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Her Dirty Little Secret
JC Harroway


The #1 rule for secret flings:All kissing, no telling!Nothing satisfies billionaire Jack Demont more than keeping socialite Harley Jacob from what she wants. After all, their families hate each other and there's unfinished history between them… along with some serious sexual chemistry! Now they're consumed by a wicked game of lust – they’ll give each other mindless pleasure, but nothing else. No one can know, but keeping something this sexy a secret makes everything a whole lot hotter…







The #1 rule for secret flings:

All kissing, no telling!

Nothing satisfies billionaire Jack Demont more than keeping socialite Harley Jacob from what she wants. After all, their families hate each other, and there’s unresolved history between them...along with some serious sexual chemistry! Now they’re consumed by a wicked game of lust—they’ll give each other mindless pleasure, but nothing else. No one can know, and keeping something this sexy a secret makes everything a whole lot hotter...

“DARE is Harlequin’s hottest line yet. Every book should come with a free fan. I dare you to try them!”

—Tiffany Reisz, international bestselling author


Lifelong romance addict JC HARROWAY lives in New Zealand. Writing feeds her very real obsession with happy endings and the endorphin rush they create. You can follow her at www.jcharroway.com (http://www.jcharroway.com), www.facebook.com/jcharroway (https://facebook.com/jcharroway), www.instagram.com/jcharroway (https://instagram.com/jcharroway) and www.twitter.com/jcharroway (https://twitter.com/jcharroway).


If you liked Her Dirty Little Secret, why not try

Unmasked by Stefanie London

The Marriage Clause by Alexx Andria

Inked by Anne Marsh

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Her Dirty Little Secret

JC Harroway






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07116-1

HER DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

© 2018 JC Harroway

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For G.

For pushing me, supporting me and cheering me on. x


Contents

Cover (#udb4b8876-4365-5cfc-ae7f-5d9dcb549f40)

Back Cover Text (#uc59105d7-d373-5550-ac87-784d274fd328)

About the Author (#u3cb228ac-20db-53c5-9109-e91ea93769c0)

Booklist (#u6e13f858-2b78-56c5-a22f-84916b66355e)

Title Page (#u2a1495e7-4414-5b96-85d8-10b7834b5ba8)

Copyright (#ud60e539b-c8f2-5f00-b90d-d219ce233a16)

Dedication (#u2e22011a-7091-5f01-99f1-6a8dbd6c7c6d)

CHAPTER ONE (#u553a5b95-3f64-580b-899a-dab554e8ff8c)

CHAPTER TWO (#u50ed024e-a3a6-59c6-b503-69b9c47d2cbd)

CHAPTER THREE (#u93259297-1293-5adb-8838-6d0d3e3531fa)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ue4cb0e33-9290-5b9c-911e-2b868ff02ede)

THE FOUR-INCH HEEL of her hand-dyed shoe caught on a cable, one of a hundred that snaked over the bare concrete floor. She stumbled with a curse and a roll of her ankle that made her eyes water. Harley Jacob sucked in a breath, waiting for the pain to subside, and then frowned at the scuff in the leather—petrol-blue to perfectly match her cashmere dress, the signature piece from her fashion line’s autumn collection.

She sighed, funnelling her frustration into determination, her mission here today more important than a hundred pairs of hand-dyed shoes. Careful to avoid further injury, she picked her way across the cavernous space, her hesitant steps avoiding the hazardous maze of plastic dustsheets, vicious-looking power tools and stacks of dusty building materials.

Stupid jackass property developer.

Whoever was at the helm of Demont Designs Architecture and Property Development not only had a packed schedule, but he’d suddenly stalled on their deal for her purchase of the Morris Building. A deal that was days away from completion. And he’d stalled without explanation.

Harley headed towards a huddle of men at the far end of the room, swallowing down the humiliation of the hard hat and fluorescent vest combo—for someone with her eye for fashion, it represented the ultimate insult. She straightened her shoulders, mentally smoothing any wrinkle that dared to sully her immaculate, poised exterior and stepped around a nest of ducting pipes dangling from the ceiling like the building’s intestines spilling out.

Her determination to close this deal increased with every step. Not because of the reputation of her family name, one of New York’s elite and synonymous with real-estate royalty, but because she’d literally sweat blood and tears to ensure her fashion label and her social enterprise business, Give, succeeded.

And this deal was personal. She couldn’t fail again.

