1.

 

Ash

 

I should be on top of the world.

I’m sitting in the backseat of a limo gliding through the streets of Manhattan, with my CFO on the other end of the phone delivering me the news I’ve been waiting for: that our deal just closed. The deal. The last penthouse unit in our New York City high-rise development sold out before we even finished construction.

“It’s unheard of in this real estate market,” Emmett whoops. I can hear noise in the background; he’s already out partying with the news. “But you pulled it off. At top dollar too!”

“It’s signed and sealed?” I check, not wanting to relax too soon.

“Contracts are on my desk. You did it, Callahan,” he laughs, sounding impressed. “I know I said you were crazy, taking a risk like this, but I’ll happily eat my words.”

“No need for that.” I stop him. “It’s your job to be my voice of reason.”

“And help count all the cash,” Emmett whoops again, and I wonder how many drinks he’s already had. “Come on down and celebrate, the whole office is out.”

“Can’t. Charity gala,” I explain. “But buy them all drinks on the company. And tell them nobody works the weekend, either.”

“You mean we’ll actually get a day off for a change?” Emmett cracks. “You are in a good mood.”

“You all deserve the break. But fax me the contracts, I want to look them over before Monday.”

“Will do,” Emmett replies. “Now you go have fun, boss—you’ve earned it.”

I hang up and let the news sink in. This development has been the biggest gamble of my career. I put everything on the line, and now it’s finally paid off. The 24/7 work weeks, the year spent checking fine print and architectural plans, sweet-talking permit departments and begging every last cent from banks—it’s all worth it now.

I’ll never have to worry again, not like the old days back when it was a struggle just to keep a roof over my family’s heads. I was fresh out of business school, barely a man, when tragedy struck. Suddenly, I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and nobody but me to take the responsibility. I would wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, wondering how the hell I was going to keep my siblings off the streets and make a life for us without our parents around.

But not anymore. Now I have offices in two cities and successful developments across the whole country. New York Magazine named me one of their “30 Under 30,” and now this is the deal that’s going to take me to the next level. Make my real estate development company untouchable, a force to be reckoned with.

I should be happy. I should be out drinking with the rest of my employees, toasting our success.

So why do I feel so numb? A hollow ache in my chest where the joy belongs; nothing but an abstract sense of accomplishment instead of fierce pride or relief.

The car suddenly stops, and my driver’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “We’re here, Mr. Callahan.”

I look around. We’ve pulled up outside the famous front steps of the Met museum, just off Central Park. “Just a minute,” I tell him, checking my email again. I’m in no great hurry to get to the party. By now, I know these big charity events are all the same: I’ll spend the evening making polite conversation with socialites and their banker husbands, eating flimsy hors d’oeuvres and bidding on overpriced auction items. I would happily stay at the office, cramming in a couple more hours of work, but the contacts I make at these events are invaluable. The people here tonight can make the difference between a permit approval or months of red tape; a glowing write-up in a glossy magazine, or a snarky gossip column.

Besides, I’m supposed to be celebrating, aren’t I?

I finally tuck my phone away and get out of the car. “No need to wait around,” I tell my driver, Frankie, through the front window. He’s got a wife and kids at home, so I try not to keep him too late. “I’ll catch a cab later. One of us should have a decent Friday night, at least.”

“Thanks, boss.” Frankie grins. “And congrats.”

He drives away and is quickly replaced with another limo, disgorging a crowd of people in tuxes and evening gowns. They climb the steps to the museum, fixing something to their faces. This is a themed event tonight, a masquerade, so I pull the black bandana from my pocket and fix it over my eyes, adjusting the position so I can see.

That’s when I notice a woman in the middle of the street.

She’s dressed for the party too, in a dark blue cocktail dress and heels, but she’s not moving: she’s yanking at her foot, looking like she’s about to topple right over. The lights are red down the block; the street is empty of traffic for a moment.

“Is everything OK?” I call, approaching her.

