“Whitney, you were late this morning.” Thomas Barton, CEO of Earth-4-One charity, barged into her office without knocking, his gray and white striped tie hanging slightly off-center.

Whitney tapped her now nude nails on her desk and arched her brow, “I told Izzy I’d be in late this morning.”

Thomas cleared his throat and loped across her office in a way only a man of his immense height and low weight could do. He folded himself onto the corner of her desk, slacks hitched up to reveal the brown shoes he’d matched with his gray pants.

“She must have forgotten to tell me. That’s the second time in two months that you’ve done this. You know our company policy on tardiness.” Thomas banged his heel on the corner of her desk and lifted his gaze to just below her neck.

Whitney leaned forward and her already abundant breasts strained the confines of her silk blouse. “How awful, am I in trouble?”

His neck flushed and she could practically see the saliva forming in his mouth. Idiot. Men were so easy to control.

Thomas stuttered, “Of course not, just don’t make it a habit, okay?”

“Whatever you say, boss. You’re in charge.” Whitney leaned forward a little farther and Thomas’s eyes grew large.

“Yes, I am. See that it doesn’t happen again.”

Of course, he couldn’t tear his gaze off her boobs. So, Whitney did it for him, leaning as far back in her chair as possible. “Was there anything else you needed?”

He cleared his throat and stood. “Did you get the reports on the medical situation in Sudan? The pharmaceutical companies need to know how much penicillin we need.”

She reached into her desk and pulled out her printed spreadsheet. “Here are the spreadsheets, detailed down to the last ounce.”

He scanned them, clearing his throat in a nervous shuffle of papers. How in God’s name did people like him soar high enough in the ranks to become CEO? “Er, great. I’ll review them for errors before turning them in.”

As if he would find any. They both damn well knew that she didn’t make mistakes when it came to her work. But she couldn’t tell him that, not without putting her job in jeopardy. Plus, the world of nonprofits was small and she couldn’t afford to get a bad rep, even if that meant forgoing the satisfaction of telling him off. She bit her tongue and nodded, watching with narrowed eyes as he left her office.

One day she would be the one making decisions. She’d finally get the opportunity to live her dream and open her own nonprofit. She would hire staff based on straight merit, not on their boob-to-waist ratio. Then she’d tell Thomas where exactly he could shove his mismatched socks.

Izzy poked her messy blonde head in through the open door. “What did Thomas say?”

Whitney did roll her eyes this time. “You know, you’re late, blah, blah, blah. Then he stared at my boobs some, and wouldn’t you know, everything became magically better.”

Izzy giggled, squeezing her curvy frame into the sleek black chair in front of Whitney’s desk. “I wish I were as good at dealing with him as you are. I swear, whenever that man comes around I completely lose my ability to speak.”

“Apparently, since you forgot to tell him I was going to be a couple of hours late this morning.” Not that she was actually mad at Izzy. Whitney had been relatively certain her friend would forget about the message as soon as she hung up the phone.

Izzy gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh no, I completely forgot. I was a total klutz this morning and spilled my chai tea on my new blouse. It was a huge mess.”

“You look great; I don’t see any stains.”

“That’s because I had this hideous shirt stuck in the back of my car. Who wears gray?” Izzy shuddered. “The new blouse was this lovely chartreuse color. I swear, me and new clothes just don’t get along.”

Chartreuse? Dear God. “I’m sure it was beautiful.”

Chartreuse ranked on her list right up there with pastels—as in none of them would ever, ever touch her body. Whitney preferred blacks and deep blues and greens. Not even the best supermodel could pull off chartreuse.

“Yes,” Izzy said with a voice full of regret, “I’d so looked forward to wearing it down to the lunch room today. James’s eyes would’ve popped out of his lovely little head the moment he saw me in it. He would’ve realized that skinny little witch he’s dating is a total mistake.”

She seriously doubted the chartreuse blouse would’ve pulled off such a miraculous feat. The James in question, Junior VP of public relations, was Izzy’s ex. He’d left Izzy in the form of a text and showed up the very next morning with an intern on his arm. A Scarlet Johansson look-alike intern. Izzy didn’t stand a chance at winning him back, not that Whitney thought it was a good idea.