As she approached the group of men, who were similarly attired to her in safety vests and protective gear, the whine of machinery and the constant staccato of hammering lessened slightly. Harley breathed a sigh. At least she’d be able to hear Mr Demont’s excuses. And hopefully his reassurances and apologies. He owed her a pair of hand-dyed shoes, but she’d take his signature on their contract in recompense.

The group, perhaps hearing the clack of her heels, turned at once.

Conversation stopped.

A perfectly timed lull in the background hum of construction noise gave a moment of skin-crawling silence. Ten pairs of eyes landed on her, some curious, some surprised, some wide, no doubt taking in her inappropriate footwear and now cloying woollen dress.

Harley lifted her chin. She hadn’t come here to plaster a wall or plumb in a bathroom. She wouldn’t be dismissed this time and she was well versed in holding her own in male-dominated environments.

Like her siblings, she’d grown up working school holidays at the family firm. But where her brother and sister had filed documents and answered telephones, Harley’s dyslexia meant she’d been relegated to fetching coffee for her father’s executives and emptying the office trashcans.

‘I’m looking for Mr Demont.’

The group parted. The workmen closest to her stepped back, amused stares swivelling to the man at the centre of the group, who straightened from his stoop over an open laptop, his stare pinning her with twice the intensity of the bystanders’, their eyes now round with curiosity.

‘I’m Jack Demont.’

The air whooshed out of her lungs and heat slammed through her body—instant spine-tingling awareness.

No.

It couldn’t be.

Harley locked her knees, her fingers clutching the file in her hand.

Jack?

Jacques?

Jacques Lane?

Her disbelieving eyes scanned the man she’d come here to see, taking in the sexy, powerful, urbane demeanour he wore like an expensive suit. A man grown from a younger version she’d known, lusted after and once imagined herself in love with.

‘Can I help you?’ He showed no signs of recognition, but it was definitely him. The barest hint of a French accent—one that curled the toes inside her designer footwear. The same shade of azure-blue eyes, piercing her now as if she’d shrugged off the cashmere and stood before him naked. The scorching surge of hormones pounding through her bloodstream, clouding her reasons for seeking him out.

His stare didn’t waver, but darkened. Annoyed by her stunned dithering or, like her, reeling from the frisson of sexual awareness snaking between them like the myriad cables on the floor?

Harley pressed her thighs together, astonished by how quickly her own annoyance and frustration had morphed into burning arousal. Arousal for a man she no longer knew. A man from her past. A man who’d stalled their deal for no reason.

Why was she here? She searched her scattered thoughts, mind clunking into gear. Yes...the Morris Building.

His stare still burned into hers. Caught on the back foot, she jutted her chin forward, employing her haughtiest tone.

‘Could I trouble you for a moment of your time?’ Damn, even her vocal cords spasmed at the sight of grown-up Jack, her strangled voice emerging all breathy. She cleared her throat. Time to claw back the upper hand.

If he wanted to pretend he didn’t recognise her and had no idea why she’d hunted him down, she could play along. So what if her erogenous zones lit up like sparks from a welder’s torch under his continued scrutiny? She refused to back down or slink away. And the fact they’d known each other—intimately nine years ago—was irrelevant.

She’d forgotten they were there, but, as if sensing the tension thickening the air, the other men dropped their gazes to their steel-capped toes. Harley stepped forward, dropping her file and her purse on top of the blueprints on the table.

If Jack Demont thought she’d be intimidated by this testosterone-charged environment, or the fact their families had parted on bad terms nine years ago, he’d clearly forgotten the reputation of her hard-ass, cut-throat father, a man who’d raised her with his own personal brand of subtle put-downs, constant reminders of her failings and barely concealed disappointed looks.

With a twitch of his lips, Jack looked away, closing his laptop.

‘Gentlemen, excuse us. Any queries, speak to the foreman.’ The bite of his tone and the astute stare he levelled on her slammed her mission back to the forefront of Harley’s lust-addled mind.

Mission. Contract. Signature.

The group disbanded, dispersing one by one until all that separated her from the man who now went by another name was a heap of ancient history and the crackle of sexual tension that rent the air like the buzz of power tools.

Her paper-thin confidence wavered, blurring the lines between past and present. Yes, for a few heady months she’d believed herself in love with teenaged Jack, back when the idea of love and naïve romantic ideals had ruled her head.

But perhaps she was alone in this renewed violent surge of attraction. Perhaps he didn’t recognise her. Perhaps her ending their relationship had been insignificant to him then, easily forgotten the minute he’d returned to France with his family. And the subsequent heartache and guilt she’d felt on calling it off without explanation had been completely unnecessary.

She used the stalemate stare down they had going to reacquaint herself with the object of all her teenaged fantasies on the perfect man. Of course, now she understood there was no such thing.

