So much for nothing wild happening before midnight.

Cole’s one-hour mark had nearly come and gone, and the networking crowd had turned into a huge, convoluted orgy that spilled out onto the back patio in half that time. Feeling awkward and not the slightest bit interested in participating, Skye had slipped out of sight and decided to explore the huge mansion on her own. She had moved from champagne to a very rich red wine, which she had nursed throughout her unguided tour. So far, she had counted ten bedrooms, explored the lower level indoor pool with an enormous window that faced the beach, and had perused the owner’s library, which also housed a fine art collection. Most of the works were abstract statues, with the occasional bit of seemingly authentic ancient pottery, but the real money was in the classic books. Whole bookcases were lined with them, all in mint condition, and Skye had examined each one while holding her red wine out as far as her arm would go in the opposite direction. No way could she afford to replace so much as a single floor tile in this place, never mind a whole antique book.

Although the greeters had gone into some detail about there being off-limits sections around the house, aside from a few black ropes over open doorways, there was nothing around to stop her from going wherever she damn well pleased. Every so often, Skye checked her phone to see if she had somehow missed Cole trying to reach her—and found nothing but her screen saver of a sleeping Oz staring back at her.

Any time she heard the sounds of fornication, drunken or otherwise, Skye shot off in the opposite direction, in no mood to deal with that particular nightmare.

She still couldn’t believe Cole had brought her to a sex party with no intention of actually having sex with her. That bit stung the most. Well, no. The emotional, feelings side of things stung the most, but it was easier to pretend she was angry he didn’t want to fuck her in her gorgeous lingerie.

Taking another sip of wine, so dark it might as well have been plum, she left the library behind and strolled down a hallway lit by a smattering of wall-mounted fixtures, styled to look like Victorian oil lamps. Her wedges clicked softly on the tile, off-white etched with streaks of grey, and she contemplated heading down to the beach to escape the whole thing. When Cole was ready to go, he could come find her, damn it.

Just as she rounded the corner, however, two bodies slammed into her—seemingly out of nowhere. She staggered back and tried desperately to hold her drink away from her dress, but the damage was done. Lukewarm liquid seeped through the fabric, right to her skin, dribbling down her neck, over her chest, and into her black lingerie.

The offenders, two female twenty-somethings with glazed eyes and flushed cheeks, skipped off in a fit of giggles, their hair the definition of bed head and their feet bare. And not an apology to be seen.

“What the fuck…” Skye stood there, half a glass of red wine staining Cole’s gift, and couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Clearly the pair were drunk as skunks, but why hadn’t she heard them coming? Had she been so lost in her own head, thinking about Cole, that her brain had ignored the impending danger? Worrying, if that was the case. Mouth pinched, she stared down at herself: she looked like a gunshot victim. “Fucking fuck fuck.”

“If you just stand there staring and cursing like a sailor, it’s going to set. If we act now, we can salvage it.”

“W-What…” Skye whirled around to find a man charging down the hall toward her—the kind of man she assumed only lived on film and in romance novels. Tall, muscular, his olive skin paired with startlingly dark eyes, like he’d gone straight from the Mediterranean to the runway. He wore a fitted grey suit sans tie, bow or otherwise, the top of that white button-down popped open, black dress shoes that clicked curtly with every step—and an expression suggesting she had committed a cardinal sin in front of the Pope.

“I knew this would happen,” he muttered in a rather posh English accent, the kind that made her toes curl in a way that Cole’s didn’t. “As soon as I saw the red wine, I knew there’d be a casualty tonight.”

He strode right into her personal space and plucked the wine glass from her hand, then set it on top of a nearby wall lamp. Skye stiffened when he turned his attention to the soiled fabric of her dress, tsking under his breath as he picked at it, towering over her by a good half foot or so.

“Uh, okay, who the hell are you?” She took a few much-needed steps back, her heart racing for a myriad of reasons. Never in her life had desire slapped her so hard across the face within ten seconds of meeting a man. Sure, she could acknowledge gorgeous men—beach towns like Coral Bay in coastal California were full of them, and not just the rich kind like Cole—but this was unfamiliar territory. He’d stolen her breath away—and all he’d done was chastise her and complain about the host serving red wine.

What on earth was happening to her? Although she’d downed a few glasses of champagne and a bit of the red wine, she wasn’t that drunk.

“Finn,” he said curtly, like she ought to already know his name. “Come on. Let’s try to save this while we can.”

“Do you have some personal investment in my dress?” She tried not to sound snippy as he stalked away, but the presumption that she would just follow him, the guy lecturing her about red wine stains, blew her mind. He slowed as she added, “Did you design it or something?”

“I always think it’s a shame to see beauty marred,” he told her, marching back and snatching her hand. The physical contact sparked a blaze, one whose flames crept up Skye’s arm and engulfed her body like a wildfire. As she grappled with the surge of desire, the instant connection, Finn half led, half tugged her down the hall, step by step, and over his shoulder, lips curved in a sinful smirk, said, “And when we’ve sorted out the dress, we’ll see what we can do about cleaning up the rest of you.”

Her eyebrows shot up, both impressed and surprised at his nerve, and she debated between yanking her hand free and storming off, just to teach him a lesson, and seeing where this bold, impulsive man would lead her.

In the end, Skye chose the latter after checking her phone and finding nothing from Cole.

Because she was covered in wine and had nothing else to do—so why not?