“Stop wasting your time on that loser. You can do so much better.”

What Izzy lacked for in figure, her bright, bubbly personality made up for in abundance, that and her caring heart—something too many people in this place lacked. Within minutes of meeting her, Izzy had told her they’d be best friends for life. She’d meant it too. “I can’t forget him. He’s the love of my life.”

“Didn’t I see you flirting with the FedEx guy yesterday?”

Izzy’s turquoise blue eyes narrowed underneath her thick black lash extensions. “Is there anything you don’t miss?”

“Not really. Look, I feel like doing something tonight. How about me and you hit downtown?” She was so ready to find a man who would take control so she didn’t have to for once. A man she could trust – not a perv out looking for a one night stand.

“The last time you and I hit downtown in the middle of the week, I was puking in the trash can under my desk until lunch the next day.”

“No one told you to drink every single ounce of tequila in the bar.”

Izzy grinned. “No one told me not to either. Want to meet at Black Velvet at nine?”

That meant an entire four hours of alone time after she got off work tonight. “How about we eat first? I’ve been dying to try that little Mediterranean place they opened up on the corner of Fifth and Main.”

“It’s a date.” Izzy pried herself from the chair, the long gray blouse falling in elegant folds over her body.

She brushed her hands down the shirt as if it were covered in bugs. “That’ll give me time to get out of this hideous thing and change into something more appropriate.”

Izzy flounced out of her office, shutting the door behind her. Whitney grinned. Her cell rang, and she answered instantly, for some dumb reason not checking the screen before she held it to her ear and said hello.

“You were absolutely perfect last night.”

Whitney leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, ignoring the cold sensation creeping up her spine. “Of course, I was.”

Cory practically hummed through the phone. “Your new toy was a delightful surprise. I hope you bring it next time.” He dropped his voice low, an effect that might have been sexy if he hadn’t draped himself over her spanking bench last night while she whipped him like a misbehaving child.

Besides, no person in their right mind would ever want to be spanked with that beast. “You don’t get to tell me what to do, now do you?” Whitney’s voice resonated with smooth power, precisely the way the senator liked it.

“No, Mistress. I could never presume to tell you what to do.”

“Remember that, boy, or I’ll make you regret it.” Whitney snapped the phone shut and carefully placed it on her desk, her hand trembling ever so slightly from a small surge of power. She couldn’t deny she liked ordering him around, even if it was part of an act.

Her phone beeped a second later, signaling a new text message. I wish I could take you out to dinner and flaunt you around town. Would make all my friends jealous.

In a move surprisingly bold, even for herself, Whitney quickly texted back. I don’t think your wife would appreciate that.

She sucked in a breath, waiting for his response, one that took over thirty seconds to arrive. Oh shit, had she gone too far?

My bad girl. Have you reconsidered that trip? I know a place where we could go that no one would recognize us.

Whitney blew out the breath she’d been holding. Why had she been worried? He liked her cattiness. Maybe later on in the summer. I can’t take off work right now.

She could take off if she wanted, she’d saved up enough hours for at least two weeks of paid vacation, but she had no intention of spending more time alone with him than was strictly necessary.

You know I can make sure you’re not fired.

A niggle of doubt raised its ugly head. Had he gotten her the logistics job at Earth-4-One? When she’d interviewed with Thomas and his partner, she’d gotten the distinct impression they were more interested in her figure than in her abilities, so she hadn’t expected to receive an offer the next day.

But the sensitive topic wasn’t something she was willing to poke around in right now. See you in two weeks.

He paused long enough to make her chest tighten. Would he push the issue?

Her phone beeped. Wish me luck at my meeting. If it goes my way, we will have to celebrate. XOXO

Whitney typed the obligatory XOXO and set her phone down. Two more months. It’s all she had to do. Two more months.

The rest of the day flew by in a blur. The crisis in Sudan had reached astronomical portions. She was on the phone and answering emails every second. She didn’t even realize she’d worked straight through lunch until Izzy rapped on her door and said, “Weren’t you planning on leaving before five? Because it’s 5:30.”

