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CHAPTER 1
Lincoln
Irubbed my temples, feeling like a thousand hammers were pounding against my skull. The day had been a disaster, and it all began with her. She knew exactly what she was doing, showing up in that tight black Lycra, her toned stomach on display—a hint of abs that spoke of her athleticism without being overpowering. The sight of her, that ivory skin I could only imagine tracing with my fingers, ignited something primal in me. The truth was, I wanted her.
I’d noticed her at the gym before, but today was different. Today, she grabbed my attention and wouldn’t let go. Why now? I didn’t have an answer, no matter how hard I tried to find one. The moment I walked in and saw her on my way to the locker room, she hijacked my thoughts, weaving herself into my day, tangling up my routine, and making me painfully aware of the twitch in my pants, despite my expensive Vera Lucci graphite suit.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off her during my workout. I was on the elliptical behind her, my gaze locked on that Lycra-clad ass as I pushed myself harder, faster. My legs moved so quickly that my blue sneakers became a blur beneath me, sweat dripping from my face onto the gray rubber mat. But when I finally looked up, there she was, tying the sneaker of some dumpy guy in a saggy gray sweatsuit. Lucky bastard.
This wasn’t like me. I was always the one in control, the hunter, not the prey. The bedroom was my domain, where I ruled with charm and skill. I had a strict rule—no second rounds, no matter how good the first time was. Women tried, but I always sent them away, some with tears, others with curses spilling from their lips.
I didn’t have time for relationships. My true love was money, and the more I had, the better I felt. Real estate put more cash in my pocket than working for my father’s construction company ever could, which is why I left that mess to Talon, my younger brother.
A cold shower after my workout took care of the immediate issue, though the desire still simmered beneath the surface. I dressed quickly, needing to get to my next appointment. On my way out, I dodged a naked, dripping man with a gut as wide as he was tall, and I grimaced at his lack of shame. I had to get out of that locker room before the steam turned my carefully combed dirty blond hair into a limp mess.
Outside, I flagged down a cab, beating out some guy with a guitar slung over his back. As we crossed from the Upper East Side to Midtown, I tore into an oatmeal and peanut butter protein bar—my first meal of the day. Each bite eased the pounding in my head, and I plotted out the rest of my schedule. I only had one more showing, and it was with the worst client of the bunch. I could only hope the Fifth Avenue property would finally meet her ridiculous standards.
The cab pulled up to the Grayson building, and I tossed a twenty over the seat before sliding out into the mild April air. Sweat misted on my face during the short walk to the cool, white marble lobby. The concierge, a kid with a fresh crewcut who’d seen me more times than I could count, nodded as I jammed my finger on the elevator button.
In the penthouse, I did a quick sweep of the four-bedroom apartment. Nothing turned buyers off more than clutter. Just as the throbbing in my head began to ease, Mrs. Ducane strutted into the room, her tight black dress clinging to a body that, frankly, was better suited to someone half her age. Her dyed blonde hair was pulled into a severe bun, and her perfume—so strong it made my eyes water—hit me like a brick wall. But I pushed through it. I was in sales mode now.
"Mr. Elliot," she said, her voice a low purr as she placed her hand on my arm, her red nails digging in just enough to make me wince. I fought the urge to pull away, but her touch had the same effect every time—an involuntary shudder that I had to suppress.
"Yes, ma’am," I replied, allowing a hint of a smile to play at the corners of my mouth. I knew she hated being called that, had told me so on numerous occasions. But watching her frown deepen, and those inevitable wrinkles carve into her forehead, was a small satisfaction.
She glared at me, her expression hardening. "You know I’ve asked you not to call me that."
"Of course," I said, my voice smooth. "Shall we start the tour?"
She didn’t answer, but her grip on my arm tightened, those crimson claws biting into my skin. I led her from the gray marble foyer into the kitchen, the stainless steel and white marble gleaming under the lights. As soon as we entered, she released me, moving toward the double-door refrigerator.
She yanked it open, peering inside, only to find it completely empty. Not even a bottle of water to suggest life had ever existed here. I tapped my manicured nails on the massive white island, watching as she methodically opened several of the glass-fronted cabinets, her eyes narrowing with each inspection.
"When was this last renovated?" she demanded, her voice sharp as she glanced over her shoulder at me.
"A year ago," I replied, my tone even. "The owners don’t live here full time."
"Does that mean they’re motivated?" she asked, her attention returning to the cabinets, her fingers tracing the edges of the shelves.
I bit my bottom lip, forcing myself to remain calm. "It means they don’t need the money," I said, my voice steady despite the irritation gnawing at me.
She slammed the cabinet door shut, the glass rattling loudly in the silence. Moving to the stove, she wiped her finger across the stainless steel surface, lifting it to inspect for any trace of residue. Her wrinkled finger hovered in the light as she scrutinized it, her lips pressing together in a thin line.
"Show me the patio," she ordered, her voice clipped.
"Certainly," I said, stepping around the counter to lead her to the oversized French doors at the far end of the kitchen. The late afternoon sun hit us as we stepped outside, the brightness making me squint. I resisted the urge to slip on my sunglasses—she’d reprimanded me the last time for wearing them in her presence, questioning my manners. I wasn’t about to give her another reason to criticize.
I watched her as she walked the perimeter of the patio, her black heels clicking against the light travertine tiles. She paused, crouching slightly to inspect a particular tile, then continued her slow circuit. Sweat trickled down my neck, and I silently willed her to hurry up, the heat making the air thick and oppressive.
"This tile is cracked," she said, her voice taking on a grating tone as she straightened up. "When was the patio last renovated?"
"Two years ago," I replied, keeping my tone neutral. "The tiles can be replaced."
Her lips pursed tightly as she turned to face me. "By the owners? The price of this place is already steep enough without having to deal with repairs."
"We can negotiate that into the price," I assured her, my voice smooth. "Are there any other concerns?"
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I like to sunbathe in the nude," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
