Mr. Chandler will be with you momentarily,” the woman sitting behind the front desk tells me, waving a nicely manicured hand toward the row of tan chairs against the wall. Her trim black suit looks expensive and tailored. But I suppose if you’re the secretary of this company and the first person seen when entering the building, you probably have to look impeccable. “Have a seat over there, please.”

Then I blink as her words sink in. “Um, there might have been a mistake? I’m here interviewing for the copywriting position.” I assumed I’d be seeing someone in the copywriting department. Not the owner of the company.

The woman gives me a polite smile. “Mr. Chandler likes to conduct all interviews himself.” With that, she looks back down at her computer and begins clacking away at the keyboard.

Okay. Well, that’s unexpected. Is he some kind of a control freak or something? Despite the nervous tug in my stomach, I try not to let this new development throw me off my game. I settle into a chair and avoid the temptation to pull out my phone for distraction. I have to stay focused.

I can ace this interview and get the job. I’m overqualified for the position, and I know it. Surely Aston Chandler knows it too, if he’s looked at my resume at all.

A couple of weeks ago, New York One did a piece on him and his company, Chandler Industries. His night clubs are exploding across the world. I can’t even imagine how rich he must be at this point. His net worth is in the billions, I do know that.

And he’s only thirty.

When I saw that piece, I was instantly fascinated by him in a vivid, intense way I’ve never experienced before. Doesn’t hurt that he’s hot as sin. He’s not just traditionally attractive, like a lot of these fuckboys out there with their trendy hair and skinny suits and smooth, practiced smiles. No, something about him is hotter, deeper, oozes an aura of danger. He’s dark and sexy and compelling, with strong features and bold gray eyes. A tall, brooding man.

One I’m about to be seeing in person.

Oh God, I am definitely nervous now. My pulse kicks, and I press damp palms to my thighs. Interviewing for this position wasn’t in my original plan. I was going to find a job as a paralegal while I attend law school. Then I saw him on TV, and found the ad for the position…and here I am.

It’ll be fine, I tell myself. I wouldn’t have been called in for an interview if they didn’t feel I’d be suitable. He’s just a man. A very rich and powerful man. No big deal. I bite back a snort. Right.

“Miss Sweeney.” The clipped words jerk my attention from my lap to the man standing in front of me.

My heart stops completely, then restarts at a furious pace. Oh God, he’s intimidating and commanding in person. His jaw is hard, his eyes locked solidly on mine. That black hair is neatly trimmed. His dark gray suit has no wrinkles whatsoever, despite it being in the afternoon. This man screams control in every possible way.

I get myself together and stand. He towers over me, at least a foot taller than myself. “Yes, that’s me,” I finally say.

“Follow me,” he replies, then spins and walks away.

I do as he said, walking a few feet behind him. Aston leads me into a small conference room, sitting at the far end of a table. He waves for me to sit in the seat to the left of his.

I slide in, trying to not think about how good he smells. A warm, natural scent that curls in my belly and makes my feminine side flare up in response. He smells expensive. Decadent. Like the olfactory equivalent of a box of pricey chocolates you save for a special occasion.

“Miss Sweeney,” he starts, looking down at the folder on the desk. He flips it open and gives a cursory glance to my resume and writing samples. “I have to say, I’m curious why you applied for this position.” He levels me with a bold gaze that strips me bare.

I don’t know why this man intimidates me so much, but he does.

Well, I’m curious why I’m interviewing with the head of the company, I want to ask, but I bite back the comment. “I’m interested in where the company is headed and I’d like to be a part of its growth.”

“Hmm.” He gives a quick nod. The interview starts off with the expected questions, about my education at Brown University, where I hope to go in the future.

I’m about to explain how much I enjoyed writing for the prestigious school paper and what an honor it was to win an award for one of my articles when there’s a rapid knock on the door.

“What?” he says in that direction, frowning.

The woman from the front desk comes in, bearing a manila envelope. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I received this package for you.”

He takes it from her and gives her a curt nod of dismissal. She closes the door behind her.

I watch him as he opens the envelope, despite us being in the middle of an interview, and reads the contents immediately. Aston is an intriguing public figure, one with a dark past—his mother was murdered when he was a kid. However, he refuses to be interviewed or talk about her death. He’s also well known for being photographed with beautiful women on his arm at various local events all around the city. Never one to be tied down. Not that any of his dates seem upset about that. They’ve all been beaming in the photographs I found online of him.

I watch as his jaw tightens and eyes go hard. His nostrils flare as he shoves the papers back into the envelope. Then he finally seems to remember that I’m in the room.

