Page 38 of One Billion Reasons

He sends it and then immediately asks why I need it.

No reason.

The wheels are turning though. I do a quick search. The building was built years ago, but it’s in perfectly good shape. Clearly, this is just another developer trying to make a quick buck.

I call George, and they pick up immediately. They’re in my phone as “ICE” and I know I’m in theirs as “HRH.”

“Yes?”

“How was the show?” I sink back on the bed. It’s one I’ve seen before and remember enjoying, as much as I enjoy anything on Broadway, which is to say, very little.

“Delightful. Our seats were excellent. I particularly loved the twist right before intermission.”

“Hmm. Don’t recall that.”

“You’ve seen it twice.” Their voice is flat, unimpressed by my lack of cultural sophistication.

“Yes, but with clients. And you know I hate musicals.”

“You’re an uncultured swine.”

I can practically picture their eyes narrowing, and I grin into the phone. “I can still fire you.”

George knows it will never, ever happen. “Why did you call?”

“I need you to look something up for me.” I give them Lane’s address. “Find out who’s buying the building and why. I want a full report on the property.”

Just in case.

“On it. Anything else? How’s the wedding?”

“Utterly abysmal. I haven’t been able to talk to Catherine. Amanda’s father has it out for me, and Mark Taylor is lurking around every corner.”

“Sounds like fun. Glad I’m not you.”

We hang up, and I close my eyes. Behind my lids, I can picture every piece of my empire. The properties across the globe, the plane, the players. But there are a few pieces that don’t fit. Mark, the man I need to destroy. Montauk, the reason I’m here. And Lane. A distraction I can’t have. A means to an end. Nothing more.

But fuck, it really felt like more.

I work on emails, only growing more frustrated with our lack of progress, until a soft knock sounds on the door connecting our rooms.

“Miles?” Lane’s voice is muffled. “Can you help me?”

When I open the door, she’s there, lips painted fire-engine red, some sort of bewitching cuff covering the top of her ear. And then she twists and half her back is bared.

“Can you help with the zipper, please?”

I freeze.

I definitely should not touch Lane. I shouldn’t run my fingers up the tattoo along her spine. I shouldn’t brush her hair over her shoulder.

So I carefully grasp the zipper and try to ignore the heat of her skin against mine. That bare touch makes her shiver, and something inside me goes predatory and still, knowing the reactions I can evoke in her. I tug the zipper, gently, then more forcefully.

“Careful, please.”

“I’m trying.” I grit the words out, disoriented by her scent and the swathe of her bare back.

“I don’t have a lot of dresses with me. I can’t afford to rip this one.”

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