day of school.

“So,” he growls, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. I trace the movement with my eyes, already feeling the telltale signs of arousal beginning to come on inside me. “What did you have in mind?”

“Later,” I whisper anxiously, glancing down the hallway.

Tilly might have just passed her twelfth birthday, but that’s still no kind of age to be hearing her father – and adopted mother – discuss the kind of naughtiness that I have on my mind.

“You’re killing me, Pen…” Charlie groans.

I wink back at my husband. “It’ll be worth the wait…”

* * *

“You’re not taking Tilly to school today?” I tease the second Charlie’s daughter disappears behind the closing elevator doors.

The lift’s mechanism whirrs into action, spiriting Tilly down forty floors in a matter of seconds.

I catch a glimpse of Charlie through my dancing red fringe. What’s he doing –?

I don’t have to wait long to find out. He drives towards me, a look of single-minded, lustful intent on his face. I take a step back, but Charlie’s too fast. His hands settle on my hips, and he presses me forward, carrying me until my back meets the cool glass of the penthouse wall.

For a second, memory fills my mind.

I remember Charlie doing this the first time we were alone together. I glance at my shoulder, and see the same sight – New York falling away beneath me. The sprawling city induces the same sense of dizzying vertigo now as it did then.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, biting my lip as Charlie’s palm grazes the side of my torso.

“I want to know what’s on your mind,” he growls. “What are you thinking, you minx?”

Charlie steals my breath away.

He still looks at me with exactly the same awe as he did the first time I told him I was a virgin. I’ve never felt the way I do when I see this particular light in Charlie Thorne’s glittering gray eyes.

It’s a light that tells me there is absolutely nothing other than me on my husband’s mind. It’s a kind of power in its own way, I guess.

I turn my head away, hiding a half-smile. “Now I come to think of it,” I say, fighting against my breathy lungs. “Maybe we’re spicy enough. Don’t you have –?”

Charlie scrapes his morning stubble against my neck and kisses me where it stings. “Don’t you dare say work, Penny. I’ve cleared my schedule. I’m home all day. Ella’s under strict instructions not to disturb me And you know why?”

“Why?” I whisper, still feigning disinterest.

I already know the answer. Charlie’s not going to let me play him. Not today. He’s burning up with desire. I feel the heat of it on my cheeks, even from the warmth of his breath as it tickles against my neck.

“Because I’m going to fuck you,” Charlie says, a look of wicked, delighted pleasure creeping across his face. “Tear those pajamas off your perfect, freckled skin. Pick you up against this glass, if I have to, and bury my head between your legs.”

I nod my head before I know what I’m doing.

“Yes,” I say. The word escapes my lips like a whispered moan. “Yes, do that.”

There’s no embarrassment on my cheeks now. There’s heat, though. The heat of burning desire. Charlie’s description of what he wants to do to me is all that I can think about.

Charlie drags his palm back down my side, shaping his fingernails into a soft, teasing claw. He uses it to scrape my skin beneath the thin cotton fabric of my pajama top, then drags it lower, between my legs, and grinds his palm against my burning slit.

“Not until you tell me what you’re thinking,” he murmurs. He leans forward, nibbling my earlobe, and I feel the heat of his breath licking at my ear. It tickles. “Don’t leave anything out.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” I whisper.

I exhale slowly, trying to figure out how to say this. The idea has been on the tip of my tongue for the last couple of days. Charlie’s body is still as magnificent as it was a year ago – almost to the day I met him.

He makes me come every night, and sometimes every morning as well.

But I want more.

Charlie Thorne has unlocked something inside me – a devil, driving me on. I want to experience things that would’ve made me blush just weeks ago. I want to set my soul free.

“What would you do to me?” I ask, unable to tear my mind away from the touch of Charlie’s palm against my mound, or from the heat of his skin against mine. “If you could do anything, what would you do?

“That’s not fair,” Charlie groans, tipping his head back and rolling his neck. “You first.”

The heat of embarrassment returns, just for a second, flushing my neck and cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s the only way I’ll be able to do this.

“I want you to tie me up,” I admit.

My knees go weak as I say the words.

“You want me to do what?” Charlie chokes.

For a second, I can’t figure out the tone in his voice. Is he disgusted, or –

“Oh, yes, Penny,” Charlie growls. “Fuck yes. You read my mind.”

“And –”

I squeeze my eyes shut again, turning away. The embarrassment is real now. It feels like a person right here in this empty penthouse with us. If anyone heard me saying things like this, I’d want the ground to swallow me up, right then and there.

“And?” Charlie’s voice teases me, throaty with desire.

“I want you to talk dirty to me,” I say.

Hell, by the time the words come out of my mouth, my voice is weak. My voice cracks like a boy going through puberty, but I do my best to push on.

“I already do,” Charlie says. He sounds surprised. “Don’t I?”

I nod my head vigorously. “You do,” I whisper. “But I want more. I want you to, to –”

I feel Charlie move a couple of inches. Then the heat of his breath on the side of my neck. I feel him lean forward once again so his lips near my ear.

“You want me to treat you like my little slut, don’t you Penny?” Charlie growls. He sounds like he barely believes his own luck.

My knees go weak, and I lean on the glass behind me for support. Charlie’s the only thing holding me up.

“Yes…”

* * *

I freeze.

“Where are you?” I whisper.

The silk blindfold blocks out every last scrap of light. I have no idea where Charlie got it on such short notice – or the silk rope that binds my ankles and wrists.

Is there a billionaire’s concierge service that deals with weird requests like this? I should ask –

“You’re going to be my little whore, aren’t you Penny?” Charlie growls.

His voice is powerful and commanding. Right at the start, I think I detect a slight hint of apprehension before he says the word “whore.”

It fills me with happiness. I know that Charlie would never treat a woman this way unless – like me – they downright begged for it.

Even then, he’s too good a man to do it without just a second’s hesitation.

I nod.

“Use your words, slut,” Charlie says.

My eyes are covered, but I can imagine the wicked smile that’s creeping across his face as he says it. The truth is, the image of Charlie Thorne my mind conjures up isn’t even close to being as sexy as the real thing.

“Yes,” I groan.

I press my legs together, trying to do what I can to encourage the fire building between them without the use of my bound hands.

“Yes what?”

“Yes…” I say, scrabbling around the furthest reaches of my mind. What does Charlie want me to say? Then, like a bolt from the blue, I realize. A memory from right after we first met. “Yes, boss…”

“Better,” Charlie says with approval.

The bed’s silk sheets hiss as Charlie kneels down on it. I feel my body shift, falling into the well Charlie is creating with his thick, muscular weight.

“You’re a hot little slut, you know that Penny?” Charlie whispers, scraping his fingernail down the front of my body.

“I am?” I moan.

Charlie moves his finger excruciatingly slowly. I’m wearing nothing but the sluttiest pair of panties and a bra I could find in my wardrobe. After a year of living with my husband – and of receiving the hot little presents he likes to give me – that particular wardrobe is pretty full!

I arch my back up, straining to touch Charlie, to make him touch me.

“Tell me what you want, Penny,” Charlie says, whispering into my ear.

His voice is hoarse and gruff. He is acting completely in control – and truthfully, I’m impressed with his self-restraint – but I know my husband well enough to hear the desire his tone is laced with.

“You,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut even beneath the blindfold.

“Me what?”

“I want you to – lick me out,” I yelp.

I hate it when Charlie makes me give voice to my desires like this. Hate it – and love it.

Even after all this time, I still feel like the same awkward, nervous little virgin Charlie married. The truth is, I’m anything but. We’ve done things together – naughty things – that I never knew existed. Hell, he’s fucked me up against this very glass wall, for all of New York to watch.

If they were looking that is. Through binoculars…

“Good,” Charlie says. His voice hums with lust. “Good girl.”

He strokes my stomach with approval. I want to curl up and die right then and there – because I would die happy. In any other context, from any other man, I’d recoil from a comment like that with disgust.

But from Charlie? The man I love? The man I can’t stop desiring? It makes my desire explode, like a wall of flame coursing through my veins.

“And you know what good girls get,” Charlie says. He scrapes his fingernails down either side of my torso, and I moan with delight.

“Their reward.”

Charlie hooks his thumbs underneath my red lace panties. I picked them out specially to match my hair. I know they are his favorite.

I wish I could watch, but my prison of darkness adds a layer of spice to this that I have craved for so long. I’m on edge, straining. Waiting. Desiring.

I’m forced to rely on my other senses: the faintest hint of Charlie’s spicy, floral aftershave that wafts through the air, the feeling of my husband’s heat radiating against my skin, the sound of –

A snip.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I feel a looseness around my hips.

“Your ankles are tied together,” Charlie replies, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world. “So I had to cut your panties off…”

My mouth drops open. I hear a second snicking sound, and then the cool kiss of air conditioning against my pussy. I squirm, pressing my legs together. Suddenly I feel so vulnerable, so exposed. Charlie’s got me exactly how he wants me: tied up, powerless, completely at his mercy.

It’s a terrifying thought.

And very, very exciting.

“Tell me what to do,” Charlie says.

My eyebrows kink underneath the soft silk blindfold. I have no idea what Charlie means –

– And then I do.

He kisses the slit between my legs first. I part my still bound legs to make space. My knees bow outwards like the hole of the hand-carved rowboat.

But Charlie doesn’t move.

He stays there, his lips barely grazing my wetness. I arch my back once more, and my hips rise slightly off the silk sheets in my desire to experience the magic of my husband’s tongue.

But Charlie doesn’t move.

I moan with protest, practically begging him to touch me. And then it strikes me. Exactly what Charlie wants me to do.

Tell him what to do.

“Lick me,” I moan, my cheeks burning red. “From bottom to top.”

Charlie does exactly as he’s ordered. He licks my pussy from bottom to top – slowly, so slowly every nerve ending cries out with pleasure in turn before he moves. The heat of his tongue mixes with the heat of my desire.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Don’t stop.”

Charlie doesn’t. He stays there, like my own personal sex robot, my own personal slave. His tongue moves with metronomic, well-trained precision.

A flash of pleasure, before it recedes.

Another flash, and another.

Slowly my breathing changes. It becomes more ragged. Goosebumps break out across my skin like the first seedlings of spring. I picture myself from above – blindfolded and bound, red hair streaming like a brush fire on the cream silk sheets.

“Now faster,” I moan as my pleasure begins to build like a rising tide. “And –”

Charlie freezes, awaiting my next command. I can’t let him stop. I’m so close to the edge. Every nerve ending, every muscle is screaming out for release. I’m so tense, my body wound up like a spring. I’m ready to explode.

“Squeeze my ass,” I yelp.

I have no idea why I asked Charlie to do that, but I do. It just feels right. I can’t see, but I can imagine every hair on Charlie’s head, even the look of desire painted on his face.

I want to feel him squeezing my ass, pushing it up and into his face. I want to feel the heat of his lips and nose and cheek pressed right up against my pussy.

And my wish is Charlie Thorne’s command.

He slides his hands up the back of my thighs – slow, steady, but hard and unyielding. He squeezes my ass, digging in with his fingernails, and presses my weight upward like it’s nothing, like my entire body is a feather.

“Keep going,” I moan. “Don’t stop!”

Charlie does. And he doesn’t. He wouldn’t dare.

My hands are bound at the wrists, they rest on my front. I pick them up and place them on Charlie’s head.

If I could, I’d dig my fingernails into his hair. But this is the next best thing.

My head tips back, I arch my body and push my hips into Charlie’s face.

“I’m going to –”

Come.

A blackness overtakes me. And yet fireworks as well. Both, all at once. Every inch of my skin feels like it’s on fire.

“That was your turn,” Charlie growls. “Now it’s mine.”

“What are you going to do?” I whimper.

All the tension has drained out of my body. The orgasm has left me feeling light as a feather. I feel like I could rise up like a balloon and just float off right here and now. Hell, it’s hard to even think. Little aftershocks are still crackling around my body.

Between my legs.

Around my nipples, which stand like two proud mountains atop my heaving breasts.

Even deep inside my core.

“Whatever the fuck I want,” Charlie laughs. “It’s your turn to be my little slut.”

“Good,” I whisper.

God, I love Charlie’s dirty talk. This isn’t the first time he’s talked rough in bed – but he’s certainly never called me something like his little slut before!

I love it.

It makes me feel filthy and wanted, all at once. It stokes the flames of my desire; it makes me desperate to do whatever it takes to make my lover come.

I can’t describe it. I know it shouldn’t be the case. I should be a proud, strong feminist. I should recoil when someone uses a word like that. But I don’t. I’m not going to. Because when Charlie says it, he says it with love.

What I’m thinking, Charlie’s moving.

“Turn over,” he says.

I’m still processing his gruff, commanding voice when I feel the warmth of his hands on my hips. Charlie flips me over in one. The impact of my breasts meeting the mattress knocks the wind out of me.

“What are –?”

I stop talking. It doesn’t matter what Charlie’s about to do. Because whatever it is, it’s not to me: it’s with me.

My last orgasm is still wriggling around my body when Charlie grabs my hips once more. He pulls me back, so my ass is in front of him.

The darkness begins to irritate me. I can’t see where my body is, or where Charlie’s making me go. I can’t see the desire on his face. I can’t even see the mattress in front of me!

But I know better than to ask him to remove my blindfold. In fact, that’s the last thing I want. The darkness is intoxicating. It adds another dimension to all of this.

Charlie’s belt clinks. I jeans falling down his legs. Damn, I wish I could see it. I love watching my husband undress. Every day, he just gets sexier. I don’t know how I got so lucky.

Charlie reaches forward and thrusts his fingers between my legs, probing my soaking pussy.

“Are you ready for my cock, Penny? Are you ready to be my slut?”

“Yes,” I murmur, looking over my shoulder – even though all I see is darkness. “God, yes!”

With my wrists and ankles bound, I’m at Charlie’s mercy. I’m forced into an uncomfortable position, kneeling on my knees on the thick, firm mattress, and supporting myself on my forearms, rather than with my hands.

I complain – but I think it’s all part of Charlie’s wicked plan…

“God, you look so fucking hot!” Charlie groans. He scrapes his fingernails across my ass, and then slaps it once for good measure.

The crack rings out across our bedroom. I feel my ass ripple from the impact, feel as the aftershocks vibrate through me, meeting between my legs and building my pleasure.

“Really?” I say. Honestly, I’m just fishing for a compliment. I love it when Charlie talks to me like this. No wonder it’s my secret fantasy!

“Fuck yes. Fucking really,” Charlie growls. “Penny, this is the best idea you’ve had all month.”

“I know,” I grin. “Now – are you going to going to –“ I pause. The word rolls off my tongue. “– Fuck me, or just stand around talking about it all day?”

Charlie doesn’t reply. Not with words. Another crack rings out as he spanks me teasingly, pushing me forward. He makes a low, throaty moan, and grips the left-hand side of my body.

With his other hand – I imagine – he guides his thick, pulsating cock. I feel it – the heat of it – pressing against my pussy. I back into it.

“Please,” I groan. “Please Charlie, just take me.”

He does.

I feel his thickness parting my legs.

“Oh God, you’re so fucking wet, Penny,” Charlie groans. “Don’t you dare fucking change.”

I have no idea what that means, but I love it. Does Charlie really expect me to walk around all day like this? I stifle a laugh. In his mind, I bet he’d love that!

And then all conscious thought gets pushed out of my mind. I can’t think, I can barely breathe. Charlie thrusts his cock into me, gripping both my hips, and digging in with his fingernails.

“Yes!” I moan.

“You’re going to come for me,” Charlie growls.

The pleasure that’s squeezing his balls constricts the gruffness in his throat. I love it! My body is bound and defenseless, but I love that it has an effect on Charlie he can’t conceal. Not even when I’m blindfolded!

“You’re going to come for me, you little slut. And you’re going to love it.”

I don’t doubt it.

Charlie’s right about another thing.

I am going to come… Soon.

I collapse forward, struggling with my bound wrists to stay upright as Charlie’s cock rams into me. I love it when he fucks me on my hands and knees. He goes so deep, stretching me like I didn’t know it was possible to be stretched.

“Charlie –!” I whimper.

My husband – my lover’s – throat gurgles with suppressed pleasure. He slaps my ass once more for good measure, and as the pleasure ripples through my body –

I explode.

I feel Charlie’s heat explode inside me. He collapses on top of me, the sweat on his front mingling with the sweat on my back. His lungs strain, and his chest rises and falls in time with mine.

I feel him lean forward. I sense his heat once again near my earlobe. I feel him hook a finger underneath my blindfold, and finally free me from the darkness.

“Don’t you think,” he whispers. “It’s time we had a baby of our own?”

The End. Really!

Part Two

Climax

Wanna hear a dirty little secret?

No guy has ever gotten me off!

At least, it was a secret, until my boss saw my journal.

Now he’s making me a promise I can’t resist...

I won a war, lost a wife, and raised a beautiful baby girl.

But I left the SEALs scarred and broken. I swore off women for good.

Until Skye.

She’s innocent, curvy, and makes my company tick.

But I discovered her deepest secret: she’s never had an O.

I made her a deal: You fix me and I’ll fix you…

I’m gonna fix her, all right, right there in her own office!

Skye’s gonna learn fast:

There’s more to this contract than meets the eye.

And there’s a first time for everything. It won’t be her last

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Skye

I’m lost in the glow thrown out by my smartphone as I walk past my assistant, Tyler. I know – cool, right!

“Skye, there’s –”

“Just give me a second, Tyler, okay?” I mutter, missing what should have been my first warning.

I’m reading an article from one of those British psychiatry journals. I guess most people don’t find that sort of thing interesting, but I live and breathe therapy. It’s not just my job, it’s what I’ve wanted to do since I was a little kid.

“Um okay, I guess–,” Tyler says in a stifled, anguished squeal.

His shriek should have been my second warning.

I push the door to my office open without looking at it, and almost bump my forehead against the frosted glass in the process. I kick off my flats and wander to my chair. I know the contours of my little office like the back of my hand. I could find my way around missing every cabinet or locating any file I needed – even if the room was pitch black and I was blindfolded.

I guess my third warning should have been the scent of spicy cologne wafting through the air. But my brain takes a couple of seconds too long to process the smell, as well.

The glass door closes with a hiss behind me.

“You must be Skye?”

The voice startles me. It sounds familiar, in a long-lost kind of way. My body searches for adrenaline and dumps it straight into my veins. The clever, self-assured, rational part of my brain switches off, and I go into survival mode. I rack my brain.

What did Tyler say?

I look up to see a man standing in the office – My office – and he’s reading My journal. The notebook which chronicles every last embarrassment that has happened to me, all of my darkest fears, and –

– My secret.

I freak out, and rush towards the man, knocking the journal out of his hands. Some of the pages crumple against the floor.

“Who the hell are you?” I yell and recklessly ask, “and what are you doing in My office?”

The man takes a step back. He doesn’t seem intimidated or put off by my – slightly crazy – reaction. In fact, a smile tickles his lips.

“I think you’ll find, Skye, that this is in fact my office.”

“Oh. My. God,” I whimper.

Not some play whimper, a very real I’m-a-scared-little-puppy whimper. Because right now, I know that I’ve fucked up – like lose-your-dream-job bad fucked up.

Because the man standing in front of me is Harlan Wolfe – not just the third richest man in New York – the CEO of Wolfe Capital.

Meaning, therefore, he is my boss …

… technically speaking …

… because before now, I’ve never seen the man. He owns the company, it’s his name that’s plastered across the office building’s front. But people like Harlan are supposed to stay on floors a whole lot higher than mine.

“There’s no need for that,” he grins, sticking out his hand, “just call me Harlan.”

I just stare at the floating hand.

I’ve got no idea how to act. How the heck am I supposed to dig myself out of a hole this deep? I just practically assaulted the freaking CEO. Worse, if you can believe it, is what he might have read in my journal. Most of it contains just embarrassing thoughts – my hopes, fears, and any problem I might have had during the day. I’m pretty sure I’ve never bitched about the company, at least…

But there’s one secret that would kill me if anyone found out.

“I’m – I’m so sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t – I mean – I didn’t know it was you. I mean, that you were you.” I clam up, and clap my hand across my offending mouth. I play back what I just said in my head and cringe. I sound like an idiot.

Harlan looks at me with an expression shaded by pity. Then he glances at his outstretched arm. When it’s obvious that I’m too panicked to shake his hand, he lets it fall to his side.

“I should hope not,” Harlan says, still grinning broadly.

It’s like all this is a game to him. I guess, when you’re worth twenty billion dollars, life is just one big strategy game.

Harlan crouches down. He’s wearing a light gray, perfectly-tailored Italian suit that hugs his body like a second skin. I can’t help but watch as his muscular thighs bulge, straining against the cloth. God, the man has the body of an Olympic athlete.

And then I realize what Harlan’s doing. He’s reaching for my journal. The one I just batted out of his hands.

But now I am stuck. I feel like my feet are encased in concrete. I can’t possibly throw myself at the journal a second time. But I’ve got to do something, to say something, at least.

“Why –”

“– am I in your office?” The billionaire, hedge fund manager, completes my sentence and smiles, picking up the gray notebook. “That’s an interesting question, Skye. Not as interesting, though, as what I read in here…” He taps the side of the journal.

I feel my cheeks heat like a runaway forest fire. “That’s –,” I croak, “Private.”

“Unfortunately for you, Skye, if it’s in this building, then it’s not private. To me, anyway.”

Harlan glances down at the incriminating journal, chews his lip, then hands it back to me. I hold my breath the entire time. I am uncomfortably aware of how attractive he is. His eyes are iceberg gray, his hair thick and black and virile.

A few gray hairs betray his age – late thirties – but he shows no sign of balding. In fact, he couldn’t be further away. Besides, he has the body of a man half his age. He looks lithe and fit, and almost painfully sexual. That’s the only way I can describe him. His expression crackles with intent, with desire.

“But I can see it’s causing you some bother,” Harlan smiles. He wraps his knuckles against the journal one last time, and then hands it to me. I practically snatch it out of his grasp.

Harlan surveys me for a couple of seconds, the same intrigued smile tickling his lips. I do my best to fight the panic surging through my veins, carried on a tidal wave of adrenaline.

Monkey brain off; put your adult head on.

“Why are you here?” I ask. My voice sounds a couple of octaves higher pitched than usual, but other than the embarrassment burning my face, my reaction is tolerable. “I mean – sir.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that. Like I said, just call me Harlan.”

“Okay, Harlan,” I say, sucking in a deep, greedy breath, “is there something I can help you with?”

Harlan takes a step back and leans against my desk. I notice that every couple of seconds, his eyes glance at the door, as though he half-expects someone to come charging through it, brandishing a weapon. I file the thought away.

“I’m not sleeping,” he finally admits.

It takes me a couple of seconds to process the comment. I feel like I’m on a bungee cord. One second, I’m ready to tear someone’s head off for reading my journal, the next I think I’m going to be fired the man who’s – technically – my boss. Now…

… Now the CEO of Wolfe Capital is asking me for help.

I blink.

I know. Not exactly my finest moment.

“Sooo,” Harlan says, biting the inside of his lip. He grimaces as if he hates having to ask, as if it somehow reveals weakness. “I was wondering if you’d be able to help.”

“You want me to help?” I squeak, “You?”

Harlan smiles, “Precisely. It seems we’re finally on the same page, Miss Warren.”

Time seems to slow down.

For a therapist, helping a man like Harlan Wolfe is the pinnacle. It’s like an artist handling a Rembrandt, a world-renowned violinist playing a Stradivarius or a basketball fan meeting LeBron James. Hell, getting into the heads of men just like Harlan is exactly why I joined Wolfe Capital as the in-house therapist. I want to be the best, and to be the best, you’ve got to treat the best.

Or at least the most fucked up.

“But… I can’t,” I say lamely.

Harlan’s eyebrow kinks upward. “Oh?” he growls dangerously. “So… exactly why would that be, Miss Warren?”

Be careful now, Skye. You don’t just say “no” to a man like Harlan Wolfe.

“Because,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut for a second as I cast around for a reason. A reason other than the fact that I’m embarrassed to treat the man who’s read my journal, and might know my secret. “Because – it would be a conflict of interest!”

“A ‘conflict of interest’?”

“Yes,” I nod, grateful to have found a plausible reason for declining. “Because – you’re my boss.”

Harlan flicks his fingers dismissively. “I don’t care about that. I’ll sign whatever disclaimer you need. I’ve come to you because you’re the best, Miss –,” Harlan pauses, and catches himself. “I mean Doctor Warren.”

“The best?” I say in a small voice. I didn’t even know that Harlan Wolfe had ever heard my name. Knowing that he knows who I am is kind of terrifying.

“It’s why I hired you,” Harlan says, plowing on as though he’s unaware of my discomfort.

“Since you joined the team here at Wolfe Capital, the traders under your care are producing an average of 7% more return. That’s statistically… astonishing. In fact, I’ve been considering requiring every trader to undergo regular sessions in this office. As for your bonus –”

“Bonus?” I squeak. I feel like I’m on a roller coaster – one second plunging toward disaster, the next climbing to higher and higher heights.

Harlan stares at me strangely. “Yes, Skye. You’ll find I can be a very –,” he licks his lower lip, “rewarding boss.”

I open and close my mouth a couple of times like a goldfish. Finally I say something, though nothing clever comes out. “Oh.”

“It’s agreed then,” Harlan says, turning to leave. “We’ll start the sessions tonight.”

“Tonight?” I stammer. “But –.”

Harlan wrinkles his forehead. “Well you don’t expect me to come and see you when the markets are open, do you Doctor Warren? I do have a business to run, after all”

I shake my head. I guess not…” I whisper.

“Perfect,” Harlan says.

His lips graze my cheek as he passes by. It’s an uncomfortably intimate gesture. Hell, my therapist’s brain screams that it reads of a power move – a dominant alpha male laying down a marker. And Harlan Wolfe is a hell of a lot more than some summer breeze alpha male. He’s a freaking hurricane.

And I kind of like it.

“I’ll see you later, Skye,” Harlan smiles as he reaches the door. I jerk back into the moment. “Eight o’clock, sharp. My assistant will be in touch with the details.”

And just like that, Hurricane Harlan is gone.

* * *

Initial Session Notes:

I’m in over my head. Patient has assumed a driving role in this relationship from the start. Effective therapy will require starting afresh.

Dominant personality

Used to getting what he wants

Charming, and highly intelligent

Does he know my secret?

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Skye

I kick my apartment’s front door closed behind me, and set an overflowing stack of my patients’ notes down on the little kitchen’s marble countertop. I had planned to spend all night going through them and coming up with specialized treatment plans for rich men while drowning in a bottle of cheap wine.

After Harlan’s offer, I guess that’s off the table…

Oh God. Harlan. Now what the hell am I going to do about him?

I take some much-needed seconds to decompress. My head tilts forward against my chest, and I take a couple of deep breaths. I hide a smile when I realize I’m doing exactly what I tell my patients to do.

“What a fucking day…”

I look up at my neat, tidy apartment. The sight of it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It’s hard to believe that I’ve ended up in a place like this – especially given where I came from. I didn’t exactly have a white-picket-fence kind of childhood.

Not even close.

Girl, you need a damn shower. Anything else can wait.

I kick off my work shoes, shimmy out of my skirt and head for the bathroom. I turn the temperature knob as far left as it will let me, and step into a cauldron of burning steam. Ever since Harlan Wolfe stepped into my office earlier this afternoon, my head has been spinning.

I don’t know what to do or how to act. Nothing in my life to date has prepared me for going to dinner with a billionaire, especially not a billionaire who happens not only to be my boss, but who just might know my deepest, darkest secret.

Is it a date? I wonder.

And if it is, can I do anything about it?

I don’t know how long I stand there, with boiling hot water turning my pale, freckled skin a curious shade of pink. The cramped shower billows with a fog of steam – so much steam that I struggle to breathe. The mirror attached to the shower’s tiled wall quickly fills with condensation, until even my outline disappears into nothingness.

I like it, though, disappearing into the hot mist. It’s calming. It’s like I’m not even real, as if I was never here.

And for a few seconds, at least, it helps me forget my nerves about my dinner – my date – with Harlan freaking Wolfe.

But I don’t lose myself for long. I never can. I guess my mind just isn’t wired like that. I don’t like to stand around doing nothing. I like to act – to be in control. A second savored is a second wasted – or at least it is to me.

I glance down my legs. I don’t know what I’m going to wear tonight, but whatever I choose, I probably can’t turn up with my legs looking like they do right now. I look like a shaggy brown bear.

I shut off the flow of hot water and grab my razor.

There’s easily enough steam to stop me from being attacked by the biting cold kiss of the AC. I lather up my legs and carve clean, hairless pathways through the snowy fields of suds.

“God, Skye. It’s been way too long since you’ve done this,” I mutter to myself. I carefully ignore the reason – it’s not like I’ve had a reason to play dress-up, if you know what I mean.

When I’m done, I run the backs of my knuckles along the freshly-shaved skin. An image of Harlan touching me there flashes through my mind.

I flinch.

It has been a long time since I’ve thought of a man touching me like that – or anywhere, in fact.

“Don’t do it, Skye,” I groan. But even as the words escape my mouth, I know that the seed of the idea has burrowed too deep.

I’m going to do it.

“You’re such a pussy,” I mutter ironically. “And for God’s sake, girl – stop talking to yourself!”

Clinically speaking, there’s nothing exactly wrong with speaking to one’s self, as long as it doesn’t happen all the time, anyway. My therapist’s brain tells me that it’s a perfectly rational response to a bout of nerves.

And I’ve certainly got one heck of a reason to be nervous…

As if I’m being operated by remote control, I watch my arm reach out for the shaving cream. I see my fingers lather the tuft – thicket, really – of burning ginger hair between my legs. If it’s been a long time since I shaved my legs, then I can’t even remember the last time I shaved my pubic hair…

So don’t…

But for some reason I can’t stop myself.

It’s almost as if by trimming myself like this that I’m playing into a fantasy – a fantasy that I thought I had given up on a long time ago. A time existed when I played in the dating game like every other girl. I giggled with my girlfriends as we got asked out, one by one.

I batted my eyelashes at guys in fancy bars.

I had boyfriends, more than one.

I tried every damn fetish and every damn kink, but none of them worked. Ten years, and I never came once. It took a decade without ever having an orgasm for me to realize the truth.

I’m … broken.

So I gave up on men. I gave up on sex. After all – what’s the point? When they can’t make you come, all men act the same. It punctures their ego. They treat it as an insult – like they are the one who’s suffering!

Harlan will be the same… if he even wants that from me. What makes you think he’s so interested in you, anyway?

The steam starts to subside. I inspect my freshly shaved legs, and my freshly shaved pussy. It has been years – literally – since I last saw the skin underneath my pubic hair. I feel practically embarrassed just looking at myself – as though I’m trying to play a role that isn’t me.

Who are you trying to impress? You know none of this will work, don’t you?

My reflection appears once again as the condensation drips off the mirror in the shower. I scowl at myself. For some reason, the sight sours my mood.

“There –,” I grunt. “Happy now?”

My reflection doesn’t reply. That’s probably a good thing. I’d have to cart myself off to a mental hospital if she had…

The doorbell rings.

I have a brief moment of panic as I try to figure out what to do. Do I try and throw on some sweatpants and run to the door – but risk missing the delivery, or instead just open it in my towel.

I decide to go with the second option.

It’s not exactly ladylike, but I guess sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. I grab a towel, throw it onto my dripping shoulders and sprint for the door.

The doorbell rings again. It sounds irritated this time, though I know that’s just in my head.

“Delivery,” a man calls out in a gruff voice. He raps the front door with his knuckles, and calls out again.

“All right, all right,” I mutter underneath my breath. “I’m coming…”

You wish.

I look through the peephole. The delivery guy isn’t exactly what I expected. He’s wearing a crisply tailored, dark navy suit, and carrying a small, rectangular black box. He looks more like a luxury chauffeur than a guy from FedEx. It doesn’t take an expert to figure out who sent him.

My forehead furrows. What the hell is this? But I’ve got to admit, my curiosity is piqued.

“Just leave it out there,” I call.

“Yes ma’am.”

I watch, clutching my towel to my damn body as the smartly-dressed courier crouches and places the box on the ground. He stands up, glances down at it, then up at me – or at least, where the peephole is. He chews his lip with indecision.

“It is fine,” I call out. “I’ll get it when you’re gone. I’m in a towel…”

The driver blanches visibly. His face drains of blood as he processes what I just said. I squint as I wonder what’s going through his mind.

“Yes ma’am,” he stammers. “I’m not – I wasn’t.” He shut his eyes, takes a breath and says. “I’ll be going, now.”

He practically runs back the way he came.

The corners of my mouth curl up with amusement. Does he think that Harlan and I are dating – and that I might think he wants to peep on me? As if someone like me would ever end up dating someone like Harlan Wolfe…

An irritating voice pipes up from a dark corner of my mind. It’s irritating because I know it is right.

If you don’t think there’s a chance of something happening tonight, it says. Then why did you shave down there.

I wait a couple more seconds until I’m sure the delivery driver’s absolutely gone, then I open the door. I peek around the door jamb, check left, then right, and reach out to grab the box left on my doorstep.

Even the cardboard feels luxurious. Whatever is inside, I already know is going to be expensive. The thought should excite me, but instead it sends a tremor running through my stomach.

I sit down on my couch and lay the box on my knees. I chew my lip as I try and figure out what to do with it.

“You’re getting yourself into trouble,” I mutter. “You shouldn’t be hanging around with a guy like Harlan. You’re playing checkers while he’s playing chess…”

Then again, what else can I do?

As long as I work for Wolfe Capital – at my dream job, no less – then I kind of have to do whatever the boss tells me to do. Unfortunately for me, Harlan Wolfe is definitely the boss.

So, there it is. I’m definitely not giving up my dream job. Not after I’ve worked so hard to get it. I was the youngest woman in a decade to get a psychiatry degree from Stanford University. I deal with testosterone-charged, misogynistic, asshole traders every single day.

I’m sure I can deal with one fancy dinner.

Or are those your famous last words, says a low voice mutters in the back of my brain.

I run my fingernails underneath the ribbon holding the box closed. I undo the knot, and open it up.

And gasp.

Inside, I find the single most expensive item of clothing I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s no price tag, but I don’t need one. It’s obvious. The black cocktail dress is perfect. The silk is so soft that as I run my fingers along the fibers it feels like I’m dipping my hand in warm water. The cut is slender, the design effortlessly stylish.

I wouldn’t be able to afford a dress like this in a million years.

“You can’t wear it,” I groan.

It’s true, I can’t.

I know Harlan Wolfe’s game. I clocked it the second I first laid eyes on him. He’s an alpha male – dominant. I don’t know what happened to him, or when, to make him like this – but I do know that he needs to control his environment. He needs to feel in charge – and he does it through acts like this.

I can’t wear the dress. It sends the wrong message. It tells him that he’s in control of me – and if he thinks that, then any therapy I try won’t be worth squat.

I stand up, letting my towel fall off my body. My damp hair looks a darker shade of red than normal. I can’t wear the dress – not tonight. Not to dinner.

But I can try it on, at least once. See what I would have looked like, what I could have looked like. And imagine – if only for a few seconds – that I’m the kept woman of a billionaire.

I pull the cocktail dress on – carefully – over my naked body. It fits like a glove. I don’t know how Harlan managed it, but the dress matches my measurements as though it was made for me.

Maybe it was.

I model the dress in front of the mirror in my living room. The reflection of my small, yet elegantly appointed apartment provides the backdrop for my one-woman fashion show.

I look incredible.

It’s not cocky or arrogant to admit it. This dress would make the plainest woman in New York feel like a supermodel. Even the kiss of the expensive silk against my skin makes me feel a million bucks.

I groan out loud as I pull it off.

In its place I throw on an old, worn bra, a plain set of panties and a black cocktail dress. Only mine was a hundred bucks – max – found on a dusty rack at the back of a Target downtown.

I eye myself up in the mirror one last time before I leave for the night. I meet the gaze of a freckled, pale-skinned girl staring back at me. I see a woman with curves in places she could do without, and none where she really wants them.

So I give her a pep talk.

“Just treat him like any other client, Skye, and please stop talking to yourself. That’s an order from your therapist…”

Chapter Thirty

Harlan

Fuck.

Skye Warren is devastatingly good-looking. But that isn’t the term that comes to mind the second I see her walk into the bar. What I really think when I first catch sight of her is that she looks fucking hot.

I stand up and wave. Skye notices me a second before the maître d’ approaches her, and starts walking my way. She throws me a smile. It’s nervous, but definitely genuine. You can’t fake that.

As she walks over, I remove my suit jacket and half roll-up my sleeves. I’m careful not to go too far; careful to hide the marks that lie beneath.

I take a deep breath before she arrives at the table. She’s not late, I was just half an hour early. I don’t know why, but there’s something about this girl that has me acting like I never do – acting nervous, acting like a teenage boy taking his high school crush to prom.

It ends here. I’ve got to remember who I am: Harlan fucking Wolfe. If I want Skye – and I do, from the second I laid eyes on her, I’ve wanted her – then I’m going to get her, whatever it takes. And in Skye’s case, I’ve got a funny feeling that whatever it takes will include not acting like a dominant prick.

So yeah, it’s gonna be a learning experience…

“Skye, I’m glad you came,” I smile.

“I wasn’t under the impression you left me with any other choice… Boss,” Skye says.

She shoots me another smile – except this time it really is a shot. She took aim, and she fired. I’m going to have to remember that she’s no pushover.

The verbal wound stings, but it doesn’t make me back away.

Please, sit,” I smile, gesturing at the seat opposite me. “You didn’t like the dress I sent over?”

Skye doesn’t answer. At least, not directly.

“We need to set some ground rules,” she finally says.

“I’m all ears,” I smile, studying Skye carefully. She looks nervous – yet determined. Whatever she’s about to say, it has been on her mind all night. I’m a betting man – and I would stake good money on it.

Her beauty sucks me in. I can’t look away.

Skye’s hair is a gorgeous red. It shimmers whenever it catches the light. Her eyes are a deep, yet somehow icy blue – and the freckles that dot her face lay a tempting trail to her lips.

I force myself to look away, because I’m pretty sure Skye isn’t thinking what I’m thinking.

I can’t come on too strong. Not yet. But I will.

“I need to treat you like any other patient. This doesn’t work if you’re my boss.”

“Deal,” I say. I’ll say anything to keep her sitting across from me. I know I will.

“I’m serious,” she replies. “The dress…anything like that has got to stop.”

“You didn’t like it?”

Skye squeezes her eyes shut for a second and lets out a tiny, breathy sigh. “I loved it,” she says. “It’s the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen.”

“So why didn’t you wear it?” I ask curiously.

Skye pauses, chewing her lip – and her cheeks twitch. My forehead furrows as I study her once again. It’s strange. She’s not like the other girls who try to date me – the gold diggers, the women who only want me for my wealth.

Their faces – paralyzed from the Botox – are as false as their intentions. Even without expressions, they are easy to read. They all want the same thing; a thing I’ll never give them. I’ve got too much to protect. Not just my money, but my family.

But Skye’s not like that. I can read her, too. Her face doesn’t hide a thing. It’s a wide open book. Except this book’s written in a language I can’t understand. It’s a strange contradiction.

It only makes me want her more.

“You won’t fire me, right?” she says quietly, but bravely nonetheless.

I grin, “Right.”

“If I wore that dress,” Skye begins, wringing her hands earnestly, “then what does that say about me?”

“That you appreciate high-fashion?” I grin.

Skye shoots me a look that makes me feel very small indeed. Hell, if I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed that a girl as little as her could look so fierce.

“No,” she says in a barely-concealed snarl. “It says that I’m the kind of girl who’s happy to trade her ethics for the finer things in life. It says that I can be corrupted. You can understand that, can’t you?”

I nod my head slowly.

The truth is I’m impressed. I must have almost a decade on Skye – a decade, and a twenty-billion dollar fortune. Even so, she just talked to me like she was my equal. She showed that she was willing to be the best side of herself.

“I think I do,” I say. “You know what, Skye? I think you’ll do alright. Not a lot of people stand up to me, especially not my employees.”

A strange atmosphere settles between us. It’s like we’re two wild animals sizing each other up – preparing for a fight. I guess, in a way, we are. Two animals constrained by society, fighting with our words, but doing battle over something far more precious.

A waiter arrives to take our order. “Would either of you care for a drink?”

“We’ll have a bottle of champagne. The Veuve, a ‘72, if you have it?”

The waiter inclines his head without needing to make a note of our order, utters a polite “Certainly, sir,” and quietly departs.

“So it’s a deal?” Skye says pointedly – treating the interruption as though it never happened. I like that, too. She’s persistent. She found an opening, an advantage – and she’s damn well going to press it.

I grin and stick out my hand. “It’s a deal.”

Skye reaches out with her hand and we shake. The contact is exquisite. It’s delightful. It’s like fireworks exploding in my fingertips. I hold on just a second too long – I don’t want this moment to end.

Easy, tiger.

Skye’s eyes flicker down, and I notice that my shirt sleeves have pulled up just an inch too far. My shrapnel scars are exposed, and I quickly let go of her hand and tug my shirt’s crisp white material down to hide them.

“Why don’t you start by telling me how you got those,” Skye asks softly. Her eyes are clouded now. It looks like pity to me, and I hate it.

I drag my tongue across my bottom teeth. “That’s classified,” I say. “I could tell you –.”

Skye’s eyebrow kinks upward. “But you’d have to kill me? You’re full of shit, Harlan. Or should I just stick with boss?”

Fuck me. This girl’s got some balls on her. I don’t know if it’s pity I see in her eyes, now – or a challenge.

I grin back, the awkward tension of a moment before forgotten. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Skye?”

She shrugs, takes a sip of the glass of water in front of her – and does exactly what she said she would. It turns out that maybe I don’t want to hear the truth. To hear the way that this gorgeous woman truly feels about me.

“Okay, then. You’ve got a problem with control, Mr. Wolfe –”

Mr. Wolfe. Now that hurts.

“Mr. Wolfe was my father,” I interject with a broad grin, trying to deflect.

“You’re doing it now,” Skye says. She cuts to the heart of the matter. She’s the knife, and I’m butter.

“You’re deflecting, and I don’t even know if you know you’re doing it. The dress – that was one example. You want to shape the environment around you. You want to bend it – me – and anyone else around you to your will. And if you keep going,” she shrugs sadly. “Trouble sleeping will be the least of your problems.”

The silence between us is crushing. I clench my fist, and feel adrenaline spiking in my bloodstream.

“You’re reaching, Skye,” I growl.

“Am I?” She fires back. “Am I really? Or am I shining a light on a part of your soul that you’d rather stayed hidden? Tell me – how many exits are there to this room right now? If someone attacked, which is the best escape route?”

I bite my lip, but my eyes do the same dance they’ve been doing every thirty seconds since I stepped into this restaurant. There are three entrances – the reception, the service entrance and a small door at the far end of the bar that might or might not be locked.

I lean backwards, and my chair creaks beneath me. I’m angry, now. My fight or flight reaction is in full swing. I take a deep breath, and force the tension to seep out of me. It takes a considerable effort.

But Skye made her point well. If there’s one thing I respect, it is smarts like that.

“Okay, you win,” I grimace. “We’ll play it your way. What do you want to know?”

It hurts me to back down, but with Skye I’m happy to play the long game. There’s no point falling at the first hurdle when I’ve got all the time in the world to seduce her.

If anyone’s falling on a sword here, it’s going to be her, on mine.

“I want to know where you got those scars,” Skye says. She kinks an eyebrow. And don’t tell me it’s classified…”

I run my fingers through my curly hair. My right leg is jittering now, jumping up and down. It’s restless, like it always is when I think back to how I won the scars that now mark my body.

“The Navy,” I reply simply.

Just because I’ve agreed to play Skye’s game doesn’t mean I’m going to let her win. If she wants to unravel my secrets, then she’s going to have to get her hands dirty and do it herself.

“I pegged you for ex-military the second I saw you. You all … carry yourselves the same way. But is that all you’re going to give me?” Skye frowns. “What ship?”

“No ship. I was in the SEALs. Team Six.”

Skye’s eyes widen as she processes that fact. Still, the girl’s a professional – that much is clear. She assimilates the information as though it’s no more interesting than the obituaries section in a small town newspaper.

“Okay then,” she smiles sweetly, rubbing her hands together. “We’re getting somewhere now, aren’t we? Doesn’t that feel better?”