Finn guided her through the huge villa like he had intimate knowledge of the place, taking her down halls, up stairs, and across balconies, finally stopping in a bathroom with one of those rainstorm showers where the spray came from above. Oh, and a jacuzzi tub, and a set of double sinks sunk down in sparkling granite countertop. Given how ostentatious every other room in the house appeared, it shouldn’t surprise her that the bathroom would be first-rate too.

“Dress off,” he ordered briskly, crouching down and opening one of the little doors under the sink. Slowly, hesitantly, Skye complied with the request, then held the garment out to him. When he straightened up, his eyes flickered down to her chest, then southward, his lips slightly parted. A soft clearing of her throat brought him back to her face, though the pinched look of annoyance was gone, replaced instead with a flush of dark desire splayed plainly across his features.

Well done, lingerie. It’d had the intended effect—just on the wrong man.

Or maybe not. Given that Cole had never looked at her like he wanted to eat her up—or out—maybe Finn was the exact person she was supposed to use this getup on, especially after her confidence faceplant with tonight’s earlier letdown.

“Take this,” Finn told her, voice gruff as he shoved a white towel in her direction. “Then blot out the wine while I get the rest of what we need.”

She hastily shuffled out of the way as he brushed by her—and shot straight out the door like someone had a gun to his head. The towel he had given her was way too luxurious to be used on wine mopping, but everything in the spotless bathroom was too good for cleaning, so Skye worked with what she had.

Frowning, she laid her dress out on the counter and tried to soak up what she could. A quick glance in the mirror showed her heaving cleavage, made spectacular by the lacey black push-up with a cute little satin bow between her full breasts. Her coppery red waves fell over one shoulder, and while still clearly styled, they appeared feathered now, like someone had combed their fingers through them. Her brown eyes wandered lower, pleased with the way the garter belt cinched snug around her high waist, the straps that connected down to her stockings pressing just enough into her skin that there would be a faint mark. Her panties, thank goodness, hadn’t been bunched when Finn gave her that sensual once-over.

All in all, she looked positively fuckable.

Given her near nonexistent romantic life over the last sugar daddy’d years, it was about damn time she looked this good. Skye threw her shoulders back, ruby-red lips twisted into a coy smile, and continued to rub at the red wine stain—which didn’t seem to want to disappear anytime soon.

“Blot!” Finn’s thunderous proclamation from the doorway made her jump, and he rushed forward with the rest of his supplies in hand like a doctor beelining for a crashing patient. “You have to blot, not rub! Are you insane?”

“No,” she said slowly, stepping aside with crossed arms when he snatched the towel away from her, “but I’m starting to think you are.”

He chuckled, the sound skittering across her skin and shooting straight to her sex, as he dabbed the towel across the dress. “Flatterer.”

Skye watched, perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, what could very well be a lunatic dab, dab, dab at her dress until the towel had soaked up a good deal of the wine. He then grabbed an empty glass bowl and set the faintly pink fabric across it, pulled it taut, and coated every inch of stain with salt. After, he ducked out of the bathroom, only to return moments later with a kettle—the same electric kettle she had at home, actually.

“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” she said, biting back laughter. “Who does this?”

“A man who was once a very, very, very messy boy,” Finn told her as he poured steaming hot water over the dress. Moments later, the salt was gone—as was most of the stain. When he straightened, a triumphant grin on his lips, she offered a round of genteel applause, tapping her fingertips together.

“Bravo. Looks just like new.”

“Nearly.” Setting his equipment aside, he wrung out the dress—gently, with more care than she had ever seen a man handle an article of clothing with before—and then passed it off to the loitering woman in a maid’s costume in the doorway. Skye blushed; she hadn’t even realized they weren’t alone.

“Uh, hold on—”

“We’ll get it washed and dried before you leave. One hour, at the most,” Finn told her, closing the door after thanking the other woman. And like that, her dress was gone, disappearing in the arms of a stranger—just as Skye had.

“You didn’t have to do any of this, you know.” She bit her lower lip as his wandering gaze burned a trail of intense interest across her skin. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, Finn shrugged.

“What can I say? I’m a giver.” He chuckled again, and she felt herself clench—that husky voice paired with that accent. Ugh. Exquisite.

“Well, thank you. You’ve saved me a hefty dry-cleaning bill.”

“I aim to please. Now…” Finn’s gaze wandered the bathroom before landing on her with the focus of a predatory cat’s. “Whatever shall we do to keep ourselves occupied in the meantime?”

Skye pursed her lips as she sat on the rim of the bathtub, the cool porcelain paired with his lusty stare igniting a rush of goosebumps just about everywhere.

“I’m not going back out there like this.”

“No?” He tsked again. “But you’re so dressed for the occasion. You’d be a hit, I’m sure.”

“No thank you.” The thought of touching any of those people in the orgy downstairs also made her shiver—with distaste. Finn, on the other hand… Skye could most definitely touch Finn.

“Then I suppose it will be my honor to keep you entertained right down to the last second.” He crossed the bathroom and sat a few feet from her on the edge of the tub, his dark stare holding hers unflinchingly. “Can I tell you what I’d like to do?”

Skye almost laughed; it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.

“Shoot.”

“I’d like to lick every last drop of red wine off that ivory skin of yours,” he rumbled, leaning in slightly as her heartbeat quickened. “I’d like to trace every freckle. Explore every curve.” Finn caught her chin between thumb and forefinger, edging her toward him. “And I’d like to see if you taste as divine as I think you will…”