The heat from the ballroom’s overhead lighting beats down on me. In truth, it shrinks in comparison to the fire burning me up inside.

I’m caught between two of New York’s most powerful men. I never thought that I was the kind of girl who could be impressed by that kind of thing – but now that I’m here?

I can’t deny it: it’s kind of hot.

God, this is like some kind of sick fantasy. Except even in my most private moments I’m not sure that I would fantasize of something like this. I mean – really – I’m just an inexperienced, kind of curvy virgin. How the heck did I end up here?

I’m not ashamed by my sexual naivety, not really. It’s just the plain, honest truth. My fantasies don’t extend much further than a guy pressing me up against the wall like Charlie did the other night. They certainly don’t reach caught in a billionaire’s power-play kind of heights.

“Eight million dollars?”

I’m transfixed. I don’t know where to look – at Charlie, or Landon. A heat prickles between my legs. It’s a raw, animal desire. I feel like I’m back in caveman days, and the tribe’s leading hunters are tussling over who gets to own me.

Own me? Where did that thought come from?

“Make it ten,” Charlie calls out. “It’s all in a good cause, after all…”

He doesn’t bother looking at me. His gaze is locked on Landon. He’s cold and calm. The anger that crackled from him like a wild brushfire earlier this evening is gone. He’s completely in control.

I gasp.

So does the rest of the room. Landon is beginning to look less composed. He bites his lip, looking around the packed, spellbound ballroom. He’s set a trap for himself, and he’s only just beginning to realize it.

If he backs out now, then everyone will see him as weak.

But then, if he keeps going, it’ll seem like he’s a man with a mission: a man with a vendetta. There’s only so long you can hide the type of anger like the one that drives Landon Winchester. I wonder what happened to him in life to make him this way.

I sensed his fury the second I met him. He’s hidden it from the rest of the world with good looks and better PR. But when you’re as anxious and nervous as I am, practiced at putting on a front for the rest of the world, you get to know when someone’s hiding something.

“How generous, Mr. Thorne!” The announcer says. His voice drips with syrupy sycophancy.

“Eleven,” Landon mutters. I wonder if he’s finally realized the trap he’s walked into.

Charlie smiles – a shark sensing blood in the water.

“Let’s make it a round fifteen,” he says. I hold my breath. I think everyone does.

I’m not insecure, necessarily: just different. I’m mostly self-reliant, and about as well-adjusted as any girl who grew up with her dad in a coma, and out on the streets can reasonably expect to be. But I know I’m not a fifteen million dollar woman.

Hell, I’m not even a million dollar woman… Hearing that kind of number bandied about so casually makes my head spin.

I stare at Charlie. He’s trembling with anger. I don’t know how I didn’t notice it before. To the rest of the room, he seems calm, but I can see it. Maybe it’s only me.

And I get the feeling that there’s more going on than meets the eye. Sure, Charlie promised me he wouldn’t lose – but I never in my wildest dreams expected this to go past a couple hundred thousand bucks, let alone a million! I glance back at his opponent, waiting for his decision with baited breath.

Landon bites his lower lip so hard it turns white, so hard I’m sure at any moment he’ll draw blood.

“Fine,” he spits. “You have her, Thorne. Pay for your own goddamn –.”

He starts, catching himself, perhaps realizing where he is: at a charity ball, in a room filled with cameras and New York society’s gossiping best.

A strange energy takes hold of my legs. I start walking before I know exactly where I’m going.

In the background, I hear the same vapid announcer vamping to the crowd. I try and block him out.

“Well, folks; I think that’s a story we’ll be talking about for a very long time. I certainly know I will…”

I barely hear it. A second later, I’m in front of Landon Winchester. I give the crowd a fake smile and lean down so that only he can hear what I’m saying.

“The word you’re looking for,” I growl, “is wife. Keep me out of your testosterone-charged power plays in future, you understand?” I start to turn away, before catching myself. My lip curls with scorn. I shouldn’t say it. I know I shouldn’t say anymore. But I do anyway.

“In fact, here’s some free advice for you: maybe don’t pick battles you can’t win.”

I kiss Landon on both cheeks, to the applause of the unaware crowd. He radiates a cold fury, but it bounces off me.

“Oh, how sporting! The announcer says in a Hunger Games TV tone. “Now – how about we see the lucky gentleman and his wife take the first dance?”