Time had changed him, but for the better. His dark blond hair was shorter, the unruly flop of youth now cropped at the sides and back, still a little wild on top—a place to slide her fingers. His face, still handsome, had lost its boyish charm, his square, clean-shaven jaw was more pronounced and the cleft in his chin, which, from memory, perfectly fitted the tip of her index finger, was still prominent. How she’d love to test the scrape of his stubble against her skin. To kiss the curl of derision from his sexy mouth.

But one thing was glaringly obvious—the boy of her childish recollections had left the building. This man before her, dressed in a button down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned muscular forearms, and tailored pants, oozed testosterone from every pore. The scorch of his stare alone told her he was in charge. Power dripped from him, the proud breadth of his chest, the dominating height of his stature and the determined jut of his arrogant chin.

Harley sucked in a breath.

‘I—’

‘What can I do for you?’

Their words clashed.

Their eyes clashed.

Harley swallowed, her resolve solidifying despite the flare of lust drawing her back in time. Now she’d met the man on the other end of their broken deal, she wouldn’t leave without being heard out. She stood taller. She’d leave with his signature on the contract and they need never cross paths again.

The animosity between the Lanes and the Jacobs gave her an edge—know your enemy. And this was her turf. Her dream at stake. And despite not quite fitting the mould, she was a Jacob.

That Jacques Lane, or Jack Demont, now held that dream in the palm of his sexy, grown-up hands—hands she’d like to reintroduce to her traitorous body—provided an additional hurdle.

But she’d learned harsh lessons from her father’s years of disapproval. Hardening herself to others’ expectations and battling, daily, the personal limitations of dyslexia had become her norm. It would take more than his brooding sexuality to trip her up.

He continued to stare, his eyes sultry, as if they’d already peeled the layer of wool from her body. But still, he showed no hint of recognition.

Harley faltered, her composure fleeing, replaced by the ingrained insecurities that hovered close to her polished surface. But his cluelessness could be to her advantage. Time to throw him off balance. Why should she be the only one floundering and ignorant?

‘You don’t remember me?’

‘Oh, I remember you, Harley.’ He grinned, a superficial mask that didn’t reach his eyes, which glittered with sparks as they traced her from head to toe. As if he’d plugged her into one of the sockets scattered about and attached her to the mains, his lazy perusal lit her up from the inside. And then his words registered and an all-over-body chill replaced the heat of moments ago.

He’d known the identity of his purchaser and deliberately stalled the sale. What other explanation could there be? Was this delay tactic some sort of petty revenge for the bad blood between their families? Or just revenge against her?

Harley jutted out one hip and fisted her hand there. If he’d stalled over some historical family feud...that was easily ironed out.

‘You do?’ She shifted her weight, her limbs liquefying under his molten stare.

She expected his dismissal or anger. After all, she’d unceremoniously dumped him years ago. But she hadn’t expected the instant buzz of attraction or the urge to rip him out of his fine tailoring and see what havoc age and maturity had wreaked on his sublime-looking, rangy body.

But the clenched muscles in his jaw told her he not only remembered her, he also recalled the bitter feud between their families.

‘Of course.’

Heat of a different kind crept under Harley’s skin. She’d learned more than how to break someone’s heart that summer. She’d learned about the lies adults told, the deceit hidden in plain sight and the true value of her so-called love.

Rearing back from memories of that time and her foolish infatuation with the boy Jack had been, she started when he stepped closer, encroaching on her personal space so she was forced to look up at him if she wanted to maintain eye contact. His heat burned into her, shunting her body temperature so high, she regretted the cashmere even more.

‘I remember you, just fine.’ His stare dipped to her mouth and she licked dry lips, an unconscious gesture.

Why, despite the harshness of his expression, did his words slide over her like a caress from the finest silk? He’d barely spoken, but the husky drawl of his voice reverberated viciously between her legs.

Just as it had at seventeen, her body reacted to him. But this time, she too was all grown up and her libido seemed to have multiplied exponentially in his potent presence.

But she wavered, caught between the successful entrepreneur of today here to seal the promised deal and the smitten schoolgirl of yesterday—insecure, lonely even within her family and infatuated by Jack’s abundant confidence, his exotic accent and his cocky smile.

No.

She bit her lip, trying to dampen the licks of arousal coiling in her belly.

Not her.

Not him.

The events of that ill-fated family holiday with Jack’s family had completely overwhelmed seventeen-year-old Harley, ripping apart everything she’d known to be true. In her confusion, fear and disillusionment, she’d abruptly broken things off with Jack, despite her rampant crush.

