After the day I've had, the last thing I want is to see my father smiling.

There are only two reasons he ever wears anything on his lips besides a sour smirk: he's trampled someone new underfoot, or he wants something.

“Rebekah, my dear, how was your first day?” He grabs me by the shoulders – too tight – and plants the same quick peck he always does on my cheek.

“Long. Reminds me how much I miss the sun in Colombia. Other than that, fine.”

“Bah, you'll adapt,” he says, sweeping away my concerns with a wave of his hand. “If you've found your bearings in every God forsaken jungle on the planet since you were twelve, you'll find them in the office, too. I'm happy for you, Rebekah. Come, share a victory drink with your father.”

How about no?

Conflict twists my stomach. He's throwing me a placating bone, trying to get me into the ancestral library where he spends most of his time. But he actually looks...happy.

It's an emotion I'm not used to seeing on his cold face. So rare I don't want to turn him down.

Can I really say no to the warm smile below his salt and pepper mustache, or the light in his eyes? Can I live with myself if I bow out of the first after-work drink my father has offered me in my life?

“I guess I could use something to take the edge off,” I say, following him across our huge estate into the grandest room.

Our love for this room is one thing we share. Here, among the books, there are oceans between me and my worries.

Bookshelves soar to the ceiling, their wooden shells bathed in airy light streaming through the massive windows. Sometimes it's tinted soft sherbet orange and sunset red. Stained glass brings art and energy to an already lively room. Grecian urns and ancient vases from Chinese dynasties I can't remember line the small end tables. The walnut desks are the same ones I sat at with him since I was a little girl learning to read.

This room has my secrets, and his, too. It's where I did my first homework, and doodled my first crushes. It's the same place dad himself used when he was a boy, and my late grandfather before him.

If there's any room that highlights the obvious, stop complaining and just enjoy the fact you're rich, it's here.

And if it were just us, maybe I'd lose myself in the heartwarming atmosphere and the aged scotch he pours in two glasses. But we're not alone.

I knew I wouldn't be so lucky the instant I stepped in behind him, and saw the tall figure sitting in the chair next to dad's huge desk.

“Cheri, it's a delight to see you again.” Ethan turns and stands, flashing his familiar off grin.

The creep is persistent, I'll give him that. Without skipping a beat, he grabs my hand, holds it to his thin lips, and plants an unwanted kiss that's always clammy.

“Good to see you, too,” I lie, ripping my hand away as soon as I can, taking the seat next to him. I push it across the floor, putting several extra inches between us. My father's smile melts as he sits with his drink across from us, observing the awkward tension.

Too bad. This isn't happening. Ever.

If only he'd stop trying to force it. Almost as much as I'd love the weirdo next to me to stop eyeing me like a ripe strawberry.

Ethan's pale blue eyes are colder than his lips, and they add to his strange appearance. He's a thin, lanky weasel of a man in his grey tailored suit. Wiry and strong, in his own way, and hardly my idea of handsome.

I don't care how rich he is, or how many European royals supposedly share his bloodline.

He's neither Prince, nor Charming. He emulates what he thinks a gentleman should be, and it's not hard to see the entitlement behind every kind gesture. It's incredible he hasn't moved onto something better when I've gently rebuffed him half a dozen times over the past year.

Perhaps the world's richest otter-man has nothing better to do, but I'm sick of it. Emphasis on sick. My stomach revolts when I imagine sharing a bed with him. Possibly worse than usual today because my billionaire boss showed me how good it could be with a normal man who knows how to act more real than a shell emulating emotion.

If he were anywhere except here, he wouldn't even get a glance. Unfortunately for me, he's dad's new business partner, the youngest owner of Fabius in the hundred year old industrial giant's history, meaning I have to pretend to be nice.

“Ethan and I were just discussing some very exciting facets of the merger with Neolithic. Tell us, dear, how does Mr. Shaw's firm look on the inside? Everything we hoped for?”

“Whoa, guys,” I hold up a hand, almost choking on my scotch, mid-sip. “You said when I got this job I wasn't there to spy. I'm holding you to that. Since you're the one doing the deal with them, you figure it out.”