Skye bites her lip and looks at me. I swear she knows what she’s doing because I find the way she looks right now all kinds of suggestive. I want to sweep every last piece of cutlery off this table and take her right here, right now – and damn the audience.

The waiter returns, and pours each of us a glass of champagne as we sit in silence.

“So I’ll sleep tonight?” I reply the second he’s gone. “That’s it? You’ve prodded and pried around in my head, and everything’s coming up smelling like roses?”

“It’s not that easy,” Skye sighs. A couple of tendrils of her long red hair dance in front of her eyes, and she flicks them away. “You know it’s not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come to me for help.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well –,” she says, looking pointedly at the champagne flute I’m twirling between my fingers.

“You could lay off the booze, for a start. But I’m a psychiatrist, Harlan – I don’t run a pill mill. I’m not just going to write you a prescription so you can drift off into a chemically induced sleep every night. I’m sure a man with your resources could find a hundred doctors willing to do that. I’m just not one of them.”

The meal finishes more awkwardly than it started. When it’s done, neither of us order desert. I’ve built my entire career – from the Navy to now – on the principle that if it hurts, I must be doing something right.

On that basis, then Skye’s my soul mate.

I know deep down that she’s right – about everything. I can’t cure my insomnia without dealing with whatever’s causing it – just like you can’t take an enemy stronghold without wiping out the machine gun nest guarding it.

But this meal has opened a Pandora’s Box. I can’t help but wonder whether I truly want to find out where it leads.

“We do this my way, Mister Wolfe,” Skye says as she pulls on her coat. “Or we don’t do it at all. From now on, I’ll see you in office hours. Thank you for dinner.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Skye

We meet for our first session, late, in my office.

Wolfe Capital’s enormous Wall Street headquarters is deadly quiet.

I’ve never seen the building this empty. The traders were given a thousand dollar mid-week bonus, and instructions not to be seen dead within a mile of the firm’s trading floor the second the markets closed. Traders being traders, they were only too happy to leave early. I dread to think about how drunk they are by now.

I’ve even sent Tyler home, ignoring the look of puppyish disappointment on his face. “No, you haven’t done anything wrong, Tyler – and yes, that’s everything I need for tonight…”

Most importantly, I’m dressed like a 1920s housewife – from the plain gray skirt that drops well past my knees to the formless jacket draped over my shoulders. My drab outfit is coolly calculated.

I need to reframe this whole relationship. I’ve got to stop Harlan from seeing me as a sexual object. He needs to see me as exactly what I am – his therapist, not his lover. And if accomplishing that goal takes me dressing like the nerdy kid at school, I can handle it.

I hear a knock on the door, and let Harlan in with a curt nod. My face is stone, but inside, my heart is thumping fit to burst.

“Thanks for seeing me so late,” Harlan says, flashing me a four hundred watt smile I’m coming to dread.

I say dread because every time he turns that knee-weakening beam on me, I feel like a schoolgirl with her first crush. It’s not healthy, and it sure as heck isn’t professional. And tonight’s all about appearing – being – professional.

It’s a new start.

I gesture at the patient’s couch. “Please, take a seat. Or lie down – whatever makes you more comfortable.”

Harlan winks at me. “Anything you say, ma’am,” he grins. “And I mean that… anything.”

I turn my back on him, and walk back to a chair set a few yards away from Harlan’s couch. I take the time to compose my features. “Skye is fine,” I say.

“As you wish,” Harlan says. His eyebrow twitches upward. “Skye…”

Damn.

Harlan has started as, I’d bet any money, he means to go on. He’s going to be a tough patient – adversarial, no doubt. Nothing’s going to be easy, not with a man like him. I’m worried about the challenge, and yet I can’t deny it, I’m kind of excited as well.

I take a deep breath and launch straight into my questions.

“How long since you last slept?” I ask, the name of my pen hovering over an empty notepad.

“At all or enough?”

“Why don’t you take it from the top,” I reply.

I’ve found over the course of my career that it’s best to let your patient do the talking. People hate silence. They naturally seek to fill it.

However, there is a small problem – I think Harlan knows that little trick just as well as I do. My office clock ticks like a metronome in the background as I wait for his response. We sit there in silence – a silence that doesn’t seem to bother Harlan Wolfe one little bit. I tap the nib of my pen against the notepad.

I study his face while I wait for his response, in an entirely professional capacity, of course. His hair is dark, slightly curly, and shiny with obscene health – and the odd, stray gray. His face is mostly unlined, and he doesn’t display a hint of the tiredness that I know is dragging him down.

“About a week, I guess,” Harlan says. “It all started about then.”

“What did?” I ask, probing.

“Exactly what you asked,” Harlan replies, with an amused expression on his face.

I stifle a grimace. I was right. Harlan’s sessions are going to go exactly as I imagined they would. Slowly…

“How long do you usually sleep, then?” I ask, switching up my strategy.

“About five hours, give or take.”

“That’s not much.”

“All I’ve needed since the Navy,” Harlan replies.

I nod thoughtfully.

“What about last night? How many hours did you get?”

Harlan shrugs. “Two… maybe three at a stretch. Not enough.”

“Take me through it,” I say. “Step-by-step, as though you were preparing for bed.”

Harlan looks me directly in the eye and raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t need to say a word. My cheeks redden instantly under his examination.

“How detailed do you want me to get?”

“Tell me everything,” I say. My voice sounds choked in my throat. I can’t help it. Harlan is throwing me off my game.

“I try and get to bed around eleven, I guess,” Harlan says without breaking eye contact. “I sleep naked, with the AC set to exactly 66°.”

He says that word – naked – so casually, without so much as blinking an eye. Harlan knows exactly what he’s doing, but so do I. It’s a defense mechanism.

Harlan might not view it precisely that way, but that’s what it is. I’ve seen it before – a thousand times – although I’ll give him one point for being the most attractive man to attempt it with me… But I know Harlan’s game. He’s trying to throw me off the scent of whatever is really the problem.

I know that he would do exactly the same thing in a pitch meeting with an investor, or in front of Wolfe Capital’s executive board. It’s a strategy – one that has allowed him to get to the very peak of the business world.

It is a simple, clear, but extremely powerful strategy – never let anyone in, never admit to failure, never appear vulnerable.

“Do you have nightmares …” I ask, attempting to steer the interview back on track and expose a crack in Harlan’s apparently perfect façade, “… about your time in the SEALs, or anything else.”

“Never,” Harlan replies with such immediate self-assurance that I know he’s telling the truth. “It’s not that I’m waking up all the time, Skye. I’m just not getting to sleep in the first place.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I smile.

Harlan pauses, studying my face once more. “I watched the video, you know,” he says.

I take a second to breathe. Harlan’s throwing out a hook, and I should know better than to lunge for it. But still …

“What video?”

“The video of the speech you gave to the ‘Women in Wall Street’ conference – all about traders and the high occurrence of,” he grins, “sexual dysfunctions. It got me thinking. Is that why you became a therapist, Skye? To try and fix yourself?”

Don’t engage.

Harlan continues without missing a beat. He sits up, and lazily drags his tongue across his bottom lip before speaking. “I can do it, you know Skye. I can make you come.”

I feel like he has punched me in the gut. I can’t believe Harlan can speak about sex like that, so easily. He says it as a statement, unembarrassed.

He offers me my deepest desire without blinking an eye.

“What?” I squeak.

“We made a deal, didn’t we?” Harlan grins. He leans forward, suddenly in his element. “You fix me, and I fix you.”

“I didn’t agree to anything of the sort,” I reply, slowly regaining control over my voice. “I’m here because I have to be.”

“I don’t think so,” Harlan replies in a throaty growl. “I think you want to be here, Skye, even if you won’t admit it to yourself. You could have refused to treat me. Used that conflict of interest shit to throw me off the scent. Off your scent…”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, and turn my face away from Harlan, my boss. A screen of my bright red hair falls in front of my eyes, acting as a shield. I take the time to compose my features as best I can.

“You’re wrong…”

Harlan somehow avoids rolling his eyes. “I’m sure,” he says. “But just in case I’m not, when should I pencil in your first session?” He cocks his head to one side. “And …?”

I go for the hook yet again. “… ‘And’ what?”

He shoots that burning white smile at me. “And at what temperature do you like the bedroom?”

My eyes spring wide open before I master my expression. I have to end this, now. It’s not getting either of us anywhere. This whole session has been a disaster.

“I think we’re done,” I yelp.

I walk over to my desk, doing my best to regain control of my breathing. I crouch down, open the bottom drawer and pull out a small gray notebook.

“You think?” Harlan replies. I can picture his expression: eyebrow kinked, amusement dancing across his lips. “Because I thought we were just getting started…”

“Here,” I say, walking over towards Harlan’s chair, and thrusting the notebook towards him. “Take this.”

Harlan’s eyebrow kinks further. “What is it?”

“I think you know,” I reply, my mind going to the moment I saw him reading my own journal, in this very office.

Harlan eyes the notebook suspiciously. He makes no move to accept it. “Well …what do you want me to do with it?”

I let my frustration with the way this session has gone get the better of me. “What the hell do you think?” I splutter. “Write in it!”

Harlan stands up. He’s in my space. So close he could run his hands up and down my body without stretching out an arm. So close he –

Pull yourself together.

I thrust the notebook at him, trying to duck his attentions. He accepts it easily, batting away my attempt to hide.

“Think about what I said,” Harlan growls, leaning forward and kissing my cheek. “Whenever you decide to break your dry spell, just give me a call. It’s a standing offer.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Skye

After the aborted session, I head straight for Greenwood – the traders’ favorite sports bar cum strip club. It doesn’t take an expert to figure out where the Wolfe Capital boys are hanging out. I just follow the sound of raucous whoops and cheers.

I push my way through a crowd of hangers on – mostly ludicrously attractive girls who barely look over the age of twenty-one – all squeezed into tight little cocktail dresses. Hookers and strippers, I guess.

“Look where you’re going, bitch,” one of them says to me with a judgmental sneer on her face.

I ignore her. I’ve got enough pent-up anger writhing in my belly to not really give a shit about what some jumped up gold-digger thinks about me. She gives me the stink eye as I get to where she wants to be.

“Hey, look who decided to join us,” one of the traders – a Texan named Rex – drawls. “What’re you doin’ here, Little Miss Perfect?”

I shoot Rex a deathly stare. “I need a drink.”

What kind of name is Rex, anyway? It’s a dog’s name in my book.

Rex licks his lips.

Or should I say his chops. Dogs lick their chops, don’t they?

“That feels better now, don’t it,” Rex ostentatiously slurs, slumping down on a red leather couch next to me. His arm flies out, and rests on the top of the couch – just a few inches from my bare shoulders. I turn my attention to him, but the barely-legal girls twirling their toned bodies around gleaming stripper poles are rarely out of sight.

“What does?” I say coolly, turning my gaze on the drunken trader.

“You,” he slurs again. “This,” he gestures happily out at the cavorting strippers. “Them!”

His arm starts to inch closer to my uncovered shoulders. I shoot him a killer glare, and when that doesn’t work, I double down.

“I hope you’re not doing what you I think you’re doing…”

Rex bites his lip, and turns on his best come-get-me eyes. I’m cold, and hard. He looks away quick, like frozen snow bouncing off a glacier.

“Ah guess not,” he says, shrugging. “But you cain’t blame a guy fer tryin’, can you?”

I smile. I like Rex, for all his latent misogyny and boastful braggadocio, deep down he’s got a heart of gold.

“Can’t I?” I murmur. “Say, Rex, do you ever think that your need to hit on every woman who crosses your path has something to do with your broken relationship with your mother?”

Rex nods seriously, and glances down at the tumbler of whiskey in his hand. “Ah guess so,” he says. “You know, when ya’ put it like that, it sounds kinda serious, don’t it?”

“It sure does, Rex,” I grin, reaching over and stealing the whiskey tumbler from fingers that clutch closed a second too late. “You’re a real piece of work. You should get –”

“– some counselin’?” Rex says hopefully, a delighted smile on his face. “Ya mean…in pri-vate? I could fit ya in, Princess…”

“I was going to say a mail order bride,” I fire back. “Because any woman who’s going to spend any time with you, Rex, is going to need one hell of a paycheck!”

“All I’m sayin’, Skye,” Rex throws his big, meaty hands up in the air and chuckles, “is that girl could be you…”

“Not in your wildest dreams,” I respond, grinning right back at him. “And eww, I better not be in your dreams, Rex. You hear that?”

“Hey – Ah ain’t making no promises,” Rex says. Then he squints, and his head sidles forward as he peers into the darkness on the other side of the strip club. “No shi-it,” he grins, shaking his head.

“What?” I ask, turning slowly, expecting to see some buzzed trader with his pants down his ankles.

“It’s the boss,” Rex says.

My stomach does a backflip – a spinning, Olympic-style, swan dive from the 10 m platform. Surely Rex doesn’t mean THE boss. Not Harlan?

“What –?” I choke, sending a burning surge of whiskey snorting up my nose. Tears sting my eyes.

Rex glances at me. “You okay there, darlin’,” he drawls in that broad Texas accent of his. “Maybe you should stay away from the hard stuff?”

I wipe the tears in my eyes away with the back of my hand. “Do not ‘darlin’ me,” I mutter, distracted.

My eyes trace Harlan’s path through the seedy darkness at the other end of the strip club. He looks like he’s searching for something. Someone.

Me?

“Well don’t take it personal, like,” Rex says, neatly stealing his whiskey back. “Ah’m just sayin’ maybe it would be better if you stick to something a bit weaker: a white wine spritzer, maybe?”

I ignore his patronizing tone. “Does he come out often?” I ask, keeping my eyes glued to Harlan Wolfe’s path across the room. “Drinking with you guys, I mean.”

Rex turns his own gaze on the boss, and shakes his head slowly, thoughtfully. At least, that’s how it seems to me.

“Never,” he says. “Not once in the two years that I been here, anyhow.” His glance flicks back to me.

“You don’t need to worry, dar –, I mean Skye. You work on Wall Street. Ain’t no one gonna fire you for knowin’ how to have a good time.”

“I’m not –!” I choke. “I mean, I’m not worried. Just –”

What, exactly?

My palms are sweaty, and the lie rolls off my tongue with an awkward, jagged rhythm, like a drag race on hubcaps, sparks on asphalt. My face is bright red, burning hot, and in my head it’s an illuminated sign, pointing directly at my embarrassment.

Lucky Rex is oblivious to all that. He strokes the stubble on his chin.

“Say, Skye,” he says, lowering his voice so it’s only us. “You should buy him a drank.”

My head snaps to look at him, panic in my eyes. “What!”

Rex holds his meaty palms up to placate me. “From me, I mean.” He pinches his thumb and forefinger together. “Ah’m this close, Skye, this close to the big one.”

The panic crashing my eardrums like waves on a San Diego beach subsides a little. His bonus. Rex is talking about his bonus.

“So, you buy him a drink,” I say, choking out the words. “Why should I?”

My gaze flickers, and I watch Harlan out of the corner of my eye. He has stopped at the other end of the bar. He’s wearing suit pants and thousand dollar Oxford wingtips, and an open necked white shirt. But as I squint into the darkness, I realize that he’s thrown a messy, faded dark brown leather jacket over his shoulders.

It suits him. It’s classy, without trying to be, yet somehow subtly dangerous. It makes me wonder what happened to him in the Navy. What he did. What combat he saw.

As I turn my attention back, Rex’s eyes are doing the talking. They dart, just for a second, to my chest.

A sense of outrage burns through me like a wildfire, and I latch onto it gratefully. I need something – anything – to distract me from my embarrassment, and my nervousness around Harlan. God, I’m not even ten feet away from him, and yet I’m still as tongue-tied as an awkward teenage girl.

“Oh!” I exclaim, touching my breast and leaning back. “You think it’ll come better from me, will it? Because of my –,” I raise my eyebrows, “– assets.”

Rex shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Well …when you put it like that…” he trails off. “Ferget I said anythang.”

“I need to freshen up,” I mutter.

In truth, I’ve noticed Harlan’s body rotating, his eyes searching the strip club. I know, by instinct, that he’s hunting for me. I can’t bear the thought of him turning his sights upon me right now. I can’t bear the idea that he knows my darkest secret.

I can’t fathom how he plans to fix me.

“Hey!” Rex says in a half-complaining tone of voice. “Where’re you goin’, princess? I didn’ mean it like that, honest…”

I ignore the slurring trader, averting my gaze. I’m hiding from him, but most importantly, from Harlan. I move quickly through the darkened space, suddenly aware of its tawdry, sticky smell. Is it that I don’t want to see Harlan, or that I don’t want him to find me here?

I dart down a darkened hallway, and into the women’s restrooms. Thankfully, they’re clean, and look barely used. I guess this place doesn’t get many visitors from members of the fairer sex. I splash water on my face, and try and get a grip of myself as tinny Euro pop vibrates through the restroom’s door, sounding like the rattling of a cheap drum. My chest heaves, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

The rational side of my brain is fully aware of how ridiculous this is. I’m behaving irrationally. I’m a big girl. I need to grow up and face the fear that’s bothering me.

Except…

Except… facing the fear is just not that easy. I’ve somehow attracted the attention of one of the most powerful men in New York. I can’t just hide from him forever.

Or can I?

My mind jumps on the idea, as if it’s found an opening, or an escape. It will be easier, I reason, this way. I won’t have to face my fears head on. Maybe I can just hide from them.

Forever starts now, tonight. I need to get out of this club without Harlan seeing me, and after that I need to put an end to this – this thing that’s brewing between us. I shouldn’t even have let it get this far.

I could lose my professional license for simply entering into a personal relationship with a client – let alone one who’s my boss! If anyone ever found out …

It’s not worth thinking about.

I know what I need to do now. I brush a few strands of red hair across my face, as if hoping to create a disguise, and study myself critically in the mirror.

I don’t know what I was thinking. Why would a man as devastatingly powerful and attractive as Harlan Wolfe be interested in a plain, boring girl like me? Whatever his game is, I don’t want to play it.

No. The way forward is clear. I need to get out of this club without anyone – especially Harlan – seeing, and then I need to cut him off.

For good.

I push the restroom door open, and the music slaps me in the face. It takes a second or two for my eyes to readjust to the hallway’s darkness.

“Skye.”

The voice startles me. I twist my neck searching for it. When I see its owner – the very last person I am prepared to encounter after what I just decided – I flinch. My feet are stuck to the floor. I don’t know what to do – whether to run or duck back into the restroom. In the end, I simply stand there like a deer caught in headlights.

Harlan continues as though he hasn’t noticed the storm of emotions raging on my face.

“Not the kind of place I expected to find you,” he says, leaning against the wall with his hands thrust into his pockets.

I cast my eye over his frame without being fully aware of what I’m doing. The leather jacket clings to his body – tight where it needs to be, loose where it doesn’t. His shoulders look like they’ve been chiseled out of stone, his torso thick and powerful. He looks like he could break me, like he could –

Harlan raises an eyebrow. “Skye – are you in there?”

I blink, and search desperately for my voice. When I find it, I blurt out, “what are you doing here?”

God, get a grip, already. Just excuse yourself, and then run…like hell.

“Pleased to see you, too,” Harlan replies, shooting me a funny look. “But seriously, what are you doing here? I didn’t pick you for the kind of girl who’s into the ladies,” he grins hungrily, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips.

“Not,” he pauses to lengthen my awkwardness, “that that thought fills me with anything but interest, you understand…”

“I’m not into anything,” I growl, finding a sliver of backbone. And then my tongue runs away from me. “You know that better than most. Besides… this isn’t … appropriate.”

Again, Harlan’s eyebrow curls upward, a look of amused interest filling his face. He looks like a big cat playing with helpless prey – like a tiger, a killer.

“Appropriate?” He says. Then he pushes himself away from the wall, reaching out his hand for mine as though he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. “Come with me, Skye. I want to show you something.”

I can’t resist.

Not him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

* * *

The reason for Harlan’s leather jacket becomes clear a few moments later, when my hair is streaming out underneath a motorcycle helmet. It whips against my cheeks, flapping in the breeze of the speeding bike. Manhattan’s early summer air still bites this late at night.

The engine growls beneath me, and I cling to Harlan’s tree trunk torso for dear life. New York’s lights flash past on either side, as though I’m sitting in the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon.

Harlan lifts his hand from the throttle, and the bike begins to slow. He brings it to a stop a few inches from the water lapping the side of a dock.

I climb off, pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth in a desperate attempt to moisten it – glad that I’m hidden by this helmet.

“Where are we?” I ask. My voice sounds muffled through the thick plastic visor.

Harlan removes his helmet before replying, and then ruffles his fingers through his thick, dark hair. God, he looks unbelievable when he does that. I want to jump him right here and now. He’s making me feel things that no man ever has … and he hasn’t even touched me.

Yet, I am feeling anticipation, an aching need, desire.

Or maybe that was the motorcycle, vibrating beneath me.

Sure it was.

Harlan gestures at the water when he finally replies. “The docks – I come down here when I need to think.”

I don’t know why, but when I speak, the tone that escapes my mouth is strangely intimate. “And what are you thinking right now?”

What am I doing? How did Harlan get me here without so much as a word of complaint, when a second before I saw him, I had resolved to never see him again. What is this hold that he has over me?

“You know.”

Is that Harlan’s voice, or the one inside my head, that answers?

I know. It’s both. Because I also know the reason I came here with this man. He offers me redemption – a chance to feel like a woman should. The drug that will fix whatever’s broken in my mind.

How can I resist an offer like that?

Harlan takes a pace towards me.

His gaze is hungry, his body poised. The water ripples against the dock, and traffic burbles in the distance – all the sounds that remind me that there’s a world out there, outside of this, outside of right now. But otherwise, we’re absolutely, completely, terrifyingly alone.

Harlan reaches for my hand.

His touch is fiercely hot, and he pulls me towards him, radiating fire. I go without resisting. My eyelashes cover my vision, and then there’s only darkness. I don’t even resist when his lips brush mine, lighting sparklers on my skin, nor when his palm cups my side and rests there.

Then he pulls away, leaving my lips searching for his touch, and my eyes flutter open once again.

“You’re going to fix me, Skye. I know it. I feel it,” he says, pausing to let his eyes roam my face. “Let me fix you.”

But I break away. I turn my head from Harlan’s needy gaze, terrified of what it promises, and of what it threatens to cost me. I start to walk away – to where, I don’t know – to somewhere, anywhere other than here.

“Where are you going?” He asks.

“Home,” I croak out in a my tiny voice. “I’ll find a way.”

“Wait,” he demands, his voice trembling with authority. Irrationally, I do exactly what he tells me. My feet are locked to the ground as though they are stuck in cement. “You can’t go alone. It’s not safe. My driver will take you home.”

I hear him speak a few muffled words into his phone.

“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ll walk.”

Somehow, this feels important. I need to show Harlan that I can stand on my own two feet, that I can resist both him and the path he wants to set me on.

A limousine rumbles down an entry road, and I realize with a jolt that it must’ve traced us here and waited. It’s yet another reminder that Harlan Wolfe and I are from two very different worlds.

“Then he’ll follow you,” Harlan says. “To make sure you get home safely.”

“Please, Harlan,” I whisper. “We can’t do this. Not now, not ever. Just let me go…”

But Harlan doesn’t stop, and he doesn’t give up. His voice follows me into the darkness – a promise, a threat.

“Your sessions start tomorrow, Skye,” he growls, as if he hasn’t heard me. “I hope you’re ready…”

Whatever complaint I have dies in my throat. I just keep walking, and what does that say? Is it agreement, in all but name?

Chapter Thirty-Three

Harlan

I barely manage to put a foot through the front door before a pint-sized angel slams right into my chest.

“Daddy!”

I put my hands out automatically to catch my assailant, and sweep up my favorite girl in my arms. I squeeze her tightly, pulling her up and nuzzling my nose against her velvet hair. She smells clean, of bubble bath and freshly laundered cotton sheets.

“As happy as I am to see you,” I whisper into my daughter’s ear, “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what you’re doing up so late?”

The angel shakes her head against my chest and clutches me tight.

“Poppy!”

A gray-haired woman comes barreling round the corner. Mrs. Kathy – Poppy’s nanny – blanches when she sees my face. Just as quickly, a touch of embarrassment adds color like a drop of blood to a basin of water. She throws her hands up in the air and shakes her head.

“Mr. Wolfe, I’m so sorry. I thought Poppy was asleep. The next thing I know she’s sprinting past me, and –”

“It is fine, Kathy,” I chuckle. It’s been a long day, full of expected – and somewhat less expected – stress.

I know that at her age, Poppy should be getting her beauty sleep, but there’s something irresistible about seeing her in this mood. I know I’m able to spend more time with my daughter than most fathers do – perks of the job – but still, every second I’m away from her makes my heart hurt.

“Here,” Kathy says as she walks toward me, the hem of her 1950s housewife style skirt kisses the ground. “Let me take her, you go –”

I shake my head. “Nonsense. You get on home. It’s late. Do you want me to get Stan to drive you? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Mrs. Kathy shakes her head so vigorously I start to wonder whether she thinks my innocent suggestion might cause a scandal in her neighborhood. I hide the smile that’s tickling my lips.

“No, I wouldn’t want to impose,” she says. “Besides, Jason’s waiting on me downstairs.”

I nod, composing myself as Kathy gathers her things. I know that the old nanny just told me a white lie, but I let it slide. It’s harmless enough.

Kathy’s husband has been in the hospital six months now. I know because I know everything about my employees. Especially the ones in whom I entrust my daughter’s care.

I know because it’s my job to keep Poppy safe.

I know, because the mysterious charity that started funding Jason Davies’ care isn’t so mysterious to me. Mrs. Kathy would never have come to me asking for help. She’s from a different generation. Yet I provide her husband’s care regardless.

It’s not just charity. I don’t like it when people close to me have weaknesses. Because when they have a weakness, I have a weakness. You can call me paranoid if you want.

But it’s not paranoia when they really are out to get you…

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kathy,” I smile, stroking Poppy’s hair. She nods formally, but the lines on her face relax for a second as her eyes pass over me and my daughter.

“Yes, Mr. Wolfe,” she says, before the front door clicks closed behind us.

“Now,” I say, as I put my – capital letters – DAD voice on. “Miss Wolfe, what, exactly, am I going to do about you?”

Poppy glances up at me, finally revealing her glittering hazel green eyes. She gauges my reaction for a second, trying to figure out whether I’m truly cross with her or not. This time, as usual, it’s ‘or not’.

It’s hard to stay mad at a girl as precious as my own daughter.

“Read me a bedtime story..?” She ventures.

I shake my head, incapable of concealing the smile that creases my lips. “The brass balls on you!”

“Daddy!” Poppy exclaims. “No swearing.”

I bite my lip and squint at the brown-haired girl in my arms. “Oh, that’s right…” I murmur. “I’m supposed to follow the rules, aren’t I?”

The ends of Poppy’s hair dance as she shakes her head vigorously. She smiles up at me. “Yup.”

“So don’t you think…” I start.

Poppy’s face falls as she realizes that I’ve backed her into a corner.

“…that you should follow the rules as well?”

“Yes, but –,” Poppy starts to protest. She falls short when she realizes it’s useless.

I shake my head. “No ifs, ands, or buts. Tell me, kiddo – why aren’t you in bed? I thought we had a deal?”

Poppy’s face unexpectedly lights up. I wince as I realize that it’s her turn to back me into a corner.

“We do,” she nods, her young, innocent face completely incapable of hiding her glee. “And the deal is that you tuck me into bed, not Mrs. Kathy. This is like,” she squints, drawing her face back, “the second time this week Mrs. Kathy has been here instead of you, daddy! You know she’s not the same! It’s not our deal.”

I walk toward the kitchen, carrying poppy with me. “You got me there, kiddo,” I sigh, ruffling my daughter’s hair. “You’re my daughter, all right. Nothing gets by you, does it?”

Poppy beams as all her hair whips from side to side.

A wave of guilt attacks me. Poppy is right. We do have a deal. By not spending time with my daughter this evening, I just broke it.

This thing between me and Skye – whatever it is – I’ve got to get control over it. I can’t let any woman – no matter how attractive, no matter how alluring – stand in between me and my daughter.

“What’s that, daddy?” Poppy asks after a couple moments of silence.

I blink, clear my head, and look up, refocusing my eyes. “What’s what, kiddo?”

Poppy juts her chin at the kitchen island, at the gray notebook sitting on top – the one Skye gave me.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I lie. “It’s just… a work thing.”

“What kind of work thing,” Poppy continues to ask.

“The kind of work thing I’ll tell you about tomorrow,” I say sternly, uttering my own little white lie. “Because it’s so far past your bedtime I’m wondering if I’m seeing things! Surely you’re just a figment of my imagination, aren’t you?” I wink.

I wink, but in truth I’ve dodged a bullet. I left the journal Skye gave me lying about, just tossed it onto the counter because I wasn’t prepared to deal with what it represented.

Poppy pouts, but gives in. I knew she would. She’s a good girl.

“Will you tuck me in, at least?” She says with pleading eyes. Now, how can I resist her when she asks me like that?

“Sure thing, kiddo,” I say with one last ruffle of her silken hair. “Let’s go.”

“And –”

“No bedtime story,” I growl, eyes sparkling to let her know I’m joking, as I put her down.

Poppy scampers off light-footedly, and I follow in her footsteps. As I tuck her into bed, all I think about is how her mother and I used to do this together, when Poppy was just a baby. For the first time in years, a tear burns at the corner of my eye.

Poppy frowns up at me from the darkness of her bedroom. “Everything okay, daddy?” She asks.

I close my eyes for a second, straighten my expression, and then look down at her. I need to be strong for my daughter, and in front of my daughter. I need to shelter her from all the darkness in this world. That’s a father’s only job, my only reason for living. Especially when Ashley, my one-time wife, no longer is.

“Everything is fine, kiddo.”

“Okay, daddy,” and Poppy smiles. “Hey…you know something?”

“What.”

“I’m going to be ten next week, daddy.”

I adopt a mock-surprised expression. “You, ten? No way.”

“Yes way!” Poppy protests. “I’m growing up and you can’t stop me.” She smiles, but then the expression falters on her face.

“Don’t be silly, kiddo. Of course I remember,” I grin hurriedly, assuming my daughter is disappointed because she thinks I’ve forgotten her big day is coming up. “You think I’d forget a day like that?”

“It’s not that,” Poppy mumbles, turning her face away and hiding it in a pillow.

“Then what is it?” I ask feeling a touch concerned. My daughter’s got a lot of me in her. We don’t show emotion too easily. So this … this is unusual.

“It’s just,” Poppy says into her pillow. “Mom’s not gonna be there, is she?”

A lance of sadness cuts right through me, like a burning arrow aimed straight through my heart. I let out a deep sigh. No matter how hard I try, the one thing I cannot provide for my daughter is her mother.

“Oh, Poppy,” I whisper, sitting down on her low-sunk bed. “I wish I could lie to you. I wish there was something I could say that could bring your momma back. Every single day I wish we were a family. But –”

“But you can’t,” Poppy mumbles in a low, broken voice that radiates her pain. She rolls over in bed, pulling the covers tight around her tiny neck and my heart breaks when I see her tear-stained face. “It’s alright, daddy. Thanks for tucking me in. I’ll go to bed now.”

“Poppy…” I say.

But what the hell am I supposed to say? There aren’t any right words to express how broken I still am over Ashley’s death. And there’s nothing I can do to bring her back.

Nothing.

No matter how much money I make, there’s nothing I can do to make us a family again. I can’t turn back the clock. I wasn’t there to save my wife. That’s a wound I’ll have to bear for the rest of my life.

I lean forward and embrace Poppy’s tiny frame in a bear hug. My voice has abandoned me, my brain has ossified and shattered in my head. This is all I can do to show my baby girl the she’s not alone in this world.

But it’s not enough.

“You wanted a bedtime story, kiddo?” I say. I start talking without knowing where I’m going. The very next word is alien to me, it’s like someone else has taken control of my mouth, my lungs, my brain.

“Daddy, it’s alright,” Poppy whispers. “You don’t need to.”

“But you do,” I say.

And maybe I need it, too.

“Your mom was the bravest girl I’ve ever known,” I say in a voice that’s barely more than a whisper.

Hell, it hurts to speak, but I know I have to. I have to push through the pain, because Poppy’s old enough to know what happened to her mom.

“Even –?”

“Even braver than you,” I say with a half-cough, half-laugh, grateful for the light relief. “Or maybe you’re just about as brave, Pops.”

Poppy just looks up at me from her bundle of sheets. Her eyes are trained on me – dark and sparkling from hot tears that still threaten to leak out. I talk because I need to, because I’m unloading seven years of hurt on a girl who might be strong enough to take it – but definitely needs to know.

Because, Ashley Wolfe was a hero.

And she was the best goddamn woman I’ve ever known.

“We met years ago. Before you were even a twinkle in my eye,” I whisper, ruffling Poppy’s hair. “She was a medic, did you know that?”

Poppy nods, with the look in her eyes that says, daddy, you’ve told me a thousand times. But it’s also a look that tells me she wants to hear it all over again.

“Yeah, a rifle-bearing, pack-humping, chest-thumping Marine Corps combat medic. Well, Navy actually. Heck, you don’t need to know the details, just that your mom was the kind of girl who’d follow you into a burning building with bullets flying and not even blink once.”

I pause as a wave of memory threatens to sink me. Poppy lays her hand on my arm, as if she knows. A pang of guilt overcomes me, and I wonder for the thousandth time whether I should be sharing something this heavy with a girl so young.

But I press on, because, that’s what Ashley would’ve done. Because, that’s what Ashley would have wanted me to do.

“She shipped out when you were just a baby,” I say. “What a family, eh. Your daddy, jumping out of helicopters into the sea and swimming onto beaches; your mom, running around the desert, dodging bullets and helping save Marines’ lives.”

“She did?”

I nod, and my chest clenches with the memory of receiving the folded flag that summed up my wife’s life. As if it could. She was so much more than just a scrap of cloth, no matter how sacred.

“She did. I’ve got a shoebox stuffed full of letters from the men and women whose lives she saved.”

“Can I read them?” Poppy whispers hesitantly.

My lips form to tell my daughter no – that they are full of coarse language, words I don’t ever want her saying, no matter how old she gets.

But then I relent. Because how can I hide the last piece of my dead wife’s soul from the daughter she left behind? I can’t.

“Of course, baby,” I say, “we can do that together when it’s time. You know, your mom would have been so proud of you. I know she would.”

There’s a pause, and then Poppy asks me the question I’ve been dreading since she was a baby.

“Daddy,” she murmurs in a voice that’s barely audible. “How did she die? How did mom die?”

I close my eyes and I’m taken straight back to the desert – to the smell of aviation fuel in the air, the buzz of helicopters, of trash burning in barrels and of unrelenting Middle Eastern heat. I’m taken back to the day she died, the day I heard that Ashley’s Humvee hit an IED on the way back to base.

To the day I talked my way onto a helicopter to be by her side, only to get to the base hospital to find no one there.

“She died a hero,” I say with my eyes squeezed shut – telling my daughter the truth.

And then I hear myself, hear what I’m saying – just a useless platitude. People have told me the same thing for a decade, that Ashley died a hero. They mean well, every one.

Yes, it’s true. And yet it isn’t.

Ashley Wolfe didn’t die a hero. She died a mother, and a wife – a woman who had so much more life to live, and so much more love to give. She died without ever hearing her daughter speak her first words. She died without seeing Poppy walk, or go to school for the first time.

A tear rolls down my cheek.

“She died loving you,” I say, hugging my daughter tight. “The people who killed her, they weren’t so bad, just misguided. Your mom told me off every time I said they were bad. They were just ordinary people in a horrible place. But believe me, Poppy – your mom died loving you. Don’t ever wonder about or be ashamed of that.”

I wait there until Poppy’s sad, broken breathing becomes smooth, then peaceful with sleep. Until the end, every time it hits that hitch in her chest where her breath catches on her grief, I feel the same lance of pain burn through me.

Then I pad out of her room.

This time it’s my turn for hot tears to burn their way down my cheeks. I’m a strong man. I’m a proud man. But I’m not too proud to admit that what just happened in my daughter’s bedroom cut me right to the bone.

It cut deeper than that, even.

I walk back to the kitchen and pour a tumbler of whiskey – my body acting on autopilot. I knock it back, and then pour another, shaky hands spilling droplets to either side. The alcohol burns its way down my throat. It hurts, but the pain is just a fraction of The Grief I’ve carried for the last decade.

It’s The Grief that’s rearing its ugly head once more.

Then I see it…

…The Journal.

Damn, I’m even thinking about it in capital letters.

The gray notebook sits there on my counter, fucking daring me to open it. The alcohol simmers in my veins, and I know it’s affecting my emotions, but I can’t help myself. I’m burning up, bubbling over. There’s one question I can’t keep in the dark, one question I can’t dodge.

What the hell am I doing with Skye?

I have to raise a daughter. Maybe I should swear off women for good. Or at least until Poppy turns eighteen…

I stride toward the journal, blood boiling. Somehow it’s a symbol of every pain that has been inflicted on me all these years – of losing Ashley, of raising Poppy alone.

Of everything.

I pick it up. I throw it across the room. It hits the glass walls of my penthouse suite. It slides down. It lands in a crumpled puddle on the floor.

Read that.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Skye

My legs are aching by the time I make it back to my cramped – but homey – apartment. The elevator is out – unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence – so I’m forced to trudge my way up three flights of stairs.

Just a few more steps, I reassure myself. Then you can curl up in bed and forget everything…

Instead, I’m greeted by the sight of a man slumped against my front door. His hair shines with a thin layer of grease, and his neck is cricked at an angle that is sure to leave him aching in the morning. I flinch, and let out a sigh.

The man’s body doesn’t react to the sound. In fact, the only evidence that he’s alive at all is the faint rise and fall of his chest.

“Oh, dad…”

As I groan, my head falls forward with dismay. This isn’t the first time my father has turned up here like this, and I would put money on it not being the last.

But that doesn’t make it any easier. This isn’t how family is supposed to work – parents aren’t supposed to become alcoholic wrecks. And if they do, they are sure as heck not supposed to let their kids find out.

I guess I’m not a kid any longer.

I stop just shy of the landing, one foot teasing the final step. I try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I breathe against the back of my hand, and smell the sweet mixture of rum and Coke on my breath.

“Crap,” I mutter. My mind races, a faint hint of adrenaline quickly clearing my tipsiness. I start to react – body moving on autopilot. My legs are still heavy, but I push through. I’ve been here before. I’ve lived this life a thousand times.

I cross the landing and carefully step over my dad’s prone, unconscious body. The smell of alcohol spills off his clothes in waves – acrid, burning. It grates against the inside of my nostrils. I wrinkle my nose.

My key tangles with the lock, giving off a metallic grinding sound. I wince at the sound. I can’t wake dad, not yet. He’s not a mean drunk – but I don’t want him to smell the alcohol on my breath.

It’s better that way.

I inch the door open, scarcely daring to breathe. My shoulders hunch forward, as though I’m hiding from something or someone – the man slumped beneath me. I feel like a cat burglar entering my own home.

Dad coughs, and then chokes, as his body slowly slides down my wooden front door. I look down, desperate for him not to wake up, not yet. He comes to rest against the floor. One heartbeat, another, it looks like he hasn’t awoken.

I’ve got time.

I step through the open doorway, biting down on my need to breathe. I tiptoe across the room, and turn the tap in the kitchen on – but just to a trickle.

But even that’s enough.

“Skye!” Dad shouts, as though he’s been startled out of an awful nightmare.

I spin around to see an awful, macabre spectacle playing out in the doorway to my apartment. His body jerks upward, and then his head collides with the wooden landing floorboards with a thud. He moans in pain.

“Skye,” he croaks again. His hand forms a fist, and he thumps it against the floorboards. The wood resounds like a drum. “I know you’re in there, Skye…open up. Don’t make me – ”

I get my head under the stream of running water, fill my mouth and quickly rinse my teeth. The last thing I need is for my dad to smell the alcohol on my breath. Right now he’s coming down. But if he realizes that I’ve been drinking as well, I know what’ll happen. He’ll try and cajole me into drinking with him.

I never would, of course. It’s just that I can’t stand it when he begs. He’s never less of a man – a father – than then.

“Keep it down out there, asshole,” a voice calls from somewhere else in the building, “or I’m calling the cops.”

I spring into action, strangely spurred on more by the prospect of getting a noise warning than anything else. It’s hard to invest myself too deeply in dad’s made up problems, these days. I’ve been burned way too many times to care.

“Why don’t you shut up,” my dad mumbles. Then, louder: “Skye, open up girl. It’s your daddy.”

“Dad!” I hiss as I cross my living room, biting my lip as I wonder whether to even let the man in. He’s my father – but more in body than spirit. The man he once was disappeared a long time ago.

“You’ve been drinking again, dad,” I say. My lips move through the now rote sentences. It’s hard to get too invested into what I’m saying. We’ve been down this road so many times before. “You promised me – ”

My dad looks up. From down there on the floor, he looks like a baby. His face – aged by alcohol – suddenly seems childlike.

“I let you down again, baby,” he moans, fingernails scrabbling against the wooden flooring in a desperate attempt to move him into a seated position. “I know I did. Will you let your daddy in… just this once?”

He moves slowly, reactions worn world-weary by the alcohol coursing through his system. Yet strangely he doesn’t seem too unsteady. I guess he has spent so many years pouring liquor down his throat that it doesn’t affect him like ordinary men, not anymore.

I glance up at the living room clock. Damn it. It’s already a quarter past one in the morning. I know from long, bitter experience that this night is only just beginning.

“Okay, get in here, dad,” I say. “Now!”

I try hard to bite it down, but a hint of my irritation comes out. More than a hint. And yet it seems to work. He winces, and then at least attempts to apply some kind of discipline to his expression.

“Can you give me a hand up, baby,” he whimpers, looking up at me helplessly. “My legs aren’t working like they used to.”

“That’s the drink, dad,” I grunt irritably. And yet … and yet I do it anyway. Because what the hell else am I going to do? What the hell else can any child do but help their parent?

For all his sins, despite whatever Robert Warren has done in his life, he’s still my father. And I know that I’d never be able to forgive myself for not helping him.

I reach out my hand. My dad takes it with blubbering eyes, and I pull him up to wobbly feet.

“Thanks, baby,” he grunts, sending a stream of super-heated, alcohol-laced breath crashing against my face like waves colliding with boulders on a rocky beach. “Just … just don’t look at me, okay?”

His tone is quiet, low, even ashamed.

“Why not, dad” I ask, struggling for breath as I help carry him into my apartment.

“I know what you think of me,” he says, slurring for the first time. “I know I’ve let you down.”

“You haven’t, dad,” I say, kicking the door shut behind me. It’s a lie – a white one, maybe – but a lie nonetheless. The truth is, my father has let me down – tonight, and so many other nights, and he knows it.

It might even be the guilt that’s eating him up inside – the guilt that he hides from through the haze of alcohol, or the guilt that’s driving him to drink.

“I wasn’t always like this, you know,” he says, head slumped forward. “A drink –,” hiccup, “– a drunk.”

“I know, dad,” I say.

With a grunt, I heave my father forward onto the couch. He falls in a heap, and I glance up at the clock once again. Another five minutes has passed. I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow, a complete wreck.

“I mean it,” he sniffs, looking back up at me, helpless once again. “It’s just, after your mom died – ”

“Dad, please,” I beg, cutting him off. “Don’t!”

I don’t want to hear my mom’s name. I don’t want to hear dad’s grief yet again, because it’s an unpleasant reminder of the emotions I’ve forced down, forced into the darkness, into a place I seldom venture.

It’s as if he doesn’t hear. I see a wetness glistening in his eyes, then silent tears streaming down his wrinkled, dirt-smudged face.

I look at my father – angry at what he’s become. I’m battling with an overwhelming desire to help him out of this hole he’s in, but I want to turn away. The professional inside me knows that I can’t make him overcome his problems with alcohol – he has to want to fix himself.

“She was the best woman I’ve ever known,” dad says, a whimper cracking his tone. “The most beautiful girl at prom, the smartest woman at any dinner party, the best cook, the best mother…”

“Dad – ”

He carries on, unhearing. The tears are flowing like a river now, relentlessly coursing down his cheeks, wetting the couch cushions beneath him.

“I’ll never forget the day you were born,” dad says. His voice, though weighed down with grief, seems stronger now, as if he’s taking strength from the memory. “Seeing your mom hold you in her arms was the most beautiful site any man could ask for. But now – ”

“– she’s gone,” I murmur, slumping down onto the floor and resting my back against the couch.