Whitney grabbed her phone and glanced at the time. Crap, she hadn’t even realized. “I’m leaving now.”

“See you at seven,” Izzy spun to leave and bumped into someone. “Oh, excuse me.”

The person who’d almost gotten bowled over by Izzy stopped in the doorway. Thomas. It had to be. Whitney closed out her emails, having no intention of allowing him to throw more work on her at this hour. “I can’t stay any later. I have plans.”

“Is that any way to greet your parents?”

Whitney’s finger froze on the keyboard. Her father and mother stood at the door, him in a tweed jacket and her in a pants suit.

Her mother fingered the trendy pearls around her neck. “It’s been nearly a year since we’ve spoken to you.”

A new record. She’d deliberately not reached out to them after her last conversation to how long it would take for them to reach out to her. Maybe they’d found out about her promotion at the business and were here to congratulate her. A tiny, barely-there firework of hope exploded inside her. Maybe they’d finally come to realize that even though she wasn’t a fancy Harvard scientist, she mattered.

“Well, as you can see, I’ve been swamped.”

“Too busy to make the thirty-minute drive out to the estate?” Dr. Garfield Averton III took the seat Izzy had occupied earlier that morning. He looked exactly the same as he always had since she could remember. His side-parted gray hair, spectacles perched halfway down his nose, long fingers steepled in front of him.

The familiar lines of disappointment fanning out from his eyes as he peered at her over his glasses.

She shrugged and stood, gathering her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk and putting it across her shoulder. “Starving children all over the world need help, and every minute I have to spare is another life saved.”

“I thought you were just a secretary?” Her mother still hadn’t moved from the doorway, her unease with her youngest daughter palpable.

Her parents never knew how to handle her. Her disappointing lack of genius was something they’d never overcome.

But could she really blame her parents for their awkwardness? Their language was books and SMART Boards; they weren’t operating on the same playing field. Whitney blew out a sigh through barely parted lips, letting her pent-up tension out with it. “No, mother, I’m vice president of logistics. I’m the one in charge of ensuring all the donated food and water and clothes actually get into those children’s hands.” A fact that filled her with satisfaction and gratitude. Those kids actually needed her, not for her body but for her skills—skills she had learned on her own. And she intended to see to it that each and every hungry child got the help they deserved, even if it meant working through her lunch breaks. She had the luxury of eating whenever she wanted; they didn’t.

“How wonderful,” her mother said, “we had no idea.”

There were no warm hugs or claps of congratulations.

“So, why are you here?” she asked.

They’d never visited her at work before, and she’d been here nearly four years.

Her father stood, blocking her path. “We thought we could take you out to dinner.”

“Dinner?” The only time they’d gone out to dinner as a family was to celebrate her older sister’s accomplishments—valedictorian, summa cum laude, the Signet award for biochemical engineering research and development, the Edgar award for something science-y, blah, blah, blah. 

“Yes, you’re our daughter, what’s wrong with us wanting to take you out to dinner?” Her father lifted his bushy brows, but she sensed something else lurking under the surface.

“You’ve never taken me out to dinner, so what’s going on?”

Her mother’s pale cheeks flushed ever so slightly and she fidgeted with her pearls again, “Well dear, we want to take you out. Your sister’s practically unreachable and…well…” Her mother looked to her father for help, but he held his silence.

Whitney understood her mother’s implication, no need for clarification. They’d come to town hoping to take out Melissa, not her.

It always came back to Melissa with them.

She could save every starving child on this entire planet, but it would not win her an Edgar award, so it didn’t matter to them. Why did she keep getting her hopes up?

Whitney shoved her chin into the air as high as she could keep it, fighting to hide her disappointment as she pushed past her parents. “Sorry, like I said, I already have plans with someone who actually wants to go out with me.”

If they said anything else behind her, she didn’t hear it. She raced blindly from the office into her car in the covered parking lot. But the smooth leather interior lacked its usual comfort. The confines of the car felt tight and constricting, like there wasn’t enough oxygen inside. She opened the door, put her feet on the pavement and hung her head, sucking in the huge gulps of fresh air. Why did she still let herself care about her robotic parents? She should’ve learned her lesson years ago. They didn’t have room in their lives for someone like her.

