“Cool digs,” I say as he pulls me onto the elevator. When I turn, I more fully take in the lush entry area, its crown molding, its expensive furniture, its little touches of decadence.

“It could be worse,” he admits, sticking his key into the slot that will allow us to get to his penthouse. The doors close and he turns to me. “Do you like elevators, Bell?” He steps forward, into my space. Instinctively I step back, but that only serves to bring me up against the wall. His lips touch mine so gently it’s practically a caress, nearly innocent.

And yet.

I feel his hands move up to my waist as his mouth quietly, softly moves down to my chin, my neck . . .

“The doors could open at any moment,” I say. I try to add a little laugh, but the sound comes out as a staccato breath.

“Yes,” he says, “they could.”

He leans into me, and his body is different than I thought it would be—harder, stronger.

He doesn’t know who I really am; he can’t.

His hands are on my hips, and the hem of my dress inches up as his grip becomes firmer, more demanding.

I’m going to destroy him. I’ll bring down his entire family.

His lips rise to my ear, his tongue finding my most sensitive spots there.

This is a sacrifice—it’s supposed to be a sacrifice . . .

. . . but that’s not what it feels like.

I close my eyes just as the elevator slows to a stop. He pulls away, but only a little. “Welcome to my home.”

Slowly I open my eyes again and step into his penthouse. The art pieces on the wall are originals, mostly by artists I don’t know . . . except for the charcoal nude rendered by Degas.

This man owns a Degas.

I don’t comment on it. Instead I just continue down the hall past the kitchen, the home office, into what serves as a living room.

One wall is lined with books, the other with windows. In the corner is a small bar, stocked with expensive bottles that look as decorative as they do sinful.

“You have a view of Central Park.” I step up to the wall of glass and stare down at the dimly lit landscape. I can feel his eyes on me . . . It’s almost like he’s touching me.

This man is my enemy.

“If I lived your life I would go to all the fancy parties,” I say lightly. “I bet you get invited to all sorts of red-carpet affairs. I bet you could be in a tux every night of the week if you wanted to be.”

“No man wants to be in a tux every night.” He pauses, leans back on his heels. “I’d like to guess your name now.”

“Oh?” I flash him a bright, playful smile. “You think you can?”