I can’t leave dad like this. I can’t leave him here alone, stewing in his grief.

At least, that’s the lie I tell myself – The White lie. Because the truth is that I might be every bit as broken as my father. I’m just concealing it better.

And that thought scares me more than anything.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Skye

I get into the office early. The rest of the world barely even seems to have started turning. Tyler’s not in yet, that’s for sure.

As I approach my office door, eyes still half-lidded from lack of sleep, a flash of color catches my eye. There’s a gift-wrapped box sitting on top of Tyler’s desk – black, with a knotted pink ribbon. It’s strange, out of place, and yet I almost ignore it as my legs plod onward, still weighed down by exhaustion.

Thank God I don’t.

I stop and turn.

Tyler’s a by-the-book kind of guy. Even if he could, he wouldn’t receive personal items at work. I take a couple of paces over and look down, reaching for the tag peeking out from underneath the ribbon.

It’s addressed… to me.

The card tag feels expensive. It’s a thick, heavy cream card, beautifully textured. I pluck it out, and turn it over to read.

Skye, I meant what I said last night. You’re going to fix me, and I’ll repay the favor a hundred times over. I’ll keep repaying the favor until your hips buck against my face, and you’re begging me to stop. I hope you like my gift.

Oh. My. God.

Did I just read that, or are my eyes playing tricks on me?

The little note is unsigned, but I know exactly who it’s from. I snatch the box up, being careful not to drop the tag, and hurry into my office, casting anxious looks over my shoulder. My cheeks are burning with the heat of embarrassment … but maybe also a touch of desire.

The second my office door closes behind me, the phone rings. I sprint for my desk and answer it. “Hello?”

Harlan’s voice is on the other end of the line, crystal clear. “Did you get the gift I sent you, Skye?”

“No…” I say.

I don’t know why, but my brain automatically reached for a lie. I feel like I’m playing a game of cat and mouse with Harlan, only, I’m the mouse and he’s the cat. He’s playing with me as surely as a tiger might with its prey.

“Don’t lie to me, Skye,” Harlan growls down the phone. I feel stuck on the spot, thrilled by his commanding tone of voice. And then he delivers a bombshell. “I’m watching you…”

My head snaps round. “What –?” I squeak. “Where…”

Adrenaline flows through my veins. I peek around my office, half-expecting to see my boss hiding behind a stack of books, or even the therapy couch his perfectly-toned body once rested on.

“I’m not in there with you, Skye,” Harlan whispers, his voice pitched so low that I’m forced to strain to hear his delicious, tempting tones. “Look up.”

Then it hits me. My neck springs upward, and I see the slow, flashing red light on the security camera, whose slow, lazy, metronomic movement has patrolled my office for so long I’d almost forgotten it existed.

“But – ” I croak.

“But what, Skye” Harlan asks in a whisper. “I’m watching you, Skye.”

“Sessions are supposed to be private,” I say, searching desperately for something to say, even as my brain appears to have departed me. “You can’t –.”

“I don’t care about your sessions, Skye. I won’t watch them. Just you. I’m addicted to you.”

“What are you talking about?” I whisper, staring directly up at the lens of the security camera. I noticed that it has stopped moving, and is instead focused directly on me.

It’s an unsettling feeling knowing that Harlan is watching me, yet being unable to see his face. He’s watching me with those eyes – those perfect, ice-cold, searching gray eyes.

Harlan doesn’t reply.

Not directly, anyway.

“Put it on,” he says. “I want to see you wearing it.”

He can’t possibly mean…

But he does. Of course he does. He’s Harlan fucking Wolfe – Wolfe by name, killer by nature. And I’m in his sights, I’m his prey.

A shocked, electric tingle runs up my spine.

“Harlan…” I whisper. “I can’t.”

“Can’t?” My boss growls down the phone. “Or won’t? Because those are two very different things, Skye.”

My heart beats, my thoughts – both pounding away at one hundred beats a minute. It feels like a caged animal now lives inside my chest.

“Are you recording me?” I ask.

Oh my God, if I’m asking Harlan a question like that, then I must be considering it!

“Do you want me to?” Harlan asks dangerously.

We both know that he’s already won. We both know that however much I might protest, I’m going to do exactly what he tells me. I’m his already, whether I know it or not. Because what I want – what I really want in life is worth so much more than a little embarrassment …

… especially when it’s this hot.

My chest rises and falls in ragged breaths as my mind races. My career – my life – flashes before my eyes. The rational, sensible, staid side of Skye Warren begs me not to entertain this fantasy.

But that Skye’s voice’s volume level reverberates quieter and quieter.

“Turn it off,” I whisper down the phone.

Harlan pauses for a second before replying, a pause that resounds with satisfaction. “Done,” he says. “Now, I’ve carried out my end of the bargain, Skye…”

He breaks off, daring me to argue. But I can’t – I won’t. I know exactly what he wants from me.

It’s your turn.

I close my eyes. One hand holds my phone pressed against my ear, and all I can hear is Harlan’s slow, measured breathing. The sound of his breath is completely at odds with that of mine. I hear my own panting, awkward nervousness replayed through the phone’s speakers.

Harlan just waits.

My other hand traces its way up my shirt, all the way to my neck. My index finger, almost acting on its own accord, traces a lazy circle around my neck, half one way, half the other, as if Harlan’s brain is guiding it. The touch seems to come from someone else, and sends an electric thrill running down my front.

“The cameras are off, right?” I ask, my throat cracking with nervousness.

This isn’t me.

I’ve never done anything like this, not even close! When all the girls in high school were running around getting laid in the bed of their boyfriend’s pickup truck, or else getting frisky underneath the bleachers, I was studying.

I was so sure that men couldn’t do anything for me because I couldn’t come – so what was the point – I never bothered testing the limits of what my desire could make me do.

“No, Skye,” Harlan says in a soft, chiding voice. Then he pauses for a second. “But I’m not recording. I told you that. This is just between us.”

I hold onto Harlan’s voice like it’s leading me out of the darkness.

Then I do what he wants.

My fingers hover nervously over my top button, heart thundering in my chest. Suddenly, I tug one button open, pause, then the next.

Seconds later I’m standing there, cool air conditioned air kissing my soft stomach, eyes still closed, still listening to Harlan’s slow, steady breath.

“Good girl,” Harlan says.

Good girl. If any other guy had said that to me, I’d have found it creepy, but with Harlan… what a fucking turn-on!

“Now the skirt,” Harlan says mercilessly.

“No fair,” I complain, pressing my legs together as a heat ignites inside me. “Why don’t you have to do anything?”

“I did,” Harlan chuckles as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I bought you the gift, Skye. This is my reward.”

The skirt comes off easier. I tug it down an inch at a time at first, and then step out of it, standing there self-consciously in a plain set of underwear.

It’s not my finest moment. I can only hope that the security camera isn’t too high a resolution. I’m suddenly uncomfortably aware that I’m almost naked. Maybe he likes what he sees.

Yeah, right. This is Harlan’s office. He’s the kind of man who only goes for the best of the best – whether that’s restaurants, clothes, or…

… women?

“Fuck,” Harlan growls.

He layers that one word with so much excitement, so much pure, animal lust that I know it’s not faked.

“I know I’m no supermodel –,” I say with embarrassment, cheeks reddening in an instant.

“Shut up, Skye,” Harlan half-moans. “You’re fucking gorgeous, you know that? If you don’t know that, you should. You’re the sexiest woman who’s ever stepped in this office, and that’s saying something.”

Warmth sparks inside me. I know I shouldn’t feel pride about being complemented on my body, but I do. I guess it’s a natural reaction. I’ve spent so many years being embarrassed about how I look, I think it’s only right that I also get to reap the rewards?

I think so, anyway.

I glance down at the tissue-paper lined gift box, and the outrageously sexy lingerie staring back up at me. I consider what I’m doing – and what I’m about to do – and my face burns.

“Look away,” I beg.

“No way, Skye,” Harlan laughs down the phone I’m still holding pressed against my ear. “You think I’m going to miss the best of it? The climax?”

He teases that word out – torturing me. The one thing I’ve never had, the one thing I thought I could never have. He dangles it in front of me, like bait to a fish.

I hear a ping echo down the crystal-clear phone line.

“What was that?” I whisper, desperately trying to distract Harlan away from his goal of getting me to strip completely naked on camera.

I picture Harlan’s gorgeous, chiseled features as he glances at his computer screen.

I hear a low chuckle. “You had better hurry, Skye. Your assistant just got in the elevator…”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Skye

My heart is racing. The blood pounding in my ears sounds like the rushing of the sea.

“What!” I squeak – an exclamation of fear, rather than a question.

“Hurry, Skye,” Harlan repeats, unfazed. I can only guess at the amused smile teasing his lips. “You wouldn’t want Tyler to see you like this now, would you?”

“I’m done!” I cry. “I’m done playing your games.” I crouch down, reaching for my discarded skirt and shirt.

“Skye,” Harlan says, using a voice that's a throaty mix of menace and desire, “Stop.”

I freeze, muscles locked as if they’ve been set in concrete.

“You don’t…” I say, my voice dying in my throat.

“Don’t what, Skye,” Harlan replies. “Control you?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and nod slowly. Sensible Skye is telling me that I should be embarrassed right now, or else terrified – but the truth is, I’m not. For one of very few times in my entire life, I’m completely turned on.

Harlan has me in the palm of his hand, and he knows it.

“Yes.” I whisper.

“Stand up,” he says.

I do.

“Open your eyes,” Harlan orders.

I do.

“Look up, into the camera.”

I follow Harlan’s cool, confident order to the letter.

“Good girl,” Harlan says again. A tingle runs down my spine as he says it. “I want you looking at me when you do this…”

My eyes meet the camera. The red, blinking light entrances me, but I’m uncomfortably aware of the metronomic ticking sound of my office clock that’s sounding out my demise. Tyler’s on his way up, and that means that time’s running out.

“Now hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties,” Harlan says, lowering his voice to a whisper.

The adrenaline running through my body spikes yet again and my knees go wobbly. I sway on the spot, but do as I’m ordered. My hands move quickly – aware that I could be discovered at any moment, my movements are jerky and awkward.

“Slow down,” Harlan commands, taking delicious satisfaction in my discomfort. “I want to savor you, Skye.”

There’s something unbearably sexy about what’s happening to me. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I want a man to bend me over and have his way with me, right now.

And not just any man – Harlan Wolfe. He’s the kind of man I thought I could never have, the kind of man I never knew I wanted.

But right now, he’s the man I need.

And I do as he orders.

My mind flashes back to the night before, in that high-end Manhattan strip club. Suddenly I realize that I’m that girl. Right now, I’m the stripper, and just like last night, when every pair of male eyes were turned in the direction of the stripper’s pale, alluring flesh, right now, Harlan only has eyes for me.

What a fucking turn-on.

“Do you think I’m sexy?” I ask.

My voice is halting – not yet confident in my newfound profession.

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, Skye,” Harlan replies down the phone, his voice hoarse with desire. It’s as good a lie detector as I’ll ever need.

“That’s not what I asked,” I reply, digging courage from somewhere. It surges through me, giving me a new lease on life, and a strength I didn’t know I possessed.

“Sexy, then” Harlan inquires, dragging out the question in more delicious torture.

Then, in an aside, “The elevator’s moving, now, Skye. He won’t be long.”

I feel the danger of discovery in yet more adrenaline streaming into my body. And yet for some reason, this time I refuse to be dissuaded. Harlan will answer me, no matter the consequences.

“I’m not moving another inch,” I threaten, toying with the waistband of the panties, biting my lip and staring directly into the camera, “until you answer me, Harlan.”

My billionaire boss groans down the line. “Jesus, Skye, we need to go to Vegas. We’d make a killing together. With your poker face and my –”

“The clock’s ticking,” I say firmly, cutting him off.

“You already know the answer,” Harlan says, his voice quickening with desire. It sounds hoarse and gruff, laced with adrenaline just like mine. It’s how I imagine he would have spoken years ago, in combat, barking orders into his radio.

“But I can tell you if you want,” he continues. “I want to fuck you, Skye. Give me the word and I’ll have Tyler hold your diary all day. I’ll fuck you right there in your office, against the glass. I’ll fuck you with the whole world watching, marking my territory if that’s what you want.

“Is it?”

The question echoes in my head.

Is it?

I reply simply. “Thank you.”

And then – satisfied – I give Harlan what he wants. Biting my lip and staring up at the camera, I shoot him the sultriest gaze I can muster. It’s a look that encapsulates a decade of frustration and desire and every obstacle that’s stood in my way.

I drag my panties down until I can’t tug at them an inch more.

They fall around my ankles, and then I stand there – in front of him – wishing even for a small fuzz of fiery hair as a barrier between my nakedness and Harlan’s greedy gaze. But that’s gone already. There’s nothing left to hide me.

“Jesus, Skye,” Harlan groans for the tenth time. He momentarily seems to lose control of his tongue, but not for long.

“Step out of them,” he says. “And take off your bra. I want to see you wearing my gift.”

The rush of blood to my head from exultation – of my nakedness, my boldness – almost threatens to overcome me. But I don’t let it. I remember that the clock’s ticking. And there’s no way that I’m going to let a decade’s hard work to get to where I am fly out the window in one morning.

I reach around my back, and unclip my bra strap in one quick, practiced movement. It loosens, letting my breasts sinks forward an inch, and I jerk my right shoulder forward, then my left, to free up the bra straps. They topple off and hang loose around my arms.

“I wish you’d let me record this,” Harlan whispers. “But there’s no need. I’ll be replaying this in my mind all day.”

That comment – a pure, untainted honesty – sends a shiver running through me. I know it’s true. The way Harlan spoke those words – there’s no way he could be telling a lie.

For the first time in my life, I feel attractive, I feel wanted.

And I feel horny.

I’m half-tempted to take Harlan up on his offer. Maybe I don’t care about the world finding out that I can be a secret slut. Maybe sexual satisfaction is worth paying that price?

“Put it on,” Harlan says, the tempo of his voice picking up.

I crouch down, and pluck the black lace panties from inside the gift box. They are gossamer thin – more string and lace than anything else. I step into them, and slowly – deliberately – pull them up my thighs.

Next I put on the bra. It’s a man’s idea of what a bra should be – all lace and no support. But I can tell from Harlan’s labored breathing that it’s having the effect he desired.

And I’m becoming the woman he desires.

I fasten the clasp, juggling the cell phone in the crook of my neck.

“There,” I whisper coyly into the phone. “Is that what you wanted to see?”

There’s a long pause during which – I imagine, in full, luxurious detail – Harlan’s forced to readjust his pants.

“No,” he replies, dealing me a blow that he quickly salves. “It’s so much more. But…”

“But what?” I reply, a touch of anxiety infecting my voice. I wince, hating the way I sound.

“But you better get dressed, Skye,” Harlan laughs, “Because Tyler’s coming down the corridor.”

Shit, Tyler…

I hear a click as Harlan hangs up the phone. For a second I just stand there, stunned that he’s abandoned me after putting me in this situation. But I don’t have time to reflect, or to feel irritation.

Bastard.

I unfreeze myself, drop the phone, and dive for my discarded clothing. I step into my skirt, wriggling and squirming as I pull it up my body and fasten it at my waist. Then it’s the shirt’s turn. I throw it onto my shoulders messily, do the buttons up in a hurry – just hoping they are in the right order – and desperately tuck it in.

I hear Tyler’s footsteps outside, now. I know he’s going to do what he does every morning – poke his head around my door and ask me if I need anything. In a panic, I kick at the discarded underwear and the gift wrapped box, hiding them underneath the nearby treatment couch.

And not a moment too soon. I hear a click at the door and turn away, pretending to focus on something on my desk as I glance down my front to see if I look presentable.

Barely.

“Hey, boss?” Tyler’s soft voice asks. “You need a coffee?”

“I’m fine, Tyler,” I snap, more irritably than I intend … my heart still racing from the events of the last few minutes. I soften it. “Come back in a few minutes, okay?”

“Sure thing, Skye,” Tyler replies, sounding chastened.

“Oh, and Tyler?”

“Yes, boss?”

“Don’t open my mail for a while, okay?”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Harlan

I prowl the hallways like a caged animal, like the wolf I am.

The last eight hours have been torture. Ever since I saw – made – Skye undress in her office this morning, my cock has been ready to explode. I don’t know what it is about her – perhaps her fiery red hair, or those stunning, sultry blue eyes that freeze my soul every time she looks at me.

Whatever it is, it’s driving me insane. I need her.

More importantly, I need to fuck her.

I storm through the hallways of my hedge fund’s office building. Employees dance out of my way when they look up and see the expression on my face. I’m a man on a mission, and no prick’s going to get in my way.

Then I see Skye. My heart does a fucking backflip.

I turn the last corner before her office, see her assistant’s empty desk; see the goddess herself glancing down at the screen of her smart phone. She looks like a damn oil painting, or a modernist sculpture, alive with life and color.

And perhaps, even, a confidence I didn’t see in her a few days ago.

I walk towards her with purpose. At the last second before I reach her, Skye looks up, and she flinches at the sight of me.

“Where are you going?” I ask, taking a step forward so that I invade Skye’s personal space. I don’t need to do it, but I want to. I want Skye to understand that with her, it’s not a choice – it’s a need. I’m a man who gets what I want, and I’ve already waited too long to claim this woman.

Skye flicks her hair back, and seems to take a deep breath before she replies.

“I’ve got a spin class,” she says, in a voice that’s almost daring me to argue. So I do.

“Cancel it,” I growl. “I’ve got a better idea.”

Skye doesn’t agree straight away, but then again – she doesn’t argue either. The look on her face is pensive, almost as though she’s considering it, but caught between two minds.

“I can’t,” she finally says.

But I barely hear her. I can’t help but drink in her perfect, sculpted features. The way her burning red hair glimmers and shines as she tosses her head, or those eyes, those eyes I can’t ignore.

“Why are you staring?”

I bite my lip, take another step forward and place my lips no more than half an inch from Skye’s ear. I’m so close to her skin that my breath sways strands of her hair like a storm swaying the canopy in the jungle. Skye shivers.

“I’m wondering what you look like underneath that skirt, Skye,” I say.

I trace a finger down the side of her torso, and make a fist with satisfaction as I see the breath catches in her lungs. Skye ducks her head away from my closeness, but it’s a half-hearted reaction. She lingers before pulling away, then gestures at a security camera just above her office door.

“Don’t you already know?” She says, her voice laced with pluck.

Why does she keep resisting? Why won’t she give in to what we both know she wants? She’s making this more than a game for me – it’s a competition, and I’m playing to win.

“Why are you here?” Skye asks.

“You know that,” I say flatly, “to have you.”

I step forward with purpose, grabbing Skye’s hips. Her eyes widen as she realizes what I’m about to do. I pull her towards me, pressing my body against hers, pressing her close enough that she can’t help but feel the hardness she’s inflicted on me all fucking day.

Then I kiss her.

I kiss her like she’s the only girl I’ve ever seen, like she’s the last girl left on earth. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the only girl on this planet for me. If I had to repopulate the world with her, I’d do it with pride.

My tongue grazes Skye’s bottom lip, prying its way in. I bite her bottom lip and growl with satisfaction as Skye presses her body against mine. A little cry of delight escapes her lips.

“Someone could be watching,” she whispers, pulling away from my touch and glancing nervously up at the security camera above us. I know she wants this, I know she wants me, her body is vibrating like a taut guitar string after a long solo.

Yet, still she resists me.

“Let them watch,” I growl, driven on by my desire to have this girl, to possess her. “They can watch all they want, but they know I’m the boss. If word got out, I’d ruin them. I’d do anything to protect you, Skye. You had better believe that.”

I push her against her office door, and then push it closed in my desire to have her.

This time, as if swayed by the force of my personality knocking her defenses over like a tidal wave, Skye doesn’t resist.

All I hear is the hurried, ragged panting of her breath. She kisses me back when my lips touch hers, but it’s almost as though she’s overcome as my hands roam her body freely, as if she doesn’t know what to do.

And then, like being pummeled by a champion boxer, it hits me.

Skye doesn’t know what to do. Of course she doesn’t. She’s not an expert in this particular field of human emotion– even if she is in every other.

“Let me lead,” I whisper.

Skye looks up at me mutely. The sight of those glittering blue eyes chills me. In that one, tiny motion, this, gorgeous woman has placed all of her trust in me. It’s a heavy, terrifying – but exhilarating – responsibility.

She might not be a virgin, but she’s the next best thing. I’m going to give her the orgasm she’s never had before. And I’m going to make it everything she’s been missing all these years.

“Okay,” Skye says, wetting her lower lip. “I think… I think I’m ready.”

I have Permission.

Skye’s statement kicks me into overdrive. I’ve been building up to this all day. I’m so goddamn horny I feel like I might explode at any second.

I take the lead, moving Skye’s body like we’re ballroom dancing. I press her forward, loop one leg around hers as she steps back, and kick it out, then cradle her weight until I lower her – unresisting – against her very own treatment couch.

She stares up at me with a look I can scarcely describe. It’s a strange, intoxicating mixture of hope, trepidation and overpowering desire.

“I want to see you again,” I say. “All of you.”

Skye nods. This time, she starts to undress without me needing to command it. She looks almost in a trance as she unbuttons her shirt, and the tiny, lacy bra I watched her put on this morning comes into view.

My cock jumps at the sight of it. I’m forced to close my eyes for a second to recover. God, her pale skin is the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. I want to kiss those freckles, scrape my fingernails down them until the tender red marks on her skin join up like a spider’s web.

“Now the skirt,” I say. But it’s not an order, not a question so much as my hopes becoming sound.

As Skye moves, her shirt falls from her shoulders and lies around her body, exposing her naked skin and the barely-there bra that decorates her breasts more than covers them.

Just the way I wanted it.

“You’re goddamn beautiful, Skye,” I say, not bothering to lower my voice. My desire – the desire tenting my pants – gives it away anyway. “The sexiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Skye says, a pang of anxiety tightening her voice. Her fingers pause as they undo her skirt.

“I’m not lying,” I say, layering my voice with rough honesty. I glance down at the balls between my legs. “There’s the proof.”

Skye’s eyes widen, and I choose that moment to take over. I kneel down in front of her, never looking away from those gorgeous blue eyes, as I undo her skirt, and pull the offending material down her perfect pale thighs.

It’s difficult to restrain myself as a pale sea of her flesh reveals itself. I could take her right here, right now. I could undo my belt, flip Skye over, and have my way with her. And I know that by the end, she would be begging me not to stop.

But I won’t.

I’ve got something more… delicate in mind.

I take a deep breath as I stare at her – almost – naked body. Skye follows my gaze, and then looks down at her bra. She makes a move – almost as if she’s getting ready to undo it.

I shake my head. “Don’t,” I say. “I like the way it looks on you.”

Skye nods, slowly, looking entranced by what I’m about to do.

She’s right to be.

I reach forward, and slowly tug the black lace panties down Skye’s legs. I leave them around her ankles, just resting there, tickling the skin.

Skye gasps as the cool air of her office kisses her pussy. She squeezes her eyes shut, almost as if she’s embarrassed by what I’m seeing.

“Don’t be,” I say, offering no explanation. Then I lean forward, scrape my fingernails down her thigh, push her legs apart and kiss her in her most sensitive spot.

Now Skye really gasps.

I can’t help myself any longer. I push Skye’s legs as wide apart as they will go, and then I dive in. My tongue drops to her slit, and I lick it from bottom to top. Skye moans and her head drops back, but I don’t stop. This is just the start of the delights I have planned for this perfect woman.

“By the time I’m done with you, Skye,” I growl, offering a running commentary. “You’re not going to know what week it is, let alone the day.”

Skye moans under my renewed attention, then – from somewhere – summons the strength to look at me. Her voice is broken from panting pleasure. “I don’t want to know the year,” she says.

Challenge accepted.

I stroke my index finger down Skye’s slit, marveling at how wet she is. If I didn’t know that she’s never been sent over the edge before, I wouldn’t have believed it. The way she’s responding to my body, it’s like she’s more attuned to her own pleasure than any girl I’ve ever known.

My finger enters Skye’s pussy, and I bury it to the knuckle. Skye moans and I know that by now she’s lost in her own perfect blackness.

I rest my free hand on Skye’s hip, and put my tongue to work, nibbling and lapping and sucking at her most sensitive spot.

I feel the way she bucks underneath me, riding the pleasure. I write the alphabet with my tongue, concentrating, and then – like I’m playing a musical instrument – I hone in on that one, pure note.

“Oh my God,” Skye chokes, “Harlan –!”

I go for as long as I can, until my jaw cramps with exhaustion, and Skye’s body is decorated with a sheen of sweat.

Skye bucks her hips forward, and presses her slit against my mouth, as if begging me, daring me to give her the orgasm she’s so desperate for. I try, I try harder than I ever have, I try until Skye’s fingernails leave deep scores on my scalp.

But nothing works.

Slowly, Skye’s body succumbs to exhaustion. I want to cry out, to beg her not to stop – to force her to keep going, to give herself in to the waves of pleasure I’m throwing her way.

But she’s exhausted, spent. Her muscles are screaming out in protest, her body slick with sweat.

You were so damn close!

“Harlan,” Skye whispers, as she digs her fingers through my hair and drags me up her body so I can kiss her roughly on the mouth. “That was… incredible,” she says, shaking her head with amazement. “I didn’t know it could feel that good!”

“I’m not done,” I say. I’m determined to tip Skye over, no matter what it takes. It’s like my own personal Everest.

Skye grins, an amused smile tickling her lips. She leans forward and kisses me once again, and her intoxicating smell mixes with the taste of her juices.

“Yes. Yes you are,” she says softly, “for tonight, anyway.”

I’m smoldering with disappointment. I’d really – truly – thought that tonight was the night that I was going to be the answer to Skye’s wildest dreams.

Yet I failed.

Skye shakes her head, almost as though she’s reading my mind.

“No, Harlan,” she says softly. “You took me closer than any man has. You’re going to be the one to give me an orgasm, I know it. I just wasn’t quite ready. Not tonight.”

I tip my head back and groan. In the excitement of thinking I was about to give Skye the fireworks she deserves, I forgot how horny I was. My cock feels like a volcano, ready to blow.

Skye notices. She glances down at the bulge in my pants – almost nervously, as if she’s worried what she might find.

“Don’t tempt me,” I growl, sighing heavily and pulling away. “Tomorrow it is. But I’ll promise you one thing, Skye – I’m not coming until you are.”

I mean it. I’m not going to allow myself to orgasm – not until I find a way for Skye to share in the pleasure.

Which means I’ve got a problem. A really big fucking problem.

Because if there’s one thing I don’t know how to handle, it’s denying myself anything. At all.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Skye

I can’t take my mind off of what happened yesterday. In one night – just a few minutes, really – Harlan took me closer to that elusive, long-promised, orgasm than any man ever has. For the first time in a long time, he’s got me believing that I really could experience that kind of nirvana.

I just hope that it’s not a false dawn. I don’t know if I would be able to take crashing back to reality after Harlan has built me up this far.

“Down, girl,” I mutter to myself, clearing my head. I realize that I’ve been in the office an hour already, and all I’ve done is stare blankly into space contemplating what happened in this very room just a few hours ago.

Heck, I’ve got goose bumps on my skin just thinking about it.

The things Harlan did with his tongue…

I didn’t know they were possible. I didn’t know a man could make me feel that way, especially when all the attentions I’ve, uh, administered to myself have failed…

… Over and over…

… And over again …

No matter what toy I tried…

But Harlan was good – unbelievably good. No man has ever pleased me like he did last night. It’s almost like someone trained him in the dark arts of going down on a woman.

Maybe he learned it while in the SEALs?

I picture a room full of hard, unshaved men sitting behind tiny school desks. Their faces are painted with dark camouflage paint, their bodies dripping wet from a long swim. Rifles lean against the walls, and the odd hand grenade spins lazily on the floor.

Looking closely, every single SEAL is waggling their tongue in the air, performing complicated maneuvers with the pink organ – one second spelling an imaginary alphabet, the next performing long, lazy strokes on an imaginary clitoris.

I snort, almost knocking a cup of coffee on my desk over in the process. A second later, I’m consumed by a fit of uncontrollable giggles. I can’t control either them or myself. I collapse forward against my desk, chest heaving as I try to hold back the laughter.

My office door clicks open, and Tyler anxiously pokes his head around.

“Is everything all right, Skye?” He asks.

“Everything’s –,” I snort, “fine, Tyler. Just something I… read.”

My assistant frowns and squints at me, as if he thinks I’ve gone crazy.

In a way, I guess I have. I remember reading once in med school that in the olden days, doctors used to coax their female patients to orgasm after diagnosing them with “hysteria”. Hell, that was why the vibrator was invented…

Maybe they were right… maybe there really is only so long a woman can go without experiencing that kind of pleasure before they “lose it” and become “hysterical”.

But I don’t need a dainty, white-coated doctor. I’ve got my Navy SEAL.

He’s not your anything, Skye. But if he can prescribe you an orgasm then, girl, take him and run!

Besides, I’d bet any money that doctors back then were simply taking advantage of their patients…

“Skye?” Tyler questions, looking yet more concerned.

“Sorry, I was in my own world,” I mutter, mastering my face. “Did you say something?”

“You didn’t hear? I got –,” he pauses, as though he’s confused. “I got a strange message from Mr. Wolfe’s office.”

My ears prick up. “Mr. Wolfe?” I say, pretending as though I’m surprised. “What does he want with me?”

Tyler shrugs. “His assistant said something about expanding your sessions with the traders? I guess he wants to discuss that. You want me to come with you to take notes?”

The expression on Tyler’s face suggests that there’s anywhere he would rather be. I don’t blame him. If I hadn’t had Harlan’s face between my legs last night, I would be as wary as him about an unexpected summons from the CEOs office.

But I did have his head between my legs… and it felt damn good.

I flush, realizing that Tyler’s still staring at me questioningly, and my cheeks burn with hidden embarrassment.

“Wait,” I say, replaying Tyler’s statement in my head. “Where am I going?”

Tyler shrugs for a second time. “No idea. I just got told there’s a car waiting for you downstairs.”

My mind goes into overdrive. This is strange. I thought Harlan wanted to keep this thing between us a secret – and yet he may as well be broadcasting this affair to the entire world!

“Um,” I stammer, buying time to think.

I picture what Harlan plans to do to me – and maybe me to him – wherever we’re going. There’s no way I can expose Tyler to a scene like that…

“You know what, Tyler, you stay here. I’ll ring you if I need anything. How about we go with that plan?”

Tyler nods hurriedly, visibly relaxing, and returns to his desk. I think fast, realizing that if the car’s waiting for me, then I don’t have long.

I grab my laptop case, throw a couple of bits and bobs inside it, and then grab Harlan’s file from the cabinet.

I open it up, noticing that it’s still pretty bare. The things I don’t know about my boss – and lover? – outnumber the things I do know by a thousand fold.

I make a note of his military service, and remind myself to get to the bottom of what happened to him out there. The more I think about it, the more I’ve decided that whatever he experienced shaped his personality – his ambition, and his overwhelming need for dominance and control.

I wave goodbye to Tyler, plunge down Wolfe Capital’s skyscraper in the elevator at stomach-turning speed, and walk out of the lobby and into a raucous Manhattan street. The smell of burnt fuel and sizzling hot dogs fills the air.

I don’t even wait a minute before a smartly dressed driver – the man who delivered the thousand-dollar cocktail dress to me before my first date with Harlan – catches my eye.

“Miss Warren?” He says hurriedly, his leather soles clicking on the sidewalk as he approaches me.

“That’s me,” I smile, hiding a broader one as I realize the man’s face reddening slightly. I wonder if he’s remembering me telling him I was only wearing a towel the first time we “met”.

“We better hurry,” the driver says, flushing. I think he knows what I’m thinking… “The boss doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

* * *

The limousine winds its way out of the city, and pulls up outside a private airfield just north of Manhattan. For some reason, I get a slightly uneasy feeling when my eyes pass across a sign that reads: “Teterboro Airport”.

I wind down the privacy divider – feeling a thrill despite my concern. This is the life! I pull up short before starting to talk, realizing I don’t know who I’m actually talking to.

“Um, sorry – I didn’t catch your name.” I say.

“Stan,” he replies, glancing up at the rearview mirror. “How can I help you, Miss Warren?”

“Where am I going, Stan?” I ask, raising my voice slightly to drown out the engine noise from a private jet taking off overhead. “No one told me I was going to be taking a plane ride today. And call me Skye.”

Stan’s shoulders jerk up slightly.

“No idea, Miss –, I mean, Skye. I just go where I’m told.”

The limousine rocks like a white water raft as it passes over a speed bump, and Stan gently maneuvers the fancy executive car past a couple of security bollards. I drum my foot anxiously against the richly carpeted foot well, and peer out of the windows into a world I never thought I would join.

Private jets – mostly made by Gulfstream – I think, not that I know my ass from my elbow when it comes to fancy planes – are laid up diagonally, parked almost wing to wing. Yet more noses peek out of gray metal hangers. As little as I know, it’s obvious there must be hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of planes here – probably more.

Stan rolls down his driver-side window, shows his credentials, and we’re let out onto the runway itself – or at least, a feeder lane. He drives confidently, as if he’s traveled this path hundreds of times before.

I begin to wonder whether I’m the first woman that Harlan Wolfe has treated like this, and decide I don’t want to know the answer…

“This is it, Skye,” he says, slowing and jerking his head at a private jet set apart from the rest. It’s slightly longer, as well – and a gold trim decorates the wings. “That’s Mr. Wolfe’s plane. One of them, anyway.”

“How many does he have?” I squeak.

“More than I have cars, that’s for sure,” Stan grunts. He spins the limousine, so that my passenger side almost kisses the waiting jet’s steps, and slows to a halt. The car’s engine cough’s and dies, and in a flash Stan has already exited his door, making for mine.

“I can do it –”

Myself, I say in my head as Stan gently pulls my door open and picks up my case. It’s slowly beginning to dawn on me that I’ve entered a completely different universe – a universe where uniformed men drive me around and apparently one in which I fly on private planes!

“What do I do now?” I asked once I’m standing on the asphalt. I feel completely out of place.

Stan jerks his head up the steps. “After you, Skye,” he says, casting an anxious look into the jet’s open doorway. He almost seems to choke when he says my name – as if he’s worried someone might note down his informality.

I climb the steps with leaden legs. It doesn’t feel right, somehow, and yet here I am anyway. A stewardess appears immediately, as if she was waiting for the moment, and greets me with a smile.

Stan follows close behind and sets my laptop bag down. It’s instantly spirited away. He turns to leave.

“Stan! Wait…” I stammer.

“Ma’am?” he replies with a questioning frown. “Anything I can do to help?”

I let his return to formality slide. I realize that he’s probably just as uncomfortable with this situation as I am. His job was to drive me somewhere, not counsel me about my issues!

“It doesn’t matter… I half say out loud, half-whisper. “Thanks for the ride.”

Stan inclines his head and departs.

What now? I wonder.

I don’t have to wait long. After just a couple of minutes, the unmistakable clamor of rotor noise washes out over the tiny airport. I don’t pay it any attention at first, but it grows louder and louder, until I’m forced to search out the source.

I peer out of one of the cabin windows, and almost choke with surprise. A huge helicopter – I couldn’t say what brand – slows to a hover just thirty yards away from the private jet I’m sitting on. The Wolfe Capital branding makes it obvious who the occupant is.

“You, Skye,” I mutter – vocalizing my nervousness, “are in way over your head.”

The helicopter sets down, kissing the asphalt skillfully without even making a bump. A second later, Harlan almost jumps out, a perfectly tailored gray suit hugging his frame as though – as I’m sure it was – it was made for him. A man follows behind him with a couple of suitcases.

Suitcases! Where the hell am I going?

And, I hope he packed something for me…

“Skye!” Harlan exclaims after he’s climbed the stairs. He spreads his arms wide, and his gray eyes glitter on that perfectly chiseled face. He seems – if it’s possible – even more confident than the last time I saw him. “You made it…”

My cheeks burn as I remember exactly when that was…

“I wasn’t under the impression,” I mutter. “That I had a choice…”

“You always have a choice, Skye.” Harlan smiles mischievously. I think – and this is my therapist’s voice talking – that Harlan Wolfe knows exactly what he’s doing to me. He’s taken me here to throw me off balance.

And it’s working.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“It’s a secret,” Harlan grins back. “But trust me – you’re going to love it.”

“I have patients, Harlan,” I say, purposefully injecting a little bit of bitchiness into my voice. In truth, it’s hard to stay angry at a man like Harlan. He has a way of ingratiating himself wherever he goes and whoever he sees. And it’s working on me…

But regardless, I need to let him know that I’m not the kind of woman who lets just anyone push her around.

Harlan walks toward me, and behind him I see the stewardess stowing his cases and closing the private jet’s door, dragging the stairs in first. Harlan lowers his voice.

“Have you ever had sex at 30,000 feet,” he asks, purposefully glancing behind him to make sure the stewardess didn’t hear – or maybe to find out whether she did.

I put my foot down. “I’m not sleeping with you, Harlan.”

Harlan’s eyebrow jumps. “No?”

I shake my head grumpily. “No. In fact…” I pause, stalling for time. “In fact we’re going to have a session. What do you think of that?”

Harlan takes my coldness in his stride.

He shrugs.

Charmingly.

With his suit ruffled from the ride in the helicopter, and his hair wind swept from the road to wash, he looks startlingly like a British prince. God, it’s going to be hard to resist him if he comes on to me. A girl’s only got so much self-control…

“Well that’s why you’re here, of course,” he smiles.

“It… Is?”

“Of course, we can’t exactly do my sessions at the office.”

“Why is that?” I ask – now on the back foot. I wonder if it’s accidental, or whether Harlan has skillfully – and intentionally – maneuvered the conversation in this direction.

Harlan spreads his hands wide, takes a step forward and slumps onto an enormous armchair opposite me. “I run a multi-billion-dollar corporation, Skye,” he says as though it’s the most obvious point in the world.

“The second word gets out that I’m in –,” he pauses, as if he’s loath to admit what this is, even to himself – “Therapy, the share price will drop a hundred points. The smart money will get out quick, and the dumb money will follow close behind.”

“But that’s ridiculous!” I protest. “And besides – not everything is about money…”

Harlan grins. “I don’t care about the money. I’ve made more than I could ever spend.” He pats the seat beneath him. “This baby costs me twenty thousand dollars per hour to fly – and that’s just the fuel. But I make fifty thousand bucks an hour just having my cash sitting in the bank. So – ”

My mouth drops open so wide a fly could buzz its way in. I close it sharply, breathing out as I realize what point Harlan is trying to make.

“Even if you never worked again, you could fly this plane forever without running out of money… without even spending the interest!”

Harlan nods, seemingly pleased. “That’s it exactly. These days money is just about keeping score.”

“So why do you bother?” I ask, stumped. “Why not just take off,” I say as the jet’s engines whine behind us, “and spend the rest of your life in some island in the Caribbean?”

Harlan frowns, and states “because Wolfe Capital is my baby, of course.”

I lean back into my seat and study Harlan’s face. I don’t think he’s lying to me. For all his love of flash motorbikes, private planes and expensive meals, I think he is telling the truth. The money really doesn’t matter to him. Of course, what the money can buy is another matter entirely…

But it makes me think. If it’s not the money, then what is it? Why all the bother? There’s something here that doesn’t make sense, and I’m determined to find out what it is.

“How did you sleep last night?” I ask.

“Like a baby,” Harlan says quickly – too quickly for it to be true.

“So, you were up every forty minutes needing the bathroom?” I ask archly.

Harlan’s eyebrows dart up for a second. “Okay, you got me. I slept like shit. You want to know why?”

I wince, realizing that my laptop case – and notebook – is out of reach. I think about calling the stewardess, but decided against it. If Harlan’s on the verge of opening up to me, than the last thing I want is to interrupt him.

And anyway, Harlan Wolfe doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who will respond well if I make the treatment environment too clinical. He’ll just shut down, and that’s the last thing I want. I decide to play the game on his terms.

“Shoot,” I say.

“I was up all night thinking about you, Skye,” Harlan growls, raking his eyes across my body. His tongue flicks out and wets his lips. “About the way you looked with your legs spread. About how much I want to – ”

“Don’t say it,” I whisper, my voice choked. I know what was about to come out of Harlan’s mouth. “Fuck you.” I hear the words echo in my head regardless. I picture Harlan – naked – standing in front of me.

“Why not, Skye,” Harlan says, his voice softer now. “Why hold back when you know you want it?”

“Because I don’t want you…” I whisper. “Not like this.”

Harlan’s forehead furrows. For the first time he looks truly stumped. “Like this?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Harlan

The silence between Skye and me grows thick and heavy with tension. Unfortunately, for both of us, this time it’s not sexual tension. The plane’s engines grow louder and louder, and the jet begins to coast down the runway.

“What you mean, like this?” I repeat.

Skye chews her bottom lip. She seems tense, maybe unsure whether to delve any further.

“This,” she whispers, waving her arm around my jet’s luxuriously appointed interior. “All of this. I want you to be different, Harlan. I want you to be open to me, to us, because otherwise, what is this except a fling, an affair?”

I frown, slightly offended. “What do you mean? I am being open.”

Skye actually laughs.

Her face lights up with a smile, and I see the most beautiful girl in the world. Her blue eyes seem to glow as she looks at me, and then the laughter fades, and the warmth in her eyes dies with it.

“No, you’re not,” she says. “This is the exact opposite, Harlan – don’t you see that?”

I feel on unsteady ground for the first time in a long time. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m the most powerful person in any room. But in this arena – a stadium of emotion and fear and – I’ll admit it, even in the silence of my own head, a desire for Skye, a longing to know her better, I’m nothing more than a novice.

“No,” I admit.

“It’s you, Harlan,” Skye says, pausing for a second as if she’s straining to figure out the best way to say what’s on her mind. “You have this – this shell built up around you. It’s like you built a wall, and you’ll do anything to avoid letting people in.”

I stay quiet. What Skye’s staying is uncomfortably close to a truth I know – but have never really admitted, not even to myself.

“I want you, Harlan,” Skye says frankly. “Ever since the first moment you walked into my office, I’ve imagined the two of us together.” She flinches, as if she’s only realized that right now for the first time.

“But I can’t have you like this. I don’t want you like this. I want you to –,” she winces, “to fuck me, Harlan. I want you to take me to a place I know only you can. But I won’t just be a one night stand. I can’t just be a one night stand.”

“You won’t – ”

Skye cuts me off with a bitter laugh, and it cuts deep because I know she’s right.

“I will,” she says with brutal honesty.

“That’s exactly what I’ll be – because, unless you open up to me, unless you admit how you became the man you are, then I’ll never know the real you. I can’t bear that, Harlan. I can’t bear being so close, and yet so far.”

Skye slumps back, as though that admission took all the energy she had.

I believe it.

I feel drained as well, because Skye Warren is right. I brought her here – onto this jet – to impress her.

The story about the share price – that was true. But it was a half-truth at best. I could’ve met her in any one of a dozen apartments across Manhattan, had someone pick her up and spirit her to me in complete secrecy.

No, the reason she’s here – on my plane – is I thought that by dangling this shiny object in front of her, I could buy her trust – buy her desire.

But Skye’s not like that. She’s better than that.

Better than me.

That’s the truth, and it hurts. But I can rise to the challenge she’s setting up for me without knowing she’s thrown down the gauntlet.

Or does she know it?

Maybe I don’t give her enough credit. Maybe Skye knows exactly what she’s doing.

Maybe this is what she planned all along.

I take off my jacket, eyes fixed on Skye, but looking at a place a continent away – a dusty place, full of bombs, bullets, and men with guns. I feel the warmth of Skye’s gaze upon me – curious, now – but I don’t see it.

“You know where I served,” I say. My voice sounds quiet, as though I’m speaking from the bottom of a well. “You know there are things I can’t tell you.”

I pause. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats.

“But there are other things… that I can.”

“At your own pace, Harlan,” Skye says softly. Her voice is calming, almost singsong. I latch on to it, let it guide me. “Just tell me what you feel comfortable sharing.”

My mind idly wonders whether this is what she sounds like when she’s conducting a session – without realizing that’s exactly what she’s doing.

“I’ve killed men,” I admit.

“How many billionaires out there can say that? Sometimes I sit around a boardroom table, and I feel like a stranger. I feel like I don’t belong. How can these people understand what I’ve experienced? Do they even try?”

