Chapter One

Rule for success number one:

Pay attention—to the right things.

October

AFTERNOON sunlight streamed through the wall of windows as Jolie Quinn hustled down the hall of her North Dallas office, ready to make things happen. Which probably meant she had to bust some asses. It wouldn’t be the first time . . . nor the last. But keeping her small, slightly offbeat workforce focused during crunch time was critical.

Her entire future was riding on it.

To her left, Gerard hovered over the latest copy of Vogue. Accessories for the summer collection she desperately needed sat half drawn as he swayed to the rhythm of Mozart blasting through his earbuds. Rohan hunched over his keyboard, his fingers flying, as he scanned his screen, working his E-Trade account far more intently than he coded her new website. Wisteria, her receptionist, was fresh from another breakup. She looked somewhere between contemplative and maudlin as she shuffled the mountain of customer records on the credenza behind her. Arthur, her accountant, wasn’t even at his desk. He’d probably hooked up his PlayStation to that little flatscreen in the break room again. And the latest addition to her staff, her gorgeously distracting security contractor, never inhabited his desk. Instead, Heath Powell constantly cased the building and asked questions, watching everything and everyone with a dark, focused stare.

He unnerved her.

Jolie dismissed the thought and got back to business.

Hands on hips, she regarded her assistant designer. “Where are we with the sketches?”

Gerard’s head snapped up as he yanked the buds from his ears, looking like a quintessential Frenchman with Continental sensibilities. “I am looking for inspiration. You cannot rush creativity.”

“I have to. You know I don’t have a choice.”

He grimaced as if the situation was out of his control. “Nothing flows as it should, yes?”

She understood. When she’d designed the office attire for the upcoming line, it had come to her quickly. Admittedly, the casual wear had stumped her for weeks.

“Imagination, Gerard. You’ve got it. I need those handbags.” Jolie glanced down at the sketchbook on his desk. “Off the top of my head, these look too much like last summer. Fashion is change. And I want more texture. Let’s review everything you’ve got. My office. Ten minutes.” Conversation over until then, so she turned to Rohan with a raised brow. “Do I pay you to build a website or work your stock portfolio?”

Rohan had already shuttled the day-trading site and retrieved the code he’d previously written. “I took five minutes to investigate an interesting stock tip.”

She hated being lied to.

Jolie leaned into his face. “You were tapping away about the same small cap’s historical data when I took my call in the conference room an hour ago. Planning for the future is important, but do you grasp that if my potential investor walks because I can’t show him a working mockup of the new website, we may all be out of a job? It has to be done by Friday. That’s in two days.” She held up a pair of fingers. “If you’ve got some obstacle preventing you from finishing, let me know. I’ll remove it. Otherwise, I don’t have time for your personal financial health during my business crisis.”

“Sorry.” Sweat beaded on Rohan’s olive skin. He swallowed audibly. “You know deadlines freak me out, but I can do it.”

“You can or I wouldn’t have hired you. Show me what you have ready on the new shopping cart and tax tables. My office in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll be there. I think you’ll be pleased with . . .”

Jolie didn’t stay to hear the rest since he would present everything relevant shortly. If the site wasn’t functional and top-notch in time, it could mean the difference between her business flourishing and folding.

As she strode toward her office, she spotted a new pot of red tulips on her sister’s desk and frowned. Karis was often taking in strays. Had she shifted her attention from cats to plants?

With every step, Jolie’s stomach rumbled. Damn, she’d skipped lunch again. Maybe she’d munch on some crackers at her desk while she met with her employees and compiled the presentation for her prospective investor. During their upcoming dinner meeting, she intended to show Richard Gardner a complete strategic plan, new website functionality, current financials, and finished sketches of her summer collection. Right now, she was nowhere near ready. Food really didn’t fit into her schedule.

Of course she hadn’t had time for much of anything in the last four years—not waiting for inspiration, or her personal finances, and certainly not fun or games or romance. After waiting tables to put herself through FIT in NYC, she’d earned a bachelor’s in fashion design. Then she’d gone straight for her MBA, focusing on merchandising, and studied feverishly to graduate at the top of her class.

Afterward, Jolie had refused eight high-profile job offers. They had been flattering, but she’d already spent enough time building someone else’s name during her internships, thank you. Her dream had never been about working her way up from the bottom or limiting her income based on someone else’s arbitrary pay structure.

