I first noticed it three weeks ago. It began as a sensation I wasn’t able to shake off as I left the apartment to head to my first class. However, with butterflies the size of eagles creating havoc in my stomach at the thought of being in a classroom for the first time in forever, I dismissed it.

My association with Quinn and Q last year flung me into the merciless glare of the paparazzi’s spotlight. Since then, my presence in Quinn’s intensely high-profile life means I’ve become a constant source of interest to the media. At first I thought it was a reporter following me in the hopes of getting the exclusive they all crave. But the same self-preservation instinct that kept me on high alert when I was on the run from Clay warned me that this was different. And in a city of millions, it’s almost impossible to spot a sinister shadow unless it was right on top of you.

Initially, I toyed with asking Fionnella Smith for help. In our short time together, I found out that the constantly smiling woman who called herself Quinn’s assistant was embroiled in her own righteous path of retribution, same as Quinn. She also turned out to be far more resourceful than the simple assistant she claimed to be. All that aside, though, I didn’t ask for her help because her loyalty is first to Quinn. So until I’m sure what I’m dealing with, I’m choosing to keep them both out of the loop.

Detective Schultz came across my radar last year during the investigation. Calm and briskly efficient, she made an impression on me, enough for me to decide to trust her with this. With no concrete evidence as to who my stalker is or even if he’s real, I expected her to dismiss my concerns when I plucked up the courage to call her.

I don’t doubt that being Quinn Blackwood’s girlfriend played a part in her agreeing to meet me for coffee last week. She took copious notes, and we agreed to a follow-up meeting today.

I put my phone away and wipe my sweaty palm on my jeans as the doorman holds the foyer door open and doffs his cap. Lionel and the sleek Mercedes town car are directly in my line of sight when I exit. I’m torn between the need for head-clearing fresh air and the need to be safe. I know he’ll follow me anyway should I decide to walk. Quinn might have given in to my request not to come to class with me, but he sure as hell isn’t going to risk me being even a minute late in getting to him once I’m done.

Which means I need to plan my meeting with Detective Schultz very carefully. I’ve already accepted that I’ll miss an hour of my three-hour class today, but I’ll make it up later. I pause on the sidewalk and glance around me.

There’s nothing out of the ordinary. People hurry past, their glances flitting past me, their electric connection to the city pulling them along like iron filings to the tune of a powerful magnet. But evil lurks everywhere. I’m wise enough to know that now. All the same, the need to not be a victim pulls at me. Years of suffering under Clay’s thumb has triggered a strong incentive to never experience that kind of fear and helplessness again.

“Good morning, Miss Gilbert,” Lionel greets me with his distinctive Aussie accent, and holds open the back door to the town car.

I make up my mind quickly. “Good morning. I’m going to walk for a while, Lionel. Do you mind?”

His face remains neutral as he shuts the door. “Of course not, Miss Gilbert.” He glances at his watch. “You should make good time if you’re in the mood to power walk.”

“I’m in the mood for strong coffee and a bagel first,” I respond with a smile.

He nods toward my favorite coffee shop at the corner of the next block. “Would you like me to get your usual for you from Mickey’s?”

I shake my head. I feel a little bad for refusing him twice in a row, but with my life now a well-oiled machine that functions with very little input from me thanks to Quinn, I take what little independence I can where I get it. “That’s okay, thanks. I need to walk off the calories.”

He smiles and nods and walks around to slide behind the wheel.

The weather is cool enough to require a scarf. I wrap the light blue cashmere scarf twice around my neck and secure my purse more firmly across my body.

Five minutes later, when I exit with my large, extra-creamy Americano and bagel clutched in my hand, I stop for a moment and glance at the breathtaking silver chrome building that is Blackwood 99. It’s the tallest apartment building on the island of Manhattan, an iconic masterpiece that won Quinn a clutch of awards when it was officially unveiled just before Christmas last year.

