Page 7 of The Wrong Brother

I lock the phone and toss it onto the marble island harder than necessary. Distracted is an understatement.

The moment I saw Emma standing in that fitting room, flushed and trying to make herself smaller while wearing a dress designed to worship every inch of her body, something ugly and possessive snapped awake inside me.

Mine.

An insane, dangerous thought. I don’t know anything about this woman; I have no background information on her. Yet I’ve invited her into my home, where the most vulnerable parts of my life are kept tucked away.

I knew immediately that I wanted her underneath me. I wanted to hear what noises she makes when she stops thinking and starts feeling. And she said yes.

A laugh echoes faintly in my memory. Her laugh. Soft, slightly bitter. Defensive. Not polished like the women usually circling men like me.

Emma looked at me like she knew I was dangerous and said yes anyway. That interests me more than it should.

The security panel near the hallway door lights briefly. I squint and see that the front gate is opening…finally.

My pulse slows instead of quickening, a predatory calm settling in. I move toward the balcony overlooking the front drive just as headlights sweep across the courtyard below.

The black town car glides to a stop. For a second, nothing happens.

Then the rear door opens.

And there she is.

Long curls shifting in the night breeze, that dark red dress wrapped around her body like sin itself. She hesitates before stepping fully out of the car, one hand smoothing over her thigh.

She’s nervous. Good.

I rest my hands against the balcony railing, watching her tilt her head back to take in the house. Our eyes meet across the distance, and she goes still.

Fuck.

Heat curls low in my stomach immediately.

The dress is even better in the deep blue evening light. The slit flashes smooth thigh with every careful step she takes toward the entrance. The back lacing exposes tempting glimpses of skin.

She’s too beautiful, and too real. That second part bothers me unexpectedly.

Women usually arrive here wanting something: money, status, attention, a place in my business. Not this woman. She looked embarrassed when I insisted on sending the car. Maybe because of the motel she’s staying in. I don’t care; I learned long ago that some of the most intriguing, powerful people come from unexpected places.

Now, as she stands at the door below and waits for the staff to let her in, she looks like she might just change her mind and run.

The thought makes something dark in me sharpen happily.

No. I don’t think I’ll let you disappear yet.

But I take a deep breath and a moment to remind myself: tonight is simple. Dinner. Pleasure. Nothing more. Tomorrow, she’ll be gone, and I’ll be satiated enough to return to the decadent life I’ve built for myself in the shadows of the fashion industry.

A temporary distraction before I return to work and forget the beautiful stranger with weather-colored eyes and soft curves.

That is all this is supposed to be.

* * *

Downstairs, her heels sound softly against the marble entryway, and instinct whispers something dangerous in the back of my mind. A part of me wants to hunt her through the house—stick to the shadows and scare her heart into pounding for me.

Instead, I take the last few steps down into the entryway and hold a hand out for hers, my lips grazing her knuckles. A blush skirts across her cheeks, followed closely by a frown. She doesn’t like that I’ve seen a weakness.

Trying not to smirk too hard, I murmur, “Please, follow me,” and gesture toward the adjacent dining room. Despite the long table, it’s set up for an intimate evening. Dim light, candles near the head of the table, only two place settings.