When I headed back into the living room, there was no sign of Marcus. The door to his bedroom was wide open, and I could only assume that he’d gone out for the evening. He was probably pissed at me. Annoyed that I hadn’t actually promised I’d never see Wolfe again.

Men were so weird. I couldn’t tell if he was jealous of Tristan, or if he hated him for some other reason. Maybe he was threatened by the Wolfe’s success? Whatever the case, I was baffled by the whole damn thing. Marcus had always been like a brother to me. A protective big brother. I knew he loved me, and I appreciated it. But this strange hatred of Wolfe bordered on psychotic. As far as I could tell, the worst thing Tristan had ever done to him was shake his hand a little too hard.

Then again, Tristan wasn’t exactly an average dude. He inspired passionate reactions from everyone, it seemed.

Determined to figure out why that was, I raced to my room, sat down at my desk, and yanked my laptop open. It was time to find out what made the god tick.

A massive flow of information came up as soon as I’d typed in his name.

• Billionaire philanthropist
• Owner and CEO, Wolfe Corporation
• 33 years old. Made his first billion by the time he was 23.
• Perpetually single, though he’s been known to date models. (Oh, great. That’ll help my waning confidence.)
• Little is known of his primary residence inside Wolfe Tower. He also owns property in Breckenridge, Colorado as well as several in New York, France and Bali.
• Considered the most powerful man in New York City.
• Nothing is known of him before 2008. Origins, birthplace unknown.

It was all interesting enough, but nothing that I read set my alarm bells off. He had a mysterious past—probably by design. I couldn’t blame him for not letting people know where he’d lived before New York, or even where he was from. We all had a past—including me.

So he was wealthy. So he knew how to manipulate people. Well, I wasn’t worried. I wasn’t so easy to manipulate. I’d learned all too early in life what it was to live under the control of a malignant narcissist. I’d learned how to escape. I knew what to look out for, and how to handle myself.

I also knew what it was to have nothing.

But more importantly, I knew what it was to have nothing to lose. Money wasn’t the same thing as power, at least not to me. Mostly, it was just a pain in my ass. Hell, my stepfather had always had money, and it hadn’t exactly made him into a nice man. Wealth had given him the illusion that he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, to whomever he wanted, even those closest to him. It had made him feel powerful, invincible. Unstoppable.

It was money that had destroyed my mother’s soul, too. But I didn’t want to think of her or her monster of a husband just now. So, trying desperately to distract myself from thoughts of a past I wanted to forget, I did a quick image search for the mysterious Mr. Wolfe.

Immediately, thousands of paparazzi-snapped photos of Tristan showed up.

When I saw them, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself for having been so clueless about his fame. I guessed I’d never spent enough time reading tabloids, or something. I’d never cared much about celebrity gossip; I preferred to keep my head down, my mind focused. I knew better than to believe the crappy stories I saw in papers, anyhow. I’d learned from personal experience that most of it was bullshit, fabricated to sell their rags, with the very slightest hint of truth occasionally thrown in for good measure. Sensationalized lies and manufactured scandals.

One thing that couldn’t lie, though, was the mass of pictures of Tristan’s handsome face. Photo after photo reminded me how amazing he was. How striking, how impossibly perfect.

The most exquisite picture was a headshot, which had probably been taken for his business. His eyes looked so bright, their gaze so intense, that I couldn’t help but stop and stare at him, marveling at how any man could be so handsome, so infuriating and so confusing, all at once.

As my eyes scanned his face, desire consuming me, a bolt of heat seared my chest. As if it had a mind of its own, my hand slipped into the opening in my robe, sliding instinctively down between my legs.

“I want you,” I mouthed, staring into those eyes that seemed to gaze back at me from some faraway place. “God help me, I want you so badly that I can taste you.”

I knew then what I needed to do.

I could only hope it wasn’t a mistake.

At noon the next day, I walked towards the front doors of Wolfe Tower on 5^th Ave. The building was one I’d seen a thousand times before, though I’d never actually been aware of its name. If Tristan was a narcissist of some sort, at least he didn’t toss his name up in gigantic letters to advertise his awesomeness.

My breathing shallow from nerves, I glanced down at my clothing. No grubby overalls today. Instead, I wore a fitted white blouse and a long skirt of flowing blue silk. On my feet, a pair of strappy beige sandals. They weren’t the most sensible things in the world, but hey. It was hot out. Practically summer. It seemed only right to liberate my toes, which were normally encased in protective leather in case a piece of wood fell on them.