So her libido now had designs on this man. But time hadn’t altered her opinions on relationships. And Jack would be the last man she’d ever consider had she any interest in changing that stance.

As if in slow motion, he gripped the front of his safety vest, his stare lingering on hers, and he tugged, ripping apart the Velcro and exposing a crisp blue shirt, which lay open at the neck to reveal a glimpse of golden chest hair.

Mmm...keep going...

Where had that come from? She was here for their deal, her building. Her eyes darted back to his in time to see a flash of what looked suspiciously like triumph simmering there. Caught with her hand in the cookie jar and drool on her chin.

‘Did you just come to ogle me?’ He lifted a brow, stepping closer. ‘Or perhaps you like getting dirty.’ He glanced down.

She followed his line of vision to the toes of her pumps, now covered with a layer of grey building dust.

Conceited asshole.

But the way he’d said dirty, his sensual accent wrapping around the word—she wanted to roll around in the sound, cover herself from head to toe and emerge completely filthy.

She snapped back to reality when he tossed the vest onto the table and began rolling down his shirtsleeves, his amused eyes dancing over her hot face.

‘I came to get these contracts signed.’ Not indulge in fantasies of the sexual prowess he’d developed over the years. Prowess she’d been denied.

‘I have offices.’ He slipped his hands in the front pockets of his pants, tugging the fabric taut across his manhood. ‘Perhaps you should make an appointment to see me there. I think you’ll find the ambience more...forgiving to your wardrobe.’

Arrogant, conceited asshole. And staring at his crotch...really?

‘I’ve tried on multiple occasions to see you at your offices, as I’m sure you know.’ Heat boiled through her veins.

A shrug. A French tilt of his head.

Her fingers twitched. She longed to angle that head for her kiss. Rile him up and dismantle the control he now wore like a second skin. Redress the power play on display.

Harley lowered the pitch of her voice. It wouldn’t do to show him he’d affected her professional composure or her personal interest.

‘I’m here to discover why our deal stalled. And only days from completion?’ Not that she’d known the run-down commercial property she was in the process of acquiring had anything to do with Joe Lane’s son. Would she have walked away if she’d known? And had he really known Hal Jacob’s daughter was on the other end of the Morris deal? He’d yet to confirm her theory.

‘I hope you’re not going to tell me you’ve applied the brakes because of some ancient family feud?’ One look at the chips of ice in his eyes told her the answer.

‘My lawyers advised me to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. You can never be too careful in business.’ A wry twist of his sexy mouth accompanied the minute narrowing of the stare he settled on her. ‘And they uncovered a mistake with the paperwork.’

‘A mistake?’

No.

Harley’s cashmere clung, her skin growing clammy. She’d checked and double, no, triple checked the forms before passing them to her lawyers. And she paid them fat bonuses to compensate for her...limitations. Limitations that had dogged her whole life.

‘So it has nothing to do with the fact I’m the purchaser? I, after all, haven’t changed my name.’ She stepped nearer, the subtle, manly scent of him warming the air between them and sending her head into a tailspin.

The hard smile returned.

‘I admit, when I contacted the Give Foundation to discuss the misfiled documents, your name was...familiar. But I assure you, Ms Jacob, I have no ulterior motives. I’m a straight-up businessman—no agenda.’ A shrug. ‘What you see is what you get—delivered with a handshake, of course.’

Harley leaned in, her feet welded to the spot. If he expected her to be intimidated, or even conciliatory, he’d chosen the wrong sparring partner. She was used to being one step behind, used to criticism. She usually came out snarling to compensate. Another Hal Jacob lesson...

‘I assure you, Mr Demont, as the purchaser, any...mistake is an oversight and easily rectified.’

Please let it be easily rectified. If this deal collapsed, Hal would find out. Bad enough he was already fiercely opposed to this purchase. In fact he was opposed to all of his youngest daughter’s choices.

‘There’s no reason to delay. I’m watertight.’ She lifted her chin. Fake it ’til you make it.

But inside the familiar icy sweats erupted. Her whole life, dyslexia had thwarted her every ambition, but this mistake carried ten times the impact. She wanted the Morris Building—perfect for her needs and in a prime location.

But she’d messed up. Again. She could almost hear her father’s flat-voiced disappointment. The unspoken ‘I told you so’ she’d been hearing since the second grade. The last thing she needed was to prove Hal right, or, worse, let herself down once more.

