Page 3 of Entity

I step out of the elevator onto plush carpet and immediately freeze. Glancing around at the living space, the first word that occurs to me ispristine. I’ve never seen a living area so large and so visibly untouched. It’s open plan, all chrome and dark wood and strangely shaped cream sofas that almost look like art installations. On the far wall, facing west, is a single floor-to-ceiling window through which the facades of nearby skyscrapers, glittering with animated ads, glow neon in rain-blurred smears.

God, everything in this place is soclean. I’m going to ruin Ian De Leon’s penthouse with rainwater and street grime. Here come my nerves, back again to play. But I refuse to let them. I’m supposed to be here. I signed a contract.

No one is here to greet me, though, except a seemingly empty penthouse.

“Hello?” I say, bending down to unlace my boots. There’s no way I’m tracking water and dirt all over a billionaire’s house.

“Yeah, come in,” comes a voice from around the corner of the elevator bay.

Anticipation licks my skin. I know that voice. It’s one of the most famous voices in the world, and also one of the wealthiest.

Awkwardly, I shake my boots off. Should I just leave them by the door? What about my duffle?

“Mr. De Leon,” I say, “where can I put my wet things?”

“There’s a closet to the left, in the hallway. Come in, come in.”

“Okay, thanks,” I reply, feeling incredibly awkward. Shouldn’t he have a butler? And where is his Eros model, if not here to greet me? Maybe he’s saving the reveal for later.

I find the closet, but not without leaving a dripping path in my wake. The closet is empty except for a line of slippers in various sizes on the floor. I hang up my damp coat, delicately place my boots and duffle in the far corner, and then stare hesitantly at the slippers. Should I put some on? Is that what they’re for?

After a moment of waffling, I finally slide my feet into one of the smallest pairs. Then I remember I’m supposed to turn in my phone and pluck it from my handbag before hanging that up, too. I close the closet door.

My heart is hammering. Now that I’m out of the rain with dry feet, it’s starting to really hit me: I’m alone in a sky-high penthouse with Ian De Leon.

Ian De Leon!

“Found it?” my host calls, probably wondering why I’m taking so long.

“Yeah, sorry!” I follow his voice to the other side of the elevator, where a kitchen and bar open up in warmly lit hues. And there, standing behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey in his hand, is Ian De Leon.

He smiles, and I already know he’s going to be a problem for me. “What are you drinking, Katherine Fox?”

2

Ian De Leonis shorter than I thought he’d be. I’ve only seen him in photographs from before he made all his money, or in the official-looking headshots they use in the news. Not a single paparazzi shot of him exists, and he doesn’t do interviews. Not since the Eros model debuted. In fact, for years he’s said he would never appear in public or give an interview again.

Until now.

He’s older than his most recent photo by about a decade, putting him… mid-forties, I’m guessing. His thick black hair is marked at the temples with streaks of silver. His jaw is stubbled with five-o’clock shadow, which I suspect is by design. His collared white shirt hangs open at the throat, revealing a thin gold chain and a hint of chest hair. A pair of round, gold-framed glasses hang from his shirt pocket. Everything about him is perfect, clean, curated — just like the penthouse.

Ian De Leon ismuchbetter looking in person. And even though I try to ignore it, my heart rate absolutely can’t. He is definitely going to be a problem.

Rain patters the floor-to-ceiling window behind me. Ian watches me expectantly with dark brown eyes. And as I move closer, pulse pounding, something in his gaze makes my guttighten. He looks like the men I used to serve at cocktail bars: polite at first, even respectful, but deep down I recognize a glint of hunger there.

He clears his throat.

I realize he’s waiting for my answer. I try to relax; I need to chill the fuck out if I’m going to spend the next three days with him. “Whiskey’s fine.”

He raises a dark eyebrow. “Straight?”

“Oh… uh, no.” I’m so off my game. Usually, I’m a pro at acting cool and casual, no matter what emotions are scrabbling for purchase underneath. “Sorry, I thought… because you had the bottle—”

He leans over the bar, forearms resting on the countertop. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing a gold bracelet partially obscured by thick dark hair. “Tell me what you’d order from the bar,” he says with a half-smile. His mannerisms are disarming, intimate, and a little too sexy.

I almost blurt out my actual order — a shot of tequila — like I’m sixteen with a fake ID. But Ian De Leon doesn’t need to know how cheap a date I really am, how easy it is to get me into…well. In any other circumstance, I’d fall into his bed stone-cold sober. But in this case, I’m trying to be a professional career woman; a person who drinks fancy cocktails. And I’m ashamed to realize I have no idea what drink I should want. What cocktails do women in their twenties with generational wealth order at the bar?

I go with the safest route. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

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