After a stylish dinner at a shimmering restaurant, they’d come back early to West’s apartment. Amy and Annika were still there. Annika had her blonde hair up in a bun and was aggressively cleaning the receiving room.

“Can you wait, please? Before using it?” she asked, pink-faced. “Just give me some moments, please. I’m almost done, sir.”

West led her into the hallway outside his bedroom. It was beautiful, with a wood-parquet floor and plaster-molded walls. They stopped in front of an inlaid bookcase.

“We’ll just stand out of her way for a minute,” West said, and she thrilled, like she always did, to the bass richness of his authoritative voice.

She turned to look at his books. “Oh, my. A man of intellect,” she purred. “Fanon? Keynes? Other names I can’t even pronounce? And all these books on art, too.”

“Art is a pet passion of mine,” he admitted, “but just as a collector.”

“You’re a collector?” she asked, fingering the spine of a large book on seventeenth-century portraiture.

“Absolutely. I’ll show you.” He took her arm and guided her further down the hall. The six-paneled door of his room drew closer, and she felt herself getting flustered. “Here’s something.”

“What is this?” she asked, surprised. A huge painting hung on the wall, a riot of orange and dark green.

“A Cézanne. Oranges on Brocade, 1896.” He put an arm around her shoulder and a frisson of pleasure went through her body. She wanted to melt against him. Put her arm around his hard, taut waist. Lean her cheek on his shoulder. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She crossed her arms instead. “I got it at auction. It’s a beautiful piece, don’t you think?”

“Very beautiful,” she agreed. “You have good taste, West.”

“Thank you.” He gazed at her meaningfully. “I think I do.”

She blushed, the color creeping down her neck.

“I am done, sir!” Annika called. “Please, come and sit!”

They returned to the living room, where Annika said her goodbyes for the evening and left. Amy came out of the kitchen to see if they wanted some snacks before she went home.

“Winnie?” West asked, glancing at her.

She was a little embarrassed to admit it, but she was peckish, even after that perfect dinner. “I could eat.”

West sent Amy back into the kitchen with an order for some expensive-sounding red wine, some artisanal crackers, and a blue cheese and walnut spread. It sounded delicious.

“Have you been enjoying yourself, Winnie?” West asked after Amy had come and gone again, leaving their food on the coffee table. “With me?”

“Very much,” she said honestly, helping herself to some cheese. “You’re an incredible host. And I’ve really . . .” For half a second, she hesitated. “I’ve really enjoyed meeting you. I like you. Very much.”

“Thank you,” he said seriously. The look he was giving her made her break out in goosebumps. “What do you like about me, Winnie?”

She shyly reached for her wine glass. “You’re . . . well, you’re cultured, successful, handsome . . . and you’ve been kind to me. I could easily go on.” She left out a few adjectives that were too risqué, like commanding and muscular and in-charge and gorgeous. “I’m very . . . attracted to you.”

The hot gold in his eyes overwhelmed her. “I’m flattered, Winnie.”

“Have you enjoyed spending time with me?” she asked slowly.

“Yes, I have. You’re a sweet, honest, clear-headed, beautiful girl.” He actually touched her hair, running a hand through the dense yellow curls. “I’m very attracted to you, too.”

His fingers in her hair made her breathless. He was such a powerful, good-looking man, and he was so close and so perfect, and he’d said he was attracted to her and—

“West?”

He pulled her to him across the couch. The smell of him, a strange, masculine mélange of white pine, dry amber, and liqueur, overwhelmed her. It was erotic, mesmerizing. His eyes were the hottest gold she’d ever seen.

And then he kissed her.

It was a deep, forceful kiss, nothing like the tentative kisses new lovers usually exchanged. It was charged. Powerful. Demanding. His stubble stung her skin. His hand was buried in her hair, his tongue pressing hotly into her mouth.

“West!” she gasped, pulling away. Her heart jackhammered in her chest.

“Winnie,” he growled. “Was that too much?”

“No, I . . . it–it was good,” she whispered, pink. “So good. Too good.”

“I see,” he purred, and then he kissed her again, a kiss just as blisteringly hot as the first. It went on and on, and then . . . “Mmm. We’ll stop. We’ll stop now.”

She clutched his shirt, trying not to pant. “I like it. I just . . . it’s–it’s too much. For tonight.”

“I understand,” he said, looking at her like he wanted to grip her dress and tear it like a napkin. “Another time.”

Winnie struggled with herself. It was too much, at least for tonight, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want more of it. She did. Her underwear was slick.

“Soon,” she said. “Another time soon.”

It looked like he was exercising serious self-control. After a couple of minutes, the gold in his eyes seemed to fade. “I hope so, Winnie. I want this.” Then he leaned forward and gave her a much more chaste kiss, on her cheek, just under her eye. Her bottom lashes tingled.

“Sir?” It was Amy’s voice. “Will there be anything else tonight?”

“Yes. One thing.” He stood, and Winnie missed his heat, his closeness. “A panna cotta dessert for Winnie’s room, please. And some sparkling water for her, too. Goodnight.”