She forced her breaths to slow, talking herself back from the ledge as she’d done many times over the years when the familiar panic set in. New York had plenty of real estate. She knew that better than anyone. Even though he hadn’t approved of her latest venture, Hal had offered her a bargain deal on an alternative building, keeping it in the family.

If she weren’t so determined to go it alone, she could capitulate. But then she’d have to confess to her father she’d sabotaged her project, one Hal Jacob considered a waste of time, through a simple clerical error, which a five-year-old could probably spot.

Nope. Not going there.

‘Watertight? Are you?’ A dubious sneer. ‘Jacob Holdings have been known, in the past, to act with a ruthlessness that I find...off-putting.’

Was he actually looking down his straight nose at her? Her shoulders dropped a notch. She’d grown used to condescension, was used to being dismissed. She’d spent her whole life feeling stupid, embarrassed, unworthy. Not that he knew that. But his words stung as if he’d struck at the most vulnerable part of her with pinpoint accuracy.

‘I prefer to deal with more...agreeable clients.’ He gathered his belongings from the table, tucking his phone into his pants pocket. ‘And until the documentation is corrected...’ Another shrug.

Harley’s pulse ricocheted around her body. So her instincts had been right. He carried the Lane/Jacob grudge, the same grudge that had soured not only their respective fathers’ business dealings, but also their families’ friendship.

‘I’m not Jacob Holdings.’ She forced her fingers to relax. ‘This deal has nothing to do with my family.’ If only she hadn’t messed up, her words would pack more punch.

His eyes flicked over her as if she hadn’t spoken, or her arguments carried little weight with him. He’d made his opinion. Nothing, it seemed, would shake it.

‘We’ll see.’ Completely unfazed, he offered her a tight smile and strode across the cavernous space towards the bank of elevators.

Taking a split second to admire his muscular ass under the fine wool of his pants, Harley hurried after his ground-eating strides, which made light work of the obstacles littering the floor, her own footfalls hindered by the clingy, tight-fitting dress.

Damn her dyslexia. Would its insidious grip on everything she tried to achieve never lessen? She’d personally handed him the ammunition to shoot down her dreams for the Morris Building. Another of her dreams destined for the ‘Harley tries hard, but...’ pile.

Part of her wasn’t surprised—the little girl inside who’d always craved the same pride afforded her siblings’ achievements. Of course those achievements could be measured academically—the right degree from the right school.

But how dared Jack insinuate the company she’d painstakingly built single-handed in spite of her father and her dyslexia, and Jacob Holdings, the family-run business with Hal at the helm, were bedfellows. She’d fought long and hard to forge her own path unencumbered by her surname.

Her turbulent hit-and-miss education, her enforced deviation from the Harvard to Jacob Holdings fast track her siblings had pursued and her determination to make it alone meant she’d forsaken her family name, despite its power to open any door in Manhattan.

She’d deliberately named her company Give for anonymity. Of course, it was impossible to completely disassociate herself from her New York heiress reputation. Fighting not only her family, who would see her firmly back in the fold, but also the few men of her past, who failed to understand why she eschewed a life of vacuous privilege to make it alone.

Dammit, why was he so tall, his legs so long?

‘Wait.’

The elevator doors slid open. Jack disappeared inside and Harley trotted the final few paces to catch up. If he thought she’d simply slink away with her tail between her legs and their deal in tatters, he’d underestimated her.

So she’d made a mistake—she could own it and make it right. This was her deal, her dream—to build a dyslexia school with state-of-the-art practices and affordable to all. Nothing would stand between her and fulfilling that dream. Not Hal, not her fierce reawakened attraction to the man dangling the deal overhead like some sort of petty revenge and especially not the arrogant asshole Jacques Lane had become. In fact, as today had proved, the only thing that could derail her plans was Harley herself.

She’d almost made it to the elevator doors when her spike heel caught on a plastic dustsheet and her body lurched forward, destined for the concrete floor. She flailed her arms, clutching at nothing but dusty air.

Her file of documents and her purse hit the floor and then she slammed against a wall of solid chest. The air left her in a thump as Jack caught her, hauling her entire body up until every inch of her from shoulder to thigh was pressed against a firm mass of lithe muscle and hard man.

In less than a second she’d gone from seething after him to the sublime thrill of full-on body contact.

Her muscles froze.

Her brain forgot even the most basic of functions.

Her calm and compelling argument died on her tongue.

Jack’s scent washed over her, vaguely familiar and enticingly foreign—clean, spicy, male—triggering a cascade of emotional memories and a flood of scalding need. His body warmth scorched her through the luminous yellow safety vest and the stifling layer of cashmere. Every slab of taut muscle pressed against her, spoke to her weak-willed body.