I freeze.

I don’t dance. Like, seriously, I really don’t dance. I’m not the kind of kid whose parents sent her to ballet after class. Honestly, I don’t think it would’ve mattered even if they had. I’ve got two left feet. Two left feet bound up in blocks of concrete…

Charlie gets to his feet.

He does it slowly, as if he’s thinking about refusing. My eyes fixate on my husband. My skirmish with Landon is long forgotten. I can’t help but admire the dark–haired man with the icy gray eyes I see from across the room. His dinner suit clings to his sculpted body – leaving everything and nothing to the imagination, all at once.

“Come on, ladies and gentlemen, let’s give them some applause,” the announcer says, as though he’s emceeing a kids concert.

Nevertheless, the crowd does as they’re told. The band strikes up a song – some slow dance number – and I breathe a sigh of relief: encouraged that I’m not going to be thrown in at the deep end and made to dance the tango. As it is, a slow ballroom dance is probably beyond my limited skill.

I trace Charlie’s slow path through the crowd. Energy is running through me, the likes of which I’ve never felt before. My inner thighs prickle with excitement, and the heat from the overhead lights beats down on my shoulders and my back.

I’m buzzing. There’s no respite from the overwhelming rush of sensations that’s assaulting me from every direction.

Then Charlie’s there. He puts his arms around my waist and pulls me in close. Another sensation – a rush of sparks charging up my spine. “I’m sorry about this,” he whispers.

I swallow, hard.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know if I can even speak. My body is on fire, scarcely capable of processing everything tonight’s throwing at it – the heat from above, Charlie’s touch against my silk dress, the sharp, spicy scent of his after shave tickling my nostrils.

“It’s alright,” I say, nestling my head against his chest. “It isn’t your fault.”

Charlie grips me tight. “It is,” he growls. “You’re my wife. I’m not supposed to let things like this happen to you.”

The band falls silent. I hear the rustling of sheet music, a pause, and then the sound of piano and violin, trumpet and saxophone combining together in a tune that moves something inside me, something primal.

“Um, Charlie,” I whisper urgently. “There’s something I need to tell you…”

“What?”

“I… I can’t dance.”

My husband turns a chuckle into a cough. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll lead. You just follow me.”

I do.

There’s something comforting in it. I’ve always at least tried to control my own fate. Even in that moment in Charlie’s office when I claimed I was his wife – I was in control. Mostly. New York City’s the kind of place that can chew up and spit out a girl who’s not prepared to fight her own corner.

But in this moment, I don’t have any other choice. I have to trust Charlie Thorne not to make me look like a fool. It seems like such a little thing – but right here and now, it feels like so much more.

“Relax,” Charlie whispers, as he turns in time with the music. “Just let all your muscles go limp. Do what I do, don’t force it.”

Relax, he tells me.

How can I, when the place his hand meets my back feels like a volcano, spitting fire? How can I, when his left hand clasps mine so softly, in a way no man has ever held me before. How can I when I’m pressed so tight against Charlie’s perfect body?

“See – it isn’t so hard,” Charlie says. The crash of the brass band, the sound of trumpet and violin, it combines in a crescendo that blocks out even the sound of my own ragged breath. I lose myself to it, and to him.

I lose myself to the heat of Charlie’s body and his scent. I lose myself to his soft touch and the reckless, whirling abandon of the dance.

I can’t speak. Every inch of my skin is on fire. I bite my lip as my hair whirls around me, in perfect time with the music. The slightest touch of Charlie’s stubble grazes my cheek, and I press my head into the feeling.

And then it’s done. And then the music stops. And then applause fills the room.

“And now,” Charlie grins, his face lightly flushed. “We bow…”

He keeps hold of my hand, and leads me into a bow at the waist. I don’t know what overtakes me at that moment. I pull Charlie close to me, press myself right up tight to his body, and look up at him.

He kisses me.

He does it without hesitation, as if we’ve done it a thousand times before.

Except this is no ordinary kiss.

Not that I would know.

This cannot be an ordinary kiss.

His lips graze mine, soft, then hard. A rush of white-hot sparks charges down my front, all the way down to my core. Charlie’s thick, strong arms pull me against his muscular frame, and he holds me there.

“You know,” Charlie growls into my ear as the lights beat down on us in the center of the dance floor. It’s filling fast, now that we’ve broken the ice.