Aston exhales and closes the folder containing my resume and clippings. “Okay, thanks for coming,” he says to me in a flat tone, “but I don’t feel you’re the right fit for the position. Best of luck to you.” He stands and opens the door.

I sit there for a moment, stunned. Is he serious? What the hell? My cheeks burn with sudden fury, and my throat is tight. I swallow and stand, grabbing my bag. Asshole. Who does this man think he is? Just because he’s rich doesn’t mean he should treat people this way.

When I get to the doorway, I turn around and shoot a hard glare at him. “Mr. Chandler, that’s not fair. I deserve another interview,” I say in clipped words. I can’t stop the words from spilling out. “And hopefully at a time and place where you can give me five minutes of undivided attention instead of reading your junk mail.”

He stiffens and his eyes widen in shock at being talked to that way. I refuse to back down though. I’m more than qualified, and I didn’t even get a decent chance to sell myself because of his rudeness. Maybe he isn’t used to people dishing it back to him, but too bad.

Suddenly his gaze narrows on me, and the air shifts between us. He’s not off balance any longer. No, he seems to grow in presence, big and bold and predatory. He takes a step toward me, staring hard, like I’m prey.

God, the intensity of him makes my lower belly throb in response. I’ve never had this kind of reaction to a man before. He closes up the space until there’s barely a sliver of a gap between our bodies. I refuse to move, to back down.

“Is that right?” he finally says in a low murmur that bears an edge of danger. Electricity crackles between us, and I clench my hands at my sides to resist this strange and foolish urge to touch him. He’s just everywhere, commanding my attention, and I’m losing my will to stay strong and defiant. “Very well, Miss Sweeney. You have been granted another interview, as you request.”

Elation sweeps through me, and I almost sag in relief. I did it. I stood up for myself, and it worked.

“It will take place at two AM,” he continues.

“What?” I blink in surprise. Is he kidding? “Why that late? And where will we meet?” Surely the building is closed down by then…?

“Yes or no,” he says, ignoring my questions. “You can take it or leave it. My next available time is two AM tonight. If you say no, you can forget the job.”

I don’t know him well, but I can tell he isn’t bluffing. Despite these insane terms, he means it. If I say no, that’s it. I’ll never get another interview with this company, much less for this position.

What do I do?

“Okay, yes,” I find myself saying, despite my disbelief. I don’t know what he’s planning, but I can’t seem to say no. I want this job more now than ever because I didn’t know I’d have to fight for it like this. But I’m not going to back down.

Aston steps back, and his demeanor cools, all that earlier intensity gone. It almost seems like I imagined the whole encounter, other than the fact that my pulse is still throbbing and I’m strangely almost turned on. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, reaching beside me to tug the door all the way open.

I turn around and walk out, aware of his presence behind me. When I get to the front of the building, I look behind me to tell him goodbye, but he’s already gone.

What the hell just happened?

I make it outside and step into the unseasonably warm air. February in New York City is usually cold, but it’s in the low sixties today. I didn’t even have to wear a coat. I head toward the nearest subway stop and shuffle down the stairs, following the massive crowd. I’ve lived in the city my whole life, so getting elbowed and rushed by doesn’t faze me at all.

I’m too stunned from what just happened.

My mind is reeling as I go back over the…interview? Whatever that was. He was totally going to just dismiss me from his presence. I don’t know what was in that envelope, but whatever it was, it dampened his mood drastically to the point where he didn’t even want to hear anything I had to say.

I slide into the train and grab a pole to cling to as the ride jars forward. Around me, a group of cute black girls are laughing and dancing, playing loud music on their phone. A pair of boys at the far end are eyeing them, and I can’t help but smile. The girls give them a quick glance then look away and smirk at each other.

They probably have more dating and flirting experience than I do, despite being several years younger than me. At Brown, I was too focused on academics to do a lot of partying or dating. And before that, my dad scared the shit out of any prospective guy who might be interested in me. Having a cop for a father would do that to a girl.

When I make it to my apartment, a hole in the wall barely bigger than my bedroom at home, I key the door and holler, “I’m home!”

The place is a studio, with an open living room-slash-kitchen, a small bedroom, and a tiny bathroom in the corner. But it has nice windows and gets a lot of natural light. Andi and Janine and I worked hard to make the place feel homey and comfortable—they share the bedroom with twin beds, since they were the original renters of the apartment, and I crash on the sleeper sofa.

It’s not so bad, really, especially for the price. And at least my roommates are nice.

No one answers—they must still be out. I fling my bag onto the couch and then flop down, the tension leaking from my back as I sag on the cushions. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

Aston is going to contact me.