One day, she’d have her own daughter, and no matter how smart or round or whatever she was, Whitney would make sure she knew how much her mother loved her.

Sucking in a final deep breath, Whitney pulled her limbs back into the car and shut the door. She pushed the start button for her Mercedes and wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel, staring at the empty concrete wall in front of her.

10 o’clock—Black Velvet

“Would you stop doing that?” Izzy took a long draw of her margarita, giggling, and facing the bar behind Whitney.

“Doing what?” Whitney asked innocently as she leaned an elbow against the bar and intentionally pushed her other hip out provocatively. Hungry for…something, she’d put on the same dark blue dress she’d worn the night she’d landed the senator—classic-cut, skin-tight, and with a short hemline.

“That. The poor fellow behind you is about to drop his whiskey.”

Whitney turned, located the man in question and offered him a sideways smile. He turned red and dropped his gaze to her feet. “There’s nothing wrong with looking.”

The whiskey guy stammered out an excuse and fled.

“Poor boy,” Izzy took another long gulp of her drink.

Whitney cradled her martini, still nearly full, and surveyed the room. Half the men in here were viable options. Virtually all of them were still in their suits and ties, their hair brushed and oiled, and lowball whiskeys in their hands.

All of them eyed her with interest.

And yet not a single man in this bar held an actual aura of strength. She needed someone who would present a challenge, someone who wouldn’t jump every time she snapped her fingers and have everything she wanted. She took a tiny sip of her martini, wishing some tall, dark and handsome stranger would come striding through the door.

What was wrong with her? Normally she’d be wrapping some hot VP around her little finger, tonight she just lacked the desire. Why did her parents always do this to her? She couldn’t even work up the energy to finish her martini. Even the senator exuded more authority than these wimps.

“Oo, I call dibs on that one.” Izzy played with her teased blonde mop, half pulled back, while staring directly past Whitney’s shoulder.

Curious to see who’d caught her friend’s attention, she glanced over her shoulder. No one in particular stood out. “Which one?”

“Lonesome Dove, two tables back, looks like he needs cheering up.”

The man in question was tracing the rim of his glass, staring down into its contents without blinking. He had chestnut brown hair, and instead of a suit, he was dressed business casual in a baby blue button-up and khakis.

“Not bad, what’s your plan?”

“Watch and learn from a pro.” Izzy slapped some cash on the bar for her drink, adjusted her top—down two inches lower—and swiped on a fresh coat of lip gloss. “See you at work in the morning?”

Izzy sauntered right up to the guy and whispered something in his ear. Thirty seconds later, Lonesome Dove lifted his finger, signaling for his ticket. Izzy cast a wink over her shoulder as she left the bar with the guy’s arm around her waist.

“Holy crap.” Stunned, Whitney cradled her forgotten drink, staring at the now-closed doors. What the hell had Izzy said to him? Lost without her BFF, Whitney leaned against the bar and took a measured sip. She’d planned on flying solo…later. Not right after ordering her first drink. 

At least one of them was getting laid. Black Velvet was only living up to half its name. After a quick glance around the bar, her eye found a table full of women. They looked about as welcoming as dull guillotines. One of the women shot her a catty glance and rolled her eyes.

Time to go. The night was a bust, which was no surprise after the confrontation with her parents. They always did this to her.

Whitney left some cash on the bar, lifted her chin and strode to the door, pulling out the small key fob for the Mercedes.

She froze as soon as she stepped outside.

The small parking spot she’d been lucky enough to squeeze into earlier was now empty. And the parking meter was still running. Had someone stolen her car? No way. Not in this part of town. Maybe she just parked it somewhere else and…

And what? There were no other red Mercedes Roadsters in sight. Hoping to hear the distant beep, beep, Whitney hit the unlock button on her key fob. When that didn’t work, she hit the alarm key. The only sound that greeted her was of other cars passing by.

