This cannot be a good idea.

As I strode up to the tall dark tower of a building, the fearful voice in my head repeated the words: This is not a good idea. There’s still time to turn back.

But I only picked up my pace and clenched my fingers around my black purse so they’d stop shaking.

I wasn’t going to turn back. I couldn’t. I’d bought this suit—a fitted gray two-piece—just for the occasion.

Images of my parents, their kindly faces all crumpled as they surveyed our new house, and of my final view of our ranch in the back car window as we drove away slid through my head. RayGen had snatched our home away from us without so much as a “please” or even a fair payout.

No, I was going to do this. I had to.

Inside the building, I weaved my way through a scowling crowd of people, all of whom seemed to be hurrying, and looked just as scared as I felt. Their gazes rested on me too long, as if they knew already. This was not a good idea. My plan was never going to work.

And yet, my legs were locked in motion. I wasn’t going to stop.

Consulting the black glass directory on the wall beside the elevator told me where I needed to go: the penthouse.

The elevator arrived immediately, the wall of people inside shifting to make room for me.

When I pressed the golden “P” button, their stares lingered. I kept my gaze straight ahead.

You’re a successful businesswoman. You’re Lillian Stafford, CEO, I reminded myself.

This is never going to work, the other voice said.

Swiftly, the elevator rose, emptying out the other people, bringing me closer to the floor I didn’t want to reach, to the finality that wasn’t going to be good. After a few more floors, it was only me, the silver chrome box, and, as it stopped at its final destination, the penthouse.

The doors opened, and I stepped out. From a too-high clear glass desk, a blond receptionist looked down her nose at me.

“Yes?”

For a few seconds, I stood there speechlessly. Her utter disdain, the way her features were tensed in a bored sort of disgust—she had to know what I was about to do. Yet, how could she? When her gaze shifted away to the computer at her desk, I found my voice.

“I’m here to see Mr. Ray.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

She didn’t even look at me.

“No.”

“You have to have an appointment.”

She still hadn’t looked at me, and suddenly, I was horribly, horribly angry.

“I don’t think you realize just who I am.”

At my confident ‘fuck-you’ tone, she looked up. Squinting at me, her eyes narrowed, she was about to speak when I did.

“I am Lillian Stafford, CEO of Stafford Corporations.”

As she prepared to speak again, I added, “I wouldn’t want to be the person who prevented me from seeing Mr. Ray, if I were you.”

In the following silence, we stared each other down, her skeptical, narrowed eyes matched by my haughty glower. Let her deny my entry. Let her just try.

“Okay,” she said slowly, rising and walking over to an out-of-place wooden door.

Opening it and sweeping her hand inside, she continued. “He just stepped out for a minute. He’ll be back momentarily.”

Then, she and her strained, polite voice were gone, thankfully, and I was left with the enormity of what I was about to do.

Truth be told, I had never expected to even get into the office of Carter Ray. I had expected them to laugh me away at the front desk, require an access card that I had to flash at the elevator—anything. And yet, now, somehow, despite everything, here I was.

My gaze stopped on the wall, on a portrait of a malevolent-looking man. There was no time to waste; Carter could be back any minute.

I hurried over to his wooden desk, trying not to be distracted by the intricate carving on the front of the impressive thing. Focus. Just focus, Donna, I told myself. Just find a loop, a drawer, a—gotcha! The brass handle on the top drawer would do.

Taking the handcuffs out of my pocket, I secured one around my wrist, and then the other on the handle. Then, I sat down on his navy cushioned chair, staring down the door, taking deep, slow breaths. I had made it this far. I could do this.

The longer I waited, the more my worries festered. What was I thinking, lying my way in here and handcuffing myself to his desk? Carter Ray was a notorious sociopath; he was sure to laugh me out of there, if not call the police. Behind me, the eyes of the grumpy man in the portrait burned into me. I glared at the rich mahogany door in front of me miserably. If only that stupid, snide receptionist wasn’t at the front, I could sneak out of here and avoid this mistake I had so clearly made.

And yet, as I rose, it was too late. The door handle was turning. The door opened, and I sat down.

Framed in the doorway, the man paused. His dark eyes flicked around the room, stopping on me. He turned around, probably peering at the secretary he was going to question in a minute. When he turned back, he shot me another look, stepped inside, and then closed the door behind him.

He cocked his white-blond head at me.

“What do you want from me?”

As I took him in, with his chiseled, harsh face, a strange excitement coursed through me, and the words spilled out of me.

“I’ve handcuffed myself to your desk in protest against your company’s ongoing assholery. I’m not leaving; I don’t care what you do to me.”

A smile flickered across his lips.

“I can see that. But that isn’t what I asked.”

He strode up to the desk and, putting both hands on its glossy surface, repeated: “What do you want from me?” Before I could respond, his gaze still on my face, he continued. “And I’d be careful what you wish for.”

His hand slipped over my handcuffed one. His touch was surprisingly gentle, cool.

“Haven’t you heard of me?”

I glared at him. I wasn’t going to play his stupid game. It didn’t matter how attractive I found him. I was going to tell him off—why I was here, everything—just as soon as I could find the words.

“I don’t care.”

His hand stopped over mine and then slipped to my cheek.

I twisted my head away.

“Whatever your reasons,” he said, “this was either very rash, or very stupid. Surely you’ve heard about me and my taste for…enjoyment.”

Our gazes met, his black one burning. Of course I had heard of his insatiable appetite for women; I just hadn’t even considered it when laying out my plan. Suddenly I felt very, very stupid. And afraid. And then, angry.

“I’m here about my family’s ranch. You forced us off our land and gave us next to nothing for it. My parents have all but given up. All thanks to you. So I just wanted to tell you that I think you’re despicable.”

At my words, Carter’s face fell. Almost as if—no, it couldn’t be—as if my words had really affected him, had really made him feel something. In the silence, all the possibilities flashed through my head.

Carter, grabbing the drawer I was handcuffed to and heaving it across the room.

Carter, yelling for his secretary, both of them sneering at me as they manhandled me out.

Carter, his hand flicking to my cheek once more, this time striking me, all the while wearing a mocking sneer.

Nothing, however, prepared me for what he did next. Sitting on the desk, his back to me, Carter spoke to the closed door.

“I might be able to help you out—possibly. If you help me out.”

He threw a casual glance over his shoulder. I couldn’t make out why, but in the presence of this dangerous, cruel man, the only things I felt were clashing tides of arousal and pity. Maybe that was why, before my defiant “no” could come out, my head was nodding.

Next thing I knew, Carter had shifted himself on the desk and was facing me and running his hands up mine, along my arms, up and down, his eyes alight with a hunger that frightened me, thrilled me and enraged me. His hands moved up my shoulder, over my neck, to my face.

“What are you doing?” I asked softly, and he smiled.

“Exactly what you want me to do.”