Page 12 of Violent Hearts

Chapter 7

Ann

Only one thought assaults my senses when I walk through the door and spot the man sitting at one of the tables in the back of the restaurant.

You've got to be kidding me.

For a moment, I don't trust my eyes. I don't want to trust my eyes. I try to convince myself that it’s just a weird coincidence, perhaps the universe playing a joke on me. This cannot be real… but it is.

The man is not a stranger.

It's him.

The man who approached me at the agency, the man whose husky voice sent shivers racing down my spine when he spoke those words against my ear. What was his name again? I'm too dumbfounded by his appearance to remember, but I distinctly remember him introducing himself that day.

Instead of walking toward the table to greet him, I don’t move from my position right inside the door, staring at him in disbelief. It’s like I’ve turned into a statue.

He notices me, too. Our eyes connect across the room. Unlike me, though, he doesn't seem to be the least bit surprised or shocked. But then, why would he be? He had the upper hand knowing that he was meeting me tonight. The e-mail Miss Barry sent me didn't include any identifying information about the man I was scheduled to meet.

The man who was interested in buying me.

All I was told were the details of his inquiry at the agency. He's looking for something very specific, something that will cost him a lot of money and appears to be hard to find. He's looking for a woman who is willing to pretend to be his girlfriend, a partner who will be attached to his arm in public, but who is also willing to serve his needs in bed. Miss Barry told me that most clients seek one or the other. Either option can be purchased for longer than a single night, and some arrangements even last for months or years, but the contracts focused on hiring a girlfriend often don’t include sex or are limited to naturally occurring intimacy.

But this guy, he wants it all, and he wants at least a year-long commitment. The inquiry said that he's not only looking for a fake girlfriend, but a submissive in bed, a girl who will satisfy his sexual needs, submit to his commanding nature, and bend to his will.

I don't know how comfortable I am with that last part, but I was definitely intrigued by the rest, and especially what he’s willing to pay to get it.

One million dollars.

And he wants me. He saw me, both in person and on file, and he wants me. The e-mail laid out a time and place to meet him, and all I was told was to show up if I was willing to negotiate an offer with him.

Based on the inquiry, I was definitely willing and curious, but that was before I knew who the man was.

I don't know whether to feel flattered or scared, but I do know one thing: I'm angry.

The confident expression on his face doesn't change one bit when the anger surging through my veins ignites the courage I need to march across the room toward him in long, furious steps.

"Is this a fucking joke?" I snap at him once I reach the table. "Did you set me up?"

His gaze darkens and he lets out an indignant huff before getting up from his seat. I watch as he stalks around the table, coming to a halt right in front of me. He’s standing so close that I can smell the intoxicating scent of his cologne. His proximity is unsettling, and it’s as if his mere presence starts churning my insides up like a blender.

I fight my instinct to back away from him, instead lifting my gaze up to meet his, defiantly jutting my chin forward and narrowing my eyes. He reciprocates my spite with a sinister look, his dark brown eyes simmering. He's wearing an expensive-looking black suit custom-fitted to his buff frame, and I notice that his hair is gelled to one side, styled in a more sleek fashion than it was the last time I saw him.

Despite the mixed kettle of emotions brewing and stirring inside me, I can't deny that he's the most handsome man I've ever seen in my life. The effect his refined allure has on me is troubling to say the least.

I hold my breath when he leans down, moving his face so close to mine that our noses almost touch. I can feel the warmth of his breath sizzling on my skin when he speaks.

"Sit," he hisses at me. "Now."

He underpins his sharp words by gesturing toward the chair opposite the one where he had been sitting.

My response is a hateful glare.

We engage in a silent staring contest for a few moments before he raises his voice again.

"Sit," he repeats. "You have five seconds."

I huff. "Or else?"

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