Somewhere high up there in the cloud-high apartment, Quinn is probably drinking his own coffee, hopefully less disgruntled with me after I let him work off his frustrations on me. The need to call him tugs hard at me. I resist the urge, take a hit of caffeine, and resolutely head in the opposite direction.

I arrive at the Hesse Real Estate Academy with three minutes to spare and grab my usual seat near the front. As on most days, the class is full with an eclectic mix of young career-starting hopefuls and middle-aged lane-changers who’re looking for something different. The instructor is a seasoned but sharp teacher who loves the sound of his own voice.

I drift off a little during the segment on zoning laws, my mind returning to its favorite subject—Quinn—and the surprise he’d had Lionel present me with just before I got to my class. The moment the instructor stops for the fifteen-minute break, I take out my phone and smile at the five text messages from Quinn waiting in my message box, each with an increasingly impatient tone. I ignore them and type a message of my own.

Me: Thank you for my gift. That was so sweet.

The lambskin laptop pouch for my MacBook Air was a replacement for the one I lost two weeks ago. Only this one was from an exclusive designer, monogrammed with my name, and probably cost the same as a small car.

Quinn: I’m far from sweet, as you well know. 100% of my motives are impure. You done yet?

I grin at his shamelessly demanding attitude.

Me: Not yet. Almost. I’m on a break.

I wait with bated breath as the message bubble ripples.

Quinn: “Almost” risks driving me to the point of insanity. I think you ought to know this. And prudently do something about it.

Me: I thought we reached a sound agreement this morning?

Quinn: My cock was firmly lodged in your beautiful cunt. My reasoning can be sustained only up to a point. I have further demands.

Me: My break is over so I shall have to address them when we meet.

Quinn: Be prepared to spend a considerable amount of time on your knees.

I’ve spent more than half of the last fifteen hours being fucked out of my mind, but that doesn’t stop the deep, insane longing that shoots through me when I read his reply. I’m like a hopeless addict, my thighs already clenching, my nipples shamelessly erect, and my pussy wet.

Still, I summon enough power to respond.

Me: We’ll be in public the next time we meet.

I grimace at my idiocy the moment I hit SEND. Sure as shit, his reply tells me I’ve just waved a red flag.

Quinn: Is that a challenge, Elyse?

Me: No, just an observation.

Quinn: Doesn’t change my intention to have you naked and on your knees.

Oh God. Does he intend to fuck me in the car? At the piano place?

The students who left the room to take their breaks begin to filter back in. I glance down quickly to make sure my nipples aren’t giving their own tutorial, and take several deep breaths to get myself back under control.

Me: I have to go. ILY.

Quinn: I don’t know what that last one means. Use your words.

I roll my eyes in exasperation. Me: I. Love. You.

Quinn: Better. I look forward to hearing you say it in person with my cock between your gorgeous lips.

Me: I won’t be able to speak then.

Quinn: You’re capable of driving me insane without saying a single word. You’re intelligent and resourceful. You’ll manage. See you in ninety minutes. I love you too. BE WET. X

I bite my lip to suppress a moan as my gaze fixes on the last outrageous instruction. No problem there.

I hastily put away my phone when the instructor walks back into the room. I force myself to concentrate for another half hour before I grab my purse and mouth my intention to leave to the instructor. I told him I’d need to slip out when I got to class this morning. He nods and waves me away.

Since I don’t know whether Lionel is still waiting out front or returned to pick up Quinn, I head for the back stairs and exit at the rear of the building. It’s not the smartest idea, but I know from previous occasions that there will be enough people at this time of day in the quiet alley having a smoke to allay any immediate fears for my safety. I slow my steps and peer around the corner when I reach the end of the block. Lionel and the town car are nowhere in sight. I exhale in relief and head for the busy intersection that’ll take me to Detective Schultz’s precinct on East 51st.

A few blocks later, I sense his presence behind me. Fear grips my spine for a freezing moment as my nape tingles and my knees weaken. A moment later, despising the fear threatening to take over, I push it down and turn around. I stare at the rush of pedestrians coming at me, but not a single one of them looks sinister enough to be a cold-blooded stalker. But he’s there. I can feel him watching me.

