sharp and unwelcome, sliced through a gap in the heavy curtains. She tried to shift, and a dull ache spr

eeks b

'd ever known. His forehead pressed against hers for a single, charged moment, his breath hot and ragged, as if he were making a final, irrevocabl

ever known. It wasn't the detached service she had expected. It was a claiming. A conquest. At the peak o

meaningless words of a man

hrough her temples. The hangover was brutal, but the reality of her actions was worse. Avoidance

marks scattered across her skin were like a map o

the bed was empty.

ith a man whose name she didn't even know. A ridiculous thought surfaced through the haze of her regret: the "escort" had been... exc

to get o

d. On the nightstand, next to a sleek, modern lamp, she spotted her purse. Driven by a frantic need to re-establish the transactional nature of the

oor. Her hand was just inches from the handle when a voice, cold and l

ewhere, Mr

scle in her body locking

be anymore. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored Armani suit, holding a cup of coffee, and watching her with an expression of cold a

nder her. The worst-case sce

you for your 'service.' I left the money on the table." She tried to sound c

nt on the thick carpet. The sheer force of his presence was overwhelming, a physical press

"Service?" He let out a low chuckle, a sound devoid of any

ng was terribly wrong. The way he carried himself, the expensive suit, the

over of Forbes, in the society pages of The New York Times, at galas she'd attended with Bradford. A horr

r voice trembled, the

against her ear. He spoke in a low whis

Bradford... he has

She had slept with her ex-husband's uncle. The Grayson Lloyd. The ruthless, enigmatic head of the Lloyd Hol

is wasn't a sordid, one-night mistake she could pay for and forget. This was

searching for the doorknob. She had to es

-