Skye stays silent. I’m glad of it. Strangely speaking those words was a relief. I’ve kept this heavy truth bundled inside me for far too long. There’s no one I’m able to share it with – my daughter?

No way.

“I’ve had brothers die in my arms. I’ve called down airstrikes on my own position, knowing that I could die, but accepting it because my men would be saved.”

“And –?”

“How did that make me feel?” I spit bitterly, anticipating Skye’s question. My eyes are closed now, and I can smell the cordite in the air now, and hear the helicopters clattering in the distance.

“I wasn’t going to say it in so many words,” Skye says softly. “But your way works too, I guess…”

In spite of myself – and the seriousness of what I’m talking about, I can’t help but smile. Skye didn’t start all this by taking my shit, and she sure as hell isn’t planning to start now.

“It made me feel like shit,” I admit. “Powerless. I resolved that I was never going to feel that way again.”

Something – I don’t know – flashes inside of me. It’s like a light bulb switching on. I feel a kind of lightness inside me, but I can’t for the life of me work out why.

“And that,” Skye says, “is the heart of it, isn’t it? It’s why you are the way you are. It’s why you try to control the world around you – why you try to control me.”

“I – ”

The second word of my protest – don’t – dies in my throat. It dies because I know that Skye is right. This whole trip – this whole time, I’ve been trying to control this beautiful, fiery headed, fiery souled woman.

And this whole time, whether I realized it or not, she’s been controlling me. Shaping the way I think, shaping the way I feel. My eyes are already shut, but I let the darkness envelop me in a desperate attempt to hide from my embarrassment.

I’ve been such an ass.

“Don’t try and deny it,” Skye says. But her voice isn’t hectoring, it isn’t accusing. In fact it’s masterfully pitched. Whoever hired her got one thing right. She’s the goddamn best in the business.

“Okay,” I breathe.

In truth, I’m bristling. Bristling from the memories of the things I’ve been through, bristling from the memories of the men – and women – I left behind.

“Tell me the truth, Harlan.”

“The truth?”

I hear her nodding. Or maybe I imagine it – but I’m sure that my ears pick up the sound of her hair whispering as it kisses her face.

“Tell me the thing you’re hiding from me. The thing you’re hiding from yourself. Whatever it is, I don’t care. You’ll never be able to move past your –,” her voice breaks, “issues without coming to terms with it.”

I pause for a second. Somehow, perhaps in the way Skye said those words, she gave me an insight. I think when she speaks, she reveals as much about herself as about me.

My throat is gripped by a sudden burst of emotion the likes of which I haven’t felt in years.

I’m Harlan Wolfe. I’m cold, ruthless – a killer. I’m the kind of man who’s deadly for America’s enemies, and now I’m as ruthless when I make money in her markets.

And yet today, with Skye by my side, I’m a different Harlan Wolfe. I’m the kind of man not afraid to give into my emotions. The kind of man who’s afraid, that if he doesn’t give in, then the goodness in his life will seep through his cupped hands. I don’t mean my money:

my daughter.

“I –,” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for a truth that no one in my life – bar one person, one angel – knows.

“You can tell me, Harlan,” Skye whispers.

And in her voice I hear something different than anything I’ve ever heard before – I hear acceptance. I know that no matter what happens in life, Skye will never judge me, not like some. She’s not in it for my money. If she was, she wouldn’t be doing this. She’s doing this because she wants to help.

“I had a wife,” I croak, “Ashley Ward, then Wolfe. She was a medical corpsman, Charlie Company in the Marine Corps 1st Combat Medical. The best woman I’ve ever known.”

To her credit, Skye doesn’t let my revelation interrupt her, not even for a second. She’s just heard my deepest secret without blinking.

“What happened to her? To Ashley?” She asks.

“Her squad was doing a run, clearing IED’s from some dusty road in the middle of fuck nowhere,” I say, losing myself in my past once again.

I hear the satellite phone ringing in my head. I hear the call that gave me the news the turned me into the man I am today.

“They were stretched – too many bombs, too few men and women. They didn’t have enough guns on perimeter security. By the time the quick reaction force got to them, it was too late…”

“Harlan,” Skye whispers. “I’m so sorry…”

I clench my jaw, doing my best to ward off the tears. But it’s useless. I feel like I punctured a dam inside me, and now hot lava streams out of my eyes, and I’m incapable of stopping it.

But I’m glad of one thing. I’m glad Skye hasn’t tried to reassure me with empty words. I’ve had enough people tell me that my wife died a hero. I don’t need that from Skye as well.

“And that’s why you are the way you are,” Skye says.

I’m so wrapped up in my own grief that I’m not sure I’m hearing right, but she sounds closer to me.

“That’s why you built Wolfe Capital – because you felt powerless over the death of your wife. There was nothing you could do to save her. You never wanted to be in that position again.”

I nod, and hot tears drip down my front as they are shaken loose. Now it seems like after a decade of hiding from the truth, now I can’t stop talking.

But there’s one thing I hold back. I’m not sure why – maybe the same need to be in control. I don’t tell her about my daughter. Not yet.

“When I heard the news, I was in the field. I got the hell out, sweet talked and bullied my way onto half a dozen choppers and planes. Benefits of being in spec ops,” I say with black humor coloring my voice, “people think you’re important. That there’s somewhere you’ve got to be.”

My hand grips the seat rest as I remember the hours ticking by. My nails dig into the soft, expensive leather. I smell the aviation fuel on the air, and the sweat of the door gunners. I remember the way the rotor wash kicked up sand into my face, and the way the sun’s fierce heat blasted my cheeks. But more than anything, I remember the feeling of utter powerlessness that consumed me on that long journey.

“I was too late,” I whisper. “I never got to say goodbye. She was medevac’d, made it to the hospital, even. But she’d lost too much blood.” I let out a deep, shaky breath that seems to expel half my body’s heat.

I say it again. “I never got to say goodbye…”

The silence hangs heavy between me and Skye. It takes me a few long, hard seconds to master my breathing, to stop the flow of tears running down my face. When I finally force them open, Skye’s not where I left her, sitting in the plush seat opposite me.

She’s standing in front of me. Her cheeks seem flushed with sadness, her eyes almost as wet as mine.

“Thank you, Harlan,” she says in a broken, yet nevertheless strong voice.

“I need you to know – I can’t be her.”

She takes a pace forward, and then she’s in front of me, and I’m forced to look up to keep my eyes on her face.

“I can’t be Ashley. I can’t be your wife. I can never be that.”

She crouches in front of me.

“But I can be something different, if you’ll let me in?”

She stops, dangling the question in the air like bait to a fish. But there’s nothing dishonest about it. There’s nothing dishonest about Skye, full stop.

She’s right.

She can’t be Ashley. But I can’t have Ashley. I realize that now – and a woman as good as my dead wife would never have wanted me to be lonely all these years.

Because the truth is, no matter how good my life seems, it’s been missing the most important thing.

And if I spend all my days grieving, I’ll never be able to raise my daughter the way she deserves.

I reach forward, cupping Skye’s cheek. God, she looks so damn perfect. I don’t want to screw her, not right now. Hell, that’s the last thing on my mind. I just want to taste her.

to thank her,

to kiss her,

“Thank you,” I croak, from the bottom of my heart.

I know that one conversation one time with one woman won’t be what fixes me. But if anyone can, it’ll be Skye.

I stroke her cheek with my thumb, then push my hand forward, entangling my fingers in her hair. I hold the back of Skye’s head and pull her toward me. She doesn’t resist. Her eyes, now wet, are glistening with an even deeper blue.

I am not afraid to admit it. I’ve never seen a woman as enticing as Skye Warren. Okay – maybe one, but I’m a different man now than I was then.

I’ve seen things, done things that have changed me forever. But if there’s anyone who can lead me out of the darkness, it’s Skye.

I pull her the last couple of inches, and then her lips graze mine. It’s electric. I’ve seen her naked, done things to her that are unspeakable – graphic things.

Yet this, this is different.

This is perfect, because it means something. I feel like we’ve shared a moment that will change both of our lives for the better, forever.

“Thank you, Skye,” I whisper.

I don’t know what I’m thinking her for – for everything, perhaps. Just for being here…

… or maybe this kiss.

Because it’s not like any kiss I ever remember. It’s like we’re made for each other. I pull Skye forward yet more, and rest her on my lap. Her heat blends with mine.

It’s as if we are one person. I wouldn’t change this moment for anything in the world.

Chapter Forty

Skye

After that kiss, everything happens so fast. Within a couple of hours, we land at an airfield in California, then another driver whisks us to Harlan’s cabin in the woods above Lake Tahoe. It’s hard to keep up.

It’s a magnificent home in a magnificent spot with a magnificent view – all glass and steel – that somehow blends into the environment, as though the sparkling, translucent glass has become a part of the forest itself, reflecting and concentrating and redoubling the view.

Yet I barely see it.

I’m still spinning, spinning, spinning from the kiss, and spinning from everything that Harlan has shared with me.

He had A Wife! He had A Wife who died. I knew he was hiding something, I just never expected it to be so…

… heartbreaking.

I understand now how he became the man he is today. His wife’s death drove him to build walls around himself – to protect his mind from any more hurt.

So now I’m forced to confront a painful question.

Am I the right person to tear down those walls?

Am I just using Harlan for my own purposes? Am I only with him so I can get the elusive orgasm that I hope will break down my own walls? Do I want the man he is, or just the thing that’s dangling between his legs?

I don’t know. Until I know, I can’t give myself over to him, not completely. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

Harlan strides into my bedroom and throws a small pack onto the manicured array of cushions and pillows and bed sheets. The room itself is perfect – including, somehow, a fully stocked wardrobe, all in my size.

“What’s that supposed to be?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“What does it look like?” Harlan chuckles. “Come on, princess, we’re going hiking.”

“Hiking?” I say with genuine shock. “I thought we were going skiing, or something?”

“Skiing? What, you think I’m made of money?” Harlan winks at me. “Besides, look out the window and tell me how much snow you see. It’s June. The white stuff melted weeks ago. Don’t worry, though,” he says, taking a pace towards me and lazily stroking his palm down the side of my torso. “I’ll take you next year…”

Next year?

For some reason, that thought shocks me. I know I shouldn’t react that way – after all, I was the one who coaxed Harlan into opening up. I just didn’t expect it to happen so…

Fast.

“Besides, you’ll love it, I know you will. The mountains around here are like nothing you’ve ever seen. Meet you out front in ten?”

* * *

I don’t know why, but I was surprised to realize that Harlan is into hiking. That’s silly, really. After all, he was in the Navy SEALs. If you join an elite organization like that, I guess you better be prepared to do a lot of Bootpacking!

“That’s what they call it, right?” I ask Harlan as we’re sucking in air after a particularly steep section of trail.

I’ve kept a couple of paces behind him this whole time. The man has a magnificent rump, and I’m not afraid to admit that a part of me is happy we’re out here all alone. Together. I don’t want to share either of these views with anyone else!

“Huh?”

“Bootpacking. That’s what you do in the military, right? It’s your fancy word for walking.”

Harlan grins. “Uhh… right. So you’re a Frog Hog now?”

I frown, racking my brain for the term. “Frog hog?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “it’s what they call women who go after us Navy SEALs. You wouldn’t believe how many hang around bars down by Coronado, just waiting to get their hands on a sexy, unshaved –”

I make a face. “I really don’t want to know what you got up to back when you were younger, Harlan,” I wink.

But you can call me a Frog Hog if you like. You can call me any kind of hog, as long as I get stuffed!

I flush a touch at the filth passing through my mind.

“I had my own woman, remember,” Harlan says with a wistful smile.

It doesn’t bother me that he’s talking about his dead wife. It’s a good thing, really. That kind of emotion is the last thing I’d ever ask a man to bottle up.

I’m not so fragile that I feel the need to be in competition with a woman like Ashley Wolfe. In my line of work, I’ve seen jealousy sink relationships enough time to know that it’s just not worth it.

“Hey, you’re looking a bit red,” Harlan says, unintentionally referencing the effect my embarrassment is having on my cheeks. “Want me to cream you up?”

“Oh yes,” I say with unexpected vigor. “But not like that. Don’t worry – I think I’m just a bit … a bit out of breath.”

Harlan gazes at me for a couple of seconds. That’s the only way I can describe how he’s looking at me.

I kind of like it. I never expected to be in the middle of this – I don’t even know what to call it – holiday? Affair? But whatever it is, it’s like a dream. And I don’t want to wake up.

“See,” he says. “I told you you’d like hiking.”

I laugh. “We’ll see. I’m happy as long as you keep walking out front, and as long as I get to watch…”

Harlan mock salutes me, spins and jogs ahead.

“I didn’t say you had to run,” I mutter with fake sourness.

But I follow him without complaining.

We hike – sometimes laughing, sometimes engaging in deep conversation, sometimes just in companionable silence. Harlan hauls me up treacherous sections of rock, and sometimes he doesn’t let go of my hands.

I don’t argue.

We hike until my arms have sprouted a thousand new freckles from the sun, and then some more. We hike until my legs are bone tired, and I’m practically ready to swoon into Harlan’s muscular arms and just let him carry me home.

Not that I would, of course. A girl’s got to seem at least a little self-reliant… although the thought of Harlan cuddling up to me is – I’ll admit it – hard to resist.

“Tired?” Harlan asks, hiking – no pun intended – his eyebrow up as we near his cabin on the route back home.

“No,” I lie, sticking out my tongue. “I could go on all day…”

“Sure,” Harlan laughs, rolling his eyes. “I can head inside, if you want? Pick up some night vision goggles, a couple of sleeping bags and we can keep on going?”

“You’ve got night vision equipment in there?” I ask, frowning. “What the hell for?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” Harlan replies with a teasing smile on his lips.

I can’t tell if he’s being serious. After all, Harlan Wolfe strikes me as the kind of man who leaves nothing to chance. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s got half a military surplus store stocked up somewhere in the cabin.

“It doesn’t matter,” I groan as I turn my attention back to my sore, swollen feet. “All I can think about right now is a shower.”

Harlan cocks his head to one side. “Now that,” he says, raking his eyes up and down my body without even bothering to pretend to be subtle, “is a fantastic idea. But I’ll do you one better…”

He leads me to a hidden creek a couple of hundred yards away from his cabin. It’s a peaceful place, only disturbed by the sound of water burbling into a small, clear, yet deep pool, and the occasional twittering of birds overhead.

Every now and then the fading sun glints off the hidden glass structure and reflects a sparkling diamond pattern on my skin.

“Don’t tell me you want to get in?” I exclaim, eyeing a small waterfall and pool – but still unconvinced. “I told you, I’m more of a city girl…”

“Trust me,” Harlan groans, shooting me a grin. “You’ll enjoy it.”

Without bothering to wait for my response, he pulls his sweaty T-shirt over his head, kicks off his hiking boots and dives off a nearby ledge into the pool. I get a brief glimpse of his perfectly manicured, muscular body flashing through the air.

Even damaged by the marks left behind by bullets and shrapnel, it’s more than enough to steal a girl’s breath away.

“Oh, hell,” I mutter. There’s no way I can back out now, not after he’s dived in headfirst!

And besides, the way my feet are feeling after a long day in the heat, some cool water would probably do them a world of good.

Tell yourself what you want, I think. You just want to get in there with him, don’t you …

As Harlan’s head breaks through the surface of the water, reappearing once again, I chew my bottom lip. What the hell am I supposed to do now – just dive in fully clothed, or –

“What are you waiting for?” Harlan yells, pushing his hands through his hair to clear them from his vision. “The water’s nice!”

“I’m coming!”

I follow Harlan’s lead. I kick off my own boots, pull my top off over my head and dive in – leaving my bra firmly fastened. Harlan might have seen it all before, but that doesn’t mean he’s suddenly entitled to boobs on demand…

Maybe I could charge a subscription fee…

I walk up the creek, until I’m standing above the waterfall. “How deep is it down there?” I yell. “Is it deep enough to dive?”

“Plenty deep enough for a little thing like you,” Harlan calls back. I notice that even as he treads water, he can’t tear his eyes away from my bare skin. A trail of goose bumps suddenly sprout on my skin that have nothing to do with the slight chill now decorating the air.

“On three,” I say to myself.

I wait until the count of two, and then throw myself off the ledge, headfirst. I hit the water at a slight angle – not exactly graceful – and the impact stings my skin. I feel like a floundering well – except nowhere near as graceful.

Harlan swims over to me in just a couple of long, easy strokes. “Nice dive,” he chuckles. “You practice much?”

“You know, I don’t have my own private waterfall,” I shoot back. “We can’t all be so lucky…”

“No,” Harlan muses quietly, shaking his head, “…apparently just me.”

I get the sense that he means a whole lot more than just his wealth. His gaze is unsettling, and I tried to duck it. I splash water in his face.

“What are you looking at?” I tease.

“You,” Harlan growls.

The look on his face is hungry, now. It’s the look of a man who has waited long enough. It’s intoxicating enough, knowing that I can be wanted this badly by anyone, but knowing that it is Harlan looking at me like this feels like the rush of some drug.

“Oh,” I whisper.

Apparently that’s enough. Harlan is evidently done waiting. His muscles bulge as he cuts through the last couple of yards between us with another powerful stroke, and water streams through his hair.

I can’t take my eyes off him. I can barely concentrate enough to tread water to stay afloat.

And then Harlan’s arms are on me, around me. He holds me tight, and I feed off his warmth in the cold pool.

“Do you know how fucking much I want you right now, Skye,” he growls. “I’ve been staring at you all day. I can’t tear my mind away from you, not even for a second.”

My mind goes blank. All I can think of is Harlan’s closeness, the heat of his skin, the feel of his powerful muscles.

And I say it again. Not my finest moment.

“Oh.”

“Is that all you’ve got?” Harlan says. Apparently it’s his turn to tease me. “Then I guess you won’t complain if I do this.”

His arms close on me for a second time in the water, pulling me tight. Our bodies are on each other now, and I lock my legs around Harlan’s hips. Despite the cool water that surrounds us, I’m on fire – and nowhere more than the slit that’s currently pressed against Harlan’s crotch.

Harlan kisses me.

It’s a fierce, hungry, aggressive kiss. It’s the kind of kiss you don’t even read about in romance novels, the kind you never experience in real life.

It’s the kind of kiss I’ll never forget.

I moan as Harlan’s hands roam my body. Is this going to be it, I wonder? Is this going to be where it finally happens?

Harlan’s cock grows between us, sluicing through the water – an arrow of heat. I feel it pressing against me, and I push my hips into it. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s like there’s something inside me – a demon driving me on, a fire burning inside that I’ve never felt before.

I rake my fingernails down Harlan’s back. More than once I encounter gnarled, hard scar tissue, and a tear prickles at the corner of my eye. I’m grateful that the water that surrounds us hides it.

Then sadness is the last thing on my mind.

Harlan bites my lower lip. Not hard, just enough to let me know he’s there. As if I need any reminder!

“You’re so fucking hot, you know that, Skye?” He pants, squeezing my ass in his massive, powerful hands. “The last few days have been unbearable.”

“You shouldn’t have made a promise, then,” I pant right back. “You know what they say. Don’t write checks your body can’t cash.”

“Oh, I can cash it,” Harlan growls, kissing me hard, “…again and again and again.”

His hands dive to the canvas belt around his waist, freeing his shorts, and setting his cock loose. I feel it spring into me like a wild animal.

“We can’t do it here!” I yelp. But even in my worry, I feel kind of turned on by the prospect of Harlan screwing me outside. “What if someone sees?”

“I own all the land for miles,” Harlan says, scraping his fingernails down my side and sending a delicious thrill of pain ricocheting around my body. “Besides, I think it sounds like a turn on, don’t you?”

I freeze. I’ve never considered anything so crazy, and yet… And yet Harlan’s right. The thought of someone watching us is exhilarating. It makes a tingling sensation break out on my skin.

Harlan half-walks, half-swims with me over to the waterfall, ramming my back against the soft, smoothed-down cliff face. I’m almost numb to the cold now, and my nipples are like diamonds pressing into my bra.

“Touch it,” Harlan orders me, “Now.”

I don’t have to be told twice. I know exactly what he’s referring to – His Cock. I haven’t touched a man’s penis in so long I’ve forgotten how. But when I reach down between us, I find it’s like riding a bicycle.

Except this one is harder. And much, much thicker.

Harlan sighs with pleasure, and closes his eyes. Mine, by contrast, dart around the small clearing we’re in, searching for any unexpected voyeurs. I don’t see anyone, but still, I can’t relax.

“Harlan,” I pant. “We can’t …”

Harlan’s eyes spring open. “What do you mean ‘we’…?”

“Do it out here,” I continue hurriedly. “I can’t. I’m just not… Ready.”

“Then I’ll take you inside. And then, I’ll take you, inside.”

Chapter Forty-One

Skye

Harlan carries me all the way from the secret dipping pool to his glass cabin. No, I can’t really call it that. It’s way more than a cabin.

It’s a mansion.

I’m dripping wet, south continent cold, but by clinging on to Harlan’s body, none of that seems to matter.

All the way, I should be thinking about that crappy play on words he just threw at me. “Then I’ll take you inside. And then, I’ll take you, inside.”

I mean, who says that?

But it was the cocky, charming way Harlan spoke those words that got to me. The teasing little smile on his lips that tells me he wasn’t taking himself seriously, so neither should I.

Like I said, I should be thinking about that.

But I’m not.

I can’t get over Harlan’s perfectly sculpted body. My legs are wrapped around his torso, but he feels more like a tree trunk than a man. It’s crazy. His muscles are so solid it’s hard to believe he’d ever have needed to wear a bullet proof vest. Surely bullets must just bounce off him!

He pushes the mansion’s glass door open.

Then He spins. Harlan rams me against the nearest wall. His hand searches for my bra strap, then that too disappears onto the floor. Then he hikes me up…

Then the pleasure begins.

Harlan dips his mouth to my nipples. They are still rock hard from the torrent of coldness the waterfall dumped on my body. Hell, I’d be shivering if it wasn’t for Harlan’s warmth. It’s like there’s a furnace burning inside him.

Or maybe it’s a pizza oven…

I giggle at the strange image that forms inside my head. The reaction is really born out of awkwardness. I’m not used to men treating me like this. I’m certainly not used to what’s about to happen to my body.

It’s been so long since I’ve touched a man like this, I can’t even remember how it’s supposed to be, or how my body is supposed to move.

I tip my head back, forgetting there’s a wall behind me, but the bump doesn’t even seem to hurt. Delicious tendrils of pleasure are surging out of the hard knobs on my chest and looping their way around my body.

“Jesus, Skye,” Harlan growls in that flabbergasted voice he uses sometimes. “I’m serious. I’ve never touched a girl who’s even in the same league as you.”

My voice quivers when I try and speak. My skin’s burning hot, and I feel a strange – tingling – deep down low. “You don’t need to –,” my voice cracks as Harlan’s teeth scrape across my nipple. “Lie to me, you know.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harlan gives me his promise, bringing his face back up level with mine. “You can believe that. You have to believe that.”

There’s a need in his eyes. I don’t know why, but it seems important to him.

“I do,” I whisper.

I say so because I do. There’s a brutal, raw honesty about Harlan Wolfe. It’s hard to believe that a man with so much on his plate – a billion dollar fortune, and a world of grief sitting on his shoulders – can be so open with me, but somehow he is.

At some point, I probably need to sit down and unpack why he’s so interested in me. But not now. Not tonight.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I say, my voice catching in my throat as I realize what I’m offering:

My First.

My Body.

My Everything.

I see Harlan’s jaw twitch, and I wonder if he’s thinking about giving me another mock salute. Somehow he resists.

His muscles ripple as he hoists me around his hips once again, and he carries me up the stairs without so much as breaking a sweat, without even seeming to breathe any deeper.

What a fucking compliment!

I know I’m not the lightest girl around. Whatever Harlan says, the mirror doesn’t lie. Hell, it’s astonishing to me that a man like him sees so much in a girl like me. But there’s something magical about being carried like that. About being made to seem so light it doesn’t even matter.

That’s what I’m thinking about when Harlan throws me down on the bed.

But that’s not what I’m thinking about for long…

“I’m going to fuck you,” Harlan announces. “Fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before.”

“Less talking,” I say, coyly biting my lip, “and more fucking. How’s that for dirty talk?”

Harlan’s eyes light up in a raging torrent of fire. He dives onto me, hands reaching for the button at my waist. My hiking shorts are still soaking wet from the pool.

And so’s the layer underneath…

“I’m telling you, Skye,” Harlan says as he tugs my dripping clothing off my thighs, revealing pale, freckled skin that hasn’t been kissed by the sun, and hairs standing on end – provoked by the cool kiss of the air conditioning.

“I’m telling you,” he repeats. “You’re the most beautiful fucking girl I’ve ever seen.”

And then it hits me. I’m naked. Naked as the day I was born, and Harlan Wolfe is kneeling over me, with a look in his eyes that promises me I’m in for the best night of my life.

He leans forward.

He dips his mouth to my ear.

“Are you ready to come?” He asks.

I meet his eyes. I nod, slowly. Honestly, I’m not sure whether I have a choice in the matter. I’m not sure I want a choice…

… because Harlan Wolfe looks like a man on a mission.

I blink. “You’re naked,” I say. I don’t know how the hell I missed it. Surely Harlan’s cock was prodding into me the whole way

“All the better to fuck you with,” Harlan mutters. Then he shakes his head. “Okay, that was too much, even for me.”

“Enough Little Red Riding Hood,” I say, hooking my hand around the back of Harlan’s neck and pulling him towards me. “Enough talking, period.”

Finally, Harlan does as he’s told.

We kiss, but kissing’s the last thing on my mind. Harlan’s hands roam my naked body like wildlife on a great African migration. That sounds hyperbolic, but it’s true. He doesn’t leave an inch untouched, or a scrap of skin unexplored.

My body becomes one huge sea of fire. Goosebumps speckle me everywhere, and my nipples stand on end, sign posting the flames of my desire.

“I need to feel you,” I say, surprising even myself. “Inside me. Now.”

Harlan tears himself away from my body for just a second. He takes his cock in his hand, and lazily, casually strokes it a few times. I take the short interlude to study it probably for the first time. Sure, I’ve felt it – but this is different.

I’m not saying I’m an expert, but his is the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.

“Are you sure –?”

Harlan chuckles, as if he’s heard it a thousand times. “ – That it’ll fit?” He shakes his head. “Trust me, Skye – I believe in you. You’ll surprise yourself.”

Harlan looks away from my body, and I feel a sudden surge of jealousy. It’s irrational, I know, but it’s there. What could be more important than me right now?

And then I hear it – the crinkle of a condom. Harlan opens the package and discards the wrapper.

“Better safe than sorry,” he shrugs.

“I figured –”

“ – That I’d screw you without it?” Harlan says, raising an eyebrow. “Have a little faith…”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. All this time, I realize that I have thought of Harlan as an irresponsible playboy, even with all the evidence to the contrary.

After all, you don’t exactly build a billion dollar hedge fund business if the only thing on your mind is getting laid.

“Okay, okay,” I groan, I moan, as Harlan slowly unwraps the condom over his cock. “Enough teasing already. I need you.”

Harlan makes a noise. I’m not sure how to describe it – a moan, maybe, a low, inarticulate growl. He sounds more like a wild animal more than he does a human.

And the sound sends my ovaries into fucking heaven.

Harlan lets himself tumble forward, breaking his fall with his hands, and climbs up my body. I encircle him with my arms, touching his burning skin. I lean up and kiss him on the mouth, wishing I could see what he sees. Wishing I could see my hair spread out on the sheets beneath me.

Wishing I could see what he sees in me.

And then, as if he can read my mind, as if he can hear the self-doubt growing inside me, Harlan enters me.

He does it slow, first, just teasing me with the tip of his massive cock. My eyes close, and my head tips backwards, and my knuckles scrunch up with the unexpected pleasure and pain.

It’s never been like this before. Not with any boyfriend. Not ever.

“God, you’re tight,” Harlan groans.

I don’t know if it’s true, that something he just says to all the girls, but it fills me with pride.

“I am?” I whisper up at him.

“You’re the perfect package –” he groans, collapsing more on top of me and biting my lower lip with uncontrolled desire, “ – Every fucking inch of you.”

“You’re just saying –”

The last word dies in my throat. Harlan quits playing and feeds his cock inside me, all the way to the hilt. It’s so big, stretches me so deep that it brings a tear to my eye.

He pauses there for a second, decorating my neck with kisses. My pussy slowly relaxes, grows comfortable with his presence.

And then it begs for more.

“Ready?” Harlan growls.

Between the tears of pleasure decorating my eyes like precious stones, and the wetness between my legs, I’m more ready than I’ve ever been.

I nod, and Harlan starts fucking me.

From the very start, I realize that this is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I don’t know – maybe I’m reading too much into the moment Harlan and I shared on his private jet – the way he came clean to me, but I feel like I’ve got a connection with him I’ve never had before…

…with anyone.

Then conscious thought is banished from my mind. I enter a world of sex – sweat, sensation, sensuality. My fingernails scrunch into the silk sheets, and I buck my hips, trying desperately to build a rhythm with Harlan’s driving cock.

He grabs me by the shoulder, digging his fingernails into my skin. It hurts, but it feels so fucking good. He grabs the shoulder hard, using it like a lever to direct his thrusting.

“God, you’re wet,” he says, his eyes closed, his perfect, muscular, rippling body dancing in front of me like a piece of artwork.

I don’t have the strength to reply. Stars explode behind my eyelids, vicious streaks of delicate, perfect pain that I can’t even describe.

I feel something building inside me. A heat, a pleasure, like all my muscles are contracting at once, and like every single nerve ending in my body is coming alive – sending signals they have never sent before.

I yelp. I beg. “Don’t stop,”

My cries of pleasure only drive Harlan on.

If he was a man on a mission before, it’s like his energies have been redoubled. I see his ass muscles contract as he drives his hips into me in the reflection of the window behind.

God, they couldn’t be more perfect. Then I close my eyes again. My eyelashes slam closed like the bars on a vault at Fort Knox.

“Stop?” Harlan growls, as if the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Baby, I’m just getting started.”

I don’t even register the corniness of his line. Harlan’s cock feels like a rod of molten steel inside me. I never imagined that sex could feel this good. I feel like – for the first time in my entire life – I’m on the verge of orgasm.

I can barely hear. All I am is what is going on right now: the salty tang of sweat, the cock pounding inside me, the whiteness flashing across the blackness of my vision.

I grab Harlan’s ass cheeks and pull him in. His thrusting fights me, and I ride him like a bucking bronco.

“Harlan,” I moan. “I’m so freaking close!”

Harlan pushes himself even harder. He pushes himself like only a former SEAL can. His body, a temple of muscle and wounds and energy, settles into a rhythm. My moans and his grunts provide the soundtrack to the most perfect song ever composed.

But the orgasm that tempted me, that threatened to explode into being, just fades away.

I try to fight my body’s betrayal.

Because the truth is, this is still the best sex I’ve ever had. Hell, I didn’t know that anything could feel this good. Even without the promise of an orgasm at the end of it, I’d let Harlan take me like this as often as he wanted, whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted.

“God, Skye,” Harlan grunts, “I’m going to come.”

I squeeze my pussy around his cock. I think I read that in some girly magazine once upon a time – “a hundred and fifty-six sex tips to please your man!”

Harlan’s eyes spring open, and he stops mid-thrust.

“Skye?” He says in a questioning voice, panting slightly from his exertions. A single bead of sweat drips down his temple, and I trace it with my eyes. Tingles of pleasure are still darting out across my body, but concentrating on them is like trying to cycle in a straight line in the eye of a hurricane.

“What?” I moan.

I’m not putting it on. It really does feel that good. But I feel something else, as well – guilt. Because I wasn’t the only one who was close to an orgasm – Harlan was as well.

And I know the reason he’s stopped mid-thrust.

“You’re not close, are you?” He asks, grimacing with disappointment.

I see something in his eyes – a cloudiness. That’s the only way I can describe it. It’s almost as though he’s shocked he couldn’t tip me over the edge.

I reach up with my hand and cup Harlan’s cheek, then slide my fingers around his neck and dig them into my man’s soft hair. Because if there’s one thing I’m going to take from that stupid article, it’s that Harlan is my man.

“You took me closer than any man ever has,” I say, without breathing a word of a lie. My chest rises and falls rapidly. I’m breathing harder than Harlan is, and I barely did anything!

“But not close enough,” Harlan says, gritting his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say, pulling Harlan towards me and grazing my lips against his. He resists me, somehow – as though by failing to give me an orgasm, I’ve somehow dented his pride.

But it’s not that.

“We’ll keep going,” Harlan says, refusing to kiss me. “I promise you, and I meant it – I’m not going to come until you do.”

I look up into Harlan’s eyes, and I don’t see pride rearing its ugly head. I see the same thing that probably took him through the long months of brutal training down on San Diego beach. I see the same strength that allowed him to not just survive, but thrive after the death of his wife.

I see determination.

But this is one area where just wanting something hard enough won’t make it magically spring into life.

I shake my head sadly. “We’ll get there, Harlan,” I whisper, “just not tonight.”

Slowly, grudgingly, Harlan allows me to pull me toward him, and his lips meet mine. Even with the fading glow of what could’ve been, and even with Harlan’s still erect cock between my legs, another reminder that I’ve still never experienced what so many women have, it’s still a great kiss…

…because, Harlan Wolfe is a great man.

So, we’ll work it out. I know we will.

Chapter Forty-Two

Skye

I close my eyes for a second – head resting on Harlan’s chest – and an hour passes. I wake up to an empty bed, pitch blackness outside the windows where a mountain stood just a few hours earlier, and the sound of a crackling fire burning downstairs.

The bedroom is slightly chilly, but as a sheet tugs my skin as I sit up, I realize that Harlan must have tucked me under the covers before he left me.

I wipe my tired eyes, and spot a silk dressing gown hanging on a hook nearby. I hop out of bed, slide it over my shoulders and tie the sash around my waist. Then I go in search of Harlan.

I’ll be honest with you – it’s almost hard to walk. If there’s one thing my body isn’t used too, it’s a man the size of Harlan Wolfe having his way with me. Hell, I think I’d probably be feeling it even if a less perfectly endowed man had entered me after so long without a man at all. But it’s a good kind of sore.

The best kind of sore.

When I get to the top of the stairwell, I pause. I can hear a woman’s voice, and in my post-sex, post-sleep haze, I wonder if a cleaner has arrived.

But that doesn’t make sense. It’s late at night. No way is someone schlepping all the way up the winding mountain road that leads to Harlan’s cabin in the dark – no matter how much money he has!

I walk down a couple of the stairs, but I’m careful to walk slowly. It’s not like the metal and glass stairwell is going to groan underneath me like the wooden floorboards of some old, decrepit house, but I’m still cautious.

“– And it’s been a good trip, baby?” A voice asks, floating down the hallway.

That’s Harlan’s voice.

I hear the woman’s voice next. She sounds young, slightly higher pitched, but I can’t make out the words from this distance. Harlan’s lower voice travels better.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t call earlier, I was… busy.”

Busy, huh?

Yeah, that’s definitely Harlan’s voice.

But who is he talking to? I know it’s bad, but my mind immediately jumps to a very dark place. I feel betrayed. The way he’s talking to that girl on the other end of the line – whoever she is – it’s like they’ve known each other forever.

There’s no way that’s his secretary.

But does that make me the other woman? And does the girl on the telephone know about me?

I walk down another step, turning my ear toward the source of Harlan’s voice. It’s echoing from somewhere further down the corridor. I realize that in my whistle stop tour of this cabin when we first arrived, I never got to look around properly.

I sure as hell don’t have my bearings, let alone a floor plan. But I walk down another step, and another, letting the cool glass kiss my naked feet.

Harlan’s voice again. “I promise – we’ll do something special soon.”

A burning pang of jealousy rips through me. I know I should have expected this. There’s no way a man like Harlan – rich, powerful and good-looking – doesn’t have other women on the side. I should have known not to let myself get attached.

Yet that doesn’t stop me from feeling so betrayed it hurts – a physical pain, a knife to the heart.

I hear the woman’s voice again. Harlan must have her on loudspeaker, or else on Face Time or something.

“Okay, daddy, I’ve got to go now. We’ve got a match in twenty minutes, and I need to get on the coach.”

Daddy.

That one word cuts through my anger, sluicing it out like the waterfall Harlan kissed me underneath earlier today. It only takes a second for me to realize that my anger was unjustified. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions so quickly. It makes me sound crazy.

Hell, maybe I am crazy.

Maybe I was just jealous that the one man who’s ever been able to take me close to the edge was sharing me.

Even when the person he’s sharing me with is…

… His Daughter.

It all falls into place. I mean, hell, if his daughter doesn’t take priority, then Harlan Wolfe isn’t the man I thought he was.

So now I’m finding two things out – and I don’t know whether to be happy or sad – First: Harlan sounds like a hell of a father.

And second?

He lied to me.

Or at least, if Harlan didn’t lie, then he failed to tell me that in addition to being a widower, he’s also a father.

“Knock it out of the park today, kid,” Harlan says, his voice filled with fatherly affection. “You’re the best out there – and don’t you forget it.”

“I won’t, daddy,” the woman – no, the young girl – says. “Okay, I really gotta go.”

“I mean what I said, kiddo. You’ll do fine out there,” Harlan laughs down the phone. “Be safe out there.”

The kid’s voice is light and buoyant. “I wiiill. Bye daddy!”

Then there’s a ping as the connection ends. Suddenly, I’m left standing there wondering how I should react. Two parts of me are at war – on the one hand, my therapist’s side, on the other, just little old me.

Because, the truth of the matter is, I am kind of jealous and more than a little upset. I know that’s crazy. I know that Harlan is just doing what any good single dad has to do – protect his daughter at all costs.

But that’s the rational side of me.

The other side of me, the Skye Warren who just woke up, still sore from Harlan’s attentions, she’s the one who’s upset.

Because, that Skye thought that Harlan had opened up to her on that plane ride. She thought she knew the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Now, it turns out, that was a lie.

I walk down the stairs, all the way to Harlan’s study. He’s staring at a blanked out screen, still lost in thought. He doesn’t seem to notice me, not until I break the silence.

“I think we need to talk.”

Chapter Forty-Three

Harlan

I’ve been caught in the act. I know I have. And you know what?

I don’t feel guilty about it. Not one little bit.

If there’s one person in this life that I have a duty – am obligated – to look out for, it’s Poppy Wolfe. She’s My Daughter, and she’s all I’ve got left.

Until Skye, that is.

Because – right now – as I look at this gorgeous, dressing gown-wrapped, flame haired, woman standing in front of me – I soften. It’s so freaking obvious to me that she’s different from every other woman I’ve met over the past ten years that it pains me.

Skye Warren doesn’t have a mean bone in her body. She would never betray me; I know that just by looking at her. She’s not like any girl I’ve ever come across.

Not since Ashley, anyway.

“I guess you want to know what all that was about?” I say, struggling to pitch my tone respectfully. I’ve messed up, I know it. So now I need to find a way out. I don’t think I could bear it if Skye turned her back on me. Not now.

Skye inclines her head. She’s acting cagey… which is unlike her. “I guess I do.”

I consider my options. I know what the old Harlan would have done. The man I was before I met Skye, before I – mostly – came clean to her on the plane ride up here.

I would have lied through my teeth. I would have done anything necessary to do what I thought was right, if it meant protecting my daughter.

Because, in my world, protecting Poppy means hiding her – from my friends, my enemies, and anyone who might be trying to get close to me.

So I almost lie anyway.

My brain conjures a story, spits it out onto my tongue, ready to burst forth at a moment’s notice. I could claim that Poppy’s really my niece, or maybe I’m in the Big Brother program. I don’t know. All I know is that if I had lied, I’d have fucking owned it.

I could sell snow to an Eskimo, and have him come away thinking he’s screwed me!

But I don’t. Not this time. I can’t do that. Not to Skye. Not anymore.

“She’s my daughter,” I say.

I pause for a few seconds, as much to let my brain deal with the admission, as to let Skye do the same. I’m breaking every code I have. Poppy’s my secret – because it’s safer that way.

But then, Skye’s right.

I can’t just go barreling through the world like a bull in a china shop for the rest of my life. There are – some – things on this earth that I cannot control.

And my relationship with this gorgeous redhead is one of them.

“But I guess you knew that already,” I say with a pained grin. Skye grimaces. I let out a deep sigh. “Okay, okay,” I mutter. “I’ll come clean.”

Skye crosses her arms across her chest, but doesn’t say a word. She’s studying me with that therapist’s eye – and I know that she’ll know if I lie to her.

But I have no plans of doing that.

“I told you about Ashley, right?”

Skye nods.

I bite my lip. I didn’t expect it to be so hard to talk about this. I guess a decade’s worth of pushing down on my emotions can’t be unwrapped in one evening…

“We both signed up straight after 9/11. We met not long after basic training, a few weeks after I applied to join the SEALs the first time.” My voice softens as I recall that happy time in my head. In fact, I kind of forget where I am and who I’m talking to.

“We had one of those crazy military relationships. We’d catch each other for a week here, when I was back from training in San Diego, or right before she was about to ship out for a tour in Afghanistan.

Hell, sometimes we’d come across each other on bases in the middle of fuck nowhere, all covered in dust. We beg and borrow some illegal hooch, and find a broom closet for a sneaky conjugal…”

I pause, cocking my head and look at Skye. “TMI?” I ask, throwing her a lifeline.

She shakes her head, spellbound. Somehow I knew that that was always going to be Skye’s answer. She’s not the kind of girl who gets jealous. She’s not the kind of girl to spit with rage – she wants the best for me, and I…

I want to let her give it to me.

And I want to treat her right. And that means being honest.

“Well it was like that for, what – three years?” I say, counting it out on my fingers. My throat chokes up a little, but nowhere close to how it did yesterday. “Three years it was just… casual.”

“What then?”

I shrug. Strangely it doesn’t hurt, remembering Ashley like this. Telling the whole truth, not just a sanitized version – like the one I gave Skye yesterday.

“I fell in love,” I admit. “I guess Ashley did too. I asked my CO’s permission, and we got married on a couple of week’s shore leave. We had the wedding down in San Diego, then we spent a couple of weeks prancing around the Florida Keys on our honeymoon.”

“Then you went back to war?” Skye asks quietly, as though she can’t quite understand how I could do such a thing.

How we could have done it. She doesn’t ask why, but the question’s written plainly on her face.

In truth, that’s a question I’ve asked myself a hundred times. Why didn’t we just quit when the going was good? We could both have requested a training gig stateside, and grown fat and lazy with each other.

But we didn’t.

“Because we loved it,” I say, answering Skye’s unspoken question.

“Both of us – there’s nothing like it, Skye. There’s nothing like the adrenaline of fighting shoulder to shoulder with your brothers – and sisters – out there in the desert. There’s nothing like saving your buddy’s life, feeling the adrenaline surging through you when a bullet bites the dust a couple of inches from your foot. At least, there wasn’t back then.”

Skye shakes her head. “What changed?”

“Everything,” I say. My voice sounds deep in my own ears, as though I’m lost in a giant drum.

“Everything changed. We found out Ashley was pregnant in ‘06. Finding out Poppy was on the way was the best news I’ve ever heard. I don’t know if I’ll ever be that happy again,” I admit.

“Why did Ashley go back to war?” Skye whispers.

That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s question that has kept me up every night for a week. That’s the question that – really – has haunted me all of the last ten years. If anyone had to die, why couldn’t it have been me?

Poppy’s mom never wanted to hurt anyone. Ashley only ever wanted to help, to save lives. I was the killer. Yet she’s dead, and I’m the one who survived.

“Because she had to,” I grunt from the pain returning. “2007 was the surge, and every man woman and child who could walk was sent out to Iraq to fight.”

“Even –?”

I nod. The gesture hurts me, digging up memories I thought I’d long suppressed. “Even Ashley. There was no way anyone was stopping her from shipping out with her unit. That was just the way she was.”

“… But she died,” Skye says, tears glinting in her eyes.

I find it strangely touching that Skye is so moved by my own painful history. It says a lot about her that she’s not threatened by it. I don’t know that a lot of women could be so brave.

“She did,” I say, the reminder hitting me like a haymaker into the gut. “At that point, I was done. I couldn’t fight after that. I shipped pretty much straight back home – no way was my CO forcing me to fight after that. I don’t even know if I could. I would’ve been a liability – a threat to the men beside me.”

Skye shakes her head. “No…”

“Yes,” I growl, with more intensity than I intended.