Someone bumps into me. A muted curse follows.

I turn back around and continue walking. I’m no longer convinced this is just in my imagination. But who the hell is interested enough to fucking stalk me?

The question darts through my mind as I hurry the five blocks to the 17th Precinct. The sight of police cars and invasive cameras make me yearn, for a moment, for the tattered baseball cap that was part of my disguise when I was on the run last year. Not all law enforcement people are trustworthy. Clayton was not only the chief pimp, but he was also the sheriff of Getty Falls, the town where I grew up outside Fresno, California. He had every cop in his pocket. Well, almost. The man who became instrumental in taking Clay down eventually turned out to be his own power-hungry deputy.

Still, my gut tells me I can trust Ellen Schultz. She didn’t so much as blink last year when I requested a restraining order against Quinn, one of the most powerful men in New York.

I push my shoulders back and head up the short steps into the precinct. Minutes later, I’m shown into an empty, single-windowed office holding only a desk and two chairs and offered coffee. I refuse the coffee and try not to look as terrified as I feel.

Ellen Schultz walks in five minutes later. She’s reed thin and tall, with short, dark brown hair and a weathered face that could have looked attractive if not for the permanent scowl lining her forehead and the complete lack of makeup. Sharp, intelligent brown eyes fix on me as she kicks the door shut.

“Hey. We couldn’t tempt you with our crappy coffee, huh?” Her voice is as authoritative as the no-nonsense gray sweater and utilitarian black pantsuit she’s wearing.

“I’ve had my daily quota. I get jumpy when I over-caffeinate.”

She pulls the chair back, and I catch a glimpse of the badge sitting on her bony hip. “Well, we don’t want you any jumpier than you are now.” She drops the file and the tablet she’s holding on the table and links her fingers on top of them. “Judging by that deer-in-the-headlights look you’re wearing, something else has happened?”

I frown a little at the thought that she can read me so easily. “Uh…”

Her lips move in a parody of a smile. “Don’t feel bad. I worked very hard to pass detective school, Elyse. Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing concrete. I just felt him. Or her. Or them, on the way over here.”

She shakes her head. “I’m willing to bet my badge that this is one person and that he’s male. Have you thought more about who it could be?”

“Yes, but I’m still coming up blank. All the major players in Clay’s circle are behind bars. And I don’t think any of them would do something like this.”

“I agree with you. But what about Clay himself? Does he have anyone he can rope into doing something like this?”

I shake my head. “Earl Gilbert is in jail too. The only other man capable of this is…was Ridge Matthews.”

She sits back, opens the file, and reads the notes. “Earl was the man you thought was your father before you found out your real father was Clay, right?”

Memories of the vicious bastard who gave me his name makes my gut clench in anger. “Yes. He divorced my mother when he found out I wasn’t his.” Which left Mom and me at Clay Getty’s sick, depraved mercy.

“A regular Prince Charming, I’m sure.” Her finger taps on the file as she reads for a minute. “What about this Russian dude, Eddie Krakov? Only one of the dates when you noticed you were being followed coincides with immigration records of his presence in the country, but he was only stateside for three days. Could he have hired someone to follow you?”

I hadn’t thought of Krakov as a suspect. He was the man who won the “auction” Clay staged on who would be the first guy to sleep with me the day after my seventeenth birthday. After that, I became his special girl whenever he visited the Villa. The drug I slipped into his drink the night I killed Ridge and ran away would’ve left him with no memory of what happened that night. But still…could he be holding a grudge a year later?

“He visited the Villa about once a month when he was in California on business. The rest of the time, he’s in Moscow. He’s rich and arrogant, but as far as I could tell, his businesses were legitimate. Plus he travels with bodyguards. I really don’t see him trailing me all over New York City without being spotted.”

“I don’t either, but let’s not rule anything out just yet. Tell me what happened on the way over here,” she says again.