So she had forged a different path, starting her own line of chic yet comfortable fashion for women of all sizes. She’d also launched a completely different distribution channel at the same time, merchandising exclusively through home-based parties. So far it was working because her company had grown ten-fold in the last four years. Jolie had recently been named an up-and-coming designer by Fashionista and one of the top ten businesspeople to watch in Dallas. A popular nighttime drama would begin dressing their popular, stylish heroine, played by Shealyn West, in pieces from her spring collection after their winter hiatus. Sales were predicted to skyrocket.

Jolie intended to build Betti into a brand as recognizable as Coke, as sought after as Apple, and as far-reaching as Starbucks.

It was a tall order for a thirty-year-old woman short on capital. She needed this investor and all the building blocks in place to take the next step.

She didn’t want to think about what would happen if she failed.

Jolie ducked around the corner and peeked into the break room. Sure enough, Arthur was shooting a blue laser at both feral ghouls and raider scum in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Currently, his character was fighting off a horde of enemies, along with radiation sickness.

“Arthur?”

He didn’t turn to her, just pressed buttons on his controller like a madman. “Um, yeah. Two minutes. I’m almost done with these guys.”

“You’re done now.”

Her accountant performed a quick save, pausing the game, then turned to her with a sheepish expression. He shoved the shaggy brown hair from his face and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Slender, brilliant, and a bit on the anxious side, he often seemed more like a slouchy college student than a CPA pushing thirty. “Sorry. I get involved. It’s just that RooskieGamer posted a great YouTube video about how to defeat these guys and earn a trophy. I wanted to test it out.”

“After hours. At home. I need the financials ready for my investor meeting ASAP.”

“They’re almost done,” he assured her.

“I want to review them at tomorrow’s staff meeting.”

“Totally.” He peeked nervously back at the TV, as if the screaming goons and trigger-happy baddies could somehow reach through the screen and annihilate him while he wasn’t looking. “I’ll have it done by end of business today.”

“Good.” She turned away, then thought of one more thing. “Don’t spend the evening here playing that crap. Seriously. Go home.”

He frowned. “My roommate is constantly shagging his girlfriend. They’re so loud.”

And Arthur was annoyed because he wasn’t getting any. Not her problem.

“Turn up the volume on your game. The screeching ghouls alone will kill their mood,” Jolie suggested.

“But—”

“No. Last time you stayed here all evening, you cooked raw fish wrapped in foil in the microwave. The place almost caught fire and reeked for days.”

Not to mention that she’d had to buy a new microwave.

“I’m not much of a cook.” He pushed his glasses up again. “I’ll leave by six.”

Mission accomplished, she gave him a sharp nod and turned for the door.

“Jolie, before you go, I’ve got a question. Ten minutes, tops.”

“Do you need an answer to finish your part of the presentation for my investor?”

“N-no. But I—”

“Then let’s talk next week. I’ve got more meetings now. Sorry. Everything else is back burner at the moment.”

Jolie didn’t wait for him to object, because it was probably another one of his causes like cleaner urinals or organic coffee. She headed to her office.

On the way, she passed Wisteria at her desk. “All that paper has to be scanned, filed, and locked inside the proper cabinet by the end of the day. I know you have a lot on your mind, but customers’ addresses and credit card numbers shouldn’t be lying around. If we mishandle their personal and financial information, they’ll shop elsewhere.”

“You’re right.” Wisteria looked appropriately contrite. “I’m not in a good head space but I’ll get it done.”

“I’m sorry he hurt you. But he’s a man, so if he hasn’t already, he’ll be moving on soon. I suggest you do the same.”

Jolie strode into her office and shut the door. She couldn’t exactly tell Wisteria that she understood because she’d been there. Jolie refused to give a man that much power over her heart. She intended to build something more lasting than “love.”

Leaning against the wood, she shut her eyes and basked in the moment of silence. In part, she blamed herself for her employees’ lack of urgency. She’d given each a job because she’d believed in their talent, but they didn’t quite grasp that, despite Betti’s growing profits and impending opportunities, she would be unable to finance the company’s expansion for years without an infusion of capital. And if she waited that long to get ahead, the competition would undoubtedly have passed her by. She shielded them from the daily dog-eat-dog rigors of business so they didn’t see the throat-cutting happening all around them. Just last week, a man had initiated a hostile takeover of a growing cosmetics corporation and wrested it from the owner—his own mother.