“I was a wreck, a mess. All I had was this perfect, tiny little bundle to focus all that anger and depression and energy into. I promised myself that I would do whatever it took to give Poppy the best life I could. Even without a mother.”

“So that’s why you built Wolfe Capitol,” Skye says, her voice becoming professional again. I know she’s psychoanalyzing me – or whatever it is she does, but I don’t care.

Because she’s right.

“You wanted to build a world where you were in charge, where nothing could ever snatch Your family’s – Poppy’s – safety out from under your feet.”

I nod. A tear leaks its way down my face. “Damn right,” I say harshly, choking over unexpected emotion. “Nothing was ever going to hurt Poppy the way that fucking IED took Ashley’s life. Nothing.”

Skye takes a step towards me. Haltingly at first, but then another, and another. She closes the distance until she’s only a pace away from me, and then reaches up, hesitant, and strokes my cheek.

“You did a great job,” she whispers.

“How do you –?”

“I know,” Skye says firmly. “I know because there’s no way a man, who speaks about his daughter like you just did, could possibly be anything other than a great father.”

“But…” I say in a sad, broken laugh. “The way you’re speaking, it’s like you’re not done.”

Skye flashes me an apologetic smile – just a tease really – a flash of her pearly white teeth. “But it’s a double-edged sword. The very same drive that built this life for you and Poppy is going to be what brings it all to a crashing end.”

I fake a laugh. I really don’t feel like laughing. Worse, I’ve got a feeling that Skye isn’t pulling her punches because – she’s right.

“Well don’t sugarcoat it, doc…”

“I told you I’d be honest with you,” Skye says.

“I don’t know what this thing is between us. But I do know that you’re still my patient, however compromised I’ve gotten us, ethically. And I’ve finally got your diagnosis.”

“Well don’t leave me hanging…”

Skye winks at me. “Believe me, I’ve got no plans of doing that,” she chuckles.

“I’ll lay it out straight. You’ve built this perfect life for yourself, Harlan. For you and Poppy. But you can’t change the whole world, no one can. You’re trying to control everything, but that’s not possible.”

Then she hits me with a question out of the blue.

“When did Ashley die, Harlan?”

“You know when,” I reply gruffly.

“No, Harlan,” Skye whispers. “The date,” she says.

Her hand is still resting on my cheek. I want to turn away from her closeness – it’s almost painful.

But I don’t. Because I’ve got a feeling she’s right. Either I confront this thing that’s stealing my sleep and haunting my waking hours, or I’ll never be the dad that Poppy needs me to be.

“June 29, 2007,” I say, closing my eyes.

“Last week,” Skye says, as if the revelation is no surprise to her, “ten years ago last week.”

I nod, and Skye’s hand inadvertently strokes my face.

“It was the ten year anniversary of your wife’s death, Harlan. Is it any surprise that this all hit you then? There’s only –,” she breaks off, as if hesitant to face my reaction.

“Say it,” I growl.

“There’s only so long you can build walls, Harlan. Only so long you can hide from the pain inside you before it builds to a crescendo and pummels those walls to pieces. I know. I’ve been there.”

“How can you possibly know,” I spit, “how it feels. How can you know how it feels to have lost someone like that, someone you – ”

“I know,” Skye says firmly, in fact, more than just firmly. Her voice takes on a determined, hard edge.

She says it in a way that I know immediately that as fierce a memory lies behind her protestation as lies behind mine. I fall silent.

“My mom died, Harlan,” she says, taking that last pace to close the space between us. She rests her forehead on my chest and softly says, “When I was just a kid – Poppy’s age, maybe.”

“Skye,” I whisper, suddenly disgusted at how self-centered I’ve been. I knew from the start that Skye had her own secret, I just didn’t know how deep her pain ran.

It wasn’t that orgasm thing. That’s just a symptom of what ails her. I knew it, and yet I was going to… What?

Exploit it?

Am I really that kind of guy?

“Don’t talk,” she orders me, her voice crackling with hoarse emotion. “For once, Harlan, just – listen.”

Skye takes a couple of seconds to compose her bearing before she speaks. I raise my arms and cuddle her. I feel like we’re both on a rock in the middle of the ocean, being battered by storms of emotion. We’re all either of us has.

“She was dead almost before she was diagnosed,” Skye says, her voice choked, as though – like me – she’s been squashing this memory into the darkest pits of her brain for years. “Cancer. We had a happy fucking family,” she spits, “and one routine visit to the doctor changed everything.”

Skye pauses. I feel a couple of hot tears burn out of her eyes and onto my T-shirt. I hug her tight.

“But my dad didn’t react like you did with Poppy, Harlan. He became a drunk. It didn’t happen all at once. He went through the motions, and honestly – I can’t blame him. I shut down for a while as well. Years, really. I was that weird kid at school, all dressed in black, the only color in the picture, the short-cropped flash of red on my head.”

I try and picture Skye like that, but I can’t. It doesn’t make sense to me. I can’t see anything but this beautiful woman she’s become.

And yet I know it’s true. The hurt and pain in her voice couldn’t possibly come from any other place.

“By the time I was fifteen, my dad was gone. At least, the man I knew was. He lost his job, hell – started stealing to pay for his habit for all I know. I still love him, believe me I do, but the man I loved is gone.”

“Skye…” I whisper, running my hands through the soft, silky hair at the back of her head. “I didn’t know.”

“How could you have?” She says, sniffling against my chest. “I’ve never told anyone before. As far as the rest of the world knows, my dad’s dead.”

“But not to you?” I ask, wary I’m stepping on unsafe ground. Even after all this time, if anyone – other than Skye, at least – asked me about Ashley, I’d react badly. Hell, I’d bite their head off. I wouldn’t blame Skye for doing the same to me.

Skye shakes her head – as best she can inside my embrace, anyway.

“Not to me. Because he’ll always be my dad, you know? I’ll never give up on him – even when he turns up at my apartment at three in the morning, stinking of booze, and needs a place to stay so the police won’t lock him up. He’ll always be my dad.”

We fall silent in each other’s arms for a few seconds.

A few minutes, maybe. In that moment, it feels like it’s just me and Skye against the world. It feels like every barrier that once stood between us has collapsed in one fell swoop, that we’re completely, entirely open, and at each other’s mercy.

Raw.

“We’ve got more in common than you know,” Skye says, still sounding stifled inside my embrace. “You know?”

I feel her shake her head loose, and she looks up. I pry my eyes open – I didn’t even know they were closed – and look down at her tear stained face.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“We’ve both got exactly the same problem – the same curse dragging us both down.”

My eyebrow wrinkles, and I stare down into Skye’s ocean blue eyes.

“Care to share?” I smile.

Thankfully, an answering smile shakes itself loose on Skye’s beautiful face.

“Control,” Skye says simply. “We both need to be in control at all times. Look at you – you built a multi-billion-dollar company so that your daughter would never, ever, be at risk.”

I stay silent for a few seconds. The truth is, this rings true to me. I do need to be in control. From the very first moment I decided I was going to sleep with Skye, I made it my mission. I even picked the clothes that I wanted her to wear!

But Skye…

My forehead wrinkles.

“What is it?” Skye asks.

“I think I’ve got an answer to your problem,” I say, the words coming out slowly, haltingly. An ingenious – or perhaps devious – plan forms inside my head.

I’m not sure that Skye’s going to go for it. Hell, I can’t think of many women that would.

For my plan to work, Skye needs to give herself over to me, completely. She needs to trust me. It’s going to involve her testing every boundary she’s ever held dear, and then blowing right past them.

“What’s that look on your face?” Skye asks with a hint of worry on her own. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” I say, leaning down and grazing her lips with mine. “But I think you will.”

“Tell me,” Skye pleads. “I don’t like surprises.”

“You’ll like this one,” I say. “I’m no therapist, but I’ve got a funny feeling it might solve both of our problems…”

Chapter Forty-Four

Skye

The flight home is strange. It’s…

… an exploration.

In a way, everything has changed … yet nothing has. Not yet. I’m still the same girl I was before we flew out here, and Harlan’s still the same man:

the same beautiful, gorgeous, sexual man.

But our relationship has changed. Because, I think that’s what this is now, even if neither of us has put a label on it. A relationship.

You don’t talk to a person the way we talked to each other last night without something major changing, after all. So now we’re headed home, back to New York. It’s like I said – everything has changed. The mirror has shattered – yet everything remains exactly the same.

The jet engines whine beneath us as the plane banks to avoid a storm system. We’ve been in the air an hour or so, which means we’ll be flying for a couple of hours still – just us, in total solitude…

…except for the pilots, and stewardess, of course…

I’m lying across Harlan’s lap as he strokes my back. I reach up for a champagne flute that’s bubbling away merrily on the table in front of me. I catch it before it slides with the plane’s banked turn. I swear, when I’m with Harlan, there’s a never-ending supply of bubbles always within arm’s reach.

I’m not complaining.

Between the alcohol running through my veins and Harlan’s undivided attention, a healthy dose of sexual tension has been building all flight long. Goosebumps are sprouting all over my skin, and I can feel Harlan’s own, uh, tension against my stomach.

“What about the stewardess?” I giggle as Harlan runs his fingers up and down my spine. “She might hear something…”

Harlan glances down at me with a devil may care look on his face. “And,” he says. “So what if she does?”

My face burns red. “Harlan!” I gasp. “I can’t… I’m not like you, not yet.”

Harlan looks at me with a strange expression plastered onto his face. It’s as though he’s thinking about something that hasn’t yet happened. I know he’s got some kind of devious plan for me – to fix me – but he won’t tell me what it is!

It’s driving me insane.

“What!” I protest.

“Nothing,” Harlan lies to my face with a cheeky smile. “Only…”

I pinch his firm, toned stomach. “Only?”

“Hey!”

I cock my head. “There’s plenty more where that came from, believe me!” I crow. “You are not in control anymore, remember? At least, not of me…”

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” Harlan says, now running his fingers through my hair. I close my eyes and let them massage my scalp. He leans forward so that his mouth is a couple of inches from my ear.

“The secret I’m planning for –”

I cut him off. “No secrets, remember?” I say.

No, I kind of moan it, because the way Harlan’s playing with my head is spectacular. It’s hard to believe that even though he makes me feel like this, I still couldn’t come last night. What’s wrong with me?

“This is different,” Harlan chuckles. “Believe me, there’s no way you’d let me talk you into this if I just came clean.”

My forehead wrinkles with indignation. “So you’re really not going to tell me? You can’t do that!”

“Do you want to come or don’t you?” Harlan asks bluntly.

“You know I do,” I protest. I slide my own fingers down Harlan’s torso, then squeeze them between my body and his, searching for the – tension – pressing against my stomach.

“Then you’ll just have to trust me on this one,” Harlan says.

“You know you don’t get to come until I do, right?” I ask – copying Harlan’s own bluntness.

I guess he’s rubbing off on me – more than just literally against my stomach – more than I know. A few days ago, talking like that would have made my cheeks burn bright red. Now? It’s as easy as saying the alphabet.

“That,” Harlan groans as I squeeze his bulge, “is why I’m so damn determined to get to the bottom of this problem. Desperate, even…”

“Oh?” I grin, sticking out my tongue, even though Harlan’s eyes are closed. “I thought it was because you wanted to help me? Or is it all about you?”

Harlan’s eyelids spring open. A devilish look burns in his eyes. “A little from column A, and a little from column B, I guess…”

I press my palm into Harlan’s crotch once again, and he winces from the unexpected pleasure.

“I thought you were worried about the stewardess?” He asks.

“I guess you’re a bad influence on me…” I reply.

“In that case,” he growls, reaching over to fiddle with a control panel I can’t quite see. “I think you can do better than that.”

A ping echoes around the private jet’s small cabin.

“What did you just do?” I ask curiously.

Harlan runs his fingernails down my body again, and I tremble with pleasure. I might not be able to orgasm yet, but Harlan sure knows how to please a woman.

“I turned on the do not disturb,” Harlan replies roughly. “Because I don’t pay her enough to let her watch this…”

“Watch what –?”

Harlan digs his fingers into my hair and lifts me up by the roots. I expect it to hurt – and it does – but not really. In fact, the tiny jolt of pain excites me, but not as much as the hungry look in Harlan’s eyes.

“Watch you suck my cock,” Harlan replies easily, as if it was the only possible answer.

My mouth drops open into a perfect O – a shape that, I guess, is about to come in very useful. My cheeks are burning with a hint of embarrassment, and a whole lot of desire.

I stammer. “I thought you were going to –”

Harlan cuts across me. “Oh don’t worry,” he says, biting his lip. “You don’t get to taste me. Not that way, not yet. But that doesn’t mean you get to skip practice…”

My eyes spring open wide. I’ve never known a man who’s as willing to state his intentions as Harlan fucking Wolfe. I guess that’s how he makes it to the top in business, in life, in leisure, in whatever field he sets his mind to, he sets his mind to win.

Because, you know what I’ve noticed?

It works.

Suddenly all I can think of is the taste of his huge, thick cock in my mouth. Hell, I want to send him over the edge – show him he can’t control himself when he’s around me.

I smile innocently up at my lover, and maybe even boyfriend. “Then let’s put on a show,” I say, talking in a stage whisper.

I slide off Harlan’s body, and he swivels his thick, plush armchair away from the table. I fall down, onto my knees, and kneel in front of My Man.

“I’m going to make you come,” I promise.

Harlan chuckles, and shakes his head. “You can try…”

I fiddle unsuccessfully with Harlan’s belt until he takes pity on me and loosens the buckle himself. Then I unzip his pants, and pull them down around his thighs. My eyes widen instantly.

“No underwear?”

Harlan grins. “I pack light.”

“Didn’t seem to stop you having a wardrobe full of women’s clothes…” I grumble good-naturedly.

“Scout’s motto,” Harlan replies, “‘always be prepared’, or have a killer assistant.” He winks at me. “I think I updated it.”

I can’t contain myself a second longer. I lean forward and kiss his cock, right on top. I’m fascinated with it. None of my boyfriends ever had anything close to Harlan’s size.

After them, I didn’t bother much with men. There didn’t seem to be much point.

Then again, if I’d known men came in all sorts of shapes and sizes, maybe I’d have had a different opinion…

But it’s this particular shape and size that I’m going to make come, if you know what I mean.

I reach out and close my fingers around Harlan’s cock. They barely fit. In fact, I can’t reach all the way around, not without both my hands. It’s hard to believe that something this big could possibly have fit inside me.

But it more than just fit…

“It’s not a work of art,” Harlan chuckles. But even he can’t disguise the slightly labored nature of his breath.

“Maybe not to you,” I reply. “But to me it’s fucking gorgeous.”

Harlan’s skin is boiling hot. I can’t resist it any longer. I lean forward and let the tip of his cock slide into my mouth. He lets out a deep, delighted sigh as I envelop him.

“Fuck…” He groans, “…that feels good.”

I lift my lips from his meat for a couple of seconds. Just long enough to say: “I told you so…”

And then my mouth dives back down. I don’t want to be parted from Harlan’s cock, not even for a second. I want to make up time, make up for all those years I spent denying myself this type of exploration.

Harlan digs his fingers through my hair as if he’s preparing to hold on tight and never let me go. He needn’t bother, because I’m not planning on going anywhere. Not if it means leaving this thing behind!

I swirl my tongue around the tip of Harlan’s cock, and graze my fingernails up the skin on the top of his thighs. I feel his ass cheeks contract, and his hips buck up a few inches, involuntarily. I smile with pride at the effect my attention is having, and take a couple more inches of Harlan’s incredible length into my mouth.

“I’m not going to come, though,” Harlan warns me – even if he sounds a little less sure than he did a few minutes ago. “We made a deal, and I’m not going to break it.”

“Whatever you say,” I… say. At least, I try to. With Harlan’s cock in my mouth it’s more of a confused mumble.

Part of me is doing this because of it’s a game, and the other part because it’s getting me seriously turned on. I’m so wet I know Harlan could fuck me without as much as a drop of lube. But now, that’s me getting ahead of the situation…

…And way, way, ahead of myself. All I want to concentrate on is this moment – right now. Hell, I’m not even doing this in the expectation of something in return. It’s just nice to do something for a man who –

“You’re incredible, Skye,” Harlan pants from up above me. “How did you learn to –?”

“– To what,” I end his sentence for him, tearing my lips away from Harlan’s cock for a few long seconds. “Suck cock like this? Just call it woman’s intuition.”

“I’ll call it whatever you want … ” Harlan growls with glassy eyes. He digs his fingers into my hair and pushes me down, “So long as you never stop.”

I do as I’m told. If Harlan wants to give me orders like that, then he’ll find I’m a very willing student!

I keep going until my jaw is sore. Harlan’s fingers tighten around my head, and I reach up and play with his balls. He jerks when I do that, and I think I have him – I think he’s about to come, but I should be so lucky.

Harlan groans as I pull away for a second time. I look at him with daggers in my eyes.

He throws his hands up in the air. “What?” He protests. But he’s got a twinkle in his eye that tells me he knows exactly what I’m mad about.

“You’re not going to, are you?” I spit. Not angry, more irritated.

“What?” Harlan winks. “Come?”

“You know,” I growl.

Harlan shakes his head and shrugs. “I told you so…” He says.

“Yeah, but…” I grumble, climbing up and off my knees. “I didn’t think – ”

“– think what?” Harlan grins back. “That I was serious? Or was it that you didn’t think I’d be able to resist your charms…”

Yes, that – the second one.

I stay silent. Harlan picks up both our champagne flutes, and hands mine to me. I shoot him yet more daggers as I raise the fine glass to my lips and take a sip. I gladly let the bubbles run down my tongue.

I might like Harlan’s cock, like it a whole lot, but the after taste? Not so much.

“I told you, Skye. I don’t get to come before you do. That’s a promise.”

I scrunch up my nose, “Ass.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Harlan

By the time we arrive in New York, I’m a different man. But as it always fucking does, real-life hits. Sometimes, as much as I suddenly hate the idea, the business has to come first. My plan to change Skye’s life has to be put on hold for a couple of days.

At least until I’ve got my plans in order…

My PA walks into my office, and suddenly I’m catapulted into the real world once more. Just last week, this company was the most important thing – other than Poppy – in my life. Now… now, all I’m dreaming of is the look on Skye’s face when I finally coax her to orgasm.

However, since I can’t do that right now, I glance up at my assistant, and decide to do something else in the meantime. Perhaps … plans to take Skye out to dinner.

I’ve got a place in mind, and I know she’s going to love it. This girl deserves the finest things in life, and I’m going to treat her to them.

“Hey, Jen – get me a reservation at Mabel’s, will you?” I ask.

Judging by the look on Jennifer’s face, she knows as well as I do how hard it’s going to be to meet my request. Mabel’s is the hottest new brasserie in town, and as far as I know, it’s booked solid for months.

Then again, there are some perks of being Manhattan’s richest man, and not having to worry with mere details like that is one of them.

“Sure thing, boss,” Jen replies, hesitantly. “But –”

I let my head tip forward, until my chin’s resting against my chest. I can feel the heat of Jen’s worried stare on my skin. I run my fingers through my hair, rest my knuckles on my forehead, grimace.

“Ah, screw it,” I mutter.

“Sorry, boss?”

I flick my fingers irritably. My mind races. Skye and I made a deal (even if she did her best to distract me from that particular agreement by getting down on her knees) we made a deal that I was going to stop trying to control her life. I guess this is part of it.

No more springing surprises. No more dinner reservations out of the blue.

We’re in this as a team.

“Don’t worry, Jen,” I say, shooting my assistant a smile. “I just need to ask my friend first. Hold tight.”

Jen’s blonde hair shimmers as she nods her agreement, but I catch her staring at me before she leaves my office. I know what she’s thinking. The Harlan Wolfe that she knows – the one I was before I went away with Skye – isn’t the kind of guy who asks anyone, well…

…Anything.

But I guess I’m not that guy anymore. He’s buried inside me, somewhere deep down – and that’s where he’s got to remain. Locked away, locked away with the man I used to be – a killer, a man who would do anything for his country.

I reach for my cell phone. I chew my lip, wondering whether Skye will be annoyed if I disrupt a session with a patient by calling. I decide to text.

I type: “What do you want to do tonight?”

I guess Skye isn’t in the middle of a session, because I get a reply in just a couple of seconds.

“Since when does Harlan Wolfe ask little ol’ me anything?”

That’s easy. The answer is just one word. “Yesterday.”

This time I wait longer for Skye’s reply. In fact, she doesn’t text me back at all. Instead, a phone rings on my desk – my private line. I stare at my cell phone screen, prepared to ignore it as I wait for her response, and then I remember that I gave Skye my personal number.

I reach up and snatch for the phone so fast my hand leaves a trail of smoke behind it. I press it to my ear, suddenly cursing my eagerness. I should have played it cool…

“I like this new you,” Skye says without as much as a hello. “He’s different.”

“Yeah, well,” I grumble good-naturedly. “A little bird told me that I had to change my ways.”

“I’m not little,” Skye teases back down the line. “I’m curvy in all the right places.”

“You sure are,” I agree. “So, tell me then. What do you want to do tonight?”

“I want to cook for you…” Skye says without pausing, “…my place, at seven?”

I growl happily down the line. “It’s a date.”

Skye giggles happily down the line, as if she can’t quite believe the conversation we’re having.

“Okay,” she says. “Wait, what about Poppy? Will she be okay on her own?”

“Still on her trip,” I reply.

My mind flicks back to my daughter. She’s barely been out of it for a minute all day. I wonder what she’s doing. I know she’s in safe, capable hands – hell, I’ve got one of my own private security men shadowing the school party at all times, just in case – but I can’t help but worry. I guess it’s just what dad’s do…

“Where is she, anyway?” Skye asks curiously. “Isn’t she a bit young for a school trip?”

I cringe in my seat. “Okay, don’t laugh at me when I tell you this…”

“Why would I laugh?” then there’s a pause. “Wait… Are you telling me –?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “Poppy’s on a school trip down in Lake Tahoe. Fancy school, I guess.”

I hear something rustling on the other end of the line, and my overactive brain decides it is Skye’s fiery red hair brushing against the microphone. I wish it was brushing against my face.

“That’s why we went there to your cabin, isn’t it?” Skye accuses me, but in a joking tone of voice. “So you didn’t have to be half a continent away from her. Stalker…”

“I’m hanging up now…” I say, unable to hide a grin. “Besides, I shouldn’t take up so much of my employees’ time – especially when I’m paying for it!”

“Tell yourself what you want –,” Skye says, but I put the phone down before she gets the chance to spit out the rest of her sentence, shaking my head with amusement.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. All I can think of is spending time with Skye, in her apartment, and having a normal couple’s night in. I haven’t had anything like it in so long that the idea’s beginning to feel like a vacation. A staycation, anyway.

Hell, I feel like I’m going to be an awkward teenager!

Just as I’m about to leave my office and head to Skye’s the phone on my desk rings. Unfortunately, it’s not my beautiful girl on the other end, this time. I think about not picking it up, but I haven’t changed that much. Wolfe Capital’s still my baby, and as long as I’m in charge, I won’t be able to tear myself away.

“What is it?” I grumble.

“Hey boss,” Jennifer says anxiously. “Sorry to interrupt –”

“You’re my assistant,” I say, relenting – and softening my tone – so that she knows I’m not mad with her, just the interruption. “It’s not interrupting when you do it.”

“Um, okay then,” Jen says, hissing with relief. “I’ve got a Mister, uh, Garibaldi, on the line. He says you’ll want to talk to him, and, I guess he had this number, so…” She tails off.

I know why. I told her if this particular gentleman was ever to call, she had to put him straight through, no questions asked.

My blood runs cold as Jen’s information hits home. I lean back in my chair and suck fresh air through my front teeth. What the hell does this mean? If Garibaldi is calling me now, then today is going to turn into a really bad day.

Why would he ring me now, after all this time?

I made him his money. The deal was he’d leave me alone. But apparently the terms of that deal have changed.

“Boss –?”

I snap back to reality, realizing that I haven’t said anything in a few seconds. I know that Garibaldi isn’t a man who will take a cold shoulder from me lightly. In the circles he runs in, loyalty is prized above everything.

But I don’t have any other choice. There are some things in life that are more important than money – a lot more, and Skye Warren is one of them.

I made a promise, and I’m not going to be late.

“Tell him I’ll call him back…” I say, thinking it through slowly. My teeth scrape across my lower lip as I practically wince with the pain I know this decision is going to bring down upon me, “…Tomorrow.”

“But – ”

“Jen, he can wait.”

* * *

I step out of my limousine a block away from Skye’s flat. I waved my driver to stop after I saw a small flower stall manned by a single old lady. Honestly, it’s not the kind of place that I would ordinarily shop in, but I think – know – that Skye will prefer it this way.

“That’ll be eight seventy-five,” the kindly florist says, smiling at me as she hands me a bunch of long-stemmed daisies. Simple, but elegant.

The woman must be in her mid-60s, but she’s got a twinkle in her eye as she asks: “I imagine a good-looking young man like you must have a hot date tonight?”

“You could say that,” I grin, handing over a twenty. “But I’m nothing, you should see her!”

She nods. “You’re like my husband. Never could take a compliment, bless his soul.”

“You just got to keep trying,” I wink, waving away the change from my bill. “Keep it.”

“Oh, thank you, young man,” the wrinkled florist says, her eyes witnessing a kindness. “But my Frank’s been dead a couple of years now. The cigarettes took him.”

“I’m – I’m so sorry,” I reply. “I wish –”

“Don’t fret,” she says, shaking her head and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “You couldn’t have known an old woman’s sorrows, could you?”

“I guess not,” I say softly. I really feel like I’ve wedged my foot about as far into my mouth as it will fit.

She shoos me away, flicking her fingers good-naturedly. I get the sense the old lady is feeling about as awkward with her sudden display of emotion as I am.

“Now go on, don’t let an old woman bring you down. Go see that lovely lady of yours. And loosen your tie, will you? You look like you’re heading to a funeral!”

“Thanks for the advice…”

I smile, and make my departure, finger reaching for my knotted necktie. I get a flash into my future, and hope that Skye and I get to live an equally long, happy life with each other. Then I wonder how I would cope if she was snatched from me, like the florist’s Frank…

… or Ashley.

Easy there, tiger.

How am I thinking that far ahead already? I’ve only known Skye what, a few days? However, I’m already picturing this white picket fence future for us – a happily ever after, when we haven’t even had our happy for now.

A harried-looking businessman rushes past me in a fifty dollar suit, with an arm full of papers that threatens to scatter in a cloud behind him. I have a bright idea.

“Hey!” I yell, flagging him down. “Stop.”

He squints at me, his face lined with stress. “Did I drop something?” He asks, looking around wildly, as if expecting to see a flurry of paper flying out in a trail behind him.

My fingers loosen my tie knot, and I pull it off my neck, holding it out toward him in offering. “Friendly piece of advice, buddy – dress for the job you want, not the one you’ve got.”

The man glances down sheepishly, looking at his ill-fitting suit – at the way the hem of his pants swallows up his square-toed dress shoes hole, instead of breaking neatly on top.

“What are you?” He mutters, “Some kind of Brooks Brothers Santa Claus?”

I struggle to contain a laugh.

The businessman squints at me, rearranging the stack of papers swaddled in his arms. I see the gears of recognition turning over in his mind, “Hey,” he says. “I know you.”

I shake my head and start to turn away. “Not today, buddy,” I reply.

“No – you’re that guy! Wait – do you have any advice for me? It’s just, I’m in a bad spot, and –”

I spin back and toss the necktie toward my unexpected confidant. It flies through the air like a gymnastics ribbon, and lands neatly on the man’s shoulders.

“I gave it to you, buddy. Dress for the job you want. Then you might want to think about making the new you match the way you dress, inside as well as out. Think about it.”

A few minutes later I turn up outside of Skye’s front door at precisely 7 o’clock on the dot. Not a minute early, not a minute late. I realize that I’m so desperate to see her I’m almost trembling.

It’s a good sign, I guess. It’s my gut telling me I made the right decision by following my heart.

I ring Skye’s doorbell, and hear the tinkle as it rings out in her apartment. A second later, I hear a squeal, and the sound of running feet – first heading one way, then the other, as though she’s panicking about what to do next.

I hear the slamming of a closet door, and then a rumbling, thudding noise as she tosses something – or things – inside.

And then, finally, after I’ve been waiting there at least a couple of minutes, Skye finally opens her front door.

“You’re early!” She spurts, a few strands of her hair flying messily around her face. “I’ve barely even started –”

I take a step forward and kiss her on the lips, and cut off her complaint at the source. Who cares if Skye’s got dinner ready yet, or cleaned her apartment? That’s not why I’m here, after all.

I pull back, and let a teasing grin play out across my lips. “Well – are you going to let your boyfriend in, or not?”

I press the daisies into Skye’s startled chest, dance around her, and step inside her apartment.

“Boyf –?”

I paste an innocent expression on my face. “Yeah, that’s right, isn’t it? I mean, it is your apartment?”

Skye’s quickly beginning to look like she’s stepped into a hurricane, so I decide to relent. “I’m kidding, Skye.”

Kinda.

She lets out a deep breath. “Okay,” she sighs. Then she frowns. “Wait! About what – which part?”

I cock my head to one side, and let my eyes play out across her face. God, she’s even hotter when she’s flustered. I want to pin her against a wall right now, and take her while the door’s wide open, for everybody to see.

I wonder if she’d let me?

“Did you just say boyfriend?” Skye presses me. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s what I heard.”

I pick an imaginary hair out of the corner of my eye, and prolong the silence before I finally answer, just to mess with Skye’s head. Then I fix her with a stare directly into her eyes.

“Well, you did give me a blow job on my private jet, after all. What would you call it?”

Skye’s face burns bright red, and I half expect her to start whistling like a kettle. I can’t help but smirk.

“Well,” she exclaims. “If you’re going to throw it in my face like that, maybe –”

“As I recall,” I remark dryly. “I was pretty restrained. I didn’t throw anything in your face… more’s the pity.”

Skye’s face goes sour at the memory. “Apparently you’re not going to let me forget it…”

“Well,” I grin. “You know what they say – the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” I sniffed the air. “And that smells like some mighty fine cooking…”

Skye stares at me for a couple of seconds, as though she’s unsure whether to kiss me, or kick me straight out where I came from.

Thankfully for me, and my stomach, she chooses option three, glancing down at the daisies still pressed against her stomach.

“I guess I better get these in water…” She says, relenting. And then she looks up at me, a small smile playing out on her face. “Thank you – it’s been a long time since a man has brought me flowers.”

“Any time, princess,” I smile.

“Oh,” she smiles. “Flattery will get you everywhere with me. Now sit down – and could you do something for me?”

I half bow, and smile winningly back at her. “Anything for you.”

Skye grins slyly. “In that case, sit down, and keep your mouth shut!”

Chapter Forty-Six

Skye

It’s like having our first “date”, all over again.

Only this time is different. Harlan’s different. Most of all, I’m different. I think I’ve spent too many years thinking that I was somehow unworthy, that I didn’t deserve a man’s attention, let alone his desire.

Harlan’s showing me how untrue that thought is.

How ridiculous it always was!

He makes me light up just by glancing at me, and I think I have the same effect on him! So, since he’s the most gorgeous, charming, witty, intelligent – and a million other superlatives besides – man that I’ve ever met, that’s one hell of a compliment!

“You’ve got to tell me,” I say, kicking Harlan’s shin underneath my apartment’s tiny dining room table.

Heck, it’s not a table at all, really. Though, having searched for a New York apartment once or twice before, I’m not surprised that some realtor decided it was. The tiny plank of wood probably added a hundred bucks to the rent!

“You know I can’t,” Harlan grins, his face lighting up with the deviousness of his secret. “Half the fun’s in the surprise…”

“Give me a clue at least! Don’t I deserve that?”

Harlan shakes his head, and growls at me, before falling silent. “You deserve a whole lot more. But,” he winks, “that still doesn’t mean I’m going to give it to you…”

Ever since we got back from California, my brain’s been alive with possibility. I know that whatever Harlan’s got planned for me – whatever he’s planning to do to me – it’s going to test every boundary I’ve ever held dear.

“But you’re not going to tell me, are you?” I ask, pushing my plate around the tiny ‘table’.

Harlan shakes his head.

“Hell no,” he chuckles.

“I want you thinking about it every waking minute, and dreaming about it from the moment you lay your head down on the pillow to the second you wake up. I want you tense. I want you nervous. I want you to be freaking out, because the more you do that, the less –”

“The less I’m in control,” I say, finishing Harlan’s sentence for him. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” I say, with the makings of a smile on my face, so he knows it’s not heartfelt.

“It’s been said,” Harlan shrugs, “from time to time. I prefer to say that I’m forward thinking, innovative, even.”

He leans forward, resting his elbow on the table, and strokes my cheek. “And believe me, Skye – getting you to come is going to involve real blue sky thinking.”

I glance down, ducking away from Harlan’s gaze. Somehow I feel like the heat’s been turned up in here.

“Don’t I know it,” I mutter.

Harlan’s tone of voice, changes, becomes more serious. “What’s wrong?” He says.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” I say, so quietly it’s almost under my breath, voicing my newest, deepest fear.

“What if this plan of yours – whatever it is,” I say with a weak laugh, “is no better than any of the million things I have tried in the past. Heck, I’ve got a box of toys that’s practically bigger than this table, and none of them were worth a damn…”

Harlan’s eyes light up. “My, my, my; you’ve got more layers to you than you let on, don’t you?”

I frown. “Like an onion…”

Harlan shakes his head. “That couldn’t be further from the truth,” he says softly. “You shouldn’t put yourself down. Hell, you know what I do?”

It’s my turn to shake my head. My head dances left and right like sparks flying as a hammer strikes an anvil.

“I think big, Skye. I never put myself down. I shoot for the stars, because even if I end up miles off course, at least I’ll land on the moon.”

“Yeah – and that works for you,” I mutter, “Because you’re Harlan Wolfe! Who am I? Just some little girl with a fucked up family and –”

“Enough, Skye,” Harlan says, cutting across me harshly. My eyes spring open wide, and I notice a look of disappointment – maybe even hurt – on his face.

“Do you think I sprang out of the womb with twenty billion dollars in my back pocket?” Harlan asks gruffly.

I eye him sullenly. I know that Harlan – no matter how he might seem to the rest of the world – isn’t a boastful man. I don’t know why he’s bringing up his wealth, but I know he’s doing it to make a point.

But that doesn’t mean I want to hear it.

I bite my lip. “No,” I mutter, relenting.

“No,” Harlan says – more softly, now. “It was a fucking struggle, Skye. I left the military what, almost a decade ago?”

I nod.

“I played the markets a bit, when I was still in. More as a game, than anything. It helped to relieve to boredom and pass the time on base.” Harlan’s eyes flicker half-closed.

It’s as if he’s reliving a memory or, perhaps, something that’s been bugging him all day. I don’t know why, but that’s the sense that I get from looking at him. I feel like this speech has been rehearsed inside his head – whether consciously, or not…

“When I left the Navy, I threw all my savings…” his voice catches, but he pushes past it. “Ashley’s death benefits, everything into an account, and I tripled it inside a quarter. Other than giving Poppy the best life she could ever ask for, spending every hour that she was awake with her, I only thought about the markets. Hot stocks, commodities – you name it, I was all over it.”

I stay quiet. I feel like this isn’t just about resolving my issues. Harlan’s working through something as well.

“And when the guys in my old squad noticed how well I was doing, they gave me their savings to manage as well. Before long, I was trading half of SOCOM’s pension fund! That was how Wolfe Capital got started, you know?”

“SOCOM?”

“Oh – special operations command. Back then, after just a couple of years, we had almost a hundred million dollars in assets under management.”

I don’t know what to say, but I figure Harlan’s looking for some kind of response. “That’s a lot.”

That’s a lot? Jesus, Skye – could you be more vapid?

“It’s nothing. Little League shit. When you play down there, one bad day can ruin you. I knew I needed to get here,” Harlan gestures around the room, barely seeming to see me, “to Wall Street.”

“Well, you made it,” I smile, reaching out and stroking Harlan’s cheek. I don’t know why he’s so worked up, but it feels nice to help share the load.

“Yeah,” Harlan says, biting his lip anxiously. “I made it. But I had to make a deal with the devil to get here…”

I don’t know how to respond to that. I frown. “The devil –?” I ask.

Harlan cuts himself off, grimacing, as though he’s said too much. “It doesn’t matter. I got a phone call at work, that’s all. It was just a bit of bad news.”

I feel like it’s more than just “a bit of bad news,” yet I don’t want to pry. Whatever this thing is between Harlan and me, it’s new. New enough that one wrong move might risk it all.

And I couldn’t bear that.

“If you want to talk about it…” I say.

Harlan’s – now tense – face breaks into a sudden smile. “I know,” he sighs. “You’re here.”

I grin. “No, that’s not what I was going to say, not at all. I’m done playing at being your therapist, Harlan.”

He grins back. “But you never were, right? Not technically, anyway.”

“Right,” I say, kicking myself for the hundredth time. “We made a deal.”

I can’t believe I actually let myself get entangled with my boss. No matter what kind of disclaimer we put our names to, I’m old enough to know it is one hell of a conflict of interest and a real ethics bender.

I still can’t believe it worked out so well…

“I’m going to make good on it,” Harlan promises, “Tomorrow.”

My eyes widen. “Wait – you mean?”

Harlan nods, smiling mysteriously. “My lips are sealed, Skye. You know that.”

“If your lips were sealed,” I splutter, “you wouldn’t have told me anything at all!”

Harlan shrugs. “Blame the contract,” he says. “You never did get it looked at by a lawyer, did you?”

I shake my head. “Ass,” I mutter.

Harlan stands up. “Speaking of…” He says. “How about you give me a little twirl?”

“I’m not your Barbie doll,” I mutter, pulling a face at him.

“You aren’t?” Harlan replies, teasingly. “In that case, tomorrow’s going to go really badly for you…”

“You can’t do that!” I say, standing up indignantly. “You can’t just keep dropping hints and not tell me anything!”

The truth is I’m desperate to know what Harlan has planned. I’m nervous as all hell. Knowing him, it’s going to push me to the very edge of what I can take. And then over.

Harlan reaches out and takes my hand. He pulls me towards him, spinning me in the process – and I’m pretty sure I see his eyes drop to take a good long look at my ass.

“Hey!” I protest – weakly. “I was asking you something.”

Harlan shrugs. “What can I say, darling?”

I shiver at the sound of that nickname. No one’s ever given me one before. It feels so good to be wanted. Good enough that I know I would do pretty much anything for this man. Even – and I hate it – wait for his surprise.

“I’m a difficult man,” he continues. “And I guess if you want us to stay together, you’ll have to get used to it.”

Stay together!

My brain’s still reeling at the suggestion that Harlan and I might have a real future together. But I turn professional Skye on, and silence the storm of curiosity now raging in my mind.

“Or change you,” I threaten. “Because trust me, I could. Hell…” I press my body against his, form a fist, and rap my knuckles gently against his head. “This little black box ain’t nothing. I could hack into it over a long weekend.”

“We already had one of those,” Harlan grins, looping his arms around my body and holding me tight. “And you didn’t manage to.”

I hike my eyebrow up. “Didn’t I?”

Harlan’s eyes flare with understanding. He knows as well as I do that the time we spent together in his cabin changed everything. We went from being two people, pulled together by mutual need, to being something much, much more.

Friends, lovers even.

A couple?

Harlan’s only reply is a kiss. I think it says everything. His lips graze mine, and his arm – hooked around my lower back – pulls me in tight. I feel his cock start to grow, and I resist the urge to shake my head.

He’s insatiable!

Then again, that’s exactly what I want. I want a man who can’t help but want me. I need a man who can’t help but need me. And Harlan is exactly that.

“Down, cowboy,” I say, my eyes twinkling as I pull away from Harlan’s searching kiss. “We’re waiting for tomorrow, remember…”

“Are we?” Harlan replies with mock indignation. “I never said anything about that. I just said to be ready tomorrow…”

I hear a thump outside my apartment – on the landing, but I ignore it. I’m used to people coming and going at all hours. It’s part and parcel of living in an apartment block in the middle of New York City. Between the college kids partying on the ground floor, and the old couple, who live by the roof moving furniture up and down at all hours of the day, there’s always something.

“You hear that?” Harlan says, crinkling his eyes. “Sounded like –”

I tangle my fingers into Harlan’s shirt. “Leave it,” I say, biting my lip suggestively. “I’ve got something more interesting in mind…”

Harlan frowns a second longer, but then shrugs. “Okay. I guess tomorrow can wait.”

“Aren’t you a gentleman,” I wink.

THUD.

“Skye!” A hoarse, slurring voice calls out. “I need you, doll.”

No, no, no. Not tonight. Not tonight of all nights.

“Who’s that?” Harlan says, his head snapping towards the door. “Want me to sort it out?”

My head slumps forward, impacting against Harlan’s solid, muscular chest. Any other time, I would have rubbed my sore forehead, but right now I’ve got bigger problems.

“No,” I groan.

“Seriously, Skye – if you’ve got some asshole neighbor bothering you, I’ll deal with it.”

My cheeks start burning red with a surge of embarrassment. I know I’ve explained my past to Harlan, but it’s one thing to talk about it in the quiet comfort of his cabin in the mountains – quite another to have it come surging back to life when he’s right here by my side.

“It’s not my neighbor,” I mutter, mortified, “you can’t fix this problem.”

Harlan squints at me, not understanding. It’s my fault, I’m not making it clear. I don’t want to explain the situation.

“Then what is it?” He says.

I sag into his arms, holding onto him for the last couple of seconds, feeding off his strength. Tears are prickling at the corners of my eyes. I’m so tired of this –yet I’m still the man’s daughter. I don’t have any other choice. He’s all I’ve got left.

“It’s my dad,” I admit, my throat choking up, as if fit to burst into tears.

Harlan pushes back. “Oh, Skye…” He says with a crushing look of pity on his face that hurts more than any words of his could. “You told me, I just –”

“Didn’t understand,” I say briskly, straightening myself up and preparing for what’s about to come. “It’s not your fault. There’s no way you could have. But I need you to leave.”

Harlan blinks. I can’t tell if he’s hurt or relieved. “I can stay,” he says firmly. “Help out.”

I shake my head and step back, wringing my hands. “No – it’s better if you don’t. And…” I tail off.

Harlan frowns, “And…”

“When you leave, just pretend –, pretend –”

Harlan nods his understanding. “Just pretend this was nothing more than a friendly dinner,” he says.

I nod. “I’m sorry, Harlan,” I say. “This isn’t how I wanted tonight to end…”

Harlan hugs me and gets ready to leave, “me neither, darling. But I’m not going anywhere.” He grins, as if realizing the absurdity of what he just said. “In the long run, I mean.”

“I know,” I smile wanly. “I know.”

There’s another – “thud” – outside, and then my dad’s voice echoes in the hallway. “Skye…” he slurs, “Skye!”

“I’ll go,” Harlan says, grazing my cheek with his lips. “And about tomorrow… it can wait.”

“No!” I say, startling myself with the intensity of my reaction. Somehow it feels like if I let dad disrupt tomorrow, like he’s done the last ten years, then I lose. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“Okay then,” Harlan smiles. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And just like that, he turns to leave. I walk to the door without another word needing to be said. I kiss him once on the lips, close my eyes briefly, and then loosen the latch. I mouth, “thank you…” silently at him.

Then louder, I say. “Thanks for coming around, boss. And –”

I stop, my mind drawing a blank. I’m no good at this playacting thing.

Harlan takes my cue and runs with it.

“It really wasn’t a problem,” he says – while stepping over my father’s drunken body. I wince at the sight of the man’s matted ginger hair. “I’m just glad I got you the papers in time for you to sign.”

“Yes, yes,” I say, latching onto Harlan’s idea. “The papers. Thanks again.”

We share a smile at the absurdity of this role-playing. After all – of all the role-playing I thought I might do with a man like Harlan Wolfe, this is pretty tame! And then he walks toward the stairs.

I let my head drop forward for a second, then my eyes pass over my dad’s sprawled body.

“Skye…” He moans, holding his thumping head. “Who was that?”

“No one, dad,” I mutter. “Let’s get you inside.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Harlan

Today’s the day.

I can barely believe it. Poppy is still on her school trip for another couple of days, almost the longest we’ve ever been apart. But that’s not why I’m excited. I’m excited because today’s the day I’m going to give Skye her first orgasm ever.

It sure as hell won’t be her last.

