“Ms. Appleby.”

The busy street below my window suddenly ceases to exist. I freeze, not daring to even take a breath.

Thorne Blackmore?

No. No. No. It can’t be. He couldn’t have found me here.

And yet … I would recognize that voice anywhere. Husky and beautiful. I hear the click of my office door closing and his footsteps come closer. Closer still. So close I can feel the heat from his body. The raw power of his energy surrounds me and makes my skin tingle. In the industry they call him The Beast, because he is so cold and ruthless, his methods are pitiless.

“Hello, Chelsea,” he whispers in my ear. The familiar rumble of his voice is bittersweet. Greedily, I drag in the scent of his aftershave, leather, pine forests, and the tangy ocean. I shut my eyes. Oh, sweet Jesus. How I have missed him. These last two years without seeing him have been hell. How did I survive? I walked wounded and bewildered. Days passed, then weeks, the leaves changed, the cold winds came, then the mornings began to fill with sunlight again. After the first year, I lied to myself. I told myself I had forgotten him. But like a ghost, this man haunted me.

Will he still match the memory I keep deep in my heart?

I take a step forward, then turn around to face him. For a second my whole body goes cold. It is like coming home to find that a leopard has leapt in through your kitchen window and it is eating your sweet little dog. He’s standing there in his usual ten-thousand dollar suit and thousand dollar tie, but he is bulkier, deadlier, bloodier, scarier and; oh God, his eyes. The gray orbs were never warm before, but now they are as frozen as the most inhospitable winter lake. And yet he is beautiful. Beautiful like lightning ripping through the night sky, or the angry sea crashing into cliffs. The breath I was unconsciously holding escapes in a rush, and I stand there like a deer, beyond conscious control, motionless, sniffing the air, terrified, ready to run.

He studies me expressionlessly.

For a few seconds, I can do nothing but stare into those pitiless eyes. Then I force a bright, happy smile onto my face. Pretend, Chelsea. You can do this. Just pretend. “Hiya. What a lovely surprise to see you again.” My voice sounds breathy and shaky.

He smiles slowly. A cold, mocking smile. Undertones of danger.

Oh, Mother of God. I decide to take the bull by the horns. “I know you must be angry, I’m really sorry I stole from you.”

His smile grows. It could be mistaken for an almost friendly grin except for the hostile wasteland in his eyes. “Are you now?” he murmurs.

“Yes, yes, I am very, very sorry. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll make immediate arrangements to return the money to you.”

His blunt charcoal eyelashes sweep down, and I stare at him hungrily. I never expected to see him again. He is spectacularly elusive. Even catching a glimpse of him is hard. He is hard. “What kind of arrangements might they be?”

“I … I have some savings and I’ll take a loan for the rest and pay it all back.”

“All of it?”

“Every last cent.”

“With interest?’

“Of course,” I agree instantly, even though I feel my stomach tighten. I probably won’t be able to afford it, but maybe I can make a deal to pay him back monthly, or something.

His eyes glitter. “And the cost of finding you? Will you pay that back too?”

“The cost of finding me?” I repeat stupidly.

“Yes, it is very, very difficult to find a girl who stops using her credit cards, social media, and completely drops off the face of the earth.”

“Well, living in New York is not exactly dropping off the face of the earth.”

“Let’s just say it is hard to find someone when you’re looking for Chelsea Appleby, and she is living under the name of Alison Mountbatten, and has gone to considerable trouble to erase her digital footprint from the net. Didn’t you ever miss going to your favorite online store to get those black shoes you love so much or that peach lipstick you always wear?”

My mouth feels like it’s full of dust. I swallow hard. “Well, yes. However, I figured a new life was the best way forward.”

“Hmmm ...”

“Look, you can either tell me now, or let me know later how much I owe you. I’ll make the arrangements straight away. But I … er … have a pile of work to finish right now.” I wave my hand in the direction of my desk.

“Um … I suppose we could call it two million even.”

My eyes pop wide open. “What? You can’t be serious! You want two million? I stol … took $300,000.”

He shrugs carelessly. “Interest … opportunity costs.”

“Interest … opportunity costs?” I echo incredulously.

“Three hundred thousand in my hands has unlimited investment potential,” he sneers.

I frown. Thorne is so freaking rich he can give away three hundred thousand dollars without batting an eyelid. This is the man who flies hand-churned butter from France to wherever he is in the world. Three hundred thousand is a drop in the ocean to him. “Why? Why are you doing this? You don’t even need it. All those billions sitting in your bank account. You couldn’t spend it even if you tried. You don’t even care about it. They’re just numbers to you.”

He takes his phone out of his expensive camel coat. “It’s the principle.”

“It’s nothing to you. It’s less than the cost of a round-trip in your private plane.”

He lets his eyes flick to the phone in his hand. “But if you’d rather I alert the proper authorities instead—”

Panic surges through my veins. I raise my hand up. “Wait. Just wait a second. We can work something out. I’ll pay it all back. I swear. I will. I just need a bit of time.”

“So you can run away.” His voice is icy.

“I won’t run.” Taking a rasping breath, I stare into his cold, watching eyes. “I promise.”

He takes a step closer and I stop breathing. His hand rises up and he runs his finger down my exposed throat. “So soft and pale,” he murmurs as his thumb caresses the skin where a pulse is kicking. “How can I trust a thief and a liar?”

“I give you my word,” I choke out.

He shakes his head slowly. “No, Chelsea. Your word is not good enough. It was once, but not anymore.”

To my horror my eyes fill with tears. When I blink, they spill down my cheeks. He laughs. “The oldest trick in the book, Chelsea. I should have known you’d stoop to that. Well, I’m afraid female tears have the opposite effect on me.” He bends his head and licks my cheek, his tongue warm and velvety. He lifts his head and meets my stunned eyes. “They excite me. You, my little thief, are going to cry for me. A lot.”

I did not realize that my hands had flown up. I must have wanted to shove him away, but they are resting on his chest, my fingers spread out on the hard muscles. “What do you want from me?” I whisper hoarsely.

“I want you to pay your debt with your body.”

I hear my blood rushing in my ears, and I stare at him in shock. “What do you mean?”

“For three months, you will be my toy. You will sleep when I tell you to sleep, you will eat when I tell you to eat, and when I tell you to spread your legs, your only thought will be, how wide. During that season when you will be mine, I will use you when, where, and how I decide.”

“You can’t do that to me,” I gasp.

“Or you can go to prison. You will be very sweet meat in a women’s prison. All this soft, unmarked flesh.”

I shudder and he smiles. “Yes, Chelsea, shudder you should. Trust me, my cock would be infinitely better.”

“You could have any woman. Why are you doing this?”

“Because I can. Now strip.”