Jolie wouldn’t rest until her dream was secure. Some might not understand her methods, but experience had proven her staff was most productive when she was professional but exacting. Gaining respect as a female CEO hadn’t been easy. Some misogynist, fidiot, or hack was always waiting to tear her down.

She refused to bend for small-minded people.

With a sigh, Jolie opened her eyes to tackle the mountain of work on her desk—only to be stopped short. Her younger sister, Karis, sat in her chair, staring out the window overlooking the parking lot. The girl’s dreamy expression tightened Jolie’s gut. She loved her sister, but as the baby of the family—and the one most like their mother—Karis didn’t have many practical bones in her body.

“Tell me how you’re working with that male god every day and not tearing your clothes off. He’s so hot.” Karis fanned herself. “And so British. That accent . . . Hmm. I want him.”

Jolie held in a groan. She didn’t have to ask who him was. Heath Powell. Her security contractor was incredibly male and terribly attractive. She refused to let him become a distraction.

Unfortunately, Karis lacked her willpower.

“Mr. Powell has been hired to make sure we don’t suffer a catastrophic security-related event, whether that’s industrial espionage or the burglar who’s been hitting all the businesses in the neighborhood. He is not here to make your vagina tingle.”

Karis huffed. “Not everything can be about business all the time.”

“It has to be until we secure this investor. While you’re getting your ass out of my seat so I can get back to work, let’s talk about expectations. I’ve counseled everyone else in the last five minutes about getting the job done. It wouldn’t be fair if I gave you special treatment because you’re my sister. You’re a hell of a graphic artist and I think you’ll make a great project manager. Stay on top of Rohan. He’s behind on his milestones for the new website. You’re lagging on your deliverables, too. You all need to be caught up by close of business tomorrow.”

Karis’s mouth tightened in mutiny. “I had plans this evening.”

“So did I.” Jolie really wanted a few hours of extra sleep but that would have to wait.

“Fine. But I’m not letting that hunk of a spectacularly single man pass me by indefinitely. Jolie, you should find someone. You’re sacrificing every shred of your personal life and future just for a job. Don’t you want more?”

“It’s not just a job.” Her blood pressure ticked up twenty points. “It’s my dream.”

“Yeah? Maybe my dream looks more balanced, with work I enjoy and an amazing guy. That’s exactly what Heath Powell is.”

Did such a man actually exist? Her mother had been searching for one her whole romantic life, despite her three divorces and a copious number of live-ins. In Jolie’s estimation, the odds of any woman finding the perfect man were right up there with saddling a rainbow-hued unicorn. “How would you know? You met Heath when he started here two days ago.”

“I spent some time looking into him this afternoon.”

Now the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. “On my computer?”

“You have more bells and whistles on your machine, plus the software that checks backgrounds.”

And Karis knew how to uncover personal information online because she’d recently dated Ben, a hacker who had taught her how to dig into anyone’s background, including his university dean’s. Jolie was pretty sure the dirtbag had blackmailed his way into a degree.

“My office also gave you the privacy of a closed door so Heath couldn’t see what you were up to.” She raised a brow at her younger sister.

“Yeah, it came in handy, especially when I called Ben for help,” she admitted. “Oh, don’t make that face. He’s a white hat . . . mostly. He walked me through bits of cracking and a back door or two. Some of it looked like top-secret stuff.”

“Yeah, Heath is obviously a great guy.” Jolie rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to know how much of Karis’s productive time that had wasted. “Looking into Heath’s background isn’t in your job description. Don’t make it your top priority.”

“But what if he’s the ‘one’?” She rose and grabbed Jolie’s hands, her excited tone like a teenage girl’s waiting for the football captain to give her a sweeping “promposal.” “I needed to know more about him.”

“Be real. That concept is an old myth perpetuated by fairy tales and exploited by Disney. Sis, he’s sixteen years older than you.”

“Age is just a number,” Karis protested.

Jolie snorted. Only someone naive actually believed that. Then again, that described Karis well. So the difference between her sheltered twenty-three and Powell’s well-lived thirty-nine might as well be a century. “Bullshit. Back to work.”

“You’re my sister. Why don’t you want me to be happy?”

“I do.” It hurt that she’d actually believe otherwise. “But your happiness shouldn’t be dependent on a man.”

