Spencer led her across the street to The Driskill Hotel, then up to a suite just two floors above where they'd met that afternoon.

He opened the door to reveal a dark sitting room illuminated by the glow of a single desk lamp. A champagne bucket stood next to the sofa, a bottle chilling inside. And two champagne flutes sat on the coffee table on either side of a serving tray of artfully placed cheeses.

He held the door open, ushering her inside. "Pretty, isn't it? I thought it was appropriate."

Brooke's breath caught in her throat and she forced herself to keep her voice steady. "Appropriate?"

"Don't you remember? We came to The Driskill on our third date. We had a drink at the bar, and then we got a room. We couldn't keep our hands off each other, and I had you naked mere seconds after the door closed behind us."

"Of course I remember," she snapped, her eyes cutting to him. "Do you really hate me that much?"

She thought she saw something flicker across his face. Regret or some other indefinable emotion. Then his expression hardened, and she wondered if it had been only shadows from the candlelight.

"Hate?" He crossed to the sofa and sat, then patted the seat next to him so that she could sit beside him.

She hesitated, then complied. That was the point, right? The reason she'd come. To give in to him. To do what he said so that he would do the show.

"Hate?" he repeated, this time sounding thoughtful. "What is hate but the other side of love?" He put his hand on her leg, just above the hem of her skirt, and she felt her body respond. Threads of electricity that shot through her, making her ache with long-remembered desire. Making her crave the touch of the Spencer she'd once loved with all of her heart and soul.

She was wearing a simple cotton skirt and a button-down blouse that she'd picked to wear to The Fix. She wanted to look both like she belonged at a bar and professional. If she'd realized Spence was going to lay his claim tonight, she'd have considered pants and a long-sleeve shirt. Boots, too.

Gently, he eased up the skirt's hem, his thumb dancing along her skin in a sensual pattern that was making her body respond even while her mind tried to clamp down. Tendrils of desire twirled through her, and she felt a keen ache of longing building in her breasts and between her thighs.

Damn him—and damn her body for remembering the touch of a very different Spencer.

She fought a whimper as his hand eased higher up her thigh, his fingertip teasing close to the edge of her panties.

"And trust me, baby. I don't love you anymore." Slowly, he drew his hand higher, his finger moving along the elastic band as she sat stiff as a board, trying not to react. "So how could I possibly hate you?"

The words seemed to reach out to her, squeezing her heart painfully.

She closed her eyes, wishing she weren't in this room with him. Wishing everything was different.

"Look at me."

There was a softness in his voice that unnerved her, and she turned her head to comply. His mouth made a dangerous slash beneath his beard. His brown eyes burned as hard as stone. Whatever tenderness she'd imagined wasn't apparent in his face. On the contrary, he was looking at her with such a fierce intensity she had to fight the urge to get up and leave.

That's what he wanted, of course. He wanted out. Out of the show. Away from her.

A heartbeat passed with their eyes locked on each other. Then he slowly looked down, not in defeat, but as if that part of the game was up and he was moving on to the next challenge. She exhaled, not realizing she'd been holding her breath. She felt all twisted up. This man beside her was Spencer, dammit. A man who once would have laid down his life for her.

Now, he wanted to destroy her.

She'd done that.

For a moment, she considered telling him the truth. She could explain what had happened. The bargain she'd made with the devil on Richie's behalf. Maybe now, her father wouldn't leak his record. Or, maybe now Spencer wouldn't care if he did.

But she couldn't make herself say the words. She'd made that sacrifice for a different man—not the Spencer who sat beside her playing emotional and sexual games.

"I think it's time to see what I've been missing all these years. Stand up, baby, and strip for me."

He said the words as casually as if he were ordering a sandwich. Then he reached over and poured a glass of champagne. He held it out to her, but she kept her hands firmly at her sides. He shrugged, then swallowed. "Liquid courage," he said. "I thought it might help."

"Fuck you," she said, then stood and walked in front of him. He'd seen her naked hundreds of times. So why not strip for him now? It didn't mean anything, after all. Nothing except that he was a manipulative prick, and she was a woman who'd sacrificed her pride for the sake of her business.

But she could live with that. She'd gone in with eyes open, after all.

"Is this the kind of man you are now?" she asked as her fingers went to the buttons on her blouse.

"Don't pretend like you don't know what kind of man I am. What kind of man I've always been."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"A guy who's all wrong for a girl like you. Wrong family. Wrong neighborhood. Wrong dreams."

Temper flared. "That's bullshit, and you—"

“Strip,” he said, cutting her words off with one tight, harsh syllable.

