Page 1 of InfraRed

Prologue

Long fingers stroke my arm as expensive veneers flash, laughing as though what I just said was the most hilarious thing ever spoken. I hide my mocking grin at the desperate socialite behind my tumbler of Scotch, knowing the busty redhead has no clue what I just said. She wants my approval—and my cock—and will say and do anything to get it.

“Graham, you’re so smart and funny,” she breathes like the good little future Stepford she aspires to be. I have no doubt she will accomplish her lofty goals of rolling on satin sheets every night without doing much more than taking a few spin classes to keep her ass firm and making it to her regular lip-injection sessions to ensure those pouty lips stay nice and cushiony for her prospective husband’s dick.

I am not that prospective husband. I’m twenty-four with goals and on the path to get there before I’m twenty-five. That doesn’t include catering to high-maintenance women whose biggest goal in life is to wear the latest season’s fashions. My attention has to be laser-focused if I plan to go from one of the youngest millionaires in the country to one of the youngest billionaires.

Besides, even if I were in the market for a wife, Stepford wouldn’t be my flavor, but I’ll have a go between the sheets.

My lips drop to her ear, whispering words that turn her porcelain skin crimson. When I lift my head, her green eyes are filled with hazy lust. I drag my finger across her exposedcollarbone slowly. “What do you say?” I already know the answer, but clear consent is a must.

Her pink tongue rolls across lush, pillowy lips as she whispers her willingness. I set my tumbler aside, relieve her of her flute, and offer my hand.

We weave through the crowds. A few men stop us with idle chat and the same mundane questions they always ask—how have you been? What made you decide to forge your own path? None of which is a secret.

A few minutes later, I drag her into a vacant room and kick the door closed. Her grabby hands are quick to reach for my belt buckle as her slobbery mouth latches to my neck.

Lips curled in disgust, I grip her hair, tugging her away from me. “None of that,” I hiss, pulling a handkerchief from my pocket and wiping away her lipstick-stained saliva. “On your knees.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow as her arms cross her chest, pushing her big tits higher. “I don’t do that.”

Yeah, right. And I’m Ghandi.No one that suctions onto a neck like she did will ever convince me they weren’t a Hoover in a past life.

My shoulders lift with insouciance. “Then we’re done here.”

I turn away from her, heading for the door. Forcing someone isn’t how fortunes are kept, and I plan on keeping mine. That’s why I demand consent. She’s lucky I don’t have a waiver with me.

“Wait!” I look over my shoulder with a single brow raised. The fiery liar drops to her knees. “I’ll do it.”

But the moment has passed. Being told no is an instant erection deterrent for me because I see the future accusations and dollar signs in their eyes. Besides, I wasn’t that interested in the firstplace. “I’m good,” I tell her with a wave and keep walking.

She huffs and stumbles behind, calling out my name. The click of her heels clatters against the marble as she chases after me. I stop, making her crash into my back, and turn to face her. “Look, you should find someone to make your dreams come true. All I was interested in was getting my dick sucked, and now I’m not.”

Her mouth falls, but I accomplished my goal. She spins on her expensive heels and storms away.

I continue to make my way back toward the main room when familiar voices get my attention. Brows pinched, I follow the sound with my fists clenched in annoyance before I get there.

“You are an embarrassment. All you had to do was wear what I set out for you, and you show up wearing this.” The grating shriek makes my teeth clench as I step into the room and find the familiar blond waving her hands at her daughter. “After everything Maxwell has done for you, you come wearing thrift store garbage.”

I remain unnoticed as I watch my father’s wife continue to berate her daughter, whose head hangs in defeat. Her hands wildly fly around, gesturing to the dress in question—a modest, deep blue, cinched at the waist, flaring wide at her knees. It is a breath of fresh air compared to the copycat attire of every other woman here tonight, and more appropriate than the woman standing in front of her. “You are just like your father. You never consider anyone but yourself. You just do as you please.”

“Mom,” she sniffles, her head hanging low, “the other dress didn’t look good on me. I-I wasn’t comfortable.”

“Of course, it didn’t, Casey. Nothing looksgoodon you. Look at you. You may as well be a boy. I told you we could fix that, but you were more worried about how it would affect your dancing—as if you’ll ever make something of that. If you’d justhave the surgery, I wouldn’t have to pay boys to pretend they’re interested in you. Men want women who look likewomen.”

A tiny broken gasp makes me step from the shadows. “That’s enough, Krista.”

Casey spins around, her tear-streaked face flushing deeply as her hands come up to cover her face. A gut-wrenching sob breaks free as she runs from the room.

Krista’s eyes narrow on me, filled with venom. The woman hates me, and the feeling is mutual. “Who do you think you are? That was a private conversation between my daughter and me.”

I rake my eyes over her—the tight white dress pushes up the tits my dad paid for to her chin, the silicone-filled lips, the nose that didn’t use to be quite so straight and narrow—and my mouth draws down in disgust. The woman makes my skin crawl. The way she treats her daughter is despicable. “If you wanted private, then you should make sure half the building can’t hear your ear-piercing shrieks.”

“Sheshouldn’t have come here wearing dollar store trash. How does that make your father look?”

My eyes roll, knowing my father couldn’t care less what Casey wears. The only one that looks trashy is her. She is always dressed like a damn hooker. The kind ready to drop to their knees for a dime.

Also, this party has nothing to do with my dad. This is another one of Krista’s ploys to fit in where she doesn’t. A Hampton’s country club is the last place someone would expect the fiftieth birthday of a record label owner to be held. I’d bet money my dad doesn’t know half the people here.

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