“It’s not dependent,” Karis argued. “I’m just saying, he would help the cause.”

“Well, I’m also your boss who thinks you could be very happy accomplishing great things here. So please start caring about your job as much as some guy you barely know.”

Karis finally looked chastened. “I care.”

“Then don’t let me down. I’m counting on you.”

“I won’t. But will you hear me out first? Please.”

Why was she a sucker for her little sister’s pleading? “You’ve got two minutes.”

“Did you know he’s former MI5?”

And Karis clearly thought that having an ex-spy for a boyfriend would be somehow romantic. “That did come up in our conversation, yes. I know how long he was employed by the British government, the types of missions he completed, and some of his other relevant job experiences. He was candid about his professional background and seemed extremely qualified.”

Callie Mackenzie, her friend from Yoga Oasis, had recommended him, based on her handsome husband’s word. Sean was a former FBI agent and obviously knew his stuff. She was grateful to have friends like them.

“Qualified?” Karis blinked, her chocolate eyes wide with incredulity. “I know you like to pretend that you’re dead from the waist down but surely even you must have noticed Heath Powell is scorching hot.”

Jolie let her sister’s jab slide as she took her seat. Of course she’d noticed the man. The moment he’d walked in her door and shaken her hand, he had rattled her with his big presence. He spoke with an economy of words she appreciated. He’d obviously catalogued everyone and everything around him with a single glance. And he’d been so damn male, she couldn’t deny he was shiver-worthy.

But this emotional shit wasn’t her speed, so she tucked it away as she reached for her computer. “Karis, I love you, but I’m only going to say this once. Mom isn’t a role model to aspire to.”

“Just because I’m interested in a guy—”

“You’ve been interested in far more than one, and you’re not listening. You have to be a complete person before you can have a meaningful relationship with someone else.”

“I am,” she defended.

Jolie shot her younger sister a skeptical stare. “You don’t know your father. God knows I’d like to forget my biological dad. Like you, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen that scumbag. They didn’t want either of us, and that hurt, but expecting some father figure with a penis—no matter how attractive—to fill the void in your heart now won’t work. Ask Mom. Ten bucks says she’s headed for divorce number four.”

“I won’t give up on finding someone to share my life with.” Karis whipped out her phone, tapped a few keys, then sent Jolie an accusing stare. “I don’t know what happened to you. Maybe you had to sacrifice too much of your childhood to raise me and Austin. Maybe you enjoy being miserable and alone. Or maybe you’re too afraid to risk your heart. I just emailed you everything I found about Heath. Read it. He seems like a great guy. And I think he needs someone to make him whole.” She raised her chin. “He needs me.”

Jolie tried not to let her sister’s barb hurt. “I’m not afraid. I’m ambitious. Why would I want to surrender my heart when I could conquer the world? Now get back to your desk and start giving me your deliverables.”

Her sister sniffled. “I won’t confide my feelings to you anymore. I know they’re a terrible waste of your time, and you don’t give a shit anyway. I’ll enjoy the flowers he sent me earlier and ask him out the first chance I get.”

Heath better not have given Karis flowers. “That’s against company policy. You know that. I’ll remind Powell he can’t cross that line, either.”

“Why? So you can make sure I don’t have anything in my life but work? Or because you can’t stand him pursuing me when you want him for yourself?” She held up her hand. “Never mind. I don’t care.”

With that, Karis slammed the office door. The sound reverberated in the otherwise silent room, echoing off the walls. Hurt sliced through Jolie’s chest. She blinked away the acid sting of threatening tears and retrieved the spreadsheet she’d been working on. There was a reason people called it tough love. If it was easy—either to give or receive—it would be called something else. More importantly, Jolie knew she was right. Romance always let a woman down. Ambition never would.

But if she had to break up the budding office fling between her temporary security contractor and her sister to ensure no one’s heart was broken and shit got done, Jolie had no problem doing it.

***

AT half past nine, Heath Powell stared into his Scotch. The bar around him was dark and loud, a press of perfumed bodies, despite it being a Wednesday night. Then again, it was smack in the middle of a trendy area a few blocks from Betti’s offices. College students from nearby SMU rubbed against single professionals and a few overgrown partiers. The place thumped with Fall Out Boy and drinks flowed freely. With his back to the wall, he watched people coming, going, smiling, flirting, and hoping for a good time tonight.