Someone had stolen her car. Anger blasted through her chest. She snatched her phone out of her purse, googled the police phone number and called, hands trembling as she held the phone to her ear. When the deputy answered, Whitney said, “My car has been stolen.”

“Calm down, ma’am,” the deputy replied.

Whitney gnashed her teeth together. Wasn’t she allowed to be a little emotional in this situation? “I’d like to report a stolen vehicle,” she said in the calmest, measured voice possible, which—at the moment—probably came out sounding strangled.

“License plate number.”

License plate? “Who the hell knows their license plate number?”

The deputy let out a long sigh. “You’d be surprised. How about we start with your name.”

“Whitney Averton.”

“Miss Averton, could you give me the make and model of your car?”

The deputy’s obviously irritated tone dug its claws into her nerves. She was the victim here, not the other way around. “Mercedes Roadster, red, SL class.”

The deputy didn’t answer, but the distinct sound of keys clacking in the background assured her the woman was still on the line. Clutching the phone to her ear and standing in the crowded street, Whitney looked around wildly. Had anyone here witnessed the theft?

“I’m sorry Miss Averton, but we’re not showing any such vehicle registered to your name.”

Ice shot down her spine and she started to tremble. “Maybe you misspelled my name?”

The deputy quickly fired off the correct spelling of Whitney’s name, address, and date of birth.

“And you’re not showing the registration for my Mercedes?”

“Have you been drinking, ma’am?”

“What?!” It came out as more of a shriek than she’d intended, but she couldn’t help it. “No, why aren’t you trying to help me? My car has been stolen.”

“Look, Miss Averton, the last car we have registered to your name is a Pontiac GT, 2000 model. You should know the fines for prank calling the sheriff’s office exceed $5000.”

“This isn’t a prank call!”

“Ma’am,” the deputy let out a long sigh again. It was the kind of sigh that said she was reaching the end of her patience for dealing with crazies. “Perhaps there’s another name it’s registered under? Your father?”

Ding. Ding. Ding. Of course, it wouldn’t be under her name. But then, that meant it was under Cory’s. Could she tell the deputy? Or was that limited under her NDA? Shit. Surely there was some kind of emergency clause in their contract. “Cory Keeling.”

More keys clacking. More barely audible sighs.

The door clanged open behind her, and a group of very well-dressed men came stumbling out. They’d obviously over imbibed. She sidestepped them, not wanting to get freight lined, and completely ignored the long appreciative glances they cast her way. “Well?”

Her toes were starting to ache in these damn high heels and the outside D.C. air wasn’t exactly pleasant. She detected a hint of exhaust mixed in with the humidity. Two men all but fell into a silver Lexus a few spots down and slowly eased out. The long dark streets stretched out behind them.

“Ma’am, are you referring to a Sen. Cory Keeling?”

“Of course, ma’am,” she drew out the word ma’am in response to all the other ma’ams the deputy had thrown her way, “who else would I be referring to?”

“Hold please.” The woman didn’t even give her a chance to respond. The phone line filled up with smooth jazz. The music was probably intended to soothe people’s frayed nerves, but it was certainly not doing the trick for her.

Clutching the phone against her ear, Whitney paced up and down the sidewalk in front of the bar. What the hell was going on?

Was she even supposed to tell them the senator had given her the car? Their contract required her to remain completely silent about the relationship in all ways shapes and forms. She wasn’t allowed to tell anyone. And she never had before, but this was an emergency…wasn’t it?

Panic threaded through her, and she almost hung up the phone, but another voice came over the line. A man.

“Is this Miss Whitney Averton?”

“It is. And may I ask who I’m speaking with now?”

“This is Sgt. Peter Thomas. I understand you claim you have a car that has been stolen. And that this car is not registered to you but Senator Cory Keeling?”

She picked up the pace, her heels clacking in the night air. Despite a lingering sense of foreboding, she said, “Yes, just like I told the woman before you.”

“You see ma’am, I know Senator Cory Keeling personally. He attends our wounded policeman fundraiser every year. I’ve met his entire family. He is the biggest donor to our entire police force. I don’t seem to recall ever meeting a Whitney Averton.” The sergeant’s voice dropped as he said the last few words, making a silent threat.