“So feisty today,” Ethan says to my father, smiling like they're discussing a special on the menu. “Love your passion, Cheri. It will get a woman with your charms very far in life.”

“Oh, I'll show you charm, Mr. Fabius. I'm not your cheri, or anyone else's,” I say through clenched teeth.

Okay, screw nice. I'm not having the pet name anymore.

Dad lifts a hand in warning, frowning. “Be kind to our guest, dear. He's come a long way to see us. Before you continue your tirade, I wasn't asking you to sneak out their tax returns or count each time Shaw sneezes. Simply wondering how you liked it on the inside?”

“It's a stuffy office packed to the brim with self-driven blowhards, just like every other firm. What else do you want me to say?” I knock my scotch back, draining it, watching my father's eyes bulge from the corner of my vision.

“If Neolithic displeases you, Rebekah, there's other opportunities in the E.U. Allow me the pleasure of introducing them. My connections go deep.” Ethan's eyes flicker, secretly hoping I'll jump on his oh-so-generous offer. “Fabius is a global company if the continent doesn't interest you. We'd love to have you anywhere.”

Anywhere? I think the only place he cares about is having me on my knees, or bent over so he can have his wretched way.

“Sorry, I don't speak French,” I say, hoping he'll drop it there. “I'm just venting, really. It's not like I'm ready to throw in the towel at Neolithic on my first day. I know the strings you had to pull to get me in there, dad. Believe it or not, I appreciate it.”

Of course, there's one huge reason why I should leap at the chance to exit Neolithic with what's left of my dignity. Having a boss who also took my virginity less than a week ago is more than enough reason to quit in any sane universe. But I give them the same answer I gave Grant, digging my stubborn heels in, refusing to back down. Worst part is, I don't even know why it's so important to my fragile ego.

“English is an asset,” Ethan tells me matter-of-factly, his expression cooler. “If you change your mind at any time, cheri, you know how to find me.”

Thanks, asshole. I'll get right on that as soon as I'm comfortable with cheri. How does a century or two sound?

“That's a very generous offer, but it seems she's set on embarrassing herself in front of my business partner for the next few months. Cut her a little slack.” Dad uses his patented joking-but-not-really-joking tone. It never fails to make my blood run hot.

“Better me than your precious company,” I snap.

“It's a joke, dear,” he insists. We both know the truth. He lets out a long sigh, rolling his eyes as he looks at Ethan. “I'm sorry it's so difficult to catch her on a good day. We'll try again, maybe over dinner sometime in the next few weeks?”

I don't say anything right away because Ethan finally looks annoyed. Hopefully it means he'll think about giving up on pursuing me, and move onto his next American trophy wife in the making. But my hope doesn't last long when I see his smile returning.

“Certainly, Mr. Corbin. That would be wonderful. I'll have my men at your beck and call to go over the merger's implications for our line of business. We're looking forward to the new injection of capital from you and Shaw.” They stand, exchange wolfish smiles, and shake hands.

I slump in my chair, wishing he'd never put the bottle of scotch away. I've never had a day since I turned twenty-one where I wanted to get black out drunk as badly as this one.

They're laughing, exchanging a few more meaningless words as dad escorts the Frenchman to the door. Ethan stops before he exits the office one last time, looking back over his shoulder.

“Wish you nothing but the best with Neolithic, and all your chosen ventures, cheri. Please rest. Perhaps you'll feel more refreshed next time we meet.”

I don't even look at him, just stick my hand above my head, and wave lamely. The door opens and then falls shut. He's gone. Thank God.

Dad materializes in front of me a few seconds later, ripping the empty glass out of my hand, hands on his hips. “I understand I've let you get by too long without doing any real work for a living, but must you be so goddamned rude?”

“I don't know,” I say, blinking away my surprise. He's truly angry. “Must you keep pushing that creep on me when I've told you a hundred times I'm not interested?”

“I don't appreciate your tone, Rebekah Lynn. Ethan's a nice young man. He deserves better than being chastised like a damned dog every time he throws flowers at your feet, asking for some simple courtesy. Do you have any idea how many men in his class would've turned and run a long time ago?” He wags a finger, scolding me like I'm still nine years old, returning to his liquor cabinet to refresh his glass. He never offers me another drink.