He was the oldest man in the room. From experience, he knew that could be an advantage. He liked his odds. More than one pretty girl slid her inviting gaze his way. Now if he could just muster up more enthusiasm. Damn difficult to do when his mind was on someone else.

When he’d accepted the job with Betti, the position had been short term—perfect for his current needs because he didn’t have a home here in Dallas. Hell, he didn’t even have a country at the moment. This job gave him a few weeks to decide if he wanted to stay or start over elsewhere.

With forty breathing down his neck, Heath wasn’t certain anymore what he wanted out of life.

Seven years ago, it had been simple. Anna, his wife, had been his world. He’d give anything now to go home to her and the small brood of children they should have had. But an afternoon of tragedy had wiped away that possibility. Six months later, he’d begun working for Marshall Mullins, the world-famous movie director, bodyguarding his daughter after their move to London following her headline-making abduction in L.A. Mystery had been sweet and reserved—at first. She’d given him her trust slowly, blooming gradually, and awakening more than a protective instinct inside him. He’d fancied himself in love with her—and told her as much. Mystery hadn’t felt the same. Instead, she’d paired off with the soldier who had once rescued her. She and Axel would be married soon. And Heath would still be alone.

After losing in love twice, he wasn’t in a mad rush to fall again. But he enjoyed sex and missed a woman’s touch. So tonight, like many others, he found himself in a lamentable cesspool of booze and desperation. Only now he had a completely new reason to find a distraction.

Jolie Quinn.

After a summer spent in London and encountering constant reminders of Anna whilst running into Mystery, doting fiancé in tow, Heath had headed back to the States. Once in Dallas, Mitchell Thorpe, Axel’s former boss, had called asking for a favor. Thorpe’s submissive, Callie, did yoga with this lovely up-and-coming clothing designer, and would Heath be interested in shoring up her security, just temporarily of course? He hadn’t turned down the quick cash or the chance to earn a reputation locally for his work. Now he wished he had because he couldn’t get the bloody woman off his mind.

Blisteringly quick, acerbic, and ambitious, Jolie wore her confidence like a sexy sequined dress. Bright and sparkly, it hugged her every womanly curve and dip—and made her madly attractive. She never bothered with feminine wiles or coy flirtations. When she wanted something, she went after it. She was a green-eyed shark. Damn if he didn’t want to swim in her waters until he got her under him and made her surrender to the bigger fish in the tank.

A brilliant but risky notion. He wasn’t interested in anything that lasted more than a night. On the other hand, neither was she. But Jolie fascinated him as no woman had in years. He suspected that his desire to stay after the sheets had grown cold might exceed his will to walk away.

So he’d come to Nite Time, this terrible excuse for a watering hole, looking for a woman who would neither intrigue him nor linger in his memory.

A few feet away, a young woman sidled up to the bar with a glance from under a thick honey curl. Blue eyes. A smattering of freckles. Slightly crooked front teeth. A little scar on her chin. Given the way she leaned against the surface, she was slightly tipsy but not incapable of making a rational decision. Her short skirt and sky-high heels indicated she’d come looking for something more than a cocktail.

“Hi,” she murmured. Her lashes were fake. Her breasts probably were, too. But he wouldn’t know for certain until he wrapped his fingers around them.

“Hello.”

“Your voice . . .” she said with a hint of a soft, southern drawl. “You aren’t from around here.”

“I’m not.” He didn’t elaborate because he really didn’t want to talk. He doubted she did, either.

“Oh, I love your Aussie accent.”

Heath didn’t bother correcting her, merely glanced down at her empty wineglass. “Drink?”

“Sure.” She smiled and stood, teetering slightly.

He took hold of her glass, sniffed, then downed the last swallow before motioning to the bartender. “A glass of merlot for the lady.”

The bartender nodded, and Heath felt relieved that, even after a few visits, the man knew his routine. Helpful to have something of a wingman pouring. “You got it. Another Glenfiddich?”

“Please.” Heath tapped the bar and turned to the girl with a smile. “Here with friends?”

Her smile faltered as she glanced toward the dance floor. “I came with a coworker and her boyfriend.”

“They look busy.” The couple she watched clung to each other like overgrown vines.

“Yeah.” The girl’s glum voice said she’d soon be having a pity party . . . unless he distracted her.

