"What the hell, Brooke?" His voice rolled over her like salted caramel, rough and sweet at the same time. "Was it not enough that you yanked my heart out? Then stomped on every goddamn thing I thought was true and real and right? Now you have to come back so that you can rip open the scars? I mean, Christ. You've stayed away from me for five goddamn years. Why the hell are you back in my life now?"

She tensed, her insides coiled like a spring about to snap. She told herself she wasn't scared, but that was a lie. She was terrified. She just didn't know if she was afraid of Spencer—or of her own reaction to him. Trepidation, yes. But underscored with genuine desire.

In other words, she was screwed.

"Let go of me." The words were low and forceful, and she congratulated herself on her voice not shaking.

His brown eyes hardened, but he complied—and she immediately regretted the demand. He wasn't touching her now, true. But both his hands were on the wall on either side of her, effectively caging her in and putting his entire body in extreme proximity to hers.

Years ago, the wild pounding of her heart and the lightness in her head would have been evidence of excitement. Right now, though, it was fear.

Not that she thought Spence would hurt her—she didn't. But she couldn't breathe like that, with him trapping her, stealing away what little control she had over the situation. Not anymore. Not after what happened.

"Back off." She'd intended the words as a demand, but they sounded choked and weak. She lifted her chin and straightened her spine. Hadn't her father always told her that looking in control was almost the same as being in control?

He didn't move. For that matter, he didn't say a word.

"I mean it," she said, feeling stronger. "If you want to talk, then call me, and we can meet for coffee. You don't have to manhandle me." Brooke forced her voice to stay steady, and she hoped he couldn't hear the pounding rhythm of her heart. He was close—so close she could taste the whisky on his breath. "Or is that the way you roll now? Intimidating women in dark corners?"

Still, he said nothing. But he kept his eyes on her face, studying her intently as if she was a problem he had to solve. Which, frankly, she pretty much was.

The silence lingered, thick and heavy, until she couldn't stand it any longer. "Spencer. Please."

She didn't know what he heard in her voice. But he took two steps back, his arms falling away, freeing her.

For a moment, his expression seemed gentle. Almost understanding. And she allowed herself to listen to the small, pitiful voice that said he would forgive her. That she'd done the right thing five years ago, and eventually the universe would correct itself.

Brooke knew there was no chance for a future with Spencer—she'd had no illusions when she walked away, and she'd made her peace with that. But it hurt more than she'd ever believed possible to know that the man who'd once loved her so tenderly, now despised her beyond all measure. Even if that hate was inevitable.

"Tell me about this show." The words—barked out like a military order—surprised her, and she responded without thinking.

"I have a remodeling business. Here. In Austin, I mean. And there was a call for proposals. I submitted, and—"

"And you thought you'd toss me into the mix?"

"The hell I did," she snapped.

He tilted his head to the side, nodding slowly. "That's exactly what you did. Tossed me into the mix. Made sure your show has my name. And figured I'd prostrate myself because I owe the network one more goddamn show."

"Like I said, it wasn't my idea." She set her jaw, annoyed that he'd think for a moment that she manufactured that nonsense.

He stepped closer, still not touching her, but so close she could feel his breath on her hair. "But you didn't say no, did you?"

She didn't answer; what would be the point? Obviously, she hadn't protested. If she had, they wouldn't be standing here.

He nodded, his tight expression suggesting that he'd solved some daunting puzzle. "I'll do your show, Angel—"

"Don't call me that." Not that way. Not like a curse when it used to be an endearment.

His eyes narrowed, the change almost undetectable, but she saw it. For a moment, she even thought she saw compassion in his eyes. Then they went cold and hard, and he nodded. One quick, tight jerk of his head.

"I'll do your show, Brooke," he said. "But I'll do it on my terms."

"Your terms." She didn't want to react, but she couldn't help but swallow. "Okay. I'll bite. What exactly do you want?"

Once again, his hand went to the wall, but this time it was so he could lean in until his mouth was kissing-close to her ear. "You," he said. And, damn her, she felt the word reverberate through her, like a hot wire touching every part of her and teasing her with a fire she was no longer allowed to touch. For one precious moment, hope filled her. But then she saw the hardness in his eyes, and the hope slithered away, dark and lost and lonely. "I want you at my mercy."

"I—I don't understand."

"It's simple, baby. You want me on your show, then we're together again. Completely. Totally."

He pushed back, but let the hand that was on the wall trail down her arm, from her shoulder to her hand. She stood frozen, forcing herself not to flinch, to cry, to run.

What horrible kind of game was he playing?

She wanted to ask—hell, she wanted to shout. But she was afraid to speak, even though he was looking at her as if expecting her to say something.

When she didn't, the corner of his mouth curled up a little. And she wasn't sure if she'd scored a point ... or walked right into his hands.

"I want you to remember what it felt like. I want you to relive how you exploded in my arms. I want you to beg for me, baby. And when the show wraps, this time it'll be me who walks away."

She wanted to shout at him. To pound her fists on his chest and tell him that this wasn't fair. She'd had no choice. No choice at all. Because her choices had been ripped away from her, leaving the unhealed wounds that he was now poking.

She didn't shout. She didn't cry. She simply stood there, taking in his pain and his anger, telling herself that she could stand it because she had to.

"What kind of game were you playing, Brooke? Was the plan to use me to learn the business? To get your rocks off? Or was that just a side benefit? What made you walk? Was I not dark enough for you? Not bad enough to keep Daddy pissed off?"

She didn't realize she'd slapped him until she felt the sting of impact against her palm. "I knew you were rough, but I never thought you were cruel."

He rubbed his cheek. "Cruel? Baby, you invented the word."

"You son-of-a-bitch. You have no idea what—dammit." She clamped her mouth shut, determined not to speak.

"You know my terms. Take them or leave them."

She opened her mouth to reply, but he pressed a finger to her lips. "Molly and Andy are in LA. They'll be back on Wednesday with the contracts. The meeting's at eleven. If you show up—if you agree to the deal—that means you agree to my terms, too. All my terms."

He brushed a finger over her lower lip. "I want to be clear before you decide. We do this, and you're mine. Any time I want, any way I want. Complete control. I'll punish you, baby. Believe me. But I'll also bring you so much pleasure that you'll beg me not to stop. Not to ever stop. But that's the kicker, my pretty little angel. Because in the end, I will stop. I will walk away. And this time, you'll be the one left wanting me."

He trailed the finger down from her lower lip, then along her neck to stroke her collarbone before dropping lower to brush, ever so lightly, over her nipple. And then, to her mortification, she drew in a breath that shuddered with desire.

He didn't move, but she saw the realization in his eyes. And when his lips quirked into a grin, she knew that she'd lost this round.

"You want your show?" he said. "Well, I want revenge."

And then he turned and left the alcove, disappearing into the dark as Brooke's knees gave out, and she sank to the floor ... and into her memories.