I’d applied a little makeup, though not too much—some mascara, a little eyeliner and some light lip gloss—and my hair was down. I supposed I was both trying to look sexy and casual, all at once. I’d undone the top few buttons of my blouse to reveal a hint of cleavage, just enough to send an ambiguous message.

The skirt, too, was ambiguous. It said, “I’m covered up and modest, yet I can totally have sex without taking off my clothes.” Which, in hindsight, was a horrible message. I should really have worn jeans, if only to keep me from diving into even deeper temptation from the sexiest man in the world.

I should probably also have had a lock and a chain strapped to my panties.

I took one last look at the building’s façade before darting inside. Tall and imposing, the glass skyscraper reflected the world around it, as though camouflaged by its own surroundings in the very center of Manhattan. It almost seemed to be hiding in plain sight, like it didn’t actually want to be noticed.

I wondered if Tristan was the same. It would have been impossible for him to hide, of course; a man who looked like him couldn’t exactly conceal his existence from the world. But for the first time, it occurred to me that maybe he didn’t like attention from strangers. Maybe he wasn’t thrilled about the fact that he was famous for little more than being a rich, handsome person. He was so withdrawn in some ways, so secretive. It was his mystery that drew me to him. Even though it should have served as a giant red warning flag.

Speaking of attention, as I wandered into the building’s foyer, it occurred to me for the first time that I hadn’t actually heard from him since the previous morning. No text to confirm this lunch we were supposedly about to eat together. Nothing to indicate, even, which floor his office was on. Yet here I was, showing up to our unconfirmed sort-of date like an absolutely crazy person.

For all I knew, he’d forgotten he’d ever issued the invitation. But somehow I doubted it. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who made such offers lightly.

My teeth all but chattering, I marched over to the security desk. “Excuse me—where’s Tristan Wolfe’s office, please?” I asked, doing a poor job of concealing the tremor in my voice.

The guard scrutinized me for a moment before something on his desk buzzed. He clicked a button and almost immediately I heard the deep sensuality that was Tristan’s voice. “Send her up,” he said. “Immediately.”

“Eighty-first floor,” the man said. “Take the last elevator on your right. I’ll buzz you in.” He suddenly looked even more nervous than I felt, as though he might get killed if he fucked this thing up.

“Thanks,” I said, offering him a friendly smile. Once again, I’d been reminded that I wasn’t the only person who shook in Tristan’s presence.

When I got to the elevator, I noticed that there were no buttons to its left or right. No light above to tell me if it was going up or down, even. But as if it was anticipating my arrival, a quiet buzz sounded and the doors flew open, drawing me inside.

As soon as I’d climbed on board, the doors slammed behind me and the thing began to shoot skyward.

The walls and ceiling were all mirrored, as was the floor. When I looked down, I laughed to realize that I could see up my skirt. Quickly I slammed my thighs together, drawing my gaze to the opposite wall to assess my face one last time.

Well, it would have to do. Whether I was a stunning beauty or not, I was about to have a business—or some other sort of meeting—with Tristan Wolfe.

The elevator slowed to a crawl for a few seconds as it neared its destination. I inhaled a few deep breaths, trying to slow my heart rate in the final few seconds before who-knew-what was to occur.

When the doors opened I stepped out, half expecting to see Tristan immediately. But instead, I was greeted by a woman sitting behind a reception desk who shot me a quick, strange smile.

She looked young and not young at once. The expression on her face was sly, all-knowing, disconcerting. Something about her made me feel as though she could see right through me, like she knew how aroused I was by her boss, how I’d picked out every item of clothing on my body for reasons that involved the potential of sex.

To my dismay, she was also exquisitely beautiful. The sort of woman I’d only ever seen airbrushed on magazine covers. Her hair was long, blond and wavy. Her eyes were green, her eyelashes dark.

“Head to your left,” she said in a sultry voice that dripped with sensuality. If I’d been any less heterosexual, I’d probably have tried to get her number. I wondered if Tristan had ever fucked her, then reprimanded myself for letting my mind go to that ugliest of all insecure-female places.

Woman, that’s a highly destructive thought. Stop it.

I headed left and down the hall through an open glass door, which shut on its own the minute I’d walked in. I turned around to see that the glass had darkened immediately upon closing, so I could no longer see the hallway or the receptionist.

I found myself in a large chamber, a fireplace at one end, a long leather couch and two arm chairs set before it. It was more like a comfortable living room than any office I’d seen. But there was no sign of the man I’d come to visit.

“Hello?” I called out.

“Come in, Ariana,” the now familiar voice summoned from somewhere in the distance. “I’ve been waiting for you.”