She looks up, her face illuminated in the glow of the street lights. Blue eyes focus on me, her dark blonde hair pinned back from a heart-shaped face—which right now is frowning in annoyance. “My heel is stuck!” she exclaims. “Damn shoe. This is why I always wear flats. That, and my mother always taught me to never wear shoes I can’t run away in.”

She yanks her leg again, and I can see the heel of her jeweled pump is caught in the grate.

“Your mother sounds like a treat.” I catch hold of her arm to steady her.

The woman looks amused. “She’s a New Yorker born and raised,” she says, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Plus, she wanted to prepare me for men and their beastly ways.”

I laugh. “Let’s see what I can do to prove her wrong.”

I look down, examining the problem. “You picked a great spot to get stuck,” I note, wondering if we can get her free before the lights change and traffic starts streaming past.

“It wasn’t on purpose, trust me,” the woman sighs wistfully. “Maybe the universe is telling me not to go to this party.”

“Not a fan of masquerade balls?” I ask, kneeling down beside her.

“Not a fan of blind dates—oh!” She startles as I reach out and take hold of her bare ankle. She flails a moment, then grabs hold of my shoulders for balance.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to rotate her shoe to lever the heel out. But it’s stuck firmly in place. I look up. “We might have to leave it.”

“I’m hoping you mean the shoe and not my whole foot,” she jokes.

“No amputation necessary.”

“But I’ll be hopping around on one leg all night.” The woman’s face falls.

“Cinderella managed it.”

“Cinderella had a pumpkin chariot to take her home, not the L train.” She smiles again, a wry, teasing look, and I’m suddenly struck with one simple fact.

She’s beautiful.

Not in the way I usually find women beautiful. If I have a type, it’s for the polished, glossy, career woman. Women who strut confidently around the city in towering heels without once getting stuck in a grate; women with sleek hair and perfect makeup, the kind who have reminder alarms on their phones, and schedules so busy that I can be sure they won’t take offense when I have to cancel our dinner plans because something came up at work, or leave halfway through a party to see to some disaster on one of my construction sites.

Self-sufficient. Low-maintenance.

Perfectly in synch with my career and goals.

This woman is none of those things. Her hair is already falling down around her face in soft blonde curls, her eyes are full of self-deprecating laughter, and there’s something frazzled and scatterbrained about the way she looks down at her shoe and back at me.

Still, I feel a powerful rush of something. Some heat or strange awareness just looking up at her, framed there in the streetlights like a classical painting. Botticelli, or Raphael.

A car horn breaks through my thoughts. It speeds past, barely a few feet away, followed by a stream of traffic, barely slowing as the cars pass us here in the middle of the street.

Wake up! I scold myself. Musing about pre-Raphaelite paintings is going to get the both of you killed.

“We need to get you out of here,” I decide, as a kamikaze cab driver careens past, dangerously close.

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking down at me. “You’re getting your tux all dirty down there on the ground.”

“Don’t worry about me.” I run my hand up her calf without thinking. She inhales sharply, and suddenly, my touch seems intimate.

Her skin is soft and smooth. Her ankle seems delicate in my hands. I lift slightly, and move the heel of her shoe back and forth to dislodge it from the grate.

“It’s no use.” She sounds weirdly cheerful. “I’m doomed. You go ahead to the party. I’ll flag down a cab and go home.”

“Not so fast,” I say, rotating the heel. Suddenly, her shoe pulls free. She stumbles off balance, and I have to quickly stand and grab her before we both go tumbling into oncoming traffic.

We both freeze. My arms are locked tight around her, pressing her warm body against my chest. She gasps, her face just inches away, lips parted wordlessly, those blue eyes wide in surprise.

Not just blue, I realize now. Her eyes are almost a warm grey, fringed with pale lashes. I stare at her, thrown for a moment. Her perfume drifts around us, something light and sweet like wild roses or—

“Honeysuckle,” I murmur.

She blinks.

“You smell like honeysuckle,” I repeat. A part of me is howling that I’ve suddenly become a dumb sap, but it’s overridden by the feel of her body, soft and yielding, like she belongs in my arms.