Because when I make her pop, I plan to keep on going. Skye’s going to be my girl – forever. I’ve never seen a girl as beautiful as her. And she will be just as beautiful when I walk her down the aisle as Skye Wolfe.

Hell, that’s got a ring to it, doesn’t it?

Skye Wolfe.

My wife?

Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. First thing’s first – I need to make her come. I need to show her what she’s been missing all these years. I’m going to.

I’m going to give her a night she’ll never forget. Then again, I’m going to fuck her so completely I doubt she’ll even be able to remember it!

My assistant, Jennifer, sprints into my office with a small black box in her hands. “I’ve got it,” she pants, thrusting the item towards me.

“The one from your top drawer, just like you asked.”

I open a door that looks like it should lead to a walk-in filing cabinet, but is actually just a pullout mirror. Just one of the little toys I had installed in this place, and one of the boring ones, at that.

“Thanks, Jen,” I say, checking myself out in my reflection.

I’m wearing a black tuxedo, white shirt, and leather shoes that have been shined within an inch of their life. For some reason, that’s one of the things I still do myself. It is strangely therapeutic – just a man, a tin of polish, and a rag.

It’s like meditation, I guess.

“Um, boss?” Jennifer says, chewing her lip anxiously.

I throw her a look over my shoulder. “Is everything okay? Because if it is, head home. I’m done for the night.”

I see a tumult of emotions play out on Jen’s face. I think I know what she’s about to ask me, but I want to hear if she’ll actually say it. I’ve given her an out, an opportunity to walk away without possibly provoking my anger.

She doesn’t take it.

I knew she wouldn’t. Because if Jennifer was the kind of person who could be that weak, I simply wouldn’t have hired her. After all, I do my homework.

“Boss – did I screw up?” She asks. “Only, I don’t see anything on your calendar for tonight, and –”

She tails off.

I grin, shooting an ostentatious look at my dinner outfit. “I’m all dressed up like I’m going on a date,” I say.

“Yeah…”

“Don’t worry about it. Tonight is…” I pause, thinking about how best to phrase what’s going to happen. “…Private.”

“Okay.” Jen breathes a sigh of relief. “I guess that’s fine, then.”

I smile at her. “Thanks, Jen. You did a good job today.”

Then I frown. Something’s been bugging me all day, and I’ve only just realized what it was. “Hey – did Garibaldi ever call back? It slipped my mind.”

Jen’s face turns ashen. I know that’s how I should feel about the prospect of tussling with a man that devious, but somehow I don’t. I’m way too excited about tonight.

“Shit –! I mean, no. Nothing through my office, anyway.”

I chew the inside of my lip. That’s strange. I knew I should have returned the man’s call straightaway. He’s too dangerous a player to simply leave hanging. Hell, I almost spilled the beans to Skye last night, and that would’ve been a terrible idea.

There’s no good in involving her in matters like that, after all. I’m supposed to be protecting her, not throwing her to the wolves.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “We can sort it out tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Jennifer asks anxiously. “I can stay late –?”

“Don’t worry about it. If he needs to speak to me that badly, he’ll call back,” I say, though I don’t truly believe it myself.

The fact that he rang in the first place is enough of a warning – a warning that apparently I’m too drunk on lust to take.

But what could one more night hurt?

“You head home,” I smile, dismissing my assistant. “I’ll finish up here.”

“Yes boss.”

I turn back to the mirror, straightening my jacket, and trying to ignore the sense of foreboding that is now gnawing at my stomach. The smart thing to do would be to cancel tonight and make sure that all my bases are covered. But the smart play is rarely the right one.

And the right thing to do is to give Skye the release that has eluded her all these years – the release that only I can give her.

I turn, bend down, and unlock the bottom drawer of my desk. A single gold-embossed, ivory black enamel box sits inside it, a small envelope on top. I haven’t touched it since it was delivered – hand-couriered – to my office two days prior.

I glance at the envelope, and tuck it into the breast pocket of my dinner jacket. I don’t need to look at what it contains. It’s an invitation – an invitation to Manhattan’s most exclusive club – to a club that doesn’t even have a name.

It has a very simple list of rules – a list that’s only one line long. You never, ever reveal the Club’s existence.

I open the box to reveal two finally sculpted masks. Skye’s is more elaborate – black, lined with gold thread, extending all the way to her cheeks. My breath catches in my throat as I picture my beautiful girl wearing it. Mine is rather simpler – a black and silver eye mask.

Ribbon streams out behind them as I pick them up. My heart pounds in my chest as I realize the significance of what I have planned for Skye tonight. It’s going to be the first night of the rest of both our lives.

Because it’s no masquerade ball I have planned.

Tonight’s the night that I pledge myself to Skye Warren. And the night she places herself in my hands, and surrenders – mind, body and soul.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Skye

I feel like a hurricane is raging through my stomach. Screw butterflies, if they were flying in the tumult I feel in my gut, they’d be ripped to shreds. I don’t know what Harlan has planned for me tonight, but I have a feeling that it is going to test my every last boundary.

Will I be able to handle it? Will I be able to handle him? I’m picturing Harlan unleashed, and that’s as terrifying an image as it is tempting.

I just don’t know the answers to my fears. How can I even hope to ask the question without a hint as to what Harlan has in store for me?

I simply can’t.

I check myself in my bedroom mirror one last time. The black silk dress Harlan had sent over for tonight – a throwback to the early days of our relationship – is elegant, yet luxuriously sexy. For once I don’t mind that he’s picking out my clothing.

Especially when he sends jewelry as magnificent as this necklace now kissing my throat...

I have a feeling that everything is about to come to a head, that Harlan’s plan is going to be made clear. Harlan was so struck by our breakthrough on the topic of control a few days ago that I know if he’s returned to it, there must be a reason.

For now, I’ll just go with the flow.

The beautiful, silk evening dress caresses my ankles, almost completely hiding a pair of thousand dollar Italian heels that look so delicate it’s hard to believe they can bear my weight without snapping. My ears sparkle with tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of diamonds, and my hair tumbles gleefully over one shoulder.

And that’s just what’s on the surface.

Beneath the black silk dress is black lace – lingerie I wouldn’t have dared to wear just a couple of weeks ago. The underwear isn’t so much skimpy as it is forthright – a statement of sexuality so dominant I can’t help but wonder if I have any right to wear it.

It seems made for another woman – a more confident woman, a girl who knows how to use her body, not someone who’s barely scratching the surface.

But then, I muse. Maybe that’s who I’ll become tonight.

My phone buzzes on my wooden bedside table. I glance down, stepping back out of my own head, and free the phone from its charging cable. A simple message is written on the lock screen.

“I’m downstairs.”

Harlan doesn’t bother signing his name. After all, who would dare interfere with his woman? No one in this city, I daresay. I tremble with a mixture of fear and delight at the thought of what his wrath would be like if someone threatened me.

I can’t help but think they wouldn’t last the night.

I rush downstairs. The elevator ride is a blur, and when its doors open, Harlan’s waiting for me, dressed in a black tuxedo that seems to have been sprayed onto his body. His shoulders are outlined perfectly by the expensive material, his bowtie messily knotted with rakish exuberance.

“You made it,” he growls. His eyes widen, and flicker across my body as he appreciates my new look. “I thought you might back out of our little agreement.”

“Should I be worried?” I ask.

The tempest in my stomach has abated slightly, but it’s still rumbling away. I trust Harlan, but maybe that’s the thing that will bring me down…

Harlan holds out his arm and beckons me to join him. “Quickly,” he grins. “Before the elevator steals you back up…”

I link arms with him, and elbow him gently in the torso. It feels like hitting a brick wall. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Harlan guides me to the limo waiting outside, and opens the door for me. He holds his tongue until we are sitting next to each other on the back seat. The privacy screen is up, and we’re hidden in our own world. The limo engine rumbles and we start to move.

“Maybe nervous,” Harlan allows, “would be a better word to use than worried.”

I hike up my eyebrow. “So I should be nervous? That’s… disconcerting.”

“Yes, and no,” Harlan says softly, stroking my forearm. “Everything I’ll do tonight is for a reason, Skye. I’ve never done this with any other woman, I promise you that. But…”

“But what” I say, my tone of voice hard and only somewhat questioning. “I don’t like the sound of that…”

Harlan chews his lip, as if wondering how much he should tell me. Then he gives me an almost imperceptible shrug. “But you’re going to need a safe word,” he says.

As I process Harlan’s comment, my heart rate spikes. It feels ragged and uneven, and I can tell my body has just dumped as much adrenaline as it can find, but there’s nothing to fight and nowhere to run.

“A … safe word?”

Harlan smiles sweetly. “Your choice,” as if this is a concession.

The storm builds in my stomach again. Between that and my jagged, pounding heart, I feel on the verge of panic.

Harlan squeezes my hand reassuringly.

“How long have I got to decide?” I ask, clenching my teeth and swallowing hard. This has all suddenly become very, very real. Up until now, I’d treated it as a game. Now I realize it’s anything but.

Harlan glances down at the watch peeking out of his tuxedo jacket’s left cuff. “Oh…” He drawls. “Not long. I’d say about three minutes?”

I dig my fingernails into Harlan’s palm to express my disapproval – and near-panic. “Three minutes!”

“It’s only one word, Skye,” he grins. “It shouldn’t take you that long…”

I squeeze my eyes shut, and breathe deeply, searching my mind, as I struggle to regain control of my chest. A few moments must pass like that, in silence, because before long the limousine begins to slow. I open my eyes and look out the window. The distinctive stone-fronted buildings of New York’s SoHo district slide into view.

“We’re here, Skye,” Harlan says softly. “Did you make your choice?”

I stay silent a second longer and bite my lip. Then a wicked thought enters my mind. “Oh,” I say, turning to my lover with a mischievous smile. “I’ve got an idea. How about dirty doctor?”

Harlan’s eyebrow darts upward and his eyes widen slightly. “Dirty doctor?” He says. “I guess that’s exactly what you are… I like it. You have my word – the moment that escapes your lips, I’ll get you out of there. Do we have a deal?”

I hold out my hand to seal it. “Deal,” I say, shaking Harlan’s hand firmly.

The limousine slows to a halt. Harlan makes as if to exit the vehicle, then pauses. He reaches over to a black enamel box I hadn’t noticed, opens it, and hands me an object I can’t make out until I’m holding it. I glance down to see a masquerade mask.

“You’ll need this,” Harlan says, setting my heart rate off again. I start to wonder whether he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like he’s got my emotions on a yo-yo, and just when I think I’m all spooled back up, he sets me off spinning once again. “Let me tie it.”

I don’t trust my voice, so I don’t say a word in reply. I just turn my neck away from Harlan and let him loop the black ribbon around my head. As his fingers work, I squeeze my eyes shut and take one last, long, lingering breath.

A second later it’s done, and Harlan’s donned his own mask. “It’s time,” he says, leaning over to me and grazing my cheek with his lips. “Just know, Skye – you’re the only woman in there who’s worth a damn.”

And with that, Harlan opens the limo door and steps out, leaving a thousand questions raging in my head. What does he mean, the only woman? And more importantly, what the hell is about to happen to me?

Harlan opens my door and I step out in a daze, clutching at his offered arm. I barely take in the architecture. Heck, there’s not much to see. The building we appear to be heading for is fronted with elegant white stone. It looks like a fancy hotel.

As we get closer to the doorway, I see a brass plaque marked with only two words: The Penthouse.

It’s not much of a clue.

I hold onto Harlan’s arm for strength. I haven’t got much of my own. I feel seasick, as though someone’s knocked my land legs out from underneath me.

A uniformed doorman appears from nowhere to let us in as we approach. He doesn’t say a word. We enter a wide lobby lit only by flickering candlelight.

Where am I? And what the hell is going on?

This is so far out of my wheelhouse that I don’t know how to respond. My heart rate is erratic, my breath uneven, and my palms sticky with sweat. I play my eyes around the room, trying to make out what I can in the dim light, but it doesn’t hold any more answers. It’s bare, apart from the marble dresser decorated with a vase stuffed full of fresh red roses.

Harlan ushers me into the waiting elevator. There’s only one button, marked P for Penthouse, I guess. He pushes it, and the doors ping shut. I finally regain my voice.

“What is this place, Harlan?” I whisper, clutching to one of his tree trunk arms. “What the hell’s going to happen to me tonight?”

I have my own ideas. I just need Harlan to confirm them for me, or at least give me the barest hint of a clue. It’s pretty clear that the Penthouse is some kind of – my cheeks burn even thinking about it – sex club.

Oh my God. What have I agreed to?

Harlan takes his time to reply. I wonder if he does it on purpose. The silence allows a rush of thoughts and fantasies to flood into my head. What if he plans to let other men use me? What if he plans to let more than one…?

I gulp. Could I handle it? Should I?

Or should I hit the elevator’s emergency button, and run as far and fast away from this place as I can? Maybe I need to admit that this is just above my pay grade. Admit I’m not cut out for this world Harlan’s pulling me into.

There’s no shame in that, is there?

“You’ll do fine, Skye,” Harlan finally growls. “I believe in you. Do you trust me?”

The elevator begins to slow, and my pulse spikes even higher. I close my eyes behind the mask and try and focus on what got me into this in the first place. Do I really need the orgasm that’s lack has haunted me for so long? Maybe I can just live without it – live without ever knowing what it feels like?

No.

“Yes,” I breathe as the elevator comes to a stop. “Yes, Harlan – I trust you.”

The elevator doors slide open.

A masked man awaits us. Like Harlan, he’s wearing a tuxedo – except his bowtie is white, not black. A warm smile opens up on his face.

“Ah,” he says in greeting, “our final guests. May I see your invitation?”

Invitation?

Harlan doesn’t break stride. He un-links his arm from mine, cutting me adrift, and removes an envelope from his breast pocket. He hands it over.

The man in the white tie opens it, glances at it briefly, and smiles for a second time. “Perfect. The auction commences in five minutes, so you’re just in time. Tonight,” he turns to me as my brain is still reeling from the word auction, “you, Madam, are Eleven. And –”

“– I guess that makes me Twelve?” Harlan growls, his voice low and sounding supremely confident.

We couldn’t be any more different. I feel like I’m spinning, like the floor beneath my feet has turned to dust. My chest and throat clench up with panic. What’s going on? How have I become simply a number, rather than a name? Somehow, I spit out a single word.

“ Auction!?”

“Precisely,” the host says from behind his white mask. “Now, as I’m sure you both know, the use of your given name is forbidden for the night. Our guests go by the numbers. It’s – safer – that way, for all of us.”

That’s news to me.

“Now, Eleven?” The host says, turning behind him to a waitress – also masked – carrying two glasses of bubbling champagne. He presses one into my startled fingers. “Will you go with my assistant here? She’ll take care of your every need.”

My eyes widen behind my mask as far as they’ll go. Harlan didn’t say anything about us being separated! Come to think about it, he didn’t really say anything at all…

The masked waitress smiles at me, and beckons me to follow her. My feet feel like they’ve been weighed down with lead. I cast a look back at Harlan – Twelve, now, for whatever mysterious reason – with pleading eyes. I can’t seem to make my mouth work, nor force my tongue to speak.

Twelve smiles back at me. “I’ll see you soon,” his voice rumbles. Right now it sounds as if it could be an invitation as much as a threat.

But I straighten my back. Harlan – back when that was still his name – asked if I trusted him. The answer, for all tonight’s strangeness, is still yes. If this is the path I need to tread to get to the orgasm he promised me, then I’ll surely walk it.

As I leave them behind, I watch as the masked host presses something into Harlan’s hand. It looks like a key of some description. I can’t make out any more detail. Harlan places it inside his breast pocket.

I follow the masked assistant. As we turn a corner, she starts to talk. Her voice is low, husky, and completely self-assured. In short, she’s the exact opposite of me.

“Is this your first time?” she asks.

I swallow. “Is – is it that obvious?”

The masked woman laughs. “To me, maybe. But behind that mask you can be anyone you want to be. You’ll be fine. Now – have you been told what is going to happen tonight?”

I shake my head nervously. “No,” I croak.

“Perfect. That’s how it should be. We have some return guests, of course.” She lets out a peal of low laughter. “We find that once they’ve had a taste, they are hooked.”

I don’t know about that. If the cauldron of acid in my stomach is any guide, I’ve got a funny feeling – if I survive tonight – I won’t be coming back. Tonight would have to be spectacular to change my mind on that.

“The auction starts in about five minutes.”

“Auction?” I squeak. “Will somebody please explain what’s going on here?”

“Of course,” my host says and smiles. She acts like she’s been through this a hundred times before. I guess she probably has. “Every time we open our doors, we invite twelve guests. Six men, the even numbers, and six women, the odd. You’ll go up on stage one by one. The bidding does get… competitive.”

“Wait–” I choke.

Then I fall silent, as what’s about to happen to me hits home. I’m going to go up on stage like a piece of meat, and have men – hopefully, at least – competing over the right to use my body as they please.

Is this what Harlan planned for me all along?

My assistant lays her hand on the single door that lies at the end of the hallway. She starts to push, but I touch on her shoulder. She turns to me, and shoots me a questioning look. My heart is beating so fast I can barely get the words out.

“Wait–” I say again, with added urgency. “Har–, I mean, Twelve. Can he bid on me?”

I see my guide frown beneath her mask. “I… suppose,” she says haltingly. “But I don’t see why he would.”

She pushes the door open and pushes me through, leaving the second part of her sentence unspoken. After all, why would any man bid on a woman he was already with…

My guide leaves me in a room with five other women, but otherwise alone with my thoughts. Each one is clothed, like me, in an extravagant evening dress, and, like me, a mask.

As I enter the room, every mask turns in my direction. Half the women are seated in chairs around the edge of the room, the rest remain standing. There’s an edge to the room – an electric sense of tension.

Otherwise, the room remains absolutely silent.

I cast my eyes around the other participants – my colleagues in this strange, twisted game Harlan has thrown me into. The three women seated around the edges look like they’ve seen this all before. They are masked, of course, but have a – perhaps faked – sense of profound boredom about them. I wonder who they are.

Escorts, perhaps?

The remaining two aren’t nearly as relaxed. They are both pacing around the room, anxiously chewing their lips. They seem young: far younger than me, anyway. I try and guess their story. I wonder how they got here. They seem so innocent, almost virginal.

But I don’t have long to put it together…

A voice comes through the speakers in this strange, ethereal green room. “Ladies,” it says. “This is your three-minute warning.”

I think that’s going to be all that’s said. Three minutes to internally prepare myself for whatever happens next.

But of course, there is always more.

“It’s time to undress.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

Harlan

I’ve heard rumors of this place for years. Dreamed of it, even. It’s strange to finally be here, and with Skye by my side.

The auction room itself is neatly organized. It’s carpeted in a rich, thick cream, and six maroon wingback armchairs are arranged in two rows of three. At the front of the room is a small wooden lectern. Five of the six armchairs are occupied by men dressed just like me, and the sixth is empty – waiting for its occupant.

Me.

The place is simple, but then, it doesn’t need to be anything more. The focus is to be the women who are about to come through that door. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I am here.

And I know one last thing. The competition is going to be fierce. It doesn’t matter what other women are revealed, I know that Skye is the night’s greatest prize.

I’ve brought Skye here for one reason and one reason only. My problem is control, and so is hers. This is how we solve it.

I need to limit my need for dominance. Restrict it to the bedroom, not let it consume the rest of my life. But Skye – Skye needs to accept that winning the prize she so desperately wants will take risking everything she holds dear.

A door opens, and the night’s masked host steps through. The auction room immediately fills with a buzz of excitement. Even I can’t resist it.

Tonight is going to be the first night of the rest of my life – a life with Skye by my side. By the time it’s finally over, she’ll be a different woman.

And what will I be?

I’ll be a completely different man.

I take my seat.

“Gentlemen,” the host says, clearing his throat, “so good of you to join us tonight. Your contributions – as always – are very much appreciated.”

Damn right.

I’ve paid my membership fees to this place for years, just waiting to find the perfect woman. Those are the rules. You can come as often as you want – but you can only ever invite the same woman.

What happens if she leaves you? Asks for a divorce, or decides she’s done lying on her back in exchange for cash?

You’re shit out of luck.

So I’ve waited, and waited – praying that the perfect woman would one day walk into my life. Now, at long last, Skye has come.

Of course, I think wryly, as I cast my eyes around the room, some of the men here aren’t quite so principled. They hire hookers – the best of the best, of course – escorts, they are called.

To me, though, they’ll always be hookers.

The host continues. “As always, it’s wonderful to see so many familiar…”

He pauses for effect.

“… Masks.”

There is a smattering of polite laughter, but the tension in the room doesn’t fade. We all know why we’re here.

“As you know, this illustrious club was founded on the principle that by bringing together the finest men in New York, we also bring together the finest women.”

It’s true. Only New York’s richest, most famous, and – most of all – powerful men are even invited to apply for membership. This place is an inner sanctum of success. It’s a place where men like me can give into their deepest, darkest desires in total, utter privacy.

It’s a place where we can sample and share the wives, girlfriends and hangers on of the best men in New York.

That means we sample the best women this planet has to offer.

Well, I say we. In fact, I’ve never been here before.

You could even say that I’m a club… virgin.

The host claps his hands together. “Shall we begin?”

He walks to his lectern, pauses for a second, and then picks up a tiny silver hand bell. He rings it, and it tinkles sweetly. Somehow it seems like the strangest, most innocent, of sounds to kick off a night of such debauchery.

I relax back into my chair and wait for the games to begin. The side door opens, and a woman – clad only in thousand-dollar lingerie – steps through. I hold my breath, hoping against all hope that it’s Skye.

But it’s not. I’m forced to wait, and my desire builds.

The girl is nervous. That much is plain. She’s young – can’t be much over eighteen years old, and flat out gorgeous. But judging by the way she’s acting, hunching her shoulders, crossing her arms and chewing anxiously at the inside of her lip, she’s not used to this kind of attention.

I’d put money on her being a virgin. A real one, unlike me.

“This is One. She’s a new member.”

The host – now auctioneer – turns to One, and smiles indulgently. From beneath her mask, the young girl smiles weakly back at him.

“Will you give us a twirl, my dear? Show these men what they are bidding on…”

It’s hard to make out, but I think the girl briefly squeezes her eyes shut beneath her mask, a diamond studded, indulgent affair. I wonder which of these men brought her. I wonder what she was promised in order to come.

Money, perhaps?

Marriage?

People’s sexual motives have always fascinated me. Given the field she entered, I imagine that Skye is the same.

The young girl completes her twirl. Her underwear hides little, disappearing at the back into a thong. I won’t deny that I give her an appreciative glance. But there’s no joy in it, not like there would have been just a couple of weeks ago.

For all her – obvious – assets, this girl’s a pale imitation of Skye’s perfection.

“Marvelous,” the host claps. Strangely, One seems to straighten her back at the praise.

He cocks his head at the girl, appraising her, and then nods, as if decided.

He turned back to the crowd. “We’ll start the bidding at, say, a million?”

The crowd is entirely unfazed by the auctioneer’s starting price. I don’t hear so much as a rustle. To the men in this room, a million dollars is nothing. Even for a single night with one single woman. Of course, I’ve never heard anyone publicly admit that they are a member of this most secret of clubs.

But I’ve heard the rumors.

I heard the rumor of the record-breaking battle that stretched to almost seventy million dollars – one girl, one night, a fee worth more than the GDP of most small countries, and all paid directly to the girl under auction, of course.

Although I didn’t tell Skye that bit.

Five of the men – all of them, in fact, except me – raise their auction paddles.

“One point five?”

Five paddles.

“Two?”

Five paddles.

“Three?”

Three paddles.

I look at the two men who dropped out of the race with interest. I try and guess at their motives. Was it the money that was an issue? Or did they truly not value this girl at more than two million dollars?

It’s hard to say.

I squint at the girl, who seems to be growing into her public display as the bids rise, but honestly I can’t put a price on her. I’ve been too spoiled by Skye’s beauty. Every other girl seems like little more than an empty shadow.

“Shall we jump to five million, then?”

Two paddles.

“Six.”

Two paddles.

“Eight?”

This time there is only one paddle raised. A murmur of interest briefly fills the room, and there’s a rustle as the assorted guests look around to see whether the other bidder has dropped out.

“Sir?” The auctioneer asks, doing his best to tempt the man back into the race. But the man simply shakes his head.

The masked auctioneer smiles and announces, “Going, going, gone. Sold to the man in the gold mask.”

I can’t see the winner’s face, but I see him make a fist, and punch the air. I wonder what it feels like, to have spent eight million dollars on buying a woman’s attentions for the night.

Maybe even – in this case – buying a woman’s virginity…

I do the math inside my head. If they are together for six hours, that’s three hundred and sixty minutes – more than twenty-two thousand dollars per minute.

Not a bad rate.

“Will you stick around, sir? Perhaps another girl might take your fancy… two, as they say, is better than one.”

The masked winner stands. He’s a tall man, beyond six feet, with broad shoulders and light brown hair. He looks like he could be a movie star.

“Not tonight,” he growls in a deep, low voice that I’m sure I recognize. “I have a busy day tomorrow.”

He holds out his hand for the girl – his prize – who suddenly looks nervous again. But he shoots her a smile, and she brightens up quickly. I’m not surprised.

Apart from me – of course – he’s by far one of the most attractive men in the room.

As the winner leads his prize out of the auction room, the auctioneer reaches for his bell once more. It tinkles, and the circus starts again. I straighten up in my armchair, taking a sip of the forgotten champagne. I was so caught up in the spectacle I’ve only just realized how thirsty I really am.

I hold my breath as the second girl walks in. This one, however, has clearly been here before. She’s long legged, even taller in her heels. Like Skye, she’s got gorgeous red hair. Unlike my girl, though, hers towers above her head in a loose bun.

“Ah,” the auctioneer smiles. “A returning favorite – shall we start the bidding at five?”

“Make it ten,” a man in the armchair beside me grunts. He’s a larger individual. His belly strains against his black tuxedo jacket.

The auctioneer inclines his head. “Very bold,” he simpers, “but as you wish. Ten it is.”

Without hesitation, three paddles fly into the air. The auctioneer casts me a strange, curious glance, but quickly moves on. Ever the professional.

I wonder what he thinks of me. I have to admit, if I wasn’t here with Skye, and I’d never even met her, then I might well be bidding for the tall redhead at the front of the room.

“Fifteen.”

After this sudden jump, only two paddles remain. I’m not surprised. Fifteen million dollars is a hell of a sum, even for me. It’s an even bigger jump. I lean forward with interest, wondering how high this one will go.

“Eighteen?”

Two paddles.

The fat man growls again. I glance at him, sure I know him. He has a hard frame to hide. I think he’s the CEO of some technology firm based uptown. He’s not richer than me, but it is close enough. Still, I shiver. If I was the tall redhead, I sure as hell wouldn’t want to go to bed with him – no matter how rich he might be.

“Twenty-five,” the fat man says.

The room suddenly goes still. It’s one hell of a bid. I can’t help but respect the man’s balls – though I wouldn’t want to get anywhere close to them…

“Twenty-five it is,” the auctioneer says. “Do I see any bids?”

The fat man’s paddle goes up. It’s the only one that does.

“Going, going, gone…”

The redhead walks over to the fat man immediately, deepening my suspicion that she’s done this dance before. She sits down on his lap, and I notice that he makes no move to stand up.

“Will you stay for another round, sir?”

“Yes,” the fat man replies. “Also, get my girl a drink.”

“Certainly, sir,” the auctioneer complies, and points at a waiter I hadn’t noticed standing at the back of the room. The man quickly springs into action.

The bell tinkles again.

I hold my breath, again.

And this time, it really is Skye who walks through. Her footsteps are slow, awkward and nervous. When she sees the room of men arrayed in front of her, she almost physically cringes.

But I don’t see her anxiety, or awkwardness. I see the most beautiful girl in the world, the only one I’ve felt anything for since Ashley. The only one I want to spend the rest of my life with.

I do hear the almost audible intake of breath around the room. I see the fat man next to me straighten up with interest, and the tall redhead on his lap pout with dismay, even jealousy.

She has Competition.

“My, my…” the auctioneer whispers. Even he can’t tear his eyes away from Skye’s perfect, beautiful, freckled body.

He gives his head a half shake and smiles at the room. “After Eleven has given us a twirl,” he glances meaningfully at Skye who stares back at him open-mouthed, “shall we start the bidding at – say – ten again? I think we all agree that she’s worth it.”

I glance at the fat man to my left and chew my lip. He’s showing altogether too much interest for my liking…

“Make it forty,” I growl.

Skye’s worth that to me, and a hundred times more. I’d spend every penny I had on her and it would be cheap at twice the price. I don’t care what it takes. She’s going to be mine.

The man in the armchair right in front of me rocks backward and whistles. “Holy shit…”

It takes a second for the auctioneer to recover his poise. “Forty it is.” He turns back to Skye with an expectant smile. “Madam, if you will oblige us?”

Skye just looks back at him, with an expression of confusion painted on her face. Then she realizes what he’s asking for, that goddamn twirl. I’d be on her side, except for one little thing…

I want to see her ass more than anything in the world right now.

I watch Skye bite her lip as she searches the room for my face, and looks only at me.

Then, and only then, does she twirl.

God, my cock fucking jumps inside my pants. If she’s making a sales pitch, then she’s already closed the deal. I wasn’t gonna let anyone outbid me before, and I sure as hell won’t now.

“Do I hear forty, then?”

My paddle flashes up instantly. It’s joined by the fat man’s, and then – almost reluctantly – the man to the right of me throws his hat in the ring.

I scowl. I don’t care about the price, or the competition. I just want to know who the assholes are who didn’t bid on a girl like Skye fucking Warren.

“I think it’s perhaps best if we go up in tens,” the auctioneer says, sounding short on breath. “Fifty?”

Three paddles. I smile with approval.

“Sixty?”

Two paddles go up … and then … reluctantly again, a third. I glance at the man to my right. I know his heart isn’t in it. He knows he’s got no hope of winning Skye’s hand, so he’s just bidding for show. Hell, I doubt he’s got the sixty million to play with at all.

“Seventy?”

But my competitor’s risk tolerance has reached its limit. Only the fat man’s paddle joins mine in the air.

“Eighty million?” The auctioneer chokes out. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind anyone in this room that once we pass seventy-five, we are operating in record territory for the club…”

I lock my eyes on Skye. She seems to relax, if only slightly. I wish I could shoot her a wink from behind my mask to tell her everything will be okay, but I know in the dim candlelit room she’s got no hope of seeing my reassurance.

Fuck, she’s the sexiest girl I’ve ever seen.

There’s no way I’m losing this contest. I’ll do whatever it takes.

My paddle flicks lazily into the air.

“Twenties, then…” The auctioneer says, sounding stunned. “We’ll go up in twenties, a hundred million.”

Even the fat man hesitates before putting up his paddle. Skye’s mouth drops open. I’m not even sure she’s embarrassed any longer. Hell, judging by the color in her cheeks, I’d say she’s pretty damn turned on.

She has a damn right to be. She’s about to become a hundred million dollar kind of girl. I sure as hell ain’t stopping there.

“One twenty.”

Two paddles. This fat man’s persistent.

“One forty.”

Two paddles. He shoots me a leering stare. I can tell he’s trying to figure out how far I’ll go.

“One sixty.”

I allow my paddle to hesitate in the air, and the fat man makes a fist. He thinks he’s won.

Fat chance.

Pardon the pun.

I stand up, keeping my eyes locked on Skye. Her back is poker straight now, and her chin is held tall and proud. If I didn’t know her better, I would think she was a completely different woman from the one who walked into this room.

I drain my champagne flute, and set it down lazily.

“Humph. Are you done?” The fat man grunts. “I was only just getting warmed up…”

Skye stares at me, eyes wide behind her mask. They glint, reflecting the flickering candlelight.

I shake my head.

“Fuck no,” I growl. “I’m just done playing in Monopoly money. I’ll do three hundred, and let’s go up in hundreds.”

The fat man gawks at me. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding. Who spends that kind of money on some bitch?”

I’m on him in under a second. I push the girl safely aside, then I plant my knee on his crotch and press down hard. His eyes bulge behind the mask.

“I wouldn’t say that again,” I growl in a low, threatening tone. “Or you’ll be walking out of here without the cock you just spent so much money on…”

I flick my fingers dismissively at the man and stand up as though nothing had happened. He stares at me with frankly terrified eyes. Even the attractive redhead he bought is looking at him with barely concealed disgust in her eyes.

“Three hundred, then?” The auctioneer asks, professionally acting as though nothing ever happened.

He waits a tick.

“Going, going, gone…”

There, she’s mine.

The auctioneer just shakes his head. He turns to Skye in a way he hasn’t done for any of the other girls who went through this room.

“Well, madam, it looks like you’re about to be a very wealthy woman,” he says.

“What do you mean?” Skye says, squeaking at first as she regains the use of her voice.

“Three hundred million,” the auctioneer says, shaking his head with disbelief once again, “it’s all yours … less our five percent, of course.”

“Oh,” she squeaks again, stunned, “of course.”

I reach out my hand.

Chapter Fifty

Skye

I feel like a virgin all over again as I walk through the Penthouse’s lushly carpeted hallways holding Harlan’s hand.

Heck, I feel like a newlywed on her wedding night.

“This can’t be real,” I mutter, still stunned from what just happened in the auction room. “Tell me this isn’t real?”

Harlan shakes his head, and plays his eyes across the hallway. It looks like a hotel – each of the doors is numbered, one through six.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize what they are. Six rooms – to put it crudely – six spaces where the victorious men take their prizes to…

… Play with.

I’m not going to lie, it feels kind of misogynistic, and definitely hot. This time, at least, I’ll let it ride.

Especially as I’ve got a funny feeling I’m going to be doing a whole lot more riding very, very soon.

Harlan pulls out a room key from his breast pocket. I realize now what the masked host pressed into his hand when we arrived.

“Did you like my surprise?” He grins mischievously at me, pressing the key into the lock. The door opens, and he tugs me inside.

The surprises, it seems, don’t stop at the auction. When I thought that these rooms were sex rooms, I didn’t expect them to be so, well – kinky.

I kick the door shut behind me, and stand in front of Harlan with my hands on my hips. “What the hell is this place, Harlan?” I say, asking the question that’s been hovering on my lips ever since we arrived. “You’re going to need to walk me through what just happened before I have a freaking heart attack…”

Harlan smiles, tugs my hands from my waist, and squeezes them tight.

“You, Skye Warren, are now a very, very rich woman. Two hundred and eighty-five million dollars, by my count. It should hit your account tomorrow morning at the latest.”

I feel like someone punched me in the gut, like they’ve reached into my lungs and sucked out all the air. My knees weaken beneath me. They feel like they’ll give way at any second.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…” I whisper. “Two hundred and…”

Harlan’s lips graze mine. He’s not wasting any time. Some part of me doesn’t want to either…whether or not I am still stunned. That part of me is burning up with desire for this man who throws money around like it means nothing, and who’s introducing me to a side of myself I never knew existed.

“Why?” I ask, turning my face away from Harlan’s attentions.

The cool breeze from a hidden air-conditioning unit kisses my skin. Goosebumps sprout, but I don’t think that they have anything to do with the room’s frigid temperature.

“Because you’re worth it,” Harlan says simply. “You’re worth every penny, and ten times more. And,” he smiles, “because I wanted to. I want to buy you, Skye. I wanted to take you from your comfort zone, take you to a place where you are completely, utterly out of control.”

“Well, it worked…” I croak. “And–”

Harlan’s face takes on a determined look. He reaches behind his head and loosens the ribbon holding his mask tight. He tosses it aside.

“And I’m done talking, Skye,” he growls.

“I’m done playing games. But I’m definitely not done controlling you, not tonight. I’m gonna teach you what domination means. I’m going to teach you what it means to give up control. And by the end, by the time I’m really done, you’ll be begging me to never stop.”

He takes a step towards me, closes his hands around my body and pulls my own mask loose. It falls from my face, and suddenly I feel naked – more naked, even, than I felt in front of that room of billionaires just a few, long minutes ago.

I feel as though my soul is on display for the entire world to see. But it is not the whole world that I’m worried about – only Harlan. He’s the only one I care about. He’s made this incredible, enormous sacrifice for me – made me one of the richest women in all of America with a snap of his fingers – and yet what the hell can I give him in return?

I’ve got nothing to give but myself.

Harlan’s lips meet mine again. There’s nothing gentle about the kiss. This time, his teeth graze my lower lip, his tongue probes my mouth, while he nips and sucks until I’m lost entirely in the moment. His hands cup my ass, and he presses his bulge against me. I push my hips into it.

I’m desperate for his cock in a way I don’t think I’ve ever been. Since the moment I first slept with him, Harlan’s been the most attractive man who’s bedded me. He’s all I’ve thought of since the moment I met him.

But I’ve never wanted him like I do now.

He drags me back, deeper into the room. I’m in a haze, a daze. I don’t even know where I am. I can barely see – my entire world is Harlan’s face, just a few inches from mine.

“You’re going to come for me, Skye,” he growls. “Whatever it fucking takes, you’re going to come for me.”

“No,” I moan as Harlan’s hands roam my body. I know he’s right. I am going to come for him, but that’s not all.

Because I don’t just want to come for Harlan. I want Harlan to come for me. I want us to do it together.

It’s going to happen. I have no doubt about that, because I finally realize the truth. Harlan Wolfe was made for me, and I was made for him.

Harlan pushes me backward, and I collide with something that is both hard and soft. I look back, and see a padded leather wall. Straps dangle off of it. My eyes spring wide open.

“Put your arms up,” Harlan orders gruffly. He leans in, close to my ear, and whispers five delicious, tantalizing words. “Don’t make me ask twice…”

I don’t. I wouldn’t dare.

I breathe with ragged, intense effort as Harlan straps me to the leather wall. I must look like a starfish, arms spread wide apart. Next Harlan goes for my ankles, tying them too.

I’ve never been more exposed in my life.

And I sure as hell have never been this turned on, either.

“Fuck me,” I moan, “Please…”

“Not yet,” Harlan growls. “Believe me, Skye, I want nothing more than to slide my cock in between your legs. But we’ve got all night – and I don’t have any other plans.”

A mischievous, devious, scheming smile teases his lips. I gulp. I don’t know what Harlan has in store for me tonight. I don’t even want to ask.

Because I’ve got a funny feeling that after tonight, there will be parts of me that ache that I didn’t even know existed.

Harlan tears my panties off in one violent movement. Cool air kisses my bare pussy, and that’s all that’s needed for a little moan to escape my lips. I’m not sure anyone’s ever been as turned on as I am right now.

And Harlan’s only just getting started…

I watch, entranced, as he eyes me up and down. He drinks in my skin, every inch of it. Slowly, he puts his hand to his neck and loosens his bowtie.

“No,” I whisper. “Leave it on…”

Harlan looks as though he’s about to argue, but then shrugs. “Your wish is my command.”

He undoes his top button, then turns away, going to a long chest of drawers at the other end of the room. He digs through it for a couple of seconds, and then returns with a length of black silk.

“Give me your head,” he growls.

I do as he asks, and a second later he wraps the blindfold tight around my head, and I’m lost in darkness.

Every sensation is magnified. Every sound, every touch, even the taste of the air is stronger. But it is Harlan’s fierce, spicy, scent that is impossible for me to ignore. It fills my nostrils, invades every part of me. He smells like he was made to be mine, as if we were made together, separated, and left to find each other.

“A or B, Skye,” he asks.

“What?”

Harlan cuts across me. “It’s a simple question: A, or B?”

“I – I don’t know. A?” I whimper.

“Bold choice,” he chuckles. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Had what in me?

It doesn’t take long to find out. A buzz fills the room, a vibrator. I hear the motor squeal as Harlan tosses it from hand-to-hand. I listen, spellbound, entranced, as he walks towards me. My hips buck out a little, desperate for the touch of pleasure.

Then he does it.

Harlan presses against me.

But not what I expected, the way I expected, or where.

His lips graze mine, and he leans in for a fierce, deep kiss. I kiss him back with everything I’ve got. But strapped to the wall, there’s only so much I can give. He pulls away, leaving me panting and begging for more.

Then, and only then, does he press the vibrator against my pussy. It’s an exquisite pleasure. I’ve tried almost every toy the market has to offer, but I’ve never felt anything like this. Maybe it had to be the right one, at the right time, but I don’t think so.

I think this is all about the right man.

The buzz is all I hear. That, and my own heaving lungs. I press my legs together, and my hips forward, into the teasing kiss of the motor.

Harlan kisses me again, holding the vibrator in his palm and pressing it between my legs. His other hand leaps behind my back and undoes the bra strap in one easy movement.

“You’re getting better,” I tease, panting.

“I always was,” he chuckles, returning to my lips.

This goes on for – hell, I don’t even know how long. Harlan’s mouth alternates between my nipples and my mouth, and his hand stays firmly between my legs, with the vibrator.

Teasing me, tantalizing me, taking me closer and closer to the elusive cliff edge he’s been testing me with for so long.

“Oh my God, Harlan,” I whimper. Tears flowed into my eyes. I’ve never felt anything this good, so overpowering. I feel stars breaking out behind my vision.

I think this is actually it – the moment when it finally happens.

“Fuck no,” Harlan growls.

The vibrator changes in intensity, causing my eyes to spring open behind the blindfold. It’s still pitch black.

I let my breath out as I realize Harlan’s plans don’t involve stealing the vibrator’s kiss away from me completely … just moving it …

… moving it so that his hands have access too.

He nibbles my earlobe and whispers to me gruffly, possessively. “No fucking way am I gonna let a machine take you there. When I let you come, it’s going to be around my cock, you hear me?”

Let me?!

“Yes,” I yelp. But the words don’t matter. I would say anything, do anything to keep Harlan going right now – because I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

This is it.

Harlan’s finger enters me, and takes my breath away. It’s rough and dominant and aggressive, and I moan with anticipation. He probes inside me, grinding his palm against my clit. The vibrations don’t stop. They are like a tidal wave, just hitting and hitting and hitting against my most sensitive part.

“I’m so close,” I moan, pushing my head forward in search of Harlan’s lips.

But I only meet empty air.

“Please, Harlan,” I say. “Please, just fuck me.”

“You think you’re ready?”

“Yes…” I whimper, “more sure than I’ve ever been of anything.”

“That’s good enough for me,” he says.

He clicks the vibrator off, and tosses it somewhere behind him. It bounces off the carpet and I hear it come to a halt. Then, as I’m panting from the absence of the vibrations, I sense him withdraw his finger. I swear my pussy resists him, as if it doesn’t want to let go.

“Prove it,” Harlan growls, his voice a low, rumbling, wolf-like threat that pushes me half way to orgasm all on its own.

“Anything…”

“Taste yourself,” he says, trailing a wet finger across my lower lip. I lick it, greedily sucking up my own juices.

“No. Suck it.” My tongue searches for his finger, and as soon as I’ve found it, I grab it with my teeth, pulling my neck back to force the fingers into my mouth.

I suck it clean. It feels filthy and degrading, and oh so fucking perfect.

“Now,” I moan, losing all sense of decorum. If I was ever a Lady with a capital L, I sure as heck am not now. “Will you please fucking fuck me?”

“Well…” Harlan chuckles, “when you put it so politely…”

But he does as I ask. I feel his hands on the straps at my legs, and then they are loose, and next so are my arms. He carries me, throwing me over his shoulder, then down onto a mattress.

It all happens in a flash.

I can’t see my lover, but my hands search greedily for his belt regardless. I make a tiny fist of satisfaction as I realize he’s not wearing one, and undo his tuxedo pants.

He knocks my fingers aside.

“Let me do it,” he whispers hungrily. “It’ll be quicker that way.”

Hell, I’m not complaining. The sooner I feel Harlan’s thick cock between my legs, the better. For both of us.

In seconds – it seems so, anyway – Harlan is completely naked. As far as I can tell, the only item of clothing either of us is wearing is the blindfold wrapped around my eyes. I reach up to tear it off, but Harlan stops me in my tracks, pressing his lips against mine.

“No,” he says, the heat of his breath caressing my skin as he pulls away from the kiss. “Leave it on. I like the way you look wearing it.”

I don’t complain. Everything feels hotter, sexier, better when I’m wearing this blindfold. Every sense is stronger, every sensation magnified a thousand times.

The mattress groans as Harlan reaches for something.

“Where are you going?” I pant, desperate to finally be close to this man. To be one with this man.