“I'm not sure where you've picked up such a vicious chip on your shoulder, but you'd better lose it fast, before you embarrass this family.”

“Oh, so it's the family you're worried about now? I thought I was just making an ass of myself in front of your new business partner.”

“It's always the family, dear. Everything I do is for us.” The last word comes like a bullet dipped in venom. “There's a world bigger than yourself. Older, wiser, and more important than your own petty desires. I've tried to make you see it since the day you were born. Lately, no matter how hard I try, you're not just blind. You're willfully ignorant. Keep it up, little missy, and I may well wash my hands of everything like I should have when you ran off to Bogota last year without even a note on the counter. You're being reckless, Rebekah. You're dragging us down. I can't make you do right. It's your responsibility to shape up, fly right, and marry the right man. Not mine.”

“Finally, we're on the same page. My life, dad, not yours. Not the 'family's,' whatever that means. I'll always appreciate the advantages you've given me, but you're not telling me what to do.”

“No, dear, but I will give you direction. I'm not standing by while you screw up, and make your mistakes mine. Listen to me, Rebekah: do not get in my way. Not with Shaw. Not with Fabius. Not with anything. You're treading on my game. I've worked years setting up pieces you'll never understand. I won't let my kid come along and turn over the whole board. I suggest you watch what you're doing, and also watch your mouth. Now, get the hell out of my sight!” He throws his hand out, more angrily than before.

I don't need to be told twice.

It's a typical end to our conversations. So typically Jeremiah Corbin, that I'd smile at the familiarity, if only he weren't bossing me around and tearing my self-esteem to shreds.

I stand up, walk briskly to the door, turning to get in one last barb. “Thanks for making it clear it's been your game all along, dad. I never took your family talk seriously because it's all a load of crap. You do you, and count me out.”

I'm gone, winding my way through the halls, halfway expecting to hear his scotch glass slam into the door behind me. Wouldn't be the first time.

I pass by our living room with the huge TV. Mom sits like a zombie in front of it, watching her Italian soaps, probably into her fourth evening glass of port. Much to my amazement, she hears me passing, sits up, and waves excitedly.

“Oh, Rebekah, honey, how was your first day?” She pulls at my hair, tugging my face down so she can kiss my cheek.

“Just peachy,” I say.

The port bottle on the little table next to her is barely drained. I'm not sure why she's this sober. I'm not in the mood to find out.

“Well, any chance they'll give you a couple weeks off soon? I've been reading about the resorts in Dubai this morning, and they're simply fabulous. There's one with cheetah cubs, honey. Cheetahs! I think I've found our next family vacation spot!”

By family vacation, she means bringing me to tag along while she roasts in the sun, drinks every cocktail in sight, and flirts with the bronze pool boys and bartenders.

“I don't think it works that way, mom. It's a temp job, remember?” Of course she doesn't. She's never worked a day for anyone else in her life. “Most places only give their senior employees, like, a few weeks off every year. I can't just drop everything and jet off with you for two weeks. Maybe in the fall. I'll only be at Neolithic four months tops.”

She frowns. “Then who will take pictures when I do the day cruise in the Persian Gulf?”

“Try the concierge. I think we have about a million of those benefits lined up on the charge cards dad passes out like candy.”

She turns, stuffing her nose back into the travel magazine without even a goodbye. On the TV, an Adonis with bold blue eyes and just enough facial hair runs after his scorned lady, shouting in Italia. I'm too rusty to understand everything.

But I do pick up just enough before I'm out of earshot. I mentally translate it, and bite my tongue. “Dove, you think I care that you're my servant? You douse my blood in kerosene and light it on fire every time we breathe the same air. You think I care what they say, or how much trouble this brings? You're mine, love, and I'll make sure the whole town shares this kiss.”

Absolute torture, considering the last twenty-four hours.

Before, my worries were packed away neatly in this house with my neurotic parents and their egos. Now, I have a bigger, handsome, bearded concern at the office, and he isn't going away.