She stopped pacing. The foreboding feeling spread throughout her body, and gooseflesh popped up on her arms and legs. This had been a mistake.

Cory was their biggest donor. Their biggest supporter. She was his dirty secret, which meant she was supposed to keep her mouth shut.

The Sgt. continued just as darkly, “We go to church with them every Sunday. My wife teaches women’s Bible study with Mrs. Keeling. Anyone trying to harm his family will be investigated to the fullest extent of the law.”

Oh, shit. Whitney hung up and stood there motionless for a moment, staring down the bustling street, feeling completely alone. Her heart thundered in her chest and her legs quaked. She should never have called the cops. She should’ve called the senator. With trembling fingers, she quickly tapped the senator’s name on her phone and held it to her ear. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Several rings sounded before the line cut off. She yanked the phone away from her face and stared fiercely at the screen. He’d declined her call.

Her anxiety was starting to turn into panic. What the hell was going on? She quickly typed out a text: Car’s been stolen. Need your help.

She clutched the phone so tightly her fingers started going numb, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the screen.

Come on, come on… Right now, she’d even take his creepy bodyguard.

The senator always replied to her messages—unless he was in a meeting or with his wife. She checked the time. 11 p.m. Shit. He definitely wasn’t in a meeting right now.

Whitney stared at her phone screen so long it started to blur. He wasn’t going to respond.

She didn’t know what to do. The cops weren’t going to help. She couldn’t call Izzy and interrupt her late-night booty call. She sure as hell couldn’t call her worthless parents. They’d never interrupt their beauty sleep for her.

Quit whining and DO something.

Whitney shook her head. She had survived most of her life on her own. Why did she need anyone’s help now? This could all wait until tomorrow. The senator would laugh off her worry, and then he’d sic that bad ass Reinhardt on whatever poor bastard had stolen her car.

She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, some of that panic that had wound up inside her easing. All she needed right now was an Uber, a long, hot bath and a very, very large shot of the single-malt whiskey she kept hidden in the cabinet for just such an occasion.

She hit the request and a car arrived thirty minutes later, leaving her to sink against the wall and wait. She slid into the back seat and closed her eyes for the ride home. She got to her apartment building, inserted the key into the elevator, and gratefully stepped into it. As soon as the doors slid shut behind her, she slipped out of her heels and leaned back against the wall, staring at her reflection in the polished interior with a sideways smile.

Everything would be better in the morning. She should’ve known this day was doomed to failure the moment her mother and father popped their heads into her office. They were always a black cloud in her life.

Tired but mostly calm, Whitney straightened from the wall as the elevator doors dinged, signaling it had reached her penthouse. She could practically hear her claw foot bathtub singing her name. Whitney stepped into the darkened entryway. “Lights on.”

Light poured across utter destruction. Her heart kickboxed her lungs and she stumbled back. Her couch lay on its back. The expensive vase in her entry way shattered.

Fear took a fierce hold on her throat and choked off her air. She took another step backward and slapped the elevator button. Someone had destroyed her apartment.

And they might still be in here.

She was beyond trembling now, her body in full freak-out mode. With eyes glued wide open, she scoured her surroundings, clutching her purse like a weapon, praying some serial killer wouldn’t come running at her with his knife raised.

Where was her cat, Tiger?

The door dinged. She fell through the open doors and frantically punched the button to close doors. "Tiger," she whispered, unable to get enough air behind her voice for it to carry.

Please, please shut. "Tiger," she said with more force.

He didn't come. The doors slid shut, and she slid to the floor, heart thundering in her ears.

What do I do? I can’t call the police.

Her NDA with the senator precluded even the law. A fact her useless call to the cops earlier had brought into stark reminder. Hand trembling, she dialed Senator Keeling. His phone rang and rang with no answer. She tried again. And again.

When the elevator opened on the lobby floor, she was forced to stand and walk out like nothing had happened. The bell clerk studiously kept his gaze focused on the monitors and she stumbled to the women’s bathroom.

She held her phone, staring at the screen and praying for inspiration. Who could she call for help?