She looked up.

He looked down.

Their faces only inches apart.

Their mouths only inches apart.

The past nine years evaporated. She was seventeen again. So infatuated with the handsome, eighteen-year-old French boy, she’d begged him to take more than a kiss that last Aspen holiday their families shared. Not that he’d obliged—young Jack had had scruples, integrity and enough willpower for two.

But he’d kissed her as if she were dying and given her her first orgasm, all the while disentangling himself from her keen, persistent attempts to get him naked and take things at a pace quicker than he would allow.

But this Jack?

He was thick against her belly. His nostrils flared as if he too tried to relearn the nuances of her unique scent. His eyes turned stormy, as if he remembered the stolen minutes of ecstasy they’d snatched on those twice-a-year shared family holidays.

While their fathers had discussed business and their mothers had tanned, she’d imagined herself falling for him.

Right up to the moment she’d been rudely awoken with a lesson on relationships that had shifted her world view for ever. Another Hal Jacob lesson—this one harsher and more devastating than any before.

His mouth curled and his breath gusted over her parted lips. But instead of reminding them both of the passion and heat of those kisses she’d craved, he set her on her feet.

‘Careful there, Princess. You might break a nail.’

Bastard.

Harley battled the lust raging through her and smoothed down her dress, which had ridden up to mid-thigh during her tumble. She shrugged out of the hideous fluorescent vest and, seeing Jack had removed his, tore the hard hat from her head.

So he thought her pampered, living off her trust fund, dabbling in real estate. He knew her no better than she knew him.

And so what if her body was stuck in the past—the torrid rage of hormones he’d once inspired more potent than ever? That meant nothing. She had a mission, one she intended to fulfil.

‘Mr Demont. I refuse to be sidelined. I’d like your assurances my purchase of the Morris Building won’t be unnecessarily delayed. I have developers on standby and a deadline for opening.’ She scooped her belongings from the floor, ignoring the sizeable bulge in his pants and the hard look he shot her as the doors closed. A look laced with delicious heat she tried to ignore.

Jack pressed a button on the control panel, but, rather than commencing its descent, the elevator remained static. Just like their deal.

He stared for long uncomfortable seconds, feet spread, unruffled, his hands casually hooked into his front pockets as if highlighting his considerable manhood for her greedy stare.

Look what you missed out on.

Harley dragged her eyes away, throat hot, like the rest of her. Close up, his manly body displayed obvious and sizeable advantages over the younger one she remembered. She’d never actually seen him naked back then, but, damn, if she didn’t want to strip him of more than his arrogant smirk.

But she wasn’t an eager virgin any more, naïve to the games people played and the lies they told. So she still found him attractive. Big deal. It wouldn’t stop her getting what she wanted. And if she’d learned anything since she’d last seen Jack, it was that sex was overrated and relying on others, for pleasure, business, or anything else, only led to more crushing disappointment.

He slouched against the wall of the elevator, dismissive stare raking her, leaving her hot in all the wrong, or right depending how she looked at it, places.

‘Used to getting what you want, are you?’

‘No.’ The opposite in fact. She lifted her chin. ‘This development, the Morris Building—it’s important to me. How can we get this deal back on track?’ She leaned against the facing wall, the scant distance between them increasing a fraction. Not that she gained any relief from the inferno between her legs or the rampant thumping of her heart.

He narrowed his stare, holding hers captive.

‘Are you trying to influence due diligence?’ He stepped closer, stalking, stealing some of the air from the elevator while he looked her up and down in that delicious way that left her short of breath.

She leaned back against the handrail, gaining another couple of millimetres from his potent domination of the small car. She rolled her eyes, fighting to get her hormones under control and focus on business.

‘Of course not.’

‘You think because you’re a Jacob you can rush a flawed business deal? Grease the wheels?’ He invaded her personal space again, which had grown twice the size in his presence as if she was acutely attuned to every move he made.

‘I told you before.’ Her breaths grew choppy as she fought the lure of his closeness. ‘This has nothing to do with my family. The Give Foundation is mine and mine alone.’ The air, tinged with his scent, his warmth, thickened, as if she were trying to suck syrup into her lungs.

His gaze swept lower, tracing her mouth and then back up again. His tongue darted over his lush lower lip seconds before his breath gusted over her, and his voice dropped to a husky whisper.

‘You think our past, what we shared, will influence me?’

Her legs quivered and she clung to the rail. How many more physical intimacies would she love to share with this version of Jack? She bit down on her lip to stop herself answering. Or worse, succumbing to the urge to shut him up with a kiss.