I give her a more detailed account of where and when, and she writes everything down. Then she opens another page in the file, this one containing dozens of mug shots. “I had our tech guys go through CCTV footage in the places you remember sensing this individual following you. I also had a word with our profiler to get an idea of the type of person who would do that. Unfortunately, we’re dealing with a needle-in-a-haystack situation, so you might need a few visits to get through the photos.”

My expression must have altered because her lips pursed in a thin, disapproving line. “It needs to be done, Elyse. From the look on your face, you’re worried about Blackwood, so I’m guessing you still haven’t told him yet?” she asks.

I slowly shake my head. She sighs.

“The longer you leave it, the worse it’ll be when you tell him. I know I got off lightly when he found out I was the one who helped you with the restraining order. He finds out that you and I have kept this from him and it won’t be pretty.”

A fizz of irritation spikes through my anxiety. “Is that why you’re helping me? Because I’m with Quinn?”

Ellen shrugs a thin, unapologetic shoulder. “Frankly? Yes, although I like you a hell of a lot too. What you did for your sister, despite being preyed on by an asswipe like Getty, takes guts. But Blackwood could make my life very difficult, especially if we don’t catch this son of a bitch pretty darn quickly. Besides, this department’s resources can only go so far. He could do a lot to help end this quickly.”

“I’ll tell him soon—you have my word.”

She stares at me for a handful of seconds and then nods. “Good, and when you do, be sure to let him know I’m working my tail off to nail this asshole, would you? On the off chance he’s not inclined to nail my ass to the wall, I could use the brownie points farther down the road.”

“I will.”

She stands and pushes the file and tablet across to me. “I’ll have someone bring you a pen and pad. Take your time; look through the pictures and footage. If anything triggers a memory, jot it down.”

I glance at my watch. I have half an hour, tops, before I need to head back to meet Quinn. “Okay.”

None of the mug shots ring any alarm bells, so I move to the CCTV footage. Even though I know I have nothing to fear now that I’m no longer on the run, my skins crawls a little at how very easy it is to be spied on. I watch myself on camera as I leave Blackwood 99 and head to school, sometimes driven by Lionel, sometimes on foot, and I watch the people around me, tensing every time I spot anyone suspicious looking. But no one in the fifteen clips Ellen has compiled looks familiar. I close the tablet and press my fingers against my eyes.

I know I’m not paranoid, not after sensing my stalker again today.

But who is it? And why follow me for weeks without making contact? Not that I want that to happen, of course.

I ask Ellen that exact question after she returns, and I tell her none of the images look familiar. “In my experience, they’re toying with you right now,” she says as she walks me to the front of the precinct. “It’s their sick way of announcing their intention to “establish contact.” What we don’t want is for them to take it to the next level and do something physical.”

I can’t stop the ice-cold shiver that runs through me. She spots it, and a tiny wave of sympathy crosses her face.

“I have to ask this. Could it be something from Blackwood’s side of the equation? The way he took his father down sent a lot of ripples through the governor’s office. A few prominent people were also caught up in the scandal. Maybe we’re dealing with a highly disgruntled employee?”

Since I have no way of answering that without involving Quinn, I say nothing.

Ellen holds the precinct door open for me. “It would be good if we could rule that out,” she says, reiterating the not-so-subtle point that I need to tell Quinn. “For now, though, if you don’t need to go out anywhere alone, then don’t.”

I nod my consent, and we part ways. The question of my stalker’s identity remains on my mind as I hurry back to the academy. As does the inescapable fact that I need to tell Quinn. What I didn’t tell Ellen is that the reason I haven’t told Quinn yet is because I’m terrified he’ll latch on to the problem and abandon his own healing process. One of the problems Dr. Freeman zeroed in on during our first meeting was that Quinn, no longer sustained by his years-long revenge plot, was floundering without the toxic intravenous drip he’d fed himself with. Put simply, he’d been addicted to exacting retribution for his mother. Nothing else had mattered. He’d made no room for a future, expecting to die in the process of bringing his father down. That future is still a nebulous mystery to him, despite me being in his life.

