The CEO's Disguised Runaway Lover

The last message on Dulce Long's cracked iPhone had arrived twelve minutes ago.

KAI: Suite 808. The keycard is waiting at the front desk under your name. I'm already upstairs. Come straight in when you get here-I have a surprise for you.

Today was her third anniversary with Kai Copeland. They had agreed to spend the night alone at the Grand Regency, away from work, family, and every other pressure that had kept their relationship frozen at the edge of its final boundary.

Dulce had even bought a new ivory lace set to wear beneath her champagne-colored slip dress-something far more daring than anything she normally chose. The thought of Kai seeing it sent a rush of heat into her cheeks.

They had never slept together. Kai had always promised he would wait until she was ready, and tonight, after three years of loving him, she finally was.

After three years together, she and Kai had begun talking seriously about the future-about an engagement, about leaving behind the frantic pace of Manhattan once his architectural firm found its footing. Their third anniversary was supposed to be the turning point.

Dulce slipped the phone back into her small clutch, slid the keycard out of its worn paper sleeve, and pressed it to the reader beside the carved mahogany double doors marked with the gilded numbers 808.

The indicator flashed green. With a soft click, the lock released, and one of the doors drifted open by a fraction of an inch.

From somewhere inside the suite came the steady rush of running water. Her pulse fluttered. Kai must be in the shower, getting ready for the night they had both waited three years for.

The hallway on the penthouse floor of the Grand Regency was deadly quiet, the thick crimson carpet swallowing the sound of her heels. She tightened her grip on the paper sleeve, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Kai?" she whispered, resting one hand against the partly open door. "I hope you really like what I've planned for tonight."

She took a slow, trembling breath and pushed the heavy wood open.

No lights were on. Instead of the delicate scent of white lilies Kai usually brought her, a wave of bitter cigar smoke, spilled bourbon, and a sharp, intoxicating undertone of cold cedar hit her face.

A strange chill crept down her spine.

From somewhere deep within the shadows of the expansive suite, a rough, ragged sound echoed. It was a man's breathing-heavy, scorching, and ragged, like a wounded animal backed into a corner.

A soft smile touched her lips despite the darkness. Perhaps Kai had already finished his shower and decided to turn her surprise back on her.

She stepped across the threshold into the foyer and pushed the heavy door shut behind her, hearing the automatic lock engage with a definitive click.

"Kai? Is that you? Why didn't you turn on the lights?"

A sharp flash of lightning outside the floor-to-ceiling glass wall ripped through the room, briefly carving a tall, imposing silhouette out of the darkness near the sofa.

Before she could process that the man standing there was far broader and taller than her slender boyfriend, a hand shot out from the shadows.

Blistering heat and calloused fingers clamped around her wrist like a steel band.

Dulce gasped. The sheer force pulled her off balance, yanking her forward until her face slammed into a chest as solid as granite.

Her small clutch, the keycard, and its paper sleeve slipped from her numb fingers, hitting the plush wool carpet without a sound.

"Let go of me!"

The man did not speak. His heavy arm hooked around her narrow waist, pulling her flush against his towering frame. His body temperature was terrifyingly high, burning right through the thin silk of her champagne-colored slip dress.

Dulce thrashed violently in the dark, her nostrils filling with the suffocating scent of cedar and raw masculine heat. Her forehead grazed the sharp edge of his collarbone.

"You're not Kai! Who are you?"

A low, gravelly voice vibrated against the shell of her ear, thick with suppressed fury and the slurred edge of a dangerous drug.

"Who sent you tonight? The old men on the board? Or my second uncle?"

The sheer venom in his tone made her blood freeze.

The room was too dark to see his features, but as his left hand gripped her nape to tilt her head back, the raised edge of an old scar across his knuckle scraped roughly against her sensitive skin.

She shoved against his chest with both hands. Her palms pressed into rigid slabs of muscle that felt like hot iron.

"You have the wrong person! I'm a guest-I walked into the wrong room! Let me out!"

A cold, humorless chuckle broke from his throat. His breath scalded her lips.

"The wrong room? Climbing into my bed smelling this clean... you bastards certainly know how to pick an excuse."

Before she could scream, his arm swept beneath her knees. He lifted her off her feet effortlessly, turning on his heel and carrying her through the darkened corridor toward the master bedroom.

"No! Stop! Help me!"

He tossed her onto the enormous king-sized mattress in the center of the room.

The velvet coverlet sank beneath her weight. Dulce scrambled backward on her elbows, trying desperately to reach the edge, but the man came down over her like a collapsing ceiling.