A sudden worry niggles at me. He didn’t just say that to get me out of the building, did he? No, he doesn’t seem like that kind of man. He prides himself on his integrity. A man who came from nothing and built an empire for himself got there by creating a stellar reputation. Companies and employees love working with him, from what I saw online, and he’s well respected.

Two AM though? What in the world are we going to do at that time? I’m baffled.

I fidget for a while, trying to think about what is going to happen tonight, but all my nervousness and excitement are welling in me and I need to get my mind off it, so I grab my laptop and poke around online for a while.

An hour later, my phone vibrates, and I grab it from my purse. It’s a text from a local number I don’t know.

Wear something beach appropriate and be ready for my car to pick you up at two sharp.

My gut gives a nervous kick, and I just stare at the message. Beach appropriate? What? This is so way out of the norm for me.

I reply back, I will, thank you, and send the message.

And now, to wait.

* * *

I’ve been ready since midnight. I took a restless nap earlier to make sure I wouldn’t be tired for my interview. Not that it did much good. I was too keyed up to really fall into deep sleep.

My roommates helped me pull something together. Janine had an adorable white knit sarong I tied around my waist, and Andi let me borrow her white sandals that lace up to the knees. Paired with my flattering turquoise bathing suit, I was about as ready as I could be.

I stand in front of the mirror yet again and fiddle with my lipstick, make sure my eyeliner hasn’t smeared in the fifteen minutes since I last checked.

“Stop being ridiculous,” I tell my reflection. I pulled my blond hair up into a loose bun, and my makeup still looks fine.

It’s five minutes to two. I grab my bag, toss on a light jacket, and head out the door. My stomach is in knots. Will he be here? I hope this isn’t some kind of weird joke he’s playing on me.

It’s brisk outside, having dropped to the forties, but sure enough, a stretch limo is pulling up to the curb exactly at two. My breath catches, and I struggle to contain my nerves. Oh holy hell, this is real and it’s actually happening and I’m getting into this man’s limo going God knows where.

The driver exits the car, wearing the requisite hat and suit, and smiles at me. “Miss Sweeney?” He’s older, with a warm grin that helps take the edge off my anxiety.

I nod. “Um, yes, that’s me.”

He opens the back door and waves me in. “Please, make yourself comfortable and let me know if you need anything.”

I slide across the buttery black leather and see Aston on the other bench, typing away on his phone. He seems much more relaxed than he did earlier. Partly because of his casual attire—he has on tan shorts and a black T-shirt, but I can tell they’re expensive, high-end stuff.

Even in casual clothing, he is confident. And sexy.

The car starts moving, but he hasn’t looked up at me yet. I fidget with my fingers in my lap and try not to squirm. Take the jacket off since it’s warm in the car.

Finally I clear my throat.

That earns me a glance up, along with a cocked brow. “Yes?”

“What…what is going on? Is this, like, a hazing ritual or something?”

He smirks but doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “This is going to be an interview ‘in the wild’.”

What does that even mean? Is he just going to have the driver chauffer us around while he asks me questions? Apparently not, because he goes back to typing on his phone and ignoring me.

Okay then. I make a show of looking out the window and ignoring him right back, but it’s not nearly as interesting out there. I find myself sneaking glances at this mysterious man.

How in the world did I end up here?

The ride is uneventful. Soon I find myself relaxing with the steady movement of the limo. We barely talk, except for Aston to offer me a bottle of cold water. I accept it with gratitude. Gives me something to do with my hands other than twist my fingers.

The limo pulls to a stop, and we exit onto a runway. I try to keep my cool and not give away my utter confusion as we’re shuttled onto a private jet, emblazoned with the company logo on the side.

Oh God. I’m so out of my league with this man. He moves like a predatory animal, every step purposeful. We board the plane, and he takes the seat across from mine.

Soon, the plane is moving.

My stomach gives that familiar lurch when we taxi and lift off. A flight attendant comes around and asks what I want to drink. She doesn’t even ask Aston, just brings him an amber-colored drink in a rocks glass.

“Um,” I say to her, pursing my lips. “What do you have?”

She beams at me. “Pretty much anything you like, ma’am.”

“Okay. I’ll have what he’s having,” I finally say. If it’s good enough for him to drink, it should be for me too.

Aston gives me a smirk, like he knows what I’m doing, but doesn’t speak. The drink arrives. I take a sip and try not to sputter as the sharp, burning taste of liquor slides down my throat.

“Um, that’s good,” I tell him in a thin voice.

He chuckles. “Bourbon. Not a fan, are you?”

“I’m…not much of a drinker,” I admit. “But it’s interesting.”