‘You think you can show up here dressed for a runway, dazzle me and get whatever you want?’

Fire sizzled through her blood vessels, hot colour pooling in her face. She couldn’t work out which was stronger—the buzz of arousal between her legs at his proximity, his heated stare and his sensual reminder of her first sexual awakening or the boiling rage clouding her vision at his lazy taunts.

She swallowed down the arousal, forcing out an affirmation she was far from believing.

‘I’m a savvy and professional businesswoman, Mr Demont.’ When I’m not making simple errors that sabotage my own deals. ‘We had a contract, a promise, a sale and purchase agreement. Nothing more. Nothing less.’

Harley leaned forward, prepared to burn up to make her point.

‘Is this some sort of payback?’ She narrowed her eyes, fighting the surge of lust he instilled. She should be outraged, appalled, furious. But all she could muster was simmering annoyance eclipsed by the raging desire to tug his mouth down to hers.

His hard eyes glittered, holding her in limbo for long, torturous seconds where her breath stalled and her pulse throbbed in her throat.

Harley’s toes flexed of their own accord, lifting her a few millimetres closer to those lips.

Her breath mingled with his.

The air between them crackled, hot and potent.

His eyes swam before her, a flash of the familiar sparkling in the depths of his irises. He sucked in a breath, as if on the verge of a decision. The verge of an action.

‘Make an appointment, Ms Jacob.’ He stepped back, seemingly unaffected by the past few seconds of intense sexual awareness, and pressed the descend button.

Harley, by contrast, hovered on the edge of spontaneous combustion. She must have misread the rampant lust burning in his eyes. Perhaps because her own underwear was on fire, she’d imagined he felt the same.

She gripped the handrail, too uncertain of the integrity of her wobbly legs to keep her upright, and bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. His dismissal left her desperate to hide. To crawl away to lick her self-inflicted wounds.

‘I’ve tried on numerous occasions to make an appointment. In fact, your assistant, Trent, and I are on first-name terms. Perhaps you should employ more staff, run a more professional outfit if you find yourself so over-committed.’

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled a number, a small smirk on his handsome face.

‘Perhaps you should try my London or Paris offices. I’m often there. Perhaps you’ll have more luck. Excuse me, I need to make this call by eleven.’ Lifting the device to his ear, he spoke in French as the car stopped and the doors slid open to the ground floor foyer.

Without a backward glance, he strode to the reception desk, deep in conversation. An obliging building attendant handed him a tailored jacket that matched his pants and he dropped the hard hat on the counter and slung the garment over one broad shoulder.

Harley stood floundering in the tiled entranceway while he exited the building and climbed into the back of a sleek Mercedes-Benz waiting at the kerb.

She’d been brushed off before, belittled, ridiculed, sidelined. She’d never grown used to it. And she expected it from Jack Demont; after all, she’d once carelessly dismissed him.

And this time, she only had herself to blame.

Perhaps Hal was right. Perhaps she was wasting her time with...hobbies. Harley followed Jack outside, texting her own driver.

Their fathers might have instigated the Lane-Jacob war, and Harley might have jeopardised her tactical advantage, but she wouldn’t lose this battle to Jack without a considerable fight.


CHAPTER TWO (#ue4cb0e33-9290-5b9c-911e-2b868ff02ede)

JACK DISCONNECTED THE call and tossed his phone onto the seat beside him. ‘Home, please, Will.’ He pressed his lips together, offering a silent curse. He didn’t normally bark at his regular driver, but the older man had the good sense to nod and pull out into Manhattan traffic without comment.

Jack gnashed his teeth together, sucking in air through flared nostrils, willing his body into submission. Despite himself, he’d been hard since he’d laid eyes on Harley, her white-blond hair askew under the ridiculous orange hard hat, her womanly curves barely concealed by the baggy safety vest and the demure woollen dress that covered her from knee to neck, and her flawless face pinched with confusion, her astonished stare quickly unleashing sparks of fire in the wake of his barbed taunts.

And then he’d touched her, not intentionally—initially he’d forced his hands to stay by his sides, battling the urge to reach out and test if her skin was as soft and fragrant as he remembered. But then she’d literally fallen into his arms, slotting against his body and fitting him like a glove.

Her delicate scent the most potent aphrodisiac and her green stare clinging to his as if begging him to taste her again. Just as she’d begged him at seventeen. He shifted, adjusting the steely ache in his groin.