“I think we’ve paid our dues. Shall we get the hell out of here?”

* * *

The privacy divider in Charlie’s black limo hisses slowly upward, leaving us in perfect silence: alone; alone in perfect silence.

I’m sitting next to Charlie: next to my husband. Except it doesn’t feel that way: it feels like we’ve only just met; it feels like the first spark of a relationship.

Our bodies meet at the thigh, the hip; our hands brush each other like high schoolers with their first crush. Charlie breaks the silence.

“What did you say to him?” Charlie asks, “to Landon.”

I look up and meet the wicked glint in Charlie’s eye.

“I don’t know what came over me,” I admit. “I just wanted to rub his face in the fact he lost: to you.” I bite my lip; just a little, just the inside. The surge of pain is subtle yet electric.

“He’s a dangerous enemy to make, Penny,” Charlie says. But he doesn’t say it in a chiding way – if anything, he sounds proud. “He’s a little man. He’ll hold a grudge. You might find out this bites you on the… ass.”

“Let him,” I declare.

I lean into Charlie. This is high school-level flirting, but I don’t care. It’s not like I’ve got much experience to build upon. The furthest I’ve ever gotten with a guy is: a hurried kiss; a hand up my shirt; a hand on my thigh.

I’ve got a funny feeling that a whole lot more than that is about to happen.

I’m not scared: nervous, maybe – but mainly excited.

“That’s brave,” Charlie says. “Maybe a little bit stupid too, but it’s brave for sure.”

“If you say –”

Charlie rests his hand on my upper thigh, just at the point the long slit in the soft silk opens up to my leg. I jump from the contact. An electric shock surges across my skin, like a lightning storm’s winds swaying trees in a thick forest.

It makes no difference that I knew exactly what Charlie was going to do. The here and now is a very different place from the analytical quiet inside my head.

“– So,” I finish breathily.

“Who are you, Penny?” Charlie asks.

He fixes those cool gray eyes on me. I picture him at the other side of the boardroom table – interrogating me before signing some momentous business deal. He’s not got that fierce, predatory look in his eyes, but I squirm nevertheless.

“Really – who?”

“What – what do you want to know?”

“Not what,” he whispers, dragging his tongue across his lower lip. “Who?”

I can’t take my eyes off his mouth: his lips; his perfect jawline. Charlie Thorne is the kind of man every girl dreams about, but precious few get to meet. Fewer still get to touch, or taste.

It’s hard to breathe, hard to think when he’s this close to me. When his fingers are gently stroking my upper thigh, higher and higher with every touch, I press my legs together, and heat builds between them.

“No one,” I whisper, closing my eyes.

Charlie scrapes his fingernails higher. It’s a delicate, whispering touch. Electricity sparks inside of me.

“You’re definitely not “no one”,” he says. “You’re a mystery. I can tell you that much for free.”

“What else can you tell me?” I ask. The limousine hits a bump in the road, and we both jolt upward. I end up leaning even further into Charlie’s heat.

I'm not an idiot. I know I’m treading on dangerous ground. Charlie’s pumping me for information even as we speak. He’s torturing me. It’s a delicious, delicate, pleasurable kind of torture – but torture nonetheless.

“I can tell you that you’re a ghost, Penny,” Charlie says.

He drags his fingernails higher, until he’s pulling the silk of my dress up with them. I feel it, creeping inch by inch. He’s getting higher. The cool air of the limousine kisses my skin.

“No one’s ever heard of you, that’s for sure.”

A warning signal goes off in my mind. But it’s faint, so faint – overpowered by the blaring of my desire.

“You’ve been digging into me?” I ask, panting.

Charlie brings his hand to rest at the crease where my leg meets my hip. Then – slowly – he slides his fingers down low.

“Please, Penny. Not me. You think I’ve got that kind of time on my hands?”

“Then who?” I whisper. Charlie’s fingers graze the lace fabric of my underwear. My whole body flinches; I arch my back as a tidal wave of pleasure courses through me.

“Harper,” he says. He strokes my pussy from bottom to top. I close my eyes, and in that moment I don’t care that he’s looking into my past, I don’t care what he might find. All I want is what’s between his legs – and what’s between mine.

The limousine slows. We are outside Charlie’s apartment building.

“Don’t talk to me about Harper,” I beg. “Don’t talk to me at all.”