Page 128 of Princess Avenged

She pulls out a crumpled sticky note from her pocket and reads, “When the car drops you off, enter through the metal door on the left of the alley.” She glances around. “This has to be the right door.”

“This doesn’t seem strange to you?” Or dangerous? I moved to Philadelphia not long after I turned eighteen, but after growing up in the country, I’m still cautious.

She shrugs. “Rich people are eccentric.”

Shana should know. My earthy, scattered boss, who buys most of her wardrobe at used clothing stores as a protest against fast fashion and waste, is actually the youngest daughter of the man who’s family owns the largest real estate company in the state.

Shana holds open the door for me, and the space we step into is narrow, but belies the simple steel door. The entrance way is sleek and tasteful, modern and yet somehow classic with long, teal curtain panels hanging at intervals over crisp white walls that rise at least twenty feet up to a ceiling covered with gleaming metallic ceiling tiles. The lighting is recessed, its source unclear, creating the illusion that the white and black floor tiles are floating over a bed of light.

A shiny black door opens at the back of the room, and a tall, elegant man appears, dressed in a tuxedo complete with white gloves. “Welcome.” He bows slightly. “Shana Johnson and Ember Cross, I presume?”

“Mr. Zuben?” Shana walks forward, extending her hand, but the man shakes his head.

“He will meet you inside the club.”

Club? I’ve never been outside after dark, never mind inside anything that could be described as a club, and a frisson of excitement races through me. Or maybe it’s fear. I’m not sure my body knows the difference. “What kind of club is this?” I ask.

Shana hip checks me and shoots me a look that says, ‘shut up’.

“It’s a social club,” the man answers as we pass him. “Exclusive to the most senior executives of DEFTA.”

DEFTA. That’s where we are? I know little of the mysterious company whose name graces the top of this major high-rise in center city Philadelphia.

The man shuts the door from the lobby, leaving the three of us in a wide hallway painted deep black. At least I think it’s painted. The texture of the walls seems cushioned, and it’s hard to resist touching them to test how far my fingers would sink in if I pushed. But before I can act on my impulse, a door at the other end opens and light floods the dark hallway.

We enter the most beautiful room I’ve ever seen.

“Wow,” Shana says, clearly impressed too, even though I’m sure she’s seen way more beautiful spaces than I have. “This is really something.”

I nod as my attention is pulled from one place to another—red velvet and satin, gold detailing, wood paneling, rich leather chairs in a deep blood red, antiques galore—and, although it’s super-fancy, the space also feels comfortable, as if the room is literally asking us to make ourselves at home.

“…and this is our accountant, Ember Cross,” Shana says.

My attention snaps from the surroundings to her voice, and I realize that, while I’ve been lost in the decor, she’s been in the middle of introductions.

Focusing on my hand, I reach forward to shake the man’s, and his engulfs mine. His touch is warm and soft, his fingers long, his skin light brown, and his face… Raising my gaze, I can’t draw a full breath as I take in the most handsome man I have ever seen in the flesh.

His warm, brown eyes are rimmed with the kind of thick, dark lashes women yearn for, giving the illusion that he’s wearing black eyeliner, his eye whites shimmer in contrast, and his deeply tan skin luxuriates over sharply chiseled features so perfectly symmetrical it’s hard to believe the man’s real. He’s more like an artist’s interpretation of male beauty, and his thick, well-groomed brows rise as he stares.

Stares at me.

His gaze on me is so intense it makes me feel naked, and heat rises to bake me from the inside. I suck on my cheeks, desperate for enough moisture to allow me to speak.

“Ms. Cross?” His intense attention turns to a look of concern, pooling in the depths of eyes the color of chestnuts that I can’t stop staring into. “Are you quite well?”

“Yes.” My heart racing, I drop his hand and step back. “Yes, fine. I’m very well. This…this is a beautiful room. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Or anything like you… And I’ve certainly never felt anything like the reaction his handshake and attention set off in my belly.

“Mr. Zuben,” Shana interjects, reminding me she’s there. “We’re very excited to answer your questions and to show you how much your generous donation will help homeless youth in our city.”

His eyes flash with what looks like a message directed at me, one I don’t understand, then he turns toward Shana. “Ms. Johnson, I requested a meeting with your accountant.”

“This is her.” Shana smiles, trying to hide her confusion.

“Alone.” The man’s intense glare turns back to me again and my belly tightens.

Shana grabs my forearm and tugs, urging me closer toward her—and away from the handsome man. I smile at her mothering instincts, saving me from the big bad wolf. As if a wolf would dress so well, or smell so good, or be so amazingly handsome.

Shana clears her throat. “Mr. Zuben, I assure you that I can answer any questions about our finances. I am the executive director of Sanctuary House and have been for nearly twenty years?—”

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