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I steal a glance at my phone. It’s 5:17. Something gives me the feeling Alexander Maddox isn’t used to waiting for people.
We get to the top floor and the doorman opens a door for me that leads out onto the roof.
Holy hell.
It’s a roof garden, but much more than that. It has several levels and takes up the entire roof of the building. On a lower tier, there are trees planted in giant pots. There’s a covered seating area and closed-in outdoor kitchen. There’s a huge pool and hot tub. And a large greenhouse-type structure with wooden beams, chandeliers, couches and tropical plants inside. It’s all very groomed, swish, wildly expensive-looking and so, so beautiful.
The entire city is sprawled around us. We’re literally on top of the world.
I feel a twinge of nervousness at the sheer grandeur of it all. This kind of luxury would have cost millions and millions of dollars. But I guess it’s not surprising that a man like Alexander Maddox would live in a sprawling penthouse with an accompanying roof garden in what looks like the most exclusive building in the city. He probably owns the whole building.
My gaze returns to the nearer, upper tier of the roof, where a giant helicopter sits on its circular helipad, its blade barely beginning to turn. The pilot is already in place. And a man is standing next to the helicopter, checking his watch.
Who could only be Alexander Maddox.
He’s tall. Big, but lean. He’s wearing a suit that’s obviously been cut by the best tailors in the world to showcase every detail of his masculine perfection. I don’t know if I’ve ever really considered what a “good” suit might look like, but this is far beyond that. It’s suit porn on freaking steroids.
When he looks up from his watch—a real watch, like a Rolex—and sees us approaching, his scowl barely softens.
Okay, wow.
Alexander Maddox is seriously gorgeous.
I walk closer. His eyes are pinned on me and they’re an unusual shade of dark, smoldering blue that’s almost violet. The glint in them is…electrifying, causing those little butterflies to flutter again.
He’s watching me, his expression both stern and cocky, and it’s a cockiness that’s baked in. This is obviously a man who rules the world and always has. He was born as what you might call an alpha male and lives his life as one, in every conceivable category, and this detail sort of radiates off him.
But there’s also an edge to him—of fascination, maybe. I get the feeling I’ve somehow caught him off-guard.
His hair is thick and black, smoothed into place, but a fraction longer and less tamed than you might expect from a billionaire mogul. Little flicks curl around his ears almost romantically.
He’s rugged-looking, even in his bespoke Armani or whatever and he reminds me of a hero from another time. Like a Roman gladiator or some conquering general. I don’t know why I say that. He seems larger than life. He’s more good-looking and impressive than any man I’ve ever seen.
I’m standing in front of him now and he towers over me. I feel small and feminine next to his outrageously confident masculinity.
His gaze hasn’t left me once and his fascination holds. The sternness has faded out. He looks almost beguiled.
He holds out a tanned, strong-looking hand. “You must be Ivy.” His voice is deep, almost dark, with a husky edge to it that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up.
Whoa.
I hesitate for a split second, only because I’m not used to dealing with men, or at least not ones that look like this. His presence is intense. Even outside and with the breeze now being created by the helicopter blade, ruffling his hair, his energy feels…commanding.
I finally return the handshake and his big, warm hand completely envelopes my own. His grip is careful but hints at a ridiculously powerful strength. “Alexander Maddox.”
“Nice to meet you, Alexander. I’m sorry I’m late.”
Something behind his expression flickers at my use of his first name. He must be used to formality. He doesn’t reply with the usual, it’s fine, or don’t worry about it. His gaze slides over me slowly, taking in my face, my hair. My outfit. My bare legs and my painted toes.
I can’t help doing the same, sort of enthralled by all the details of him. The shape of him is somehow…magnificent. His brawny shoulders and the muscles of his burly arms are defined even under the layers of his beautiful clothing. And it’s fitting, I can’t help thinking. This man needs gorgeous, obviously-expensive clothes. Nothing else would be good enough for him.
He’s incredibly handsome, with strong, masculine features. He’s got nice eyes, is what I’m thinking. His irises are vividly blue, framed by thick, dark lashes. The strong stripes of his eyebrows are barely furrowed. There’s a detectable five o’clock shadow against his square, manly jaw.
Wow.
“I’ll forgive you,” he finally says. It almost sounds like a barely-playful warning. “Once.”
Some deep instinct flickers. For a second I wonder if he might be dangerous.