The woman’s gaze drifts to my lips. Suddenly, kissing her is the only thing I want to do.

It’s madness. We’re still standing in the middle of a busy street, with traffic streaming past. I don’t even know her; and what I do know tells me she’s the last woman on earth I should be kissing, but somehow, it’s not even a choice.

I’m a man who prides himself on rational thought. I calculate every risk and weigh every consequence, thinking four steps ahead before I ever make a single move. It’s made me who I am today, kept me from making stupid, rash decisions, getting sidetracked by romance when I have more important things on my mind.

But right now, there’s nothing else in the world. Nothing but this stranger pressed against me, her lips parted invitingly, her cheeks flushed—and a telltale flash of desire in her eyes.

I want her.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t need to question why.

With a spark of determination, I tilt her head up towards me and close the distance between us, claiming her mouth in a deep, hot kiss.

She doesn’t hesitate. In an instant, her arms are up around my neck, and her body is melting even closer against me. It’s a rush of heat and sweetness, edged with the thrill of the unknown. Heat surges between us, and just like that, this wildfire of a moment is raging out of control.

I grip her waist tighter, crushing silk under my palms as I bring her hard against me and demand more. Now. Her mouth parts eagerly to taste my lips, and I groan, sliding my tongue deeper into her mouth. She tastes of cinnamon and honey, sweetness cut with an intoxicating spice. Desire pounds in my bloodstream as I drink her in, savoring every moment even as my body demands more.

I can’t get enough.

It’s a high like nothing else, overpowering every one of my senses with her. For one crazy moment, I know what it’s like to teeter on the brink of madness. Ignore reason and logic, totally overpowered by raw animal need.

I could lose myself in her. Willingly abandon all self-control.

No.

I catch myself, too late. I wrench away from her, panting, to find the world spinning on as usual: the lights of the city all around us, the flow of traffic, the chilled night air. It all comes crashing back in, and I wonder how the hell I managed to block out reality for these few dangerous moments.

How I completely forgot myself.

“I apologize,” I ground out, my voice rasping with the lust still pumping through my body. I release her, and put a safe few feet between us. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

By the dazed look on the woman’s face, she didn’t either.

“Of course.” She clears her throat, her eyes darting around. “It was… I don’t know what it was.”

Incredible. Intoxicating.

Dangerous as hell.

“We should…” I gesture randomly towards the museum. The stoplights change again down the street, providing us with a break in the traffic.

“Right. Sure. I mean…” The woman blinks again, then her focus clears. She laughs suddenly, bright and carefree. “I suppose this night couldn’t get any stranger.” She gives me a warm grin, then turns away and starts walking to the other side of the street.

I’m thrown a minute by how fast she’s collected herself. I still feel like I’ve been hit by a semi, grasping for my usual cool. I hurry to catch up with her, and politely offer my arm, but she doesn’t take it.

“I guess this is good night,” she smiles, when we safely reach the steps.

“I guess so.”

I pause a moment. Every instinct is screaming at me to ask her name, take her number, flag down a passing cab and invite her back to my apartment. I want to lock the bedroom door, strip off that cocktail dress and spend the next forty-eight hours ravishing her amazing body.

It would be a bad idea, I know. She’s just a stranger to me, a passing temptation. The kind of risk that’s best left untaken.

But damn, I would enjoy losing this devilish game.

Before I can say a word, she makes the decision for me. With another carefree smile, the woman flutters a wave. “Enjoy the rest of the evening,” she says, sounding amused. “Maybe you’ll find another damsel to rescue.”

Then she’s walking away, skipping lightly up the steps of the museum and disappearing inside before I can call out to make her stay.

I ignore the disappointment that hits me the moment she’s out of sight. That was a close call, I tell myself, slowly climbing the steps. A narrow escape.

Because despite the fever that raged in my bloodstream for those few crazy moments I held her in my arms, I already know that fevers never last. They come on strong, destroy every sense of reason, and then break in the night, leaving you with nothing but a cold sweat and lingering unease.

This woman was a distraction from the business at hand, nothing more.

And I never allow myself to be distracted.