The last thing I want Quinn to do is bury his own problems and make me his next addiction. And he would. I have no doubt about it.

I hate keeping this a secret from him but I’ll be in enough shit as it is when I come clean eventually. A couple more days won’t hurt. I’ll tell him on Wednesday, after we’ve been to see Dr. Freeman. The fact that Quinn hasn’t fired the doctor yet might even be a good sign that we can trust Dr. Freeman to help us with this issue, too, once I confess it. Maybe. I grimace. I’m not looking forward to that, though. My lover isn’t good at sharing his joys or his problems.

The voice in my head that tells me I’m being a chicken shit is pushed away as I reach the corner of the school block and spot Quinn’s silver limo half a block away in the opposite direction.

Damn.

Quinn won’t be content with waiting for me in the car. I sprint into the alley and up the back stairs to the third floor. By the time I join the rest of the students as they spill out of the class, I’m flustered, and my hair is slipping out of the knot I put it in earlier. A few of them look at me funny but I ignore them. I think of darting into the ladies’ room to check my hair, but the last thing I need is Quinn prowling the halls looking for me, so I finger-comb my hair, run my tongue over my lips, and take a deep breath.

He’s entering the front of the building when I exit the elevator on the ground floor. As usual, almost everyone in the busy foyer takes an interest in the tall, charismatic, sinfully handsome man wearing dark jeans, an open-necked black shirt, and a sports jacket.

Quinn in casual clothes is second on my weakness-rendering list only to Quinn in the stunning bespoke suits he favors for work. No, scratch that. Quinn wearing nothing at all is the ultimate high. But I love him like this, too, with his hair a little windswept and his jaw still sporting the stubble that delivered delicious burns to my inner thighs this morning.

He’ll never pass for an ordinary human being—he’s too intensely electrifying and visually breathtaking for that—but dressed like this, he seems a little approachable. It’s a delusion of course, but one I’m content to fool myself with. People may stare from afar but the volatile force field around him is one only the foolhardy will breach.

His silver eyes zero in on me when the crowd parts, and my lungs debate whether to work or not. He heads straight for me and slides one hand around my nape. He says nothing, just stares at me as the departing crowd flows around us.

“Hi,” I murmur eventually, keeping my eyes on him.

After a year, I’m still not used to the attention we get when we’re out in public together, and it’s just easier to look at him than at the people watching us.

His ruthless gaze scours every inch of my face. Then his eyes narrow with intense speculation. “Hi. You want to tell me why you look flushed?”

Shit, I thought I had it under control. “It’s your fault. Sexting with you gets me insanely hot.”

He raises one eyebrow but he doesn’t speak as he steers me out the door. Lionel is outside and holds the back door open for me. Quinn nods a dismissal, and Lionel returns to slide behind the wheel. With his hand on the small of my back, Quinn guides me across the sidewalk to the car. Although he opens the door wide, he makes sure my body comes into contact with his as I slip past him to enter the car. He’s hard as steel, and he wants me to know it. That, plus the fact that he brought the limo for privacy instead of the town car tells its own story.

“That was over an hour ago,” he says once we’re inside and Lionel rejoins traffic. I’m sitting astride him, and his gaze is fixed on my face, intense eyes probing my every flicker of emotion.

I need to tread carefully. “You think there’s a time limit on how you make me feel?” I roll my hips, gliding the seam of my jeans up the solid length of his rigid cock.

Merciless fingers dig into my hips, and he surges up to meet me as he groans. “Nice save, Elyse. But I can’t shake the feeling you’re trying to distract me.”

Fuck. I force myself not to swallow the lump of apprehension lodged in my throat. I bury my face in his neck, taking a huge hit of his sandalwood and masculine musk smell. “I’ve been going crazy wondering what you meant with your text.”

“I meant exactly what I said.”

I raise my head and look into his eyes. “But…we’re going to Steinway’s.”

“Where the manager has agreed to shut the store for an hour and leave us to…browse in private.”

My jaw drops. “Oh my God.”

His eyes gleam with voracious hunger. “Quite.”