“It grows on you,” he says with a smile. The action is genuine, warm, and it kicks at my chest. Oh wow. In-control Aston is arresting. Relaxed Aston? Devastating. Disarming. Dangerous as hell.

He picks up his glass and holds it out toward me, and I clink mine against his. We both drink. The liquid still burns, but I’m proud of how I don’t grimace this time.

During the flight, I do my best to not look at him. I grab a magazine and flip through the glossy pages as I continue drinking my bourbon. As if I’m actually paying any attention to what’s on the pages. Instead, I’m again casting furtive glances at the man in front of me. Studying him. The more alcohol that seeps into my system, the braver I get.

His fingers are long and strong. I watch him flip through a stack of papers on his lap, intermittently grabbing his phone and typing away on it. His lower lip is full, and he has dimples that pop up as he purses his lips while staring at the documents.

There’s no way he doesn’t realize how attractive he is. The muscles in his tanned arms and legs show me he works out regularly…and spends time in the sun. I can’t help but wonder more about him. He won’t talk about himself in interviews and refuses to discuss personal matters. Not even about people he’s seeing.

All of which just whips up even more of a frenzy in the media about him. There are all kinds of speculation about how his mother’s murder may have contributed to why he’s so closed off.

Yeah, okay, I read a lot of articles on him when I was looking him up online. More than I’d ever want to admit. He’s piqued my curiosity for sure.

I force my gaze down and look at the magazine on my lap. Try not to think about the fact that I’m in nothing more than a bathing suit in front of this man. Going who knows where in a private jet.

Suddenly my skin is tingling hot. I’m aware of him looking at me. I swallow hard, and my nipples perk up beneath my thin suit. Oh God. Has he noticed? My cheeks and throat burn from mortification of how sexually aware I am of him. This is so not appropriate to be attracted to him. I’m on an interview, for God’s sake. Granted, a really unorthodox one, but still. I need to be professional.

He’s probably just sizing me up regarding the job, and here I am, reading into his actions.

I dare to look up at him, a polite smile plastered on my face. But the intensity in his eyes steals my breath. Oh, there’s more than professional interest there. He’s unashamedly staring at me, as if he can see every wicked thought I’ve had in my mind about those long fingers of his, that lower lip. Those strong thighs.

His eyes grow hooded, and his lips part like he’s about to say something.

“Mr. Chandler, we’re beginning our descent,” the flight attendant says in her upbeat voice.

The moment is gone. Probably for the best. I straighten my spine and look away. Put the magazine back in place and finish the last of my drink. I have a warm glow in my chest. Maybe that’s not a bad thing. I’m feeling pretty relaxed right now, admittedly.

I’ve never had a drink on a job interview before. Lots of firsts for me tonight.

I smother a snort.

We descend, and the plane lands with a smooth glide on the runway. Before I know it, we’re exiting. I thank the pilot and flight attendant as I leave.

I step outside and am instantly greeted with warm, tropical air. Despite the sky being pitch black, there are bright lights around me from the small airport. Palm trees dot the greenery in the distance. I fold my jacket and stick it in my bag.

And, surprise, there’s a limo awaiting us here as well.

“This way,” Aston says as he puts a hand on my lower back and guides me toward the car.

I try not to think about how warm my skin is from the touch of his hand on my flesh. The back of my bathing suit dips down far enough that I can feel his hand on me. He’s just being polite, gentlemanly, I chide myself. Obviously, bourbon is making me see things that aren’t really there.

The car takes off, and we’re back on the road. I dare to roll down the window, and air gushes in. The broad, black expanse of the ocean greets me. It’s stunning. Moonlight flickers across the rolling dark waves.

“Wow,” I breathe. I have no idea where we are, but in this moment, I don’t really care. It’s a tropical paradise. Something about the salty, fresh scent of the ocean floating in the wind…it makes me smile. When’s the last time I’ve seen the ocean? Never like this, that’s for sure.

The limo draws to a stop, and I scoot over to look out the other side to see where we are. There’s a huge building in front of us, a massive crowd bustling around.

“So, where are we?” I finally ask Aston once we exit the car.

“The Virgin Islands,” he says. He looks down at me, a mysterious expression on his face. “Time for you to get an on-site interview. Are you ready?”

Aston extends his hand to me, and I let him enfold his large hand over mine. “Come in and check it out.” He pulls me toward a side door and swipes a card across the lock. It pings green and he opens the door.

We enter the building, which is lush and decorated to reflect the tropical environment. Drinks everywhere, loud music thumping through the entire building, and an unbelievable number of half-naked people going nuts and dancing to the DJ’s music. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Welcome to my world,” Aston says loudly to me with a wicked grin.