When the bartender delivered their drinks, Heath paid, then took hold of his tumbler, waiting until she did the same with her stem. “To finding your own fun.”

She smiled brightly again. “I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked glasses, and Heath sipped his Scotch, watching the woman over the rim. She chugged half the glass, then set it down, sending a coy glance his way. “You want to dance?”

“If you’d like. It’s not what I do best.”

A little smile tipped up the corners of her lips. “And what is it you do best?”

He eased closer, sending her a weighty glance filled with manufactured seduction. Then he brushed his knuckles down her cheek before sliding his thumb over her mouth. Her eyes widened and her lips parted to form an “O” as his meaning sunk in. She drew in a shuddering breath.

Now that she understood him, she seemed nervous. He wouldn’t push, of course. Everything he did with any woman was completely consensual. If she declined, another would come along. But so far, she wasn’t walking away.

“How do I know you’re not bragging?” She studied him, her eyes glittering.

Ah, the good girl who longed to be bad. By day, she probably had a very responsible job. She paid her bills on time, called her mother at least once a week, and had always done everything expected of her. Tonight she was feeling a bit envious of her friend and didn’t want to be the wally who couldn’t snare a man. Based on the smudges under her eyes and the slightly droopy cast of her lids, he’d bet she hadn’t been sleeping particularly well. Lack of REM, coupled with alcohol, could heighten people’s emotions. She obviously felt more than a bit lonely tonight, so she’d worn the “slaggy” dress she’d likely bought in a moment of weakness or impulse, torn the tags off, tossed on whatever daring shoes she owned, and come to this bar to prove she was both attractive and merely alone by choice.

“Talking to me, you don’t.” He sipped his Scotch again.

It didn’t take her long to draw a conclusion. “You’re saying I have to sleep with you to find out what you’re best at?”

Her glance had turned slightly disdainful, as if she wanted him to think that men in bars regularly propositioned her. The pulse throbbing at the base of her neck said otherwise. “Not at all. In this instance, sleeping would be rather a waste of time.”

The woman’s jaw dropped in shock. “You’ve got balls.”

“I do, indeed. I assumed you hadn’t mistaken me for a female.”

She tsked at him. “I meant you’ve got a lot of nerve.”

“You will never have anything you want if you don’t pursue it.”

The cleavage above her plunging V-neck rose and fell rapidly. Heath grabbed her wrist. Her pulse hammered under his fingertips. Already, her eyes were dilated. He stepped closer and wrapped a hand around her nape, tilting her face to his.

“And you want me?” she breathed.

“You’re a beautiful woman.” He caressed his way down the graceful column of her throat. “A man would be very lucky to touch you. In fact, I daresay it would be a pleasure.”

“Really?”

A thread of guilt tugged at him for playing on her loneliness. But in truth, sex would benefit them both. He could make her feel treasured and gorgeous for a time. She could distract him—he hoped.

He downed the rest of his Scotch. It did nothing to quell the ache in his cock he’d been fighting since meeting his new boss.

“Of course. But everything is up to you,” Heath told the stranger. “We can stay here and have another round. Or I know a quiet spot where we could . . . talk privately.”

The woman bit her lip as if she couldn’t quite decide. She sent a sideways glance at the couple she’d come with. They danced their best imitation of vertical sex whilst moving to the beat of the music. Desire fused their lips together in an interminable kiss. Heath doubted they would be coming up for air soon.

The woman beside him tensed, her gaze skittering back to her wine. She swallowed the last half quickly as if downing liquid courage. “Let’s go. And for the record, I don’t want to talk.”

“Excellent.”

He led the blonde across the room, toward a cordoned-off staircase. On the far side, he glanced back, swearing someone watched him. But across the loud, smoky bar, no one in the crowd seemed to pay him much notice.

Heath shrugged off the feeling as he led the woman up to the private area of the club. The sounds below them faded to a dull roar. The lighting grew even more dim. The scents of sweat, alcohol, and desperation choking the first floor gave way to cologne, money, and sex.

“What’s your name?” she asked with a shy glance when they reached the landing at the top.

“Does it matter?”

She hesitated, glanced down the stairs, then back to his face. “No.”

“Right, then.” Heath led her toward a quiet, poorly lit corner, then turned her to face the wall. He lifted her short skirt and lowered her knickers just enough before reaching into his pocket for a condom. “Brace your hands and feel free to scream.”