The driver from the Highest Bidder escort service stops our town car in front of a set of massive iron gates. Behind the ornate bars, a breathtaking Tuscan villa-like mansion waits for me, palm trees waving in the Miami summer breeze.

The driver turns to me and offers a creamy envelope, and I swallow, trying to calm my raging heartbeat.

“You’re to give this to Mr. Bryant when you see him,” the man says.

“All right.”

I take the sealed envelope as the driver waits. He has a kind face, and I wonder if he looks at every Highest Bidder girl with this mixture of sympathy and curiosity. I shouldn’t be that much of a mystery to him—every girl he drives has signed up with the exclusive website to be auctioned off to a rich client, and I’m sure he’s met more than one escort who’s given away her v-card for $50,000.

I’m just not sure that every virgin has needed the money because she’s in as much trouble as I am.

Can he read the desperation on my face?

My hand shakes as I clutch the envelope. My nerves are screaming, but I’ve come this far, and I’m going to go through with this and then get back to my normal life, including finishing my final semester of college. There’s no other choice for me.

The driver hands me one more piece of paper. This one is just a strip with typed numbers on it.

“This is the passcode for the gate,” he says.

“Oh. Thanks.”

He winks at me. “You’ll do fine. All the girls do.”

All the girls. I suddenly feel like a product fresh off an assembly line, a sex toy that walks and breathes and is designed for a good screw, but that’s what I signed up for. And even if a flush of embarrassment is covering my skin, I won’t complain.

After I thank him and get out of the car, he drives away, leaving me standing in front of the massive gates with only an overnight bag, the passcode, and the envelope. The hem of my flirty little summer dress plays around my thighs, tickling them as if to cheer me up.

So I put on my best cheer face. I’ve seen pictures of Cage Bryant, and he’s… Well, to put it mildly, I lucked out in the sex sweepstakes. He’s beyond hot. This job won’t be as tough as it could’ve been under other circumstances.

I’m going to get this done.

I walk up to the gate’s keypad and punch in the code. As the iron bars swing open, I feel like Dorothy walking the yellow brick road, except the bricks here are as red as sin, the road lined with hovering palm trees instead of gnarled, thick ones.

I refuse to think about lions and tigers and bears, and in their place, I start running over the details of my client that I read in a dossier the site sent to me.

Cage Bryant, 27, billionaire.

Boss and money and brains (oh, my).

Then I think of those pictures of him—his thick, unruly brown hair; his dark eyebrows over a pair of blue eyes that seem to penetrate the camera lens; a luscious mouth that doesn’t seem very used to smiling. He towers over every woman he’s been photographed with, filling out his designer suits with his broad shoulders and thick arms. His skin is tanned, bringing out the color of his eyes, but in every picture, those eyes make it seem as if he’s ready to stalk over to the paparazzi and tear the camera out of their clutches. The thing is, he doesn’t seem to give a shit about what anyone thinks of his stone-cold moods.

In those pictures, there’s also a barely contained anger in those eyes, a challenge to anyone who gets too close.

He’s a boss, all right. Some googling told me that, by the tender age of twenty, he started working at a low-end car dealership where he became a top salesman. He quickly graduated to a luxury vehicle dealership, and his kick-ass boss reputation only grew as he voraciously worked his way up to management, landing better and better positions one right after the other.

When he was twenty-one—twenty-one! Only one year younger than I am!—he started a headhunting/recruiting business, Bryant Industries. It went from a one-man operation to an enormous behemoth headquartered in New York City, and it now does business all over the world.

All of this before thirty. And now, besides conquering the business world, he’s listed in New York Magazine as the number one eligible bachelor in the city, and the paparazzi loves him. Women crawl all over him, and I’ll be one of them tonight.

Sex and money and freedom.

Oh, my…

Thinking of what I already know about him soothes me. Giving my virginity to someone so handsome might not be as bad as my nerves are warning me it’ll be, and, after tonight, I’ll have enough money to buy my freedom. I’ll be able to breathe again.

I arrive at the arched doorway where huge dark-wooded doors loom. After exhaling, I ring the bell, hearing it chime inside. It echoes, as if traveling through a cavern.

No answer.

I try again, and the same echo answers me.

I’m ready to ring one more time just as the door opens.