The world won't quit reminding me, either. Maybe I need to just hide in my room, order pizza, and talk it through with Tay.

Really, though, I have a bad feeling none of those things will make me feel better. I wish I could run. Leave it all behind. Have someone else pick up the scattered, screwed up, complicated pieces of my flagging life.

Call me weak. Tell me to stop letting life use me as a foam roller for its twisted kinks. Obviously, I can't just pack up, flee, and hope I'm able to cash out enough money from my trust fund before dad blocks my distributions.

I won't actually do it, of course. I'm too stubborn to give in without a fight.

I'm not failing Grant, or myself by letting this dumb crush chase me off a perfectly boring, but good job. Not when I'm out to prove my father wrong, and show him I understand his cutthroat business world perfectly well.

So well, in fact, I want no part of it.

But God, I wish it weren't so complicated. Deep down, that trip to Dubai doesn't sound half bad.

* * *

“Holy Hannah, you're joking, right? Your boss? Your 'yes, Ms. Corbin, I want a hundred memos and a coffee in my hand by noon today' boss? Holy shit.” Tay never fails to be eloquent with words. “What are the odds? It's like you're living a bad comedy.”

“Well, I'm not laughing.” We're on the phone. I half regret spilling the big secret, even though it makes me feel better to have someone else in on my agony. “Seriously, Tay, what do I do? Dad will kill me if I don't follow through on this. He already thinks I'm a ginormous screw up to the tenth degree. I'd tell him where to stuff it if I didn't need the family trust to do anything I really want to once I'm done with Neolithic. I want to go back to the charity, be there on the ground, make sure the pipes I promised are getting built and people's lives are getting better. I want a chance to help them, damn it, and I wish everything would stop screwing it up.”

“Oh, and just leave New York again without even a kiss goodbye? I don't think Mr. Bearded Axe will appreciate that.” She pauses to burst a bubble with the gum I hear her chewing. “Hell, lady, neither will I. You don't walk away from a man like that when the universe dumps him in your lap.”

“It's Bastard Axe. That's what the tattoo I told you about said, anyway.” I sigh. “What do you want me to do here? It's not like we can just pick up where we started in Maine without making it a hundred times worse.”

“Lay low. Let him come to you. If he wants it bad enough, he'll make it happen, everybody else can get fucked.”

“You're not helping, Taylor. Remember how I want to find a way to make this a boring office job without a million complications? No excitement. No drama. No tears.”

“You worry too much, Bekah. I basically had to push you into his arms just to turn in your V-card. We went up to Maine for fun, remember? I know you wanted to get it in up there so you could deal with the BS back here, but nobody ever said 'no fun, ever' when you're back in New York City. He's your boss. He's not God.”

“Uh, he's the first man I slept with. You said it yourself before the trip to Maine – keep it casual. Going after a man who probably wants as little to do with me as I do him doesn't sound like a fling. I did the casual thing once, fine. But I can't have a relationship with dad's fucking business partner. I'm not cut out for long-term playmates anyway.”

Tay laughs. I don't have to ponder hard to see her eyes rolling, especially when she's had a queen's lineup of boyfriends, casuals, part-time doms, and everything in between. We're polar opposites, despite being besties, and she thinks I'm being silly. “Nobody said marry him. An office fling could be pretty hot. Why don't you just reach behind you, pull the stick out, stop worrying so much, and enjoy?”

Like it's that easy. For her, maybe.

Me? I don't swing that way. I'm the girl with a hundred different obligations dangling over her head like a piano on a rope, ready to crush her if she steps in the wrong place.

Being a Corbin sucks, and our wealth comes with strings. Often, it's a curse, rather than a blessing.

“Hello? Bekah?”

“I'm here,” I say, wondering how long I've frozen, digesting bitter thoughts. “Help me, Tay. Grant agreed he'd keep our contact minimal. I'm hoping he'll keep his promise, but it's a small firm. We'll see each other. We're going to bump shoulders in the hallways or the break rooms sooner or later. We'll sit at the same table again, all eyes glued to him as he sets the direction for his company. What then?”

God, I can see it now. It's not hard remembering how hot he looked in his full suit.