“To get a condom,” he grunts.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“More sure than I’ve been of anything in my entire life,” I say with absolute, undying honesty. It’s crazy. Hell, the details don’t make any sense. What if I truly did fall pregnant – how would that work with Poppy, and –

But none of that matters right now. Harlan drives forward, guiding his cock between my legs. My eyes water, and then he’s inside me, and then it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.

From the moment Harlan enters me, I know this time is different.

This time is it.

He lifts his hand around the back of my neck, and squeezes it tight, holding on for leverage. He thrusts inside me, driving his hips toward mine. I moan with pleasure as fireworks explode behind my closed eyes. The explosions are more vibrant than I could ever have imagined.

“Don’t stop,” I whimper. “Don’t you dare fucking stop…”

I don’t know who this Skye is. She’s swearing like a sailor, begging Harlan to do things that a couple of weeks ago she’d have flushed even thinking of. But I like her. She knows what she wants, and she’s prepared to do whatever it takes to get there.

And so, apparently, does Harlan.

His fingernails dig into my skin as he scrapes his free hand down my body. His mouth dips to my nipples, teasing them with his tongue as his hips thrust with unbelievable force into me.

Every muscle on his body feels tense, taut. In a couple of seconds, so are mine. I feel a sensation inside me that’s hard to describe – a pressure, a fire, burning, squeezing, and pressing all at once.

“Oh my God, Harlan,” I whimper. “Don’t–”

He takes my half-formed sentences as encouragement. I’m glad one of us is thinking straight.

“Come for me,” he begs – or maybe orders – me. “Come for me, Skye. Give in.”

I do. My body goes rigid as blackness breaks out in my mind. Fire seems to burn on every inch of my skin, and my nipples become globes of pleasure and pain and every sensation in between.

Harlan’s throat gurgles with happiness as he realizes what’s happening. He doesn’t stop, even though I’m almost too far gone to understand what’s happening.

But a part of me knows. He’s doing exactly what I wanted.

He’s going to come with me.

His hips keep driving until it happens. The hand cupping my neck squeezes tight, his fingernails digging in, and his voice chokes with desire.

“Jesus, Skye,” he groans. “I’m–”

I don’t have to listen to his words to know what happens. I feel an unbelievable heat surging from his cock, and I realize what’s happening. I loop my arms around his body, and feel his ridged muscles become more tense, more solid than anything I’ve ever touched in my life.

And that’s when the orgasm really hits. The thing that came before – whatever it was – was just a mirage.

This is the real fucking deal.

I lose myself, lose my sense of time. Lose everything but this, right here, right now. Harlan’s heat, my heat, and the sweat, taste and sensation of pure happiness.

And, above all else, is the tidal wave of nerve endings, exploding all over my body – a tidal wave of unadulterated pleasure.

The happiness takes an age to fade. So do the aftershocks. Part of me hopes that neither will ever end. But eventually, unwillingly, my eyes flutter open. I see Harlan at my side, propped up by his elbow. He’s smiling foolishly, as if he can’t believe his luck.

I’ve got a funny feeling I might look the same way.

I cast my eyes around the bedroom, The Sex Room. My nickname for it seems even more apt after what we just did together! In the cold, post-orgasm light of day, it doesn’t seem as magical as it did before.

Heck, even the grate over the air-conditioning vent is loose. I squint at it. It seems out of place, especially given how neat everything else is in here. How perfect.

“What are you staring at?” Harlan grunts with his eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“I don’t –”

My eyes widen. I sit up in bed, stark naked, my back completely straight.

“What’s wrong –?”

“Did you film this?” I yelp. I know I’ve undressed on camera for Harlan before, but this feels different. It feels like a violation.

“Huh?” Harlan mutters sleepily, sounding so confused I know immediately he has no idea what I’m talking about.

And that makes it even worse…

My blood runs cold.

“Harlan… There’s a camera inside that vent.”

Chapter Fifty-One

Harlan

If my muscles were tight and tense before Skye’s discovery of the camera, that’s nothing compared to how taut they are now. I jump off the bed, fully naked, fists bunched with anger.

“Who, the fuck, did this?”

I growl, grab a stool – whose intended purpose I can’t fathom – and throw it in the general direction of the offending air conditioning vent. The stool topples over, and I bound toward it, muscles filled with an energy created from pure rage.

Behind me, I hear the sheets rustle as Skye dives to cover herself up.

“What’s happening? Harlan?” Skye asks. “Who…?”

Her voice is quiet … broken, even. That sound hurts me more than I can possibly describe. Just a moment ago, Skye finally became the woman she has always projected she could be. I felt her change … felt her grow in confidence.

Now there’s this.

I swear, the second I find the person who has threatened my gorgeous girl, I’m going to end him.

I put the stool back upright.

“I don’t know, Skye,” I mutter darkly as I climb onto it and hoist myself up to the height of the grate covering the vent. “But I promise you, the second I find out who’s responsible for this, I’ll find them and end this. There’s no way these photos are getting out. Don’t you worry about that happening.”

“How can I not?” Skye says, her voice brave, yet nevertheless plaintive with worry. “It’s not my embarrassment I’m worried about, Harlan. I’m a big girl. It won’t be easy, but I can handle it. It’s what happens if they get out … in public.”

I grip the grate, and test its thin metal bars. Satisfied, I apply my full weight, and tear the flimsy construction fully off the wall.

I reach inside, anger still smoldering like a burning wildfire, threatening to break out into flames at any moment. I grab the camera and pull.

“Did you hear me, Harlan?” Skye asks.

“Yes,” I growl. “I heard you.”

I hop off the stool, holding the spy camera in my hand. It’s a miracle Skye was able to pick the tiny black device out from its hiding place – there’s no way I would have seen it. It’s attached to a black wire and – my heart sinks – a transceiver. The photos are long gone.

“Shit.”

“Shit?” Skye repeats. “What do you mean, shit? That doesn’t sound good…”

“It’s not,” I mutter, tearing the wire and the camera apart. A shard of plastic flies off in my hands, and I toss the broken device onto the floor. I stare at it. Now in pieces, it’s hard to believe that such a tiny thing can hold so much power, the power to change both of our lives forever.

But it does.

I know from experience that there’s no use digging into where the device came from. It’s high-tech, sure, but it’s military-grade. There’s no way I’ll find something as useful as a serial number to trace who sold it, let alone be able to track down the transceiver signal.

No, whoever took these photos will be miles away by now. They probably stomped the gas the second Skye and I came together.

“You know what this means, right?” Skye says. “The second someone uploads those photos onto the Internet, my career’s over. If the Board finds out I slept with the patient…” She squeezes her eyes shut, grimacing in pain.

“How could I have been so stupid?” she moans.

I clench my fists, and stare at Skye’s pain with impotent rage. I know exactly how she’s feeling. If those photos get out, I’ll be a laughingstock on Wall Street. More importantly – my stomach does a backflip – Child Protective Services probably won’t look too kindly on it, either.

I grind my teeth together. For once in my life, I have no idea how to fix this. I haven’t got an enemy to fight, no demon to slay, no battle to win.

Unless…

“Wait here,” I growl.

I storm out of the bedroom door, still stark naked. Skye cries out in dismay behind me. I don’t catch her exact words, but I’m sure she saying some variation on – where the hell are you going?

I pass by another five identical bedroom doors. The soundproofing is perfect, but I imagine every single one is occupied. God only knows what kind of sordid deeds are happening in this place tonight.

Fuck, I curse, silently. You should have known that this was too high of a risk. Yet you did it anyway. You couldn’t resist following your cock like a horny teenage boy.

I head straight for the auction room, not bothering to hide my nakedness. If my gut is right – and that’s all it is, a hunch – then the perpetrator is hiding in plain sight.

I storm through the door. It clatters violently against the wall behind me. Two sets of eyes turn to face me – the masked auctioneer, his face no longer hidden, and his assistant.

“What–”

“You know exactly what,” I yell, striding towards him. I grab him by the collar and lift him a couple of inches off the ground. “Tell me what you’re planning on doing with those photos. You’ve got exactly three seconds before I –”

“What photos?” The auctioneer chokes out, struggling for breath as I squeeze his collar tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

His protest dies in a squeal. I stare at his face, blood pounding in my ears, lungs heaving. I’m spoiling for a fight. I want to release the demon that has been locked inside me for so long – the violent monster trained by the US government to deal death to any enemy standing in my way.

But I can’t.

Because the man I’m threatening to within an inch of pissing his pants is, unfortunately for me, completely innocent. I can tell by his face. He truly has no idea what I’m talking about.

So who the hell is responsible?

“Then,” I mutter, straining to regain control over my breathing. “You’d better come with me. I’ve got something I need you to see…”

Chapter Fifty-Two

Skye

A second before Harlan strides back through our bedroom door, I realize he’s not alone. I dive for my mask, pressing it to my face just in time, although part of me wonders why I bother. Hell, my bare naked ass is probably blasted all over the Internet already!

“Harlan,” I pant. “What’s going–”

Then I see who he’s brought with him – the auctioneer. My forehead wrinkles.

Why bring that guy? And could you have given me some warning?

“There!” Harlan barks, pointing at the pile of destroyed electronics near the foot of our bed. The bed in which he finally gave me the gift I’ve been waiting for all these years.

I realize I’m still in a slight state of shock. Kinda numb, even.

None of this seems real yet. I know I should be feeling a crushing sense of fear, but I’m not. It’s as though I can see a hurricane on the horizon, thundering towards me, winds gusting at hundreds of miles an hour, and yet I’ve decided the light breeze on my face is as bad as it will get.

“I promise,” the auctioneer quivers, his prior self-assurance melting away. “The club’s reputation is entirely built on discretion. We would never spy on our guests. This goes against everything we – I – stand for…”

He tails off, clearly realizing he’s convincing no one.

“Then why don’t you explain to me,” Harlan says, his voice a low, dangerous growl, “Exactly how that,” his tone is filled with contempt as he points at the camera again, “made it in here.”

The auctioneer wrings his hands.

“I couldn’t possibly say,” he says. “Like I said, we don’t have cameras–”

My ears prick up. “What about the ones on the outside of the building,” I say, interrupting, “I’m sure I saw some.”

Harlan glances at me, forehead furrowed with interest. He nods supportively, and then turns back to the auctioneer.

“I think you’re going to want to stop talking,” he says, lowering his voice to a threatening, knife edged growl, “and show me the tapes. Because if you don’t…”

He spreads his palms wide, leaving the threat to the man’s imagination. It has the desired effect. The auctioneer’s face blanches, draining of blood. I have to hide a smile – even with the seriousness of this situation – as I look at him.

He’s petrified.

Then again, I would be too. Naked – with that enormous cock swinging between his legs, and brutal scars that mar his body, Harlan’s one hell of a scary-looking guy.

And he’s mine.

“Okay,” the man squeaks. “I’ll show you. Only, I’m not sure what use–”

“Leave that to me,” Harlan mutters murderously, cutting the man off. “So, maybe you should start walking.”

The auctioneer glances at Harlan’s naked body. “Don’t you…”

Harlan shakes his head. “No.”

The man blinks, as if struggling to process this turn of events. I don’t blame him. I guess it’s not every day a naked man walks through your place of business, threatening to wring your throat if he doesn’t get what he wants…

Then again, I think. He did make me parade in my underwear…

Harlan turns to me. “You can stay–”

“Oh, hell no,” I reply. “That’s never going to happen. I’m waist deep in this mess, too, Harlan. So if you think you’re keeping me out of that room, then you’ve got another “think” coming.”

Harlan nods quickly, hopefully placating me, “Of course.”

He looks back at the waiting auctioneer, and smiles warmly, as though this strange affair is just any other business meeting. He claps his hands together.

“Well then – shall we?”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Harlan

I stride back out into the lushly carpeted hallway, just half a pace behind the auctioneer. Skye follows another pace behind, mask still pressed anxiously to her face, wrapped in an enormous white bed sheet.

“It’s just in here,” the man croaks awkwardly, ushering me and Skye into a small security office. A few flickering screens light the otherwise darkened room. I flick a light switch on.

“You weren’t lying, then,” Skye says, almost with a hint of disappointment in her voice as she surveys the screens.

I immediately pick up on what she’s talking about. There are no interior camera angles on the screens in front of us. My heart sinks. If all we’ve got to go on are a couple of cameras pointing into the street, then we might as well give up now.

“They are motion operated,” the auctioneer says, half quivering, half standing up proud as he explains how the system works. “It saves us from storing dozens of hours of footage.That’s hundreds of gigabytes a week…”

I stare blankly at him. I couldn’t care less about the man’s video storage budget. He quickly quiets down.

I sit down on an office chair, my cock flapping awkwardly between my bare legs. I swear that once or twice I catch him staring at my package.

“Show me,” I growl. “Where can I find these logs?”

I mentally switch back to a mindset I haven’t occupied for almost a decade. Most people think that being in the military – especially on a team as elite as the SEALs – is all about pulling triggers and throwing grenades, but they couldn’t be more wrong.

Half the time, it’s about “hurry up and wait.” To be the best, you’ve got to be patient, hard-working, and have incredible attention for detail.

It’s not quite as sexy, but it’s ten times more important than just being able to pull a trigger.

“What’s your name, anyway,” I grumble, as the auctioneer guides me through the security system’s complex file structure.

“It’s To – Tony,” he squeaks.

I tip my head back and groan. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter. “I came to a sex club emceed by a man called Tony…”

Wisely, Tony chooses not to reply.

I start scrolling through image thumbnails. It only takes a couple of seconds before my eyebrows hike up with interest. I have to admit it. I’m impressed. Apparently the club’s 5% fee isn’t all wasted. This is one hell of a security system.

“They’re all–” I murmur, half out loud.

“Faces,” Tony smiles anxiously, as if terrified by the room’s silence. “The system does it automatically.”

I start scrolling through a long list of images, all faces of people. Instead of forcing the operator to watch through hour after hour of footage, the system categorizes each chunk of video according to the face – or faces – caught on film.

“And this,” he says, leaning forward and tapping an icon on the screen, “indicates when the main door was operated.”

I whistle out loud, not bothering to hide my approval. “Shit, I’m going to need to get one of these…”

“So what does that mean?” Skye asks, nonplussed. “How does it help us?”

“Well,” I say, sticking my tongue out as I concentrate. “It means we can narrow this footage down to anyone who entered the building.”

I tap a button and hold my breath. The system hangs for a second, as if thinking, then a ping echoes out of the computer’s speakers.

It’s done.

“Now let’s see what we’ve got.”

I scroll through a much-reduced list of images. Mostly it’s Tony – now sans mask – and a couple of assistants. I wish I could trace their movements inside the club itself in order to rule them out as suspects, but that’s not possible.

“Who’s that guy?” I growl, tapping an image on-screen. The man in the picture is wearing a baseball cap with a UPS logo on it.

“Oh,” Tony says dismissively, “that guy? No way. He’s been coming here for years.”

“Another one bites the dust then,” I mutter.

I almost scroll past it. Sandwiched between the images of Tony and his staff leaving the building last night and returning this morning, one man enters.

“Who the hell is that?” Tony breathes. He taps the screen excitedly. “This guy – I’ve got no idea who he is. It has to be him. But how did he get inside? This building’s got the best locks money can buy.”

If the security system I’m currently operating is anything to go by, then Tony’s telling the truth – the club spared no expense keeping its members safe, and most of all, private. But as I move the mouse towards the icon, I have a funny feeling that no matter how good the locks were, they wouldn’t have worked.

Because I recognize the man in the image. I double-click on the thumbnail. Just to be sure.

And when my suspicions are confirmed, my stomach drops like a rollercoaster with broken brakes. Because this is all my fault.

I should have returned that phone call.

Chapter Fifty-Four

Harlan

“I’m coming with you,” Skye says. She’s sitting next to me in the back of my limousine, and we’re driving – being driven, anyway – through a glittering New York nighttime cityscape.

Her face is ashen white, and she’s trembling. For all her bravery, she’s not used to operating in this world, not like I am…

…or was, anyway. It’s been a long time since I last went to war. Because that’s exactly what it seems is about to happen.

“No way,” I mutter. “I’ll finish this, Skye. I promise you, Tonight. But I can’t involve you. It’s too dangerous. I wouldn’t ever be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“Tell me who he is again?” Skye says, turning her glorious blue eyes on me. Instead of the excitement – and nervousness – I saw on this journey earlier this evening, now I see fear.

For me? For us? I cannot tell.

“Garibaldi,” I spit. “Sounds like an opera singer’s name, doesn’t it? But believe me, there’s nothing sweet about this guy. He’s a killer, no kidding. I didn’t find out ‘til it was too late.”

“So he invested in Wolfe Capital,” Skye says, squinting at me. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“He’s no investor,” I growl, making air quotes with my fingers. “He’s just a front for the New York mob – a clean face for dirty money. Hell, the first time he walked through my doors when I was just setting up shop, I thought he was a gift from heaven. He put the capital in to allow me to take the firm to the next level. I made the prick hundreds of millions.”

“So why’s he coming after you?” Skye asks apprehensively. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” I mutter. Then I grimace. If this thing between Skye and I is going to last, then I need to tell her the truth, the whole truth … and nothing but.

“Okay, I’ll come clean,” I say, ignoring the habit of a lifetime of keeping my mouth shut about topics like this.

“When I found out where his money was coming from, I kicked Garibaldi to the curb. Gave him his dirty cash back, and told him we were done.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I thought. By that time, I figured Wolfe Capital was too big for him to fuck with.”

“So what changed?”

“A week ago, Wolfe Capital had the best quarter any hedge fund on Wall Street has had since the recession, profits up 115% quarter to quarter. That’s – ”

“– Crazy,” Skye finishes for me as she smiles, even if just wanly. “Even I know that.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“I doubled the fund’s value in little more than three months. It’s unheard of. Well,” I smile, a hint of embarrassment touching my cheeks, “I guess you had a little something to do with that, too. My traders have been on fire since you started digging around in their heads.”

“I still don’t understand,” Skye says. “What’s Garibaldi’s part in all of this?”

“He wants in, I guess,” I shrug. “Back into my fund, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get there.”

“But that’s –”

“– Crazy,” I grin, switching our roles from a moment before. “I know. But that’s how it is in this city. Some people will do anything for money – kill, fight, screw over anyone for a buck. It’s like a seedy, greedy version of Game of Thrones…”

“So … what’s the plan, then?” Skye asks, grimacing with determination. “How do we beat this guy?”

I grin, and feel the limousine slow beneath me as we pull up outside my apartment. A member of my personal security detail opens each passenger door the very second the car slows to a halt.

“The plan,” I say, as Skye steps out, obviously waiting for me to follow. Instead I lean toward her, over the middle seat, “is for you to stay in my apartment. You’ll be safe there.”

“Wait!” Skye yells.

“I’m going to finish this, Skye,” I yell as my security guard holds her back. “You have my word.”

Skye’s door thuds shut. A second later, so does mine, but not before I accept a heavy duffle bag. It’s old, frayed … and smells faintly of saltwater.

I turn it over in my hands as the limousine’s engine powers back up beneath me. I run my fingers across the rough canvas. There, embroidered on my bag, like it was a decade before, I see a label that brings back an ocean of memories.

Sergeant Harlan A. Wolfe, Team Six.

* * *

I press my phone to my ear, watching idly as New York zips by outside the limousine’s window. I know Skye’s gonna hate me for the stunt I just pulled. I don’t blame her.

“You’re sure,” I mutter.

“Yes, boss,” the voice on the other end of the line squeaks. He’s a pale kid called Ridley, if my memory serves. He’s from Wolfe Capital’s security division – computer security, specifically.

The way today is turning out – I’m going to have to give him a pay raise.

After all, I just woke him up and asked him to hack into a computer owned by a man who’s affiliated with the New York mob. It’s not every day you piss off both the government and the Mafia before breakfast…

Pay raise it is.

“Yes. It’s him, the man you’re looking for. The, ah –” his voice breaks anxiously, “evidence you’re looking for – it’s right here.”

I rub my eyes, realizing that right at this moment, Ridley is most likely looking at photos of my butt naked … butt.

“Can you delete it?” I ask, collecting myself.

“The second you tell me to, boss,” he squeaks. “But–”

I breathe out heavily. “But he might have backups.”

Ridley sounds surprised. “Exactly.”

“Delete it anyway,” I order. “Do whatever you have to do, just make sure you don’t leave a trace – either of the photos, or of you hacking into his system. Capisci?”

“You got it, boss. There’s – there’s one more thing.”

I can’t help but be intrigued by the hesitancy to Ridley’s tone. “What?”

“I’m not sure if it matters, but it looks like this guy’s in debt.”

“Debt?” Now that makes no sense – or – does it?

“Yeah. I can access his financial statements, and he’s deep into the red.”

“How much are we talking?”

“Looks …” Ridley pauses, and I hear a mouse clicking on the other end of the line, “… looks like a divorce settlement, boss. Alimony going out, like clockwork. It started about … about three months ago.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks, boss.”

“And Ridley?”

“Yes, boss?”

“Stay quiet about what you saw tonight, understand? This isn’t office gossip.”

“Yes – yes, boss.”

Click.

I hang up the phone, deep in thought. Thankfully, the call lasted long enough that we’ve already arrived in my target area. I blink, surprised – and a little disturbed – at how easily I’ve slipped back into my old ways of thinking.

It’s not a target area, it’s just Brooklyn…

I push a button on the panel to my left, and the privacy screen separating me from the driver’s cabin rolls silently down.

“Leave me here,” I mutter. My driver slows to a stop, doing as I ask without a word in response. He knows better than that.

The screen rolls back up, and I make last-minute preparations. I trust my staff, but there are some things they simply do not need to see.

I withdraw a loaded 9mm pistol from the duffel bag and stuff it down the back of my pants. In the old days, I’d go in fully loaded: semiautomatic rifle strapped to my chest, grenades pinned to my waist, and hundreds of rounds of ammunition stuffed in every pocket I could find.

But not tonight.

Not in the middle of one of the world’s biggest cities. Sure as heck not when I’ve got so much to live for. The last thing Poppy needs is to grow up with her father behind bars.

No, a 9mm will do just fine. I hope not to have to use it at all, but I like the security of the familiar weapon. It fits into my palm as though it were molded perfectly for my hand.

I step out of the vehicle, blending easily into the night. I look like any Uber passenger stepping out of his ride. I don’t attract a single undue eyeball.

That’s just the way I like it.

Garibaldi’s place is unmistakable. It’s the only one, on a row of old, red brick, Brooklyn townhouses, with gaudy gold fittings on its bright red door. I guess some people don’t change. Especially not men like him.

I walk the block to check for unexpected security, passing a woman in pajamas walking her purse-sized dog.

I work through what I know of the man. Besides a predilection for showmanship – as tonight’s events have shown – I now know Garibaldi’s single once more. I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine any woman would want to end up with a man like him. But it makes my life easier – no civilian to catch a stray bullet if it all goes to shit.

I roll my shoulders, loosening up as best I can. It’s not as easy as it was a decade ago. I guess that makes sense. I was younger then. Now I’m just more scarred and less flexible.

But, nevertheless, age has its benefits.

I’m a smarter man than I was a decade ago. More cunning, and more skillful. Garibaldi is about to find out that there’s a reason smart people don’t tangle with Harlan fucking Wolfe.

And seriously, I think one last time. What the hell kind of name is that?

I circle the building one last time, and position myself in the shadows behind a parked black Range Rover. The car’s entirely unsuited for New York’s cramped parking spaces, but it does a hell of a job of concealing my presence.

I eyeball Garibaldi’s house. It’s covered with decades-old ivy, but I’m no fool. There’s no way that plant will bear my weight.

Nope. I’m going to have to do this old-school. get down and dirty.

Decision made, I move fast.

It’s the only way to act. It’s the only way to stop second-guessing your actions. That’s the quickest path to a Special Forces operator getting himself killed in the field. Bullets move fast, so you’ve got to think faster.

I walk nonchalantly up the small path that leads to the front of Garibaldi’s house. I use the cover of darkness where I can, but mostly don’t bother. It’s late enough that most of the world’s asleep. He’s got an alarm unit mounted strategically on the front of the building, but it doesn’t worry me.

I fully expect to be in and out before anyone even picks up on my entry. Move fast, strike hard. That’s my motto, the same as it’s been ever since the day I joined the SEALs.

I try the front door, but as I expected, it’s locked up tight. I wish I’d had the foresight to have had my assistant provide me with a lock picking kit, but no such luck. So I take the next easiest option, the window to the right of the front door.

I click my flashlight on, and a dim red beam plays out across the panes – red because it’s hard to see from afar, and because it doesn’t ruin my night vision.

“You got cocky in your old age, huh?” I mutter. As far as I can tell there’s no alarm sensor on the freshly painted French windows.

For once, tonight, my luck might just be good.

I scan the neighborhood, searching for a nosy dog walker, or anyone peeping out of a nearby window. It’s always the elderly you have to worry about on nights like this. They can’t sleep, and they’ve got nothing better to do than stare out of the window into the darkness.

Hell – I’ve been there myself. Regrets, I’ve had a few. I’ve had more than my fair share of long, dark nights of the soul. I guess as you get older, the regrets pile up, and the doubts deepen.

“Quit bellyaching, Harlan,” I mutter, or at least think loudly enough to chide myself. I glance around one last time, and then act.

I grab my pistol, reverse it so I’m holding it by the barrel, and then tap it hard against the nearest glass pane. It cracks, then splinters. I wince as the shattered glass tinkles against the floor.

I freeze, barely daring to breathe. I force myself to stop and listen out for any sign of danger.

One, Mississippi.

Two, Mississippi.

Three, Mississippi.

Four, Mississippi.

Five, Mississippi…

I relax. As far as I can tell, no one noticed my act of vandalism. If they did, they don’t appear to care. It’s either that, or the police are already on their way.

But if they are, there’s nothing I can do about it.

I stick my fingers through the hole I’ve created in the glass window, and start to tug away at the huge shards of glass that still guard the frame like fence spikes. I pull them away one after another, and toss them into a flower bed, where they land silently.

One by one, the jagged glass teeth disappear, until I’m left with just enough space for a man’s body to fit through. My body, to be precise. I smooth out the last of the glass with the butt of my pistol – just enough to avoid my carotid artery being sliced in two – and climb through, weapon held at the ready.

My combat vest scrapes against the window frame, and picks up shards of glass that line my front like glittering diamonds. My boots crunch against yet more glass on the floor on the other side. I barely hear the sounds, too focused on whether the alarm’s about to wail, or whether Garibaldi’s going to meet me on the wrong side of the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun…

But I hear nothing dangerous, and see even less – just darkness in the front room of the Brooklyn townhouse. Plus some strange, globe-like white shapes that loom out of the darkness, like the sails of some old time sailing ship.

What the hell?

My forehead wrinkles as I play my pistol around the room. I don’t understand what I’m seeing. Garibaldi’s house is packed up as though he’s preparing to move. Cardboard boxes are stacked haphazardly on top of each other like massive brown building blocks. Faint shadows mark the walls where – no doubt – expensive artwork once hung proud.

Whatever furniture remains is covered by huge white dust sheets – the sails I saw a moment before.

Maybe I’m too late? Maybe he knew I would come?

But that doesn’t make sense. If the mob was backing Garibaldi’s play, then I’d have come across an extremely unfriendly welcoming party. I’ve spent enough time around dangerous men to know how they think. I wouldn’t have made it an inch inside the place before meeting the barrel of a gun.

So what then?

I decide to push forward. It’s my only choice. I’ll have to get my answers from the man himself.

I creep forward, into the darkness. The barrel of my pistol sways right, then left as I clear the room, before finding myself at the foot of a staircase. I breathe deep, mentally preparing myself to climb it.

There’s nothing scarier when clearing a building than storming a flight of stairs – where your enemies can rain fire down on you from both above and below, and you have no escape route – especially when you don’t have your brothers in arms by your side.

“The only easy day was yesterday,” I mutter under my breath, a phrase that carried me through mission after mission when I was still enlisted. But it’s not empty words carrying me through this right now – it’s the terrifying thought of Skye’s broken voice if she ever has to find out her world’s coming crashing down around her.

But I won’t let that happen.

I put my boots on top of the first step, and then I climb. It’s obvious which one Garibaldi’s bedroom is when I reach the top. It’s the only one that’s door is closed. I freeze, anyway, checking each empty room out in turn.

Just in case.

Then I press forward. I hold my breath as my fingers close around his bedroom doorknob. Part of me wants to storm through. To kick his door down and go in all guns blazing. But that is the old Harlan Wolfe talking.

I’m a new man. I’m newly in love. Madly in love.

There’s no way I’m going back to Skye in a body bag, not after all this. I want to spend the next five decades with her, and that’s just warming up. So I take it slow. The latch barely clicks as I twist the knob and push the door open. I don’t breathe. Even my heartbeat seems to slow.

But the man in the bed does breathe. He’s little more than a lump in the sheets, but his snores fill the room like a foghorn. They are easily loud enough to cover any noise I could make.

I inch forward. A floorboard creaks underneath my weight, and I freeze, but the lump in the bed doesn’t even flinch. I press on. Then I’m by his side.

Gotcha!

“Wake up,” I growl threateningly, pressing the barrel of my pistol to Garibaldi’s temple, while closing my fingers around his throat. “It’s time you and I had a talk…”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Skye

I storm into Harlan’s apartment with the blood pumping so furiously in my veins, the thought crosses my mind, I might suffer an aneurysm.

Harlan’s security guy – a huge, burly man with cauliflower ears and a battle-scarred nose – tries to put a foot in the door behind me. I imagine Harlan somehow sent him instructions not to leave my side.

Well I’m not having it!

“Ma’am, can I help?”

“No you can’t,” I growl. A surge of fury wells up inside me like the geyser, Old Faithful, and I slam Harlan’s front door closed behind me, cutting off the man’s protests.

What the hell does Harlan think he’s doing? I can’t believe he just cut me out like that. I feel like a child all over again, pushed out of the room to let my parents have a sensitive conversation.

It brings back a rush of terrible, painful memories. Suddenly, I’m alone again … alone, just like I was after Mom died and Dad began his long spiral into alcohol and depression. I make a fist, digging my fingernails into the tender flesh of my palm, and count to ten, taking long, deep breaths in and out through my nose.

The pain helps break the negative loop I was sliding into. It’s a trick I learned years ago, one I often prescribe to my patients. It does the trick, but only just.

“What the hell are you doing, you ass?” I mutter.

My stomach is a cauldron of acid – seething and cramping – as I pace up and down the luxuriously carpeted entrance hallway to Harlan’s apartment. I’m barely taking in my surroundings.

Both reactions point to one simple conclusion – I’m experiencing a huge overload of stress. And is it any surprise? Over the last few days, Harlan has done something for me that no other man – no other person – ever has. I’m not talking about the orgasm. That was just … a byproduct of his real gift.

He became my anchor, a pillar of safety. The foundation I haven’t had in so long. He became someone I could trust implicitly, someone I could rely on, someone I could confide in. Hell, for a woman whose job involves talking to people all day, I’ve got remarkably few friends. Fewer still who I share anything important with.

That is until Harlan came along.

He showed me that I wasn’t alone anymore. That it wasn’t my fault that Mom died or that Dad spiraled into self-destruction. That I could trust again give myself over to another person. He offered me a bright, happy future. One in which I could have friends, could love, and become whole again.

And now he’s gone – off God knows where, doing God knows what. I don’t know who this mafia money guy is, but the whole thing sounds dangerous to me. Harlan Wolfe is putting his life, his business – and most importantly, his family – on the line.

My heart flutters, skipping a beat. I don’t know what I would do if Harlan gets hurt while carrying out some misbegotten plan to do … what, exactly?

Protect my honor?

“But you pushed him into it, Skye,” I groan into the enormous empty apartment, grinding my teeth. “It’s your fault if –”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t bring myself to say the words, even in the security of my own head. It feels like tempting fate.

I can’t stop pacing. A surge of nervous energy is flowing through me, adrenaline making my heart beat faster, in no recognizable pattern.

I need to do something. I need to fix this mess of a situation. I need to help Harlan.

But what can I do? Harlan’s gorgeous penthouse apartment might as well be my prison. It’s on the thirtieth floor of some old, converted 19th-century clock tower. There’s no way out other than the way I came in – not unless I want to jump.

A weak, anxious smile teases my lips. I wouldn’t put it past Harlan to have a couple of parachutes packed away in here.

Just in case…

But I can call Harlan. I can tell him that this doesn’t matter to me. I’m a big girl. I can survive having my photos – even those photos – dumped onto the Internet.

Hell, apparently, now I’m worth just shy of three hundred million dollars! If the worst happens, I can buy myself a tower like this and simply lock myself away until all this blows over!

That’s it. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m not letting any harm come to Harlan, I can’t bear it on my conscience. My eyes spring open, and I stride purposefully into the apartment, searching for any form of technology.

I come across Harlan’s study – a magnificent, stone-walled room – one door down. I dart towards the glass desk that sits on the far end of the room, looking out the window onto New York’s jaggedly beautiful skyline.

Thankfully, Harlan has a landline on his desk. Maybe a secure phone, I don’t know. I don’t care. I snatch at it, gratefully.

“Crap,” I groan, bashing the handset against my forehead. “What the hell is his number?”

I’m from the generation that practically grew up with a smart phone in their hands. Okay, not quite – I still remember dial-up Internet and the tune a modem would play. But only just. One thing’s for sure – I sure as heck don’t know how I’m going to get in touch with Harlan.

I sit down at his desk, momentarily beaten. It’s neatly organized, and almost entirely bare – exactly what I’d expect from a former Navy SEAL and a man who plans his life as meticulously as Harlan Wolfe. He hasn’t left a single clue on how to get in touch with him.

I’m stuck.

A vein throbs at my temple, probably spurred on by my dangerously elevated blood pressure. I massage it away, thinking back to how all this started. The events that started this night – the auction, the things that Harlan did to me in that bedroom, the knee-trembling orgasm he coaxed out of me – they all seem so distant now.

I hear a tinkling sound in the background. I don’t recognize what it is at first – it barely breaks through my consciousness. I’m too bound up in worry.

But it returns, stronger this time – a double ring. I look up, and see that the screen of the computer on Harlan’s desk is lighting up. Someone’s calling – it has to be Harlan!

I snatch at the mouse, knocking it on its side in my haste to reestablish contact with the man I’m quickly coming to realize I can’t live without. Maybe it’s love, though it seems too soon, too early.

My eyes are half-blurred with the beginnings of frustrated tears, so I barely see the words written on the screen as I click the green button to accept the video call. An image immediately flashes up on screen.

But it’s not the image I expect.

“Dad?” The little girl says. She’s actually looking away from the camera when her picture flashes up on screen. It actually looks like she’s in a tent, lit by flashlight. “Are you there?”

Oh my God.

My stomach does a backflip. I need to think fast. I quickly wipe the tears out of my eyes with the back of my hand, and run my fingers through my wild hair, doing my best to tame the red mane sprawling over my shoulders.

I must look crazy, but there’s nothing I can do to solve that problem right now.

“Um,” I murmur, racking my brain on how to respond. “You must be Poppy…”

Poppy is looking at the camera. Her forehead wrinkles. “You’re not dad,” she says.

I shake my head. This is so not how I wanted to meet Harlan’s daughter. In fact, I can’t think of a single worst possible way to be introduced to her.

But it is what it is.

I’m going to have to deal with it.

“No,” I say softly, voice catching. “I’m not.”

“Wait, did I–” Poppy taps something on her screen. “Did I call the right number?”

She leans forward, peering into the camera and, I realize, at the picture on her screen. I see the gears turning over in her mind. “You’re in my dad’s office. Where is he, and, who are you?”

Both of those are very good questions. And they’re questions I have no idea how to answer.

“Yeah,” I mutter, chewing my lip. “I’m in your dad’s office. He’s… out.”

What do I do now? Lie?

In the event, the decision is taken out of my hands. Poppy gasps, and shifts her phone. The camera pans jerkily across her face. I realize she’s made herself a tent out of her bed sheets, perhaps in an attempt to hide what she’s up to.

“You’re her, aren’t you?”

“Who?” I exclaim. “What do you know? Did your dad–”

Poppy shrugs. She’s clearly proud. “Puh-lease! I’m not an idiot. I’m ten – well, almost, anyway. I knew my dad was seeing someone. It’s you, isn’t it!”

I freeze. I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond to this question. I feel paralyzed. What would Harlan want me to say?

Suddenly the fears I had before – about Harlan’s life, and his safety – they seem to fade away into nothingness. Because what could be more important than potentially ruining his relationship with his own daughter?

My heart rate speeds up. Blood pounds in my ears. I feel like if I put one foot out of place, Harlan will never forgive me.

“That’s,” I finally say, wringing my hands underneath the desk – where Poppy can’t see – “Something you need to ask your dad. It’s not my place to say.”

Poppy waves her hand airily, knocking the flashlight lighting her tiny pillow forward. She reaches for it and rights it.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll keep this between us,” she winks.

God, Poppy has so much of her father in her, it’s hard to believe. I feel like this little ten-year-old – nine-year-old – is running rings around me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

My cheeks are burning. What the heck am I supposed to say to that?

“Promise?” I mutter.

“I told you,” Poppy grins madly. “You don’t need to worry – this is between us. I won’t tell if you don’t. Deal?”

“Why do you sound so grown-up?” I groan. “I’m almost three times your age, and half the time I’m just groping around for the way forward …”

Poppy shrugs. She looks at me with concern, and that almost hurts more than anything. Now I’ve got a nine-year-old feeling sorry for me!

“I guess I had to,” she says solemnly. “After mom died, and everything…”

“I’ve been there, kid,” I whisper. “Deal?”

Poppy nods vigorously. “I can’t wait to meet you!” she says. “It’s a deal. Anyway, I better go before one of the teachers catches me. We’re not supposed to use our phones after bedtime. Have fun with my dad!”

Poppy’s goodbye hits me like a haymaker to the gut. The screen goes black, and I choke with worry. I don’t know how I would survive if something happened to her father … and I was the cause of yet more sorrow in this beautiful young girl’s life.

Because Harlan’s right – his kid is something special. I never thought he was lying to me, just that he was like any parent … overcome with love for his daughter. But in Poppy’s case, the praise, if anything, undersells her true brilliance.

And it reinforces my need to get in contact with Harlan – to tell him that I don’t care – that he doesn’t need to risk himself.

And you can.

The second the idea strikes me, I hit my forehead and groan. How could I have been so stupid? There’s one sure way to get in touch with Harlan, and he’s standing right outside the front door –

– where I left him.

I stand up so fast Harlan’s office chair falls over behind me. I don’t stop to pick it up, don’t even look back. I sprint for the front door and throw it open, with only one goal on my mind.

Chapter Fifty-Six

Harlan

Garibaldi’s eyes spring open. It takes every shred of self-control I have not to punch the man directly in his square, pig-ugly Italian face. Not that I’ve got a problem with Italians, just this one. He deserves it.

“Who –” He squeals – pig-like – I cut him off, squeezing my fingers around his throat until he chokes. He’s wearing a necklace, a gold chain, and its links bite into my skin.

His fat body struggles underneath the bed sheets. Little arms spring up, smothered by his duvet, and attempt to fight me. I hold him off easily. I’ve fought men in cave tunnels in Afghanistan, in the deserts of Syria, Yemen and Iraq. This fat little banker doesn’t scare me.

“Wakey, wakey, you little fuck,” I spit each word out.

I make no attempt to hide my complete and utter disgust at this odious little man. “Surprised to see me?”

Garibaldi continues to struggle against my grip. I smash the barrel of my pistol into his temple – not hard enough to do any real damage, but hard enough to make his eyes water, to get it through his head exactly who is in charge here.

Hint – it’s not fucking you.

“Do you plan to settle down?” I say in a low, murderous rumble, “or do I have to do that all over again? Because trust me, piggy, I will.”

Like a trapped deer in the woods, Garibaldi freezes. I’ve got half a mind to just put a bullet through his head right here, right now.

He deserves it. Skye is the only woman I’ve loved since Ashley, the only woman I’ve even thought about. The fact that he made her afraid, even for a second, is almost enough temptation for me to put him in an early grave.

Only one thing stops me – Skye. She’s at once the reason I’m here, and the only thing standing between me becoming a murderer.

“Who are you?” Garibaldi whimpers beneath me. Hot spittle flies out of his mouth as he struggles – choking because of my fingers digging into his windpipe – to talk. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me,” I say, leaning down so that my face is only a couple of inches from his. “Remember me, little piggy?”

Garibaldi’s eyes spring open wide as the recognition hits him with the force of a transit bus. The “oh shit” moment is palpable. It’s enough to make my lips curl back in an evil smile that makes my enemy quail.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, are you going to give me what I came for, or am I going to have to start cutting bits off of you?”

The truth is I would never torture anyone. I’m not evil, and it doesn’t work. But Garibaldi doesn’t know that. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just an insane billionaire who’s broken into his house in the middle of the night, fueled solely by a desire to do him harm.

Well, he’s almost right. I’m here for two reasons. To get the photos back, and scare this little prick shitless.

I release my grip on the pig’s throat. He sucks air in greedily. His chest pants and strains underneath me as his lungs cry out for more oxygen. When I’m sure he’s had enough – enough not to pass out, anyway – I squeeze his throat once again.

“Here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to give me what I came for, and maybe I won’t kill you. How’s that for a deal?”

If I already had a reputation as a hard dealmaker before tonight, this was going to be the icing on the fucking cake.

“Why are you here?” Garibaldi pants, straining to speak, “I haven’t seen you in –”

“Wrong answer, piggy,” I grunt. I lift my leg onto the man’s mattress and press my knee against his chest.

“Aw, shit,” I grin, looking down at a filthy footprint. “Where are my manners? I’m getting your sheets all dirty.”

I hold the smile and stare into the piggy’s eyes. I put all my weight through my knee, compressing his lungs, forcing the breath out of them.

“See,” I spit venomously as his body spasms beneath me, desperate for oxygen, “that is what happens when you lie to me. Now, shall we try that again?”

I’m glad Skye cannot see me right now. I’m giving in to the very darkest parts of myself – a side I thought I’d left behind long, long ago in the deserts of the Middle East. Apparently, when the people I love are threatened, I can still summon up the darkness.

I don’t like it, but it’s real.

Maybe that’s what Skye can work on next …

“You know why I’m here,” I state, relaxing my grip and releasing my weight. Garibaldi’s chest inflates once more.

This time, he nods, never breaking eye contact.

“And you’re going to answer my questions,” I say. Again, it’s a statement, not an inquiry.

He nods again.

“Where are the photos?” I ask.

The man’s eyes gleam with a malevolent dishonesty. I can see his mind turning, trying to figure out how to turn this situation to his advantage. “I don’t know what you’re–”

I groan, and my head falls forward onto my chest. I can’t believe this guy. Not only did he take me, of all the Joe Schmuck’s in New York, to be an easy mark, but now he’s trying to play me like a fool – again.

“Seriously, dude,” I growl. “I’m tired. I’ve been up all night screwing the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, and you’re costing me my beauty sleep. Are you seriously going to fucking lie to me while I’ve got a gun pressed right up against your temple?”

Garibaldi flinches at the word gun. He struggles fruitlessly against my grip, before giving up, as if exhausted.

I’m not surprised. I wonder when the last time he exercised was. By the looks of him, it wasn’t recent.

“I’m going to make this very, very difficult for you,” I say, grinding my teeth together even as I speak, “unless you start telling the truth, and fast. Capisci?”

Garibaldi nods, and the gleam seems to die in his eyes. I still don’t trust him, but I think he knows I’m being serious now.

“You took the photos. Yes or no?”

“No,” he chokes.

My blood boils and thunders in my ears like the rushing of the sea. But I stifle the anger. I let it feed me, not overcome me.

“But you ordered them taken,” I say.

He nods as I put pressure on his Adam’s apple. “Yes, yes!” He squeals.

“How did you know I would be there?” I ask, spitting out the question that’s been bugging me ever since I found the camera.

“From your… phone,” Garibaldi chokes out, still panting for breath, “Your office phone.”

“You bugged it?” I howl, knuckles going white with rage. The thought that this piece of human filth has been listening in on my conversations sickens me.

“Man on the inside,” he pants, “at the phone company, owed me a favor.”

“So you planned to blackmail me, is that right?”

Garibaldi – the lying fuck – shakes his head. “No, no. I just wanted a meeting. That’s all. I would’ve given–”

I kneel again on his chest.

“Don’t you fucking lie there,” I spit, hopping mad, “and spin me falsehoods. You think I’m going to believe that?”