At first sight of him, I can’t breathe. My heart can’t start itself up again. My belly tightens and my clit begins to ache, then pound. The pictures I’ve seen of Cage Bryant don’t do him justice because, in real life, he’s even taller, more intimidating, and I can see a hell of a lot more of him now because he’s shirtless, dressed in board shorts with a towel slung around his shoulders. His hair is damp, carelessly ruffled, as if he’s just come out of a pool. His skin is smooth and tanned.

I can’t take my gaze off his torso—muscles. Bunched, beautiful, sleek muscles that I want to reach out and touch. His chest is hard, his abs ridged, and my lust is immediate, getting me wet already as I think of what those muscles will feel like against my naked skin tonight.

Just like that, this job doesn’t feel like a money-making necessity for me. This is something I want with every beating inch of my body, and a flush roars through me. I’m probably wearing it like a filmy red veil.

His blue gaze is cool as he looks me over. Can he tell how turned on I am already? Or is he only seeing the perfectly ordinary, average girl with light brown hair and big gray eyes that I always saw in the mirror growing up? Or…maybe…

My confidence grows. Maybe he’s seeing the college coed in the surprisingly flattering picture that was posted on the Highest Bidder site.

My pulse continues to kick through me as I eagerly wait for him to say something. One heartbeat…two heartbeats…

Then I realize that Cage Bryant isn’t looking at me with the same kind of desire a client should have for an escort. He has no idea what he’s staring at, and I get the feeling he doesn’t even know why I’m even on his doorstep with an overnight bag.

Okay. Strange.

I shove the envelope at him then realize what a gauche move it is. Too late now.

“I’m Karini Lively,” I say.

He doesn’t take what I’m offering, and my blush burns.

He only narrows his eyes and frowns, anchoring his hands at the ends of the towel around his neck. My gaze lingers on his wide, powerful shoulders, and slick heat creams me even more.

“Is this a joke?” he asks.

Whoa. “A joke? No. Of course not.”

As I keep holding the envelope out to him, my pulse tangles, flailing with anxiety because, my god, just look at him: drop-dead gorgeous with a body that’s carved out of granite. With every passing second, my blood pumps, priming me, and he hasn’t even made a move yet.

But what makes me even more nervous is that I’m pretty sure he genuinely has no idea who the hell I am or why I’m here.

“How did you get in?” he asks in a low, wary tone. “Did someone give you the passcode?”

What? “The Highest Bidder did.”

I sound like a mouse—like the girl who always felt so invisible growing up, the middle child who barely existed for anyone until she got the attention of the wrong someone.

As Cage finally takes the envelope I’m offering, he looks at me again. This time, he does it slowly, his gaze running down my body, making me hold my breath. I shift out of carnal discomfort. My clit is so tight that I have to bite the inside of my lip.

When his gaze lingers on my breasts, I feel my nipples pucker. I know he can see it through my thin dress, too, and something flickers in his eyes. For a second, I think it might be the same lust I’m feeling. It’s as if there’s a hot, tenuous, quaking connection that’s about to snap.

Then he looks away from me, and I stop biting my lip. I swallow once again, coating my dry mouth.

Without giving anything away with his expression, he efficiently opens the envelope. It’s as if he never looked at me at all, and I begin to think I imagined it.

Embarrassment creeps up on me like a deeper, more pervasive kind of blush, and I hope he doesn’t see it.

He pulls out the thick, fancy parchment from the envelope and reads its contents. Then he shakes his head, his frown only intensifying.

“Is there a problem?” I ask.

“There’s been a big mistake, Miss Lively.”

I don’t like the Miss Lively thing. He sounds distant, uninterested.

He stuffs the paper back inside the envelope. “I don’t pay for sex. Ever.”

Then what I am doing here?

When he holds the envelope out as if expecting me to take it, I cross my arms in front of my chest, warding it off.

He can’t be turning me down. I need this to happen.

“If you don’t pay for sex,” I say, “then why did you join the auction for me on the Highest Bidder site?”

“I didn’t do any such thing.” As he keeps extending the envelope to me, his other hand is on the door, ready to shut me out. “According to this message, you’re a gift from one of my clients—a wealthy one who’s very happy with the business transaction that just went through between our companies.”

