Page 3 of Sweet Conviction

Winter Pyke's world tour starts soon. And after what happened last time she was on tour, we have a whole helluva lot to accomplish before we send her and the band back out on the road. I won't have anyone trying to shoot her again.

I stride into my office, running through a mental list, only to stop dead when I catch sight of a woman standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows behind my desk, her back to me as she gazes out at the Nashville skyline. Her hair is pinned up on top of her head in an intricate bun, leaving the back of her neck exposed. My gaze travels down her body—over the soft swell of her waist, her curvy hips, and the roundness of her perfect ass.

Fucking Christ.

The way her skirt hugs her curves should be illegal. She's got a body made for sin—thick and lush. That soft, sweet body was made for a man like me to get lost in. Not that I'd fucking know about that.

I may be the only goddamn virgin billionaire this side of the equator. The media would have a field day with that if they knew, but it's never been something I cared to fix.

Frankly, I keep my fucking hands to myself for a reason. The less time I spend with women, the less chance I fuck around and fall in love with one. And that's something I won't do.

I watch the woman for a long moment, curious who the fuck she is and why she's in my office. From the few photos I've seen—and God knows, I've spent more time than I'd like to admit staring at those over the last six weeks—she could almost be the woman my grandfather is trying to force me to marry.Tempest Evernight.

That woman is fucking gorgeous. Long, curly hair the color of midnight, amber eyes framed by thick, sooty lashes, skin the color of burnished gold, and a body that makes my fucking teeth ache.

There's nothing small about her. She's got these voluptuous curves that overflow in a way that I want to experience for myself. I never knew a belly could be so sexy until I saw photos of her.

From the back, this girl could be her twin. But Tempest is halfway across the continent in LA…right?

Jesus Christ.I'm going to kill Jake for not warning me she was here. Actually, I'm going to strangle the old man for not telling me she was coming because I guarantee he fucking knew.

Instead of letting her know I'm there, I watch her in silence, fascinated as her hands flutter and she shifts restlessly, those luscious hips swaying. She seems anxious, nervous. But even then, she stands straight, her shoulders back and her head held high, clinging to grace with an understated confidence that has my balls cinching up tight and my cock throbbing.

"It's beautiful up here, Dalton," she says suddenly, her voice soft and lilting. I didn't even realize she knew I was watching her. "Very peaceful."

A harsh laugh erupts before I can stop it. "It's an illusion. This office is a fucking prison."

Once upon a time, I loved this place and everything it represented. It was a sanctuary, my goddamn kingdom. The oldman snatched away any semblance of peace I found here six weeks ago.

I've been at war with him and myself ever since.

Part of me wants to tell him to fuck off, stubbornly dig in my heels, and refuse this arranged marriage even if it means watching Grady Records and everything I've built crash and burn. I won't be controlled. I'm not a puppet.

But the other part…shit. That part is all fucked up in the head. I've looked into Tempest, seen her pictures, and read about her. She's not just gorgeous but brilliant. She runs her family's record label almost single-handedly at only twenty-four, and she's done a damn good job.

She's fucking incredible—fiery and intelligent, and compassionate and empathetic, too. Everyone who knows her respects her. They love her.

I've never been fascinated by a woman, let alone to the degree this one fascinates me. I'm drawn to her, and I don't even know her. I hate that I can't stop thinking about her…and I don't hate it nearly enough at the same goddamn time.

And I'm not entirely sure if I feel the way I do because my fucking grandfather got into my head by telling me that she's what my parents would have wanted for me or if it's because she's in my head.

All I know is that the old man detonated a bomb in my life, and the motherfucker is still exploding.

I watch her shoulders rise and fall with every breath, trying like hell to convince myself that I don't want to want her. But I'm no longer sure if that's true. I feel like I'm raging against the goddamn wind, trying to convince it to hear me. But the wind never cared how much we scream into it. It does what the fuck it's going to do regardless.

She slowly turns to face me, and my goddamn heart stops.

"Shit," I growl, rocking back on my heels. She's even more beautiful in person than in her photos. Those eyes…goddamnthose eyes. They're startling, vivid amber with tiny blue flecks. Fierce intelligence blazes like the sun in them as she meets my gaze, searching, assessing.

It's almost like she's looking for something. It's obvious she's nervous, but she tries like hell not to let it show. She's a brave little goddess, trembling and too fucking sweet.

"You know who I am," she finally says, her tongue skating across her full bottom lip.

"Why wouldn't I?" I arch a brow. "We're betrothed, are we not?" The word feels wrong on my tongue. This isn't how any of this shit is supposed to happen.

Seconds tick by as we stare at each other, the air crackling with tension. It's like it's alive between us, a current of energy shifting and contorting between us…drawing me closer. I shove my hands into my pockets and plant my feet, fighting like hell to stay away from her, to not give into whatever madness this is. But I feel it. Christ, it's alive between us, raising hairs on the back of my neck, whispering through my fucking veins.

No.

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