This time, the man stays silent. It’s a smart move. I don’t think there’s a word that could come out of his mouth that wouldn’t feed my anger right now.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” I say. “Tell me if it rings a bell. I think you wanted back in to Wolfe Capital. Your wife finally figured out that you’re a piece of shit, left you, and took your cash as well. So you decided to come after me, decided that instead of working for money like everybody else, you’d just threaten me instead – and threaten the woman I fucking love.”

Garibaldi freezes beneath me as he realizes the seriousness of the minefield he’s walked into. I have no doubt that in his twisted, screwed up, criminal mind, he thought he was just playing hardball.

Thought he’d swagger into my boardroom with leverage in his back pocket and force me to cut him in on the action.

He probably thought that Skye was just some whore, thought that I – of all people – would pay a woman for sex.

He couldn’t have been more wrong. Because he didn’t just screw me, he screwed the woman I love.

So now it’s personal.

“Did you?” I hiss.

“Did I what?”

“Know what she meant to me? Means to me. Did you think you could use my love for her like a cheap bargaining ploy?”

Garibaldi’s already small, snakelike black eyes disappear even further into his head with fear. It’s a strange trick. It makes my stomach turn. He looks barely human.

He shakes his head.

“No, no – I swear. I just –”

He stops, mid-sentence, and tears glitter in his eyes. I look down at him with disgust, but it only seems to spur him on. In seconds, his eyes have welled up, and tears are streaking down his cheeks.

“You don’t know how it is,” he sobs.

What the hell?

“I’m out. I’m out in the cold.”

“What are you talking about?” I spit, recoiling from this strange turn of events. I was disgusted with the man before, but now I feel…

… Pity.

It’s a strange mix of emotions. I don’t really feel the pity for Garibaldi himself, more what he’s become. He had character before, strength. I could respect that, even if I didn’t like it, or him.

But whatever this creature is beneath me, it’s been chewed up and spat out by life. It’s barely recognizable as human.

“The Don died, and his son took over the Family,” Garibaldi weeps. “He didn’t need an old man like me by his side anymore.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

Garibaldi continues as if he hasn’t heard me. “Then my wife left me. Took me for everything I was worth. The art – gone, furniture – gone. She told the court about me – who I worked for.”

“I guess they didn’t look too kindly on that, did they?” I chuckle with grim satisfaction.

“I just wanted to feel the rush again,” Garibaldi moans beneath me, his face wracked with anguish. “I wanted to be back in the game.”

“You didn’t have a plan, did you,” I say, shaking my head and releasing my grip slightly. “This wasn’t some elaborate scheme to bully your way back in to the top table. It was a desperate ploy from a desperate man.”

Garibaldi doesn’t reply. He just lies there, on his mattress, sweating freely – a blubbering wreck.

“I need the backups. Now.”

“I–”

“Don’t try and tell me you don’t have them,” I say, grimacing with anger. “You’re pathetic, but you’re not stupid. Tell me where they are, and you don’t have to get hurt.”

The truth is I’m not even sure I could hurt this man right now. It would be like kicking a broken, beaten, battered dog while it’s down.

A neuron fires somewhere in my brain, and I decide to take a different tack.

“You jerked off, didn’t you?” I ask him, sickened by what I’m suggesting. The idea of this little fat man tugging at his cock while looking through those pictures sickens me.

He shakes his head violently. “No, no – I swear!”

“Come on,” I spit. “A sad, lonely, little man like you – you’re telling me you didn’t want to see what a real piece of ass looks like?”

“I promise,” Garibaldi moans. “I’ll swear in whatever book you want. I didn’t, I wouldn’t…”

“Maybe that’s it,” I say with an evil grin. “Maybe that’s the pound of flesh I should take in return for what you’ve done.”

The fat man’s eyes widen with incomprehension. “Pound of…”

I leer at him. “Well in your case, that tiny little cock probably doesn’t weigh half an ounce.”

I flex my gun hand, and slowly pull the weapon away from Garibaldi’s temple. He breathes out deeply and relaxes, for some strange reason thinking it’s all over.

It’s not.

I trace it down the man’s front. His eyeballs quiver as he watches it the whole way – then widen as he realizes where I’m taking it.

“No…” He moans. “Please…”

“That’s right,” I chuckle, pointing the barrel of my pistol directly at his cock. “You’ve got precisely three seconds to tell me where the backups are, or I promise you one thing – you won’t be jerking off for a very, very long time. Though with that little thing between your legs, I’m not sure how you’ll be able to tell the difference…”

“Three…”

“Two…”

“Okay!” Garibaldi squeals. “You can have them! I swear to you, I didn’t know what she meant to you. I swear it on everything I hold dear. Just take them, take them.”

He lets out a long, shuddering, exhausted groan and slumps back – broken, defeated.

One…

I say the word silently, inside the privacy of my own head. Mostly I am glad I don’t have to shoot this prick’s cock off, but I’d be lying if I said that a tiny part of me – about the size of Garibaldi’s cock – didn’t want to blast it off anyway…

“Okay then, piggy,” I grin, “time to ante up. Where are they?”

Garibaldi looks at me with hate-filled eyes. The glare sizzles on my skin, but the heat bounces off of me. I’m saving Skye’s dignity, the career she loves, and that means I’ll do whatever it takes.

“My neck,” he groans with a defeated hiss, “on the chain around my neck.”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I mutter, releasing my grip on the man’s fat neck. And there I see it – a USB stick on a gold chain. Tacky as hell, but I guess that fits.

I rip the chain off his neck and slide the USB stick into my pocket.

“And there are no other copies?”

He shakes his head. “None. I swear.”

I see it in his eyes. For the first time in this entire… conversation… Garibaldi is telling the truth.

I slap him on the chest. “Great doing business with you,” I smile at the broken, defeated man. “But I promise you, if you ever try to fuck with me or anyone I love again, it won’t be your cock I put a bullet through. Understand?”

He nods.

“Great,” I mutter, staring down at the fat lump on the mattress beneath me. “Because if I have to be in bed with someone tonight, I sure as hell rather it wasn’t you…”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Skye

I’m fuming. Fuming!

“The boss doesn’t want to be disturbed,” is all Harlan’s beefy security guard told me, before slamming me straight back into my prison. Sure, you can call it a penthouse if you really want to, but since I can’t leave, it might as well be my jail.

So I’m stuck here – pacing up and down – just like I was before. And I don’t even know whether Harlan is dead or alive. In truth, I don’t really know if he was ever in danger at all.

But it’s the not knowing that is killing me.

And –

I hear a beep at the front door, then a click as it unlocks.

“What?” I yell. “Brought me some food, have you? But I don’t want it. I just want to speak to –”

“Skye?”

I don’t register the voice at first, even though I know it almost as well now as I know my own. Even though I’ve told it my deepest secrets, even though I let it tempt me to do things I’d never have dreamt of before, even in my darkest moments.

Then it speaks again.

“What the hell are you talking about, Skye?”

I spin and sprint toward the front door, and the voice. That voice – Him.

Harlan.

As I close on him, he opens his arms wide to welcome me in for a hug. He’s got a proud, smug smile on his face.

I draw my hand back and slap him on his right cheek.

“What the hell was that?” I yell.

Behind Harlan, the bemused security guard peers at me through the open front door. I can practically read the thoughts written on his face. He’s wondering whether he should charge me.

The boss doesn’t pay me enough for this shit, he’s saying.

He reaches out and closes the door, leaving us alone together once more.

Harlan rocked backwards, holding his face. His eyes flare with surprise. “What do you mean, what was that?” He growls. “I could ask you the same question!”

I lean forward, jutting my chin out as threateningly as I can manage. “Never – and I mean never – play a trick like that on me again. Do you understand?”

Harlan physically flinches as he feels the rage crackling on my skin. I barely notice it, even though my cheeks are burning with the fires of righteous anger.

“But…”

“But nothing,” I snap. “Where have you been? I thought –”

I crumple. All of the anger that carried me seeps out. I feel like I’m standing on frozen ground in winter, with cold attacking me through the soles of my feet, putting out the flames of my rage.

“I thought you were dead,” I mutter, admitting my deepest, darkest fears. “I thought I’d killed you.”

Harlan’s forehead wrinkles. He takes a step forward and grabs me by the wrists. He cocks his head at me, and looks like he’s wondering whether he should shake some sense into me.

Part of me doesn’t blame him. I know I’m acting crazy. I can’t help it. I’m telling the truth. I thought I’d never see him again – see the man I love again – and that fear shook me to the core. It threatened my very being.

“Skye,” Harlan whispers softly.

He grabs my hand and guides it towards his cheek. The one I just slapped … I wince. A red handprint is quickly appearing on his skin.

“Look, I’m here. I’m fine. Nothing happened to me out there. I just had a –” he pauses for a second, chewing his lower lip. A smile makes its way onto his face, as if he’s reliving the memory of what happened while he was away.

“– a conversation with him, that’s all. A friendly one. Look…”

He holds his arms out, releasing my wrists and turns them over.

“No scratches, see. He didn’t lay a hand on me.”

I breathe out deeply. Now the anger has faded, I’m just left with an overwhelming sense of tiredness. I study Harlan’s outfit. I imagine he would blend neatly into the darkness, but right now, in his well-lit penthouse, not so much.

“Harlan,” I choke, as a wave of giggles rises up and out of me. “You look… ridiculous.”

A hurt expression bubbles up onto Harlan’s face. He hides it quickly, but I see it before it’s gone.

“Oh,” I giggle. “Don’t be like that. I’m just telling it how I see it…”

“What do you see, then?” Harlan replies roughly.

“Well for one,” I say, listing it on my thumb, “I don’t believe you for a moment when you say you were safe the whole time.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’ve got shards of glass all over that vest you’re wearing…” I say, reaching out and plucking a glittering splinter from his chest. “What – did you think you were Rambo or something?” I pick at the shards and toss them in a waste basket nearby.

I take a step back, and survey Harlan in more detail. He’s dressed in all black combat gear, including the stab vest I just picked the glass fragments off.

“What if someone had seen you like that?” I say, shaking my head.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Harlan replies suddenly. I think he thought I’d welcome him home like a conquering hero…

I grin. Harlan’s a big enough boy that I know he’ll be able to take my ribbing.

“You’re dressed for war, Harlan, but you got your driver to drop you off and pick you up…” I giggle.

“Fine,” Harlan grumbles. He’s play-acting that he’s annoyed, but I know better. I see the glint of amusement in his eyes. “Maybe it didn’t go quite as smoothly as I made out. But what did you want me to do? Knock on his front door and ask him to let me in?”

I shrug. “I guess not. But it never hurts to be polite…”

“So when did you get that memo?” Harlan winks at me.

“Point taken,” I ruefully reply.

I let out a deep breath. “Seriously, though, Harlan. Don’t do that to me again. I’ve practically worn a hole in your carpet with worry.”

Harlan grabs me by my wrist and pulls me towards him once again. “Forget about it. I’ll have accounting take it out of your paycheck.”

I try and wriggle away from my lover’s arms, but he holds me too tight. There’s no escape. I pinch his arm instead.

“Or maybe,” Harlan whispers roughly into my ear, sending a shocking, thrilling surge of excitement coursing through my body. “There’s another way you can repay me…”

I wrinkle my eyebrow. “Oh?”

Harlan presses his lips against mine. His tongue grazes my lower lip, and I shiver with anticipation. His hands drop to my ass, and once there, seem to like it too much to leave.

Maybe this isn’t such a bad idea, I think.

“Well, we were rudely interrupted earlier…” I groan, resting my lips away from Harlan’s. “So I suppose…”

“Those are my thoughts exactly,” Harlan growls.

I pull away from him. “First things first, Captain America, I need to wash up. After what we did earlier, and the last few hours of worry, I’m a hot mess. And –”

“I don’t care about any of that. Skye, you’re the woman I love. I don’t care if you’re sweaty, or dirty, or –”

My hand flies to my mouth, covering my shock. “What did you say?”

“I said –” Harlan stops. His face wrinkles as he silently replays the words that just came out of his mouth.

Then he shrugs. “I don’t give a shit. It’s the truth, Skye. I love you. I have since the moment I walked into your office. I’m not going to hide it, not from anyone.”

I go weak at the knees. It’s a cliché, but I guess it’s that way because it’s true. The floor feels unsteady beneath my feet.

“I –” I stammer.

Oh God, am I actually going to say this?

“I think I might love you right back,” I whisper, closing my eyes as if to hide from the intensity of Harlan’s gaze. As always, he’s looking at me as though he can read the words written on my soul.

Harlan doesn’t say a word. He pulls me back, kisses me again. Kisses me so hard I can barely breathe, so hard that I forget my knees are weak and instead press my body against his for support – ignoring the sandpaper-rough patches from his canvas vest, grateful we removed the larger shards of glass.

“About time,” he says. “Now, about that offer…”

I dance away from him playfully. “I wasn’t kidding,” I say. “It’s nice to know you’re so into me, and all, but…”

Harlan’s eyebrow jumps so high I worry it might disappear into his fringe. “But?”

“But I was serious about what I said. I need a shower, and I sure as heck am not screwing you until you brush that glass off your chest.”

“More glass?” Harlan mutters, glancing down. “Oh… shit,” he mutters.

“Say,” I coo, looking over my shoulder, “I don’t imagine you’ve got a wardrobe already set up for me? Like at the cabin?”

Harlan’s fingers stop brushing at his front.

“Do I?” He grins. “What the hell do you think?”

I knew it!

“So where is it, cowboy?” I ask, biting my bottom lip seductively. “Because I’m in a mood to play dress-up…”

“Where the hell do you think,” Harlan grins confidently right back, “my bedroom.”

“Presumptuous,” I say. “But I like your attitude. Say, since this is my first time here – exactly which one is your bedroom?”

“The third one down on the left.”

“See you in ten.”

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Skye

I step out of Harlan’s apartment’s bathroom, nervous butterflies doing backflips in my stomach. I’m wearing a white silk satin slip – and nothing else. It feels gorgeous on my skin, like a lover bathing my body in kisses.

Still, I feel awkward as all hell.

I’ve got all these horrible fears running through my mind; fears that I know are baseless – fears that I know are nothing more than figments of my overactive imagination.

I half expect Harlan to laugh at me, to call me ugly, and to send me packing.

Do all girls think like this, or is it just me?

But Harlan does none of those things. I knew he never would.

Instead, he just looks at me dumbstruck. He sucks air in through his teeth, and his eyes open wide. When he finally regains the ability to speak, he just shakes his head.

“Jesus, Skye,” he says in a voice that’s stolen of air. “Where the hell did you find that?”

I stand on one leg, the toes of my other foot circling the floor nervously. “You like it?” I say, turning only half of my body towards Harlan.

He takes a pace towards me, eyes aflame with desire. I start to wonder whether he’ll stop at all, he looks like he’s prepared to take me right here, right now, and fuck me up against the nearest wall.

I kind of hope he does.

“Like it, Skye?” He growls, tipping his head back in astonishment. “Hell, I love it! I just never–”

He cuts himself short, but I pick up the slack. I know exactly what he was going to say, and I don’t blame him. Hell, I’ve even surprised myself.

“You never thought you’d catch me in something like this, did you?” I say with a wry smile.

Harlan rocks backwards. “I didn’t mean it like –”

I grin coyly. “I’m just messing with you. I know you didn’t. I mean, there was a reason I found it in that closet. Now – are you going to kiss me, or are you just going to stand there like a lemming all day?”

Harlan’s throat makes an inarticulate growl all of its own accord. It’s a sound that sends shivers running down my spine. It’s a sound that awakens an animal part of me. It’s a cry of desire, nothing more, nothing less.

It’s brutal and honest, and it makes me want to jump Harlan’s bones.

“Well,” Harlan says, stepping towards me and biting his lower lip, “when you put it like that, how can I say no?”

He takes me in his arms, looping his right hand around my waist and pulling me towards him. His lips meet mine, and then we’re kissing like we never have before.

I’ve said it a hundred times, and every time is true.

This time is different.

Harlan’s different.

I’m different.

Because this time, I know exactly what I’ve been missing out on all these years. I know what it’s like to be taken to the verge of orgasm … and then thrown headlong over the edge.

And hell, Harlan makes a girl feel like Niagara Falls. I can’t possibly believe that there’s another man in the world with a cock the size of his – and if there is, that guy surely wouldn’t know how to use it nearly as well.

Speaking of Harlan’s, uh, appendage – I feel it poking into me, making his presence known right through his military battle pants.

“Made a friend?” I giggle.

“Huh?” Harlan growls. Then he looks down sheepishly at our guest.

“Shit,” he says. “I swear, I haven’t been like this since I was a teenager. Men my age aren’t supposed to have hormones pumping through them all day, you know?”

“You’re saying I’m so hot I’m putting you through puberty all over again?”

Harlan shrugs, and pulls me in for another kiss. “Hell if I know,” he growls, “but as long as Mr. Wolfe down there is game to go five times a day, I sure as hell am.”

I hike my eyebrow up. “Only five?” I giggle. “I expected more from the –” my eyes dart to Harlan’s bulging crotch … “Magnificent Mr. Wolfe…”

Harlan shakes his head, a stunned smile on his face. I like to think it’s there because he doesn’t know how he managed to get so lucky.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, Skye,” he whispers into my ear, nibbling at my earlobe.

“Oh,” I gasp, opening up my neck as Harlan layers it with kisses. “I think I do…”

Then things start to move faster and faster.

Harlan’s hands roam across my body. He doesn’t leave a square inch untouched. His fingers attack me like he thinks I might go out of fashion, as if he thinks I might just disappear.

But I’m not going anywhere.

Thanks to the satin nightie, there isn’t much of my body that’s not on display. Harlan pays attention to it all.

Little more than a lace thong separates my soaking wet slit from Harlan’s probing fingers, and he grinds his palm against my crotch. I tip my head back, and a little cry of pleasure escapes my lips.

“You know,” he growls, whispering into my ear a message that’s meant for me and me alone. “I like it when you play dress-up for me.”

“Me too,” I whisper back, panting from his attentions.

“Now let’s see if you like sucking my cock,” he says, burying his fingers in my hair and pushing me down.

I don’t resist. It’s all I’ve been thinking about all day – the touch of his skin on my body, the feel of that burning hot organ in my mouth, the taste as he –

“You’re going to come for me,” I say wickedly. “No more holding out.”

“You know, Skye,” Harlan says, looking down at me as I sink to my knees. “I like you more and more every day.”

I bury my outrage at the idea that he didn’t just like me from the start by unzipping his pants, letting them fall to his ankles. For once, Harlan’s wearing underwear. It barely contains his enormous cock, which is pushing against the material, begging to be freed.

I look up with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” He shrugs back. “You go to war, you protect it all, okay?”

I grin. “Poor baby…”

“There’s nothing poor about me…” Harlan winks.

I roll my eyes. “Someone’s getting cocky,” I mutter, rolling my eyes further as I notice the accidental pun.

And then I can’t resist any longer. I drag Harlan’s boxer briefs down, not bothering to make sure they fall to his ankles. I only care about what lies underneath – his gorgeous, massive, magnificent cock.

“It’s so fucking big,” I whisper, my breath taken away.

“I bet you say that to all the guys.”

I shake my head, and I’m so close to my lover’s cock, my hair strokes his burning skin. He shivers.

“You know me,” I lie. “I get around.”

And then I’m done talking.

I take Harlan’s cock in my mouth, swirling the tip with my tongue. He tastes clean and fresh. But there’s still a hint of his natural musk, the smell the draws me in – the strange, almost spicy aroma that calls out to me every time I’m anywhere close to him.

“When did you get so good–” Harlan mutters, cutting himself off as I scrape my fingernails up the back of his thighs, making him shiver with delight.

I guess I just read enough books on sex in all those years when I wasn’t getting any.

Harlan trembles as I take his cock as deep into my mouth as it will go. I relax for a second, then swallow a little more. I wish I could look up at the same time, and look at the effects my attentions are having on Harlan’s face.

I bet his eyes are closed. I bet he’s lost in amazement, in astonishment, and in wonder.

“Enough,” he growls, pulling my hair and tugging me away from his cock. I moan with disappointment – I was just getting to the good bit. There’s something about the taste of Harlan’s come that has been calling to me ever since I met him.

“Why?” I pant, catching my breath. Those little voices start up in my head again – was I not good enough? Did I do something wrong?

Then Harlan sweeps them all away.

“Because I’m going to fuck you, of course,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

I guess to him, it is. He looks at me with burning desire in those ice cold eyes – hot enough I half expect them to melt like icicles in the springtime sun. And the look in those eyes sets me on fire as well.

Harlan stokes the flames of desire inside me just by looking at me. He jerks his head at the bed. “Get on.”

I do as I’m told, but I can’t help it. I try to stifle a giggle.

“What?” Harlan protests.

“You look ridiculous,” I laugh.

Harlan really does. He’s still got his boxers around his thighs, and his combat pants tangled around his ankles.

Luckily, Harlan doesn’t take offense.

“I guess it’s time for you to get to work, then,” he says, offering me the world.

I don’t need him to ask twice.

I drag him towards the bed by his vest, then throw him down. He almost trips on his pants in the process.

“I suppose I’ve got to take off your shoes as well, do I?” I say, giggling at the sight of Harlan lying on his back, his cock standing ramrod straight.

Harlan shrugs, an action that only tents his jacket around his shoulders. “I don’t care,” he says mischievously. “I’d fuck you standing up, lying down, with shoes on, or off. It doesn’t matter a bit to me.”

My eyes widen. “How romantic of you.”

“What can I say? I try.”

I busy my fingers with Harlan’s laces, and then one shoe then the other lands with a thump somewhere on the floor. I don’t care where, as long as he’s not wearing them.

His combat pants are the next to go, and then his boxers.

“Are you just going to lie there?” I grumble, eyeing his magnificently straight package with admiration, “or are you planning to help anytime soon?”

Harlan shakes his head as if to wake himself from a particularly enjoyable dream. “I guess,” he says unwillingly, tearing his eyes away from my lingerie-clad body. Nevertheless, his fingers finally begin to tangle with the straps of his combat vest.

I roll off Harlan’s body, kissing the tip of his cock as I pass. I sit, kneeling over him, legs spread wide, and stroke his cock with my ass.

“Jesus, Skye,” Harlan groans, “it’s hard to believe you’re new to all this. You’re a fucking pro.”

“What can I say? I’m a quick learner.”

It’s true, I am. Also, I’m a more than willing student, especially when I’ve got a master like Harlan teaching me.

I kiss Harlan’s flat, toned belly as he finally loosens his shirt. I lay a trail of kisses up his body, then his neck, until I meet him at his lips.

“Finally…” I tease.

Harlan leans forward, clasping his fingers loosely around my neck. “Enough talk,” he says. “It’s time to find out if your pussy can cash these checks your mouth has been writing.”

My eyes spring open wide as Harlan’s fingers tighten around my neck. It’s a fucking turn on. I never knew that I would be into rough play like this.

Harlan pushes me roughly down onto his cock. My pussy’s dripping wet – but even so, Harlan’s massive length and girth is difficult to take. He’s bigger than any man I’ve ever been with – by an order of magnitude, even.

I don’t really know what that means, but it fits.

Unlike Harlan’s cock…

“Go slow,” I whimper as Harlan’s hips buck up beneath me. “You’re too big…”

He does as I ask. But it doesn’t take long before my pussy’s crying out for more. Harlan stretches me – but it’s a good kind of stretch. It hurts, but it also sends fireworks shooting up and down my body.

I relax, taking another inch, and then another. And then Harlan’s full length is inside me. I sink onto it, and my ass cheeks meet his thighs. It’s hard to believe that something so big can fit inside me … and yet it does.

His cock feels like it was always meant to be there.

“Still want me to go slow?” Harlan growls.

I shake my head.

“Say it!” Harlan orders me, his voice rough. I can hear the desire, the tantalizing closeness in his tone. It sends me into a spasm of want, of need.

“Fuck me,” I beg Harlan. “Fuck me and don’t stop.”

“Is that all?” He teases.

I shake my head, because I’m not done. I start speaking, saying things I didn’t know I had inside me. “I want to be your little slut,” I say.

“I want you to fuck me until I come, and then I want you to screw me some more. I don’t want you to stop until I stop moaning, and even then, check!”

“Now that,” Harlan says with an approving rumble in his throat, “I can do. Hell – I’ll get right on it.”

He grasps me by the hips, digging his fingernails into my soft skin. The spike of pain is unexpected – but delicious. I press my hips into him, and my mouth forms an O with the pleasure it causes.

Harlan starts to fuck me, thrusting his huge cock in and out. He goes slow at first, making sure I can take it. But the second he realizes that I can – that I can take every inch he thrusts into me, then more – he starts to speed up.

His pants and my moans form a soundtrack to a sweaty, wild, excessive session of making love. My ass cheeks slap against the top of his thighs, and every time they do, my skin shivers with pleasure.

“Harder!” I moan.

Harlan obliges. Harlan always obliges.

“Spin round,” he orders me.

I look down at him, kinking an eyebrow at first – betraying my inexperience. “What?”

“Spin,” he repeats, roughly. “I want to slap your ass.”

Oh, hell yes.

If this is what my sex life with Harlan is like now, when we’ve barely screwed half a dozen times, what’s it going to be like in a year’s time? I dread to think. Hell – there’s no dread involved.

I’m desperate to find out.

I spin on Harlan’s cock. Reverse cowgirl, I think, scrunching up my face as I wonder where I heard that term. Probably some girly magazine full of sex tips…

And then the time for thinking is over. The second I’m facing away from Harlan, he slaps my ass. The sound of the crack echoes around the room.

“Ouch!” I yelp, shocked by the mingled feelings of pleasure and pain that flood through my body. “Do it again…”

Harlan obliges, because Harlan always fucking obliges. He’s a slave to me in exactly the same way as I’m a slave to him. I’d do anything for him, and he’s the same way.

Harlan spanks me again, then thrusts into me faster and faster. He slaps me again, and again, until I think my ass must be red raw. And I love it.

“On your hands and knees, slut,” Harlan grunts after a couple more long minutes of desperate, sheet clenching pleasure. “I’m so close.”

Harlan gets up – kneeling, and grabs my hips, pulling me back against his cock.

Doggie style, I think. This is definitely –

SLAP!

“Oh my God,” I whimper as the first inklings of an orgasm vibrates through me. “God, your cock feels so good.”

I don’t know what happened to the old Skye – the prim and proper girl who barely had sex and definitely couldn’t come – because the girl who replaced her is a dirty, filthy whore.

And I say that in the best possible way, because I love the new me!

“Clench your pussy,” Harlan growls. “It’ll send you over the edge.”

And you as well, I think, grinning with no malice.

But I do exactly as Harlan asks, because I know he’s right. I clench my pussy around Harlan’s thrusting cock, and suddenly everything turns up a notch. Every sensation is magnified, every flash of pleasure redoubled.

“Oh God, Harlan,” I moan. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, I think –”

I’m going to come…

Harlan groans underneath me as he struggles to thrust in and out as my pussy clenches around his cock like a steel vise.

“Jesus, Skye, you feel so fucking–”

Then I don’t hear anything more. Harlan spanks my ass one last time, and it’s like lighting the fuse that sets off the fireworks on New Year’s Eve. My orgasm hits me with the power of a thousand suns all exploding at once.

I don’t hear anything, can’t see anything, can barely feel anything other than nerve endings exploding all around my body. My nipples feel like balls of fire, and Harlan’s heat inside me continues burning, with a delicious, possessive ferocity.

Slowly the world comes back to me. I look over my shoulder, desperate to see my lover’s face. He’s lying there, looking shattered, exhausted and awed from the pleasure that just came over him. But he’s mine. He’s all mine.

I’m never giving him up.

Harlan opens his eyes and winks at me.

“I told you it would be worth it…”

Epilogue – Skye

Five weeks later

I can’t believe this is my life now. How did this happen? A few weeks ago, I was just little old Skye Warren – an ordinary girl, living an ordinary life – with, however, an extraordinary problem.

All of that has now changed.

Heck, the only ordinary thing left about me is that I actually can orgasm now, and I do – as often, as powerfully, and in as close proximity to the previous wave of pleasure that wracked through my body as I can arrange.

Luckily, I’ve got a man who’s more than willing to oblige.

The last few weeks have been something of a learning curve. I’ve been learning all about my body, about things most women just take for granted.

But for me, everything is new. Every sex position feels different. I’m on a personal mission to try them all, just to be sure. Better safe than sorry. That’s my motto.

Now, I’m not going to lie. Harlan’s not just talented, but he’s got a cock to match. It’s so it has to be seen to be believed, and even then, I still blink twice.

“Today’s the day,” Harlan says, approaching me from behind and squeezing me. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Ready?” I squeak, my voice catching in my throat like a teenage boy going through puberty. “Are you kidding? I’m about to wet myself!”

“Aw,” Harlan grins, with that smile he gets when he knows exactly what I’m talking about, but wants to play games on me. “She’s not so bad. Just a kid, still – heck, she’s only what, nine?”

I cock my head to one side, narrowing my eyes and stare daggers at the man I love. In moments like this, it’s hard to remember why.

“You know perfectly well, Harlan Wolfe,” I mutter. “Your daughter is ten years old.”

“Oh,” Harlan crows. “That’s right. Because you refused point blank to come to her birthday party…”

I spin around and punch Harlan in the arm. Gently.

“As you know perfectly well, I would have loved to have come!” I squeal, irritated beyond belief by the words coming out of Harlan’s mouth. He knows how to push my buttons better than anyone I’ve ever met.

Unfortunately for me, not just in bed.

Harlan bites his lip, and rakes my body with his gaze. “As I recall,” he winks, “you did last night, five times.”

“That’s not what we’re talking about, and you know it,” I mutter. I can’t help the dreamy smile that teases my lips as I remember the wave after wave of pleasure Harlan inflicted on me only a few hours before.

“Oh?” He growls, hiking his eyebrow up. “Remind me.”

I pout. “Poppy, remember. I was saying it wouldn’t have been appropriate for me to turn up to her party after knowing you for what, a week?”

Harlan frowns. “But she’s going to love you!”

“That’s not the issue, Harlan, and you know it. You can’t just introduce a kid to all the women in your life. What would–”

Harlan stifles my outburst with a kiss. He presses his lips against mine, and kisses me with intensity, passion and desire.

“I don’t introduce her to all the women in my life,” he growls when he finally breaks away from his grip on my lips. “There are no other women. You are the only one, Skye – and that’s the way it’s going to be. Forever.”

I try and maintain a frown so that Harlan knows how seriously I feel about this.

But it’s hard.

His face has a boyish charm that it’s difficult to resist. Heck, there’s nothing about Harlan Wolfe that I’m capable of resisting. But I have to try.

“But how do you know?” I ask, clinging to Harlan’s body. “What if she doesn’t like me, if she thinks I’m trying to replace Ashley? Or –” my face blanches as I dream up an even worse horror, “if she thinks I’m trying to steal you away from her?”

I can’t bring myself to say what I truly fear, but it sticks with me regardless – a needle in my side, prodding me every time I try to imagine a future with this wonderful man.

Who would you choose – me or her?

I know there’s only one answer to that question. There’s only one answer I would ever want to hear. I could never be with a man who would choose a woman over his own daughter. But that’s easy to say, less easy to live through.

All I want is to commit to Harlan Wolfe, to marry him, and to live with him forever. But I’m terrified, because none of that is in my control.

It’s under Poppy’s.

Besides, I’m not the kind of girl who’s happy to steam in to someone else’s life. If Poppy doesn’t like me, I’m not going to play with Harlan’s emotions. I won’t manipulate him into speaking to his daughter on my behalf. I’d never do that.

But that leaves me in limbo – Waiting –

– For today.

Harlan pulls away from me, places his hands on my upper arms, and grips me tight. He looks baffled, as though he wants to shake some sense into me.

“Poppy’s the nicest, kindest, most beautiful kid I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he says. I can tell from the faraway look on his face that he’s speaking directly from the heart.

“And you’re the most beautiful woman I know – you’re the woman who saved my life –” he cuts me off from talking, “and don’t you dare attempt to deny it. I wasn’t about to end up in the gutter, but I was on a downward spiral before I met you, Skye. You saved me – believe that. Believe in yourself.”

“I do,” I whisper, although I’m not sure it’s true.

“She’s going to love you, Skye. She’s going to love you because you’re good for me. You make me a better man, and a better father. And you know what? You know the last reason she’s going to love you?”

“What?” I croak through a broken, clenched throat.

“She’s going to love you because I love you, Skye. I love you like I thought I never would again. I thought my heart was broken – walled off. That it couldn’t feel like this anymore. But you proved that wrong. You proved me wrong. For that, I’ll be forever grateful.”

Harlan’s lips meet mine. This time, his kiss is gentle and caring. I can tell he means every word he says.

He breaks away. “So will Poppy. Are you ready to meet her?”

I bite my lip, and not quickly. I think – for now at least – I’m going to keep my first meeting with Poppy, via video chat, our little secret.

* * *

I step out of Harlan’s black limousine. It’s crazy how ordinary living this kind of life already seems. Six weeks ago, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you what the inside of a limousine looked like if you had put a gun to my head.

Now? I can pretty much recount every detail, down to the thread count of the seats’ leather stitching.

“Is she here already?” I ask, clutching Harlan’s arm. “I’m nervous…”

It’s true. I am. I’ve spoken to Poppy once before, but this is different. Then, I was scared for Harlan’s life, my head spinning as I came face-to-face – or screen to screen – with his beautiful daughter.

So I guess in a lot of ways, nothing has changed.

“You don’t say,” Harlan grins. He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Chill. She’s going to love you. Hell, she can’t wait. It’s all she’s talked about all week! I told her not to get so excited. You’re okay, I guess…”

I pinch Harlan’s arm and shoot him daggers. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He glances ostentatiously at his wristwatch. “She’s here. Her driver brought her straight from school. And we had best hurry. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting…”

Harlan winks at me, making sure I know he’s joking, but he only adds to my nervousness. It’s so easy for him! Poppy loves him unconditionally, like I do. I bet he can’t imagine she’d think any other way.

Except, what if she does? What if she decides I’m stealing her father away, or that we’re dishonoring her mother’s memory? I don’t know what I’d do.

We walk up to the restaurant foyer. It’s a place called Mabel’s. I’ve read about it somewhere – the review section of the New York Times, maybe, but before I met Harlan, I never imagined I would step inside. Heck, even an entrée in a place like this probably costs more than a month’s rent.

Not anymore, I remind myself.

Because, from tomorrow – and assuming this meeting with Poppy goes well – I’m going to be moving in and living with the man I love.

So there’s no pressure or anything.

“You’re late,” are the first words that come out of Poppy’s stern, ten-year-old lips as we’re ushered to our table. She frowns at us, and then grins. “I thought they were going to take our table away!”

“No way, kiddo,” Harlan says, striding forward and ruffling his daughter’s hair affectionately. “Besides, I’d like to see them try and make you move…”

Poppy stands up politely and smiles at me. She looks so innocent. I wonder if she knows how fast my heart is beating!

“You must be Skye,” she says, shooting me the subtlest of winks out of the corner of her eye. It’s almost too much to take. She’s acting like a woman my age, not a ten-year-old! But I guess she’s her father’s daughter, in more ways than one. “Pleased to meet you.”

My hand jerks up, and I have to make a conscious effort to force it down. There’s no way I’m shaking hands with Harlan’s daughter…

“So you’re the famous Poppy I’ve heard so much about,” I say, playing along as though we’ve never spoken before.

For the first time, Poppy acts like the child that she really is. “Really?” She squeaks, shooting a look at her dad. “You told her about me? Daa-ad!”

Harlan grins. “Only good things, I promise,” he says. “Come on – let’s sit down.”

I can’t stop my knee from jangling under the table. I don’t usually have a restless leg, but I don’t know how to stop it right now. I feel like so much pressure is riding on this one meal – basically my entire future with Harlan.

He loops his arm around my shoulder, pulls me in tight and whispers into my ear. “Relax,” he says softly. “She loves you.”

Poppy’s ears prick up. “It’s true,” she grins back – obviously eavesdropping – and completely unashamed about it. “I am relaxed and I do.”

My cheeks flush red with mild embarrassment. I can’t believe how precocious this young girl is. I was nowhere near as mature, calm, or composed at her age as she is now.

I feel like I’m at a job interview. In truth, this meal is way more stressful than any sit down with a future boss, because I only get one shot at this. Either Poppy likes me, or she doesn’t. If she doesn’t, that’s it…

“So, Pop,” Harlan starts, finally brushing the reason why we’ve come for lunch. “I wanted to ask you something. Skye did as well…”

Poppy lays her cutlery against her plate with a flourish. The tinkling sound it makes rings out like a bell, signifying – to me at least – the end of my relationship with Harlan. My throat clenches.

“We don’t want you to feel any pressure at all,” Harlan continues. “And I know that this is a lot to ask, and–”

Poppy grins. “Yes.”

“–And that it’s just been us, you and me, all these years since your mom died. But, we wanted to know if–”

“Dad,” Poppy groans, tipping her head back and shaking it furiously until her hair flies in a cloud about her face. “Didn’t you hear? I already told you – yes!”

Harlan blinks twice in quick succession. It’s not often that I see my boyfriend – or whatever I’m supposed to call him – flummoxed, but this is one of those rare times. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. His daughter is a chip off the old block.

“But you didn’t even hear the question yet,” he says.

Poppy rolls her eyes. “Dad, it’s obvious,” she says with all the frustration with adults’ comprehension that a ten-year-old can muster. “You want to know if I’m okay with Skye moving in with us. And I told you already. Yes.”

“You’re serious?” I blurt out. “You’re not playing with me?”

Poppy shakes her head, smiling mischievously. “Nuh-uh. It would be nice to have a girl to live with. Dad’s okay, I guess… but he’s terrible at braiding my hair …”

I turn back to Harlan with very real surprise on my face. Really, though, I’m just doing my best to hide my shock from Poppy.

“You braid?”

Harlan shrugs, looking bashful. “Not that well, apparently.”

The rest of the meal disappears in a flash. It feels like I blink twice, and Harlan’s already paying the bill. I feel like I must be living inside a dream world. Surely it’s not possible to be this happy?

I half expect someone to turn a corner at any minute and tell me it was all a joke, a reality television show. But the longer it doesn’t happen, the longer the rug doesn’t get pulled out from underneath me, I slowly begin to realize that this is no television show.

It’s real.

I get to keep Harlan for the rest of my life.

“Race you to the car!” Poppy yells. She power walks to the restaurant’s front door, and the second it’s polite to do so, she breaks into a sprint.

I start after her. “Relax!” Harlan says for the second time today. The second time this meal. “Look, Stan’s out there. She’ll be fine.”

My heart thuds in my chest. It’s strange, I’ve only known Poppy – in person, at least – for a few minutes, and yet I’m already terrified for her safety. I wonder if this is what being a parent is all about.

Harlan grabs me by the wrist and tugs me gently back as Poppy nears the waiting limousine.

“There’s one last thing,” he says – his face more solemn than I’ve seen it in a long while. It’s as if he’s struggling to figure out how to get out the words. I realize that whatever he wants to tell me – it must be serious – because he’s not acting like the Harlan I’ve come to know and love.

“Spit it out,” I grin.

“It’s–” he chews his lip. “It’s about your father.”

My stomach tumbles. I feel like I’m on a runaway roller coaster, speeding from one of the happiest moments of my life, straight down to one of the worst.

“What about him?” I groan, hiding my face in my hands. “What’s he done now?”

“Nothing serious,” Harlan assures me, holding my chin and staring at me with those glittering, ice gray eyes.

“I promise. But I wanted to ask you something. A friend of mine from the service, he couldn’t handle the bad dreams, the PTSD. I guess that’s what they call it now. He didn’t have a sexy psychiatrist to fix him,” he grins reassuringly at me.

“Instead he turned to alcohol and pills – whatever he could get to take the edge off his fears – to get him to sleep at night. Anyway – he ended up homeless–”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, cutting across Harlan’s story.

“Don’t be,” Harlan says, squeezing my hand. “I got him off the streets, and found this rehab program for him to enter. It’s coupled with this new experimental drug trial, and the early results are out of this world.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

It’s as if I’m seeing the first glittering of light at the end of the tunnel – but I don’t want to get my hopes up. I’ve had them dashed against the rocks of my father’s alcoholism so many times before.

“It’s a residential program,” Harlan says. “With a 90% success rate – if they can stick out the first month. I’ve made some calls, and your father has a place. If he wants it … that’s all.”

Harlan looks at me with a combination of expectancy, and a hint of anxiety. He looks like he’s wondering whether he has overstepped his bounds.

I fly towards him, pressing my lips against his, and kiss him fiercely. It’s as if I’m in a vacuum, and Harlan’s mouth is my only source of life, of oxygen. I don’t care about Mabel’s customers seeing us, not anymore.

“Yes,” I whisper, “a thousand times, yes. How the heck did I find a man like you, Harlan? I can’t believe you’d think to do something like that for me. Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“Any time,” he grins, letting out the tiniest reassured sigh. “Seriously – I was worried I messed everything up somehow.”

“You?” I choke, tears welling up in my eyes.

I wipe them away, ashamed at my weakness. It’s just, I’ve never felt anywhere close to being this happy. It’s like every dream I ever had has been realized. It’s not the money, not the trinkets, not the fancy cars or expensive artwork on the walls of Harlan’s expensive penthouse.

It’s none of that. It’s just, him. Him and Poppy, the life he’s built for the pair of them – and now for me.

And then I do something completely, utterly, unbelievably crazy. My lips move before my brain has a chance to pull them back.

“Can I ask you something, Harlan?” I say, voice cracking as I hear my own audacity.

“Always,” he grins. “Shoot.”

“I know this isn’t supposed to be how it happens, but I – I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anyone else–”

“That’s good to hear…”

I frown at him, and he presses his hand over his mouth, zipping it tight. “I’m serious. You made me happier than I’ve been since I was a kid, since before all of this started. So I want to know something. Will you–” I choke, then power forward on a surge of energy that wells up from out of nowhere.

“Will you marry me?”

Harlan’s eyes flare with shock. He looks at me, stunned. His mouth opens and shuts – a bit like a goldfish. But the sexiest goldfish I’ve ever seen…

But for all that slippery sexiness, Harlan is still stunned into silence. It might well be the first time in his life he hasn’t been able to reach for an easy joke.

And suddenly, I’m at a disadvantage. I don’t know where that request came from. I’ve known Harlan for what, six weeks? This is just lust, not love – surely.

No.

My jaw sets with determination, because I know the truth. I know myself. Whatever Harlan’s response, I know I wasn’t wrong to ask. He changed my life. He sacrificed for me when no one else would, and when he didn’t have to. So whatever his decision, even if it breaks me, I’ll understand.

Even so – my anxious brain stammers and stutters to fill the empty silence. “Not now, I mean,” I say nervously.

“But some time. Someday. It’s just… I don’t want to spend my life searching for any other man. I found him. I love you, Harlan, and nothing’s ever going to change that.”

Harlan takes a pace towards me, holds one finger up and presses it against my lips. I flinch, anticipating the only word I can imagine him saying: no.

But he doesn’t.

“This –” he says, turning his head to one side curiously, “Isn’t supposed to be how it works. I’m supposed to ask you, not the other way around …”

My eyes fix on his. I don’t see anything other than those glittering, caring, gray orbs. I try to predict what he’s going to say – how he’s going to let me down, but it’s impossible. He’s a sphinx.

“Just tell me,” I say, unable to conceal the stress cracking my voice. “Put me out of my misery, already.”

Harlan leans towards me, his forehead wrinkling. “You think it’s going to be that bad,” he winks. “Marrying me?”

This time it’s my eyes’ turn to flare with shock. Even when I proposed to Harlan, part of me – most of me – didn’t expect him to say yes. So now, I’m shocked into silence.

“That’s a yes,” he growls, removing his finger from my lips and replacing it with his own. He kisses me again, again not caring about the startled looks from the assorted diners behind us. “I’m just annoyed I didn’t get to ask you first…”

So that’s it.

My feet fill with an unbelievable lightness, my stomach is filled with butterflies. I don’t care what happens to me now. I don’t know what lies in my future. I don’t know if I’ll go back to my job, or just spend the next decade traveling the world with Harlan and Poppy. Most of all, I couldn’t care less if the medical board finds out I had a relationship with a patient.

I’ll sign whatever disclaimer I need to sign, because I’m not Harlan’s therapist anymore.

I’m his fiancée.

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