She wanted to argue, but he simply pointed to her now unbuttoned shirt.

She shrugged out of it, letting the silk fall to the floor. "I damn sure never expected you to be the kind of man who pouts."

His brows rose. "Pouts?"

"Yeah. You didn't get your way and so now you have to humiliate me."

"Didn't get my way?"

She heard the hard edge in his voice and knew she'd crossed into dangerous territory.

"Take off the fucking skirt, baby."

She considered protesting, but one look at the hard lines of his body changed her mind. She tugged down the zipper, then let the skirt fall to the ground over her hips, leaving her clad in bra, panties, and a pair of high heeled pumps.

"Christ. You're still as beautiful as you were back then."

She heard the catch in his throat and saw the softening of his features. And right then, she thought that maybe—maybe—her Spencer was in the room with her after all.

"Spence? Please."

His eyes cut up to hers, and they were as hard as steel. "We'll save the rest. I think I might finish getting you naked with my teeth."

For a moment—one brief, wonderful, horrible moment—she imagined the feel of him on top of her. His mouth tugging down her bra, his beard rough against her tender skin. Then his body moving lower as he spread her legs and tugged her panties down with his teeth, just far enough so that he could expose her before his tongue did all those miraculous things she remembered.

She shivered—and she hated herself for it. All the more when he noticed.

"I'm cold," she said.

"Don't worry, baby. I'm about to warm you up."

She swallowed. "So that's your plan? You're just going to use me?"

His brows rose. "Isn't that what you're doing with me?"

She didn't answer, because what the hell could she say to that?

He stood, then came to her, standing mere inches in front of her. He reached out to touch her breast, taking her nipple between two fingers. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to keep her body stiff. To not react.

It didn't work. She felt desire well inside her, and hated herself for it. She didn't want him—or, did she? She wanted Spencer. Not this man determined to torment her. But her body made no distinction, and as his hand traced slowly down her bare skin, a matching desire rose within her.

Gently, he stroked her breasts, then teased a finger down to her navel, then lower still until his hand slipped between her thighs to cup her sex. "You're wet," he murmured, and she wished she could tell him he was wrong, but it wasn't true. She hadn't reacted to a man like this in years. And, she knew, she wasn't even reacting to this man. This was about the man who lived in her memories. A man she missed desperately.

"Open your eyes."

She did, and for a moment he was her Spencer again, and she wanted to cry with relief.

"Spencer, I—"

"Bedroom," he said, and once again the heat of memory was buried beneath the chill of his voice.

"Bedroom," she repeated, then moved that direction. She told herself this would be okay. She would be okay. This was a commercial transaction—sex for the show.

Then she saw the bed, and a wild shiver cut through her body. She shouldn't have agreed to this. Oh, dear God, she should never have said this was okay.

It was a four-poster bed, and black silk ties extended from each of the four posts. A leather paddle and a fur mask sat innocently on the pillows.

She blinked, trying to process what she was seeing. He wanted to tie her up?

Of course, he did. He'd said he wanted her at his mercy, didn't he?

Oh, God. Oh, Christ.

A wave of panic washed over her. She'd tricked herself into coming here by deluding herself that she was in control. But that was bullshit. She wasn't in control. She wasn't even close to being in control.

She couldn't do this. She really couldn't do this.

She'd walked away from Spencer five years ago, and she should have stayed away. Far, far away.

"On the bed, baby."

She opened her eyes to see Spencer leaning against the doorframe, studying her. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was hard, so damn hard to fight the panic that was rushing up, threatening to spill out in tears and wails to please, please, please let her go home.

No. She could do this.

She had to do it.

"On the bed," he repeated, and she nodded, then took a tentative step that direction. She would not cry. She would do it. She owed him this. After all, this was the bargain they made.

She pressed a hand to the mattress, intending to climb onto the bed, but then his voice stopped her.

"Wait. Stand up."

She did as he said, standing stiff as he came closer. She flinched a little, expecting his touch, but he stood arms length away, those dark eyes once again raking over her, undoubtedly imagining all the things he was going to do to her when she was tied to that bed and helpless.

"Get dressed," he said, and for a moment she saw the Spencer she used to know reflected in those eyes.

"I—what?"

His expression cleared, unreadable once more. "The meeting's at nine tomorrow at The Fix, right? I'll see you there." Then he walked out of the room without waiting for her to answer.

Brooke didn't remember her knees giving out, but the next thing she knew she alone in the room, her butt planted firmly on the plush, carpeted floor as her heart pounded with relief—and her head wondered what the hell it could mean.