I thought he had a knack for making me wet in jeans and an Oxford shirt, enjoying the Maine shore. But when he's in his natural element, commanding billions on the line? It's masculine poetry. Man art. Like watching a lion dominating his Savannah turf.

“Stop worrying. Seriously, girl, you'll give yourself an early grave. Remember what we used to sing in choir, que sera, sera? Even the Greeks knew there's a time to just roll with it and let it happen. You're not gonna blow this. I won't let you.”

“Romans, Tay. It's Latin. I don't think anyone ever had to worry about their office crush back when it was in vogue, either.”

“You know I never paid attention to that crap,” she says, blowing another bubble with a loud pop! “Give him a chance, or don't. These things always sort themselves out. You'll find your way back to sleeping in tents and arguing with engineers in the jungle if you're meant to. Bekah Corbin never fails a test, thank fuck, or I'd be a lot worse with nobody to get the answers from at the academy. No crush, no Grant, no stupid parents can screw this up.”

Yeah, just me, I think to myself, but at least she's made me smile.

I hope she's right. We say a few more words and then hang up. I'm alone, it's late, and I haven't even showered.

Suds and hot water always help. Grant creeps into my thoughts the whole time I'm under the steaming shower head. I try like hell to zone out and wash away the bad day, but psychic dirt doesn't come off so easily.

He's here. His memory. I think about our first morning together, when we woke up late and sore. He said there was no sense taking turns in the shower. His strong hands lifted me up, and carried me in with him over his shoulder.

Inside the stall with its gold framed tile, behind the heavy glass, he took me hard and slow. Hands on the wall for me, moscato. Words I don't think I'd forget if I tried.

God, and the sex...it's branded in my memory. Every sensation.

Him rolling on the condom, fist in my hair, mounting me from behind. Each stroke pushing our hips deeper into a delicious collision. Our slick flesh slapping together, echoing through the spa-like bathroom the whole time as his thrusts come rougher, faster, persistently deeper.

“Fuck!” I'm flushed when I snap out of it. I've let the shower warm my neck for too long. It's starting to sting. I must've cranked it up a few notches too high when I climbed in.

I was also a million miles away when I put one hand on the wall and wedged the other between my legs, greedy fingers searching for my clit.

Betrayed by my own body and mind. Jesus. Frustrated is far too mild to describe what I'm feeling just now.

There's no easy cure for this insanity. None, which doesn't involve stepping out in a fury, blow drying my hair, and passing the hell out in a tense, hot mess. Or finishing what I've started.

Clenching my teeth, I put my hand back where it belongs.

It's horrible how a man this forbidden controls my pussy from a distance.

It's disaster when I close my eyes, forget our little agreement, flatten myself against the cool wall, and remember while I push my fingers deep into my aching chasm.

It's tragic – yes, fucking tragic – when I know I'll see him this week. Maybe as soon as tomorrow. It's inevitable we'll lock eyes, and he'll just know I did this. He'll know I'm so weak, shameless, and conflicted I couldn't stop myself from getting off to our sex, wishing so goddamned bad in the heat of it we could do it again.

“Bastard!” No, Bastard Axe.

I cry out when I come, refusing to say his name. My pussy throbs, aches, overheats as it clenches my hand, a sorry replacement for his pierced cock. Then I stumble backwards and catch myself against the bench, a wobbly-kneed mess, knowing I'll need a few minutes under the crisp shower to wash away my shattered willpower.

Maybe Tay's right. I should stop worrying, and let it happen.

Whatever the hell it means.

But later, when I'm drifting off to sleep, I stare down into the blackness, seeing the full disaster looming. There are no good options. Just several bad ones, each with consequences tainting every part of my life.

If I blow the Neolithic internship and lose my trust, I think I'll recover.

If I tell Ethan to go to hell if he doesn't let up, and it ruins his deal with dad, then I'll probably lose it again. But my father won't stay mad forever.

If I give up, give in, and get too close to Grant Shaw for a second time...Jesus, there's no coming back.

It won't be a misstep. It'll be my end.

He'll blow everything to hell and back, starting with my heart.