I start to say something, although I’m not sure what. I only know that he can’t close that door on me.

He’s clearly losing his patience. “My client has a habit of making assumptions and acting on them without thinking much about the consequences.”

I’m still not taking the damned envelope back. “But he already paid for this.”

“I’m not interested in taking advantage of this ‘gift.’”

Then, as if he’s some kind of god’s gift, he gives me a final, arrogant once-over, his gaze burning me wherever it goes. It leaves me weak and wishing for more of the humiliating heat.

When I still don’t take the envelope, he merely tosses it to a table near the entry. “You need to go now, Miss Lively.”

He begins to close the door.

“Wait!”

He stops, and there’s a look of such irritation written all over him that I feel as if I’m shrinking, reduced to a hurt ball of rejection right here on his doorstep. I search for what to say next, but how can I put all my fears and feelings into words?

I need this money so badly, but even more than that, I’m trying to make sense of the looks he’s been giving me. He talks like he’s not interested, but my body is telling me something different. There’s fire between us, isn’t there? There’s something that could damned well happen if he would just let me in.

But, jeez, maybe this is only wishful thinking. I mean, what girl wouldn’t be attracted to this incredibly hot guy, even if she’s only imagining that he’s lusting after her in return?

As I stand there saying nothing, his mood doesn’t improve. I’m wasting his precious billionaire time, and I realize that I was wrong about any kind of attraction.

My stomach sinks and panic sets in. Maybe I can try for a repeat auction on the Highest Bidder site, seeing as this has been a total bust. I’ll have to in order to get that money…

I’m back to feeling like the girl who was never the prettiest in her class or the smartest or the one people noticed. I still feel like a teenager who’s inexperienced and so damned awkward, especially around this intimidating man.

“I’m sorry for the confusion,” I say, knowing that I’m about to go from awkward to mortified if I don’t back down. “I’ll call an Uber to pick me up.”

As I turn around and walk away, the door closes behind me.

Holding back tears—how much of a fool was I to think a guy like him was interested in a Jane like me?—I hike up my bag all the way onto my shoulder as I head for the gates. Then I unzip it and fumble inside to get my phone.

When I turn it on, the screen stays dead.

Seriously? Seriously?

Shit.

I look around at the palm trees, at the view of the nearby docks in back of his grand house and the sun gleaming off the water.

I need a phone, dammit, and there’s nowhere to go for one but here.

After I huff out a breath, I march back to his house and ring the bell again. Hours seem to pass before he jerks open the door. My heart jolts in my chest and my body heats up again as he stares at me.

“Sorry to bother you,” I say stiffly, “but my phone battery is dead. May I use your phone to call a car?”

He wrinkles his brow, halfway between amusement and disbelief. Then he holds out a hand. “Let me see that.”

Wow. He thinks I’m lying about my phone just to get myself back into his amazing presence. God’s gift, for sure. Maybe it’s a good thing that my night with him fell through, because it turns out he’s a prick. A good-looking prick, but really?

I slap my phone into his hand, and he wraps his fingers around it. Long, strong fingers. Sexy fingers that could’ve been all over my body.

As my sex pounds for him, reminding me of how wet I still am, I steel myself. He doesn’t deserve my v-card. And you know what? At least I learned a valuable lesson today: Cage Bryant has verified that all guys are pricks—not just the one who got me into the trouble I’m in.

He inspects my phone. He actually tries to turn it on.

Yup. Definitely a prick.

With a lowered gaze he looks up at me, and it’s such a sexy move that my stomach swirls. I hate my stomach. I hate everything that my body does every time I’m near him. I hate my eyes, too, because they’re telling me that there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that…

God, he’s not interested, and after what he just put me through, neither am I.

Then he opens the door wide and steps aside, and all I can do is blink. Now I’m the one staring at him in utter bewilderment.

“Get in here while I call one of my own personal cars to take you back to the airport,” he says in that cool, measured tone of his.

Okay. All I have to do now is move, go inside, get this over with so I can go forward to another more welcoming client who’ll actually appreciate my company. It could happen.

On trembling legs, I enter his house, my skin tingling as I walk by him, close enough to feel the warmth of his bare, rocked torso.

Close enough to start wanting him even more than I did before.