His weight pinned her hips completely.

With one fluid, brutal movement, he ripped the black silk tie from his collar and pinned both of her wrists together, forcing them flat against the pillow above her head.

Thunder cracked outside, shaking the glass.

In that split-second flare of electric white light, Dulce caught a terrifying glimpse of a chiseled jawline, high cheekbones carved with aristocratic arrogance, and a pair of blue-grey eyes swirling with dark, feverish madness.

The power disparity was absolute. Her struggles were nothing more than the fluttering of a moth under a boot. Hot tears of humiliation and panic spilled over her temples, soaking into her hair.

His mouth came down on hers with bruising, punishing weight.

The kiss was an assault that crushed every cry back down her throat. He tasted of aged whiskey, fever, and raw dominance.

Dulce bit down hard on his lower lip with everything she had.

The metallic tang of blood flooded between their mouths, but instead of stopping him, the pain seemed to snap whatever thin thread of restraint he had left. A guttural growl tore from his chest as he tore the thin silk straps of her dress.

His mouth moved down to the curve of her throat, burning a trail of fire over her collarbone while her muffled sobs were lost to the sound of the rain beating against the glass.

The storm outside raged for three unrelenting hours, matching the fevered, merciless tempest inside the suite.

By the time the suffocating heat finally began to break, the man slumped heavily onto his side, his arm remaining clamped around her waist like an iron chain. His breathing slowed into the deep, dead sleep of a body finally succumbing to the drug's aftermath.

Dulce lay frozen in the pitch black, her swollen eyes staring at the ceiling.

Every bone in her body felt fractured. The sharp ache between her thighs was a brutal reminder of what had just been stolen from her.

Biting back a whimper of agony, she reached down with trembling fingers and slowly, inch by inch, lifted his heavy forearm off her waist.

Her bare feet touched the icy hardwood floor.

A pale sliver of moonlight filtering through the curtains guided her movements. She dropped to her knees, gathering the shredded remnants of her dress and pulling them over her bruised skin with frantic, clumsy hands.

As she steadied herself against the nightstand, her eyes caught a dull gleam of platinum.

A custom Patek Philippe watch lay near the lamp, its face engraved with an intricate crest featuring an eagle and the name Justice.

A wave of nausea and pure terror surged through her gut.

Whoever he was, he possessed power that could erase someone like her without leaving a trace.

She turned away from the bed, not daring to flick a switch, and stumbled toward the front door.

Her small clutch still lay where it had fallen in the foyer. Dulce snatched it from the carpet and fumbled with the lock.

When it clicked open, a draft of icy hallway air washed over her feverish face.

Dulce cast one last terrified look back at the gaping maw of the dark room, swallowed the bile in her throat, and ran barefoot into the stormy night.

Less than a minute after the suite door swung shut, Brendon Justice opened his eyes.

The drug still dragged at his limbs like liquid lead, but the cold air lingering in the corridor had cut through the fever enough to pull him back toward consciousness. His arm tightened instinctively around empty sheets.

The woman was gone.

Brendon forced himself upright, every muscle in his body rigid with the effort. His split lower lip throbbed. When he touched it, fresh blood stained the pad of his thumb.

Fragments of the past three hours returned in violent flashes. Champagne silk. Long black hair. A pair of terrified dark eyes. A tiny mole beneath the outer corner of her right eye. Her teeth sinking into his lip as she fought him with everything she had.

And her voice.

You have the wrong person.

His gaze dropped to a torn strip of champagne-colored silk lying across the black sheets. The fear in her eyes had not been feigned. Neither had her confusion.

She had not come willingly.

Someone had drugged him. Someone else had arranged for that woman to enter his suite at the exact moment he lost control.

Brendon seized the secure phone from the nightstand and called the only number stored on its encrypted line.

Jax Tucker answered before the second ring. "Mr. Justice?"

"Lock down the Grand Regency," Brendon ordered, his voice raw but deadly steady. "A woman just left Suite 808. Mid-twenties. Long black hair. Champagne-colored dress. She may be injured."

There was a brief silence, followed by the rapid clicking of a keyboard.

"Sir, the penthouse surveillance feed went offline shortly before ten," Jax said. His voice sharpened. "The backup footage has been wiped, and the electronic access log for Suite 808 has been erased."

Brendon's fingers slowly closed around the torn strip of silk.

Whoever had engineered tonight had expected the drug to erase his memory. It had not.

"Find whoever breached the system," he said. "Then find the woman before they do."