Fuck his integrity, his sense of honour. He’d held back then, never got to explore her the way he’d wanted, to see if the passion burning in her eyes could be fanned to an inferno. Because she’d dumped him. Out of the blue. No Dear John, no explanation, no regret.

And then his life had turned to shit. Jack rubbed a hand over his face, swallowing back a surge of bitterness.

What an idiot he’d been—on multiple levels. His naïve belief he’d have time to explore his budding relationship with Harley. His foolish conviction she’d cared for him and his complete lack of understanding when it came to the complexities of relationships.

He closed his eyes—even the word carried a bitter aftertaste. Sucking discipline through his flared nostrils, he willed his body back under control. But without the visual distraction of his surroundings, the memories amplified.

The feel of her against him in the elevator. Her soft curves pressed to him, flooding his body with renewed life as if he’d been dead all these years and she’d jump-started him with forty thousand volts. Her nipples peaking through the fine wool of her dress. The tantalising swipe of her pink tongue brushing across her plump lower lip. The flawless creamy skin flushed with...arousal or just anger?

Stop.

He raked his hand through his hair. At this rate, he’d have to wait out his hard-on before he could enter his building and take a cold shower.

Of course, he’d known she’d show up some time. The minute he’d discovered the CEO of Give, the company purchasing a run-down piece of commercial real estate in the Bronx, was the girl who’d broken his young heart.

But like an idiot, he’d underestimated the impact of seeing her again in the flesh. Even with the hard hat, the impractical footwear and the blaze of belligerence, she was as achingly beautiful surrounded by building dust as she’d been at seventeen.

And even more so, because she’d matured into a sophisticated and, from the glimpses he’d seen today, savvy and determined woman. All woman—every curve waking primal urges within him, every plane of her exquisite face a bittersweet reminder of his youthful naiveté.

But he was no longer a besotted teen. And Harley had taught him his first relationship lesson—that ‘love’ vanished as quickly as it appeared and meant nothing.

His parents’ divorce, which had followed in close succession to the sour business deal between his father and Harley’s, had taught him the second lesson, and life as he’d known it had spiralled out of control, changed for ever.

He cursed. He tried not to think of those times, but Harley had stirred up more than his libido.

His father had never truly recovered from the implosion of his joint business venture with Hal Jacob or the demise of his marriage. And Jack had vowed never to be as vulnerable to that level of devastation, fighting damn hard through his late teens and early twenties to survive the crumbling of his once-happy family and to forge his own career path independent of his father’s failing business.

Every step of that hard-won journey had been achieved by taking control of his life, making the decisions and shelving pointless sentimentality.

He rubbed his still-buzzing lips. He’d come so close to kissing her. Some caveman part of him demanding he give her both a taste and a demonstration of what she’d been missing.

Fuck, he’d come close to hoisting up that reveal-nothing wool dress and plunging inside her right there in the elevator of the building he was renovating.

He cracked his knuckles, stopping just short of punching the wood-panelled door. He’d once been a stupid kid, a dreamer. But he’d be damned if his residual and frankly irrelevant sexual attraction to her would rule him this time, even if it was clearly reciprocated.

Harley could no more hide the shallow breaths and fluttering pulse at her throat than he could hide his steely length in his pants.

The chemistry still raging between them affected her too. Perhaps she wanted more from him than the Morris Building. Perhaps she craved a taste of what she’d once callously thrown away.

He snorted, the idea growing in his mind. It had merits.

A game.

A mutually satisfying interlude that served a dual purpose—show Harley what she’d missed out on and scratch this insistent itch they’d sparked in each other.

Only this time he’d be firmly in control, as he always was. His rules, his playbook.

Being confined in a slowly moving vehicle with Harley in his head tested every ounce of his usually abundant patience. But that too could be channelled to serve his purpose. He reached for his phone to dial his assistant.

He dismissed polite preamble. He’d apologise when his mood improved and his head cleared of Harley’s image.

‘Find out if Give has any connection with Jacob Holdings.’ He’d vowed long ago never to do business with Hal Jacob, the man who’d shafted his father professionally, stripping him of his self-confidence to make good decisions. A vow he intended to keep, despite the way his body responded to Harley.

‘Yes, sir. We’ve already completed those checks,’ Trent reminded him.

‘Double check.’ He wouldn’t make the same mistakes his father had made. If Harley’s business, her foundation, was tied up with Hal Jacob, he’d ensure the Morris deal stayed dead.

He hadn’t lied to her. There were irregularities with the contract that required ironing out. But he’d been handed a gift, one he’d take full advantage of if he discovered she could be as deceptive as her father.

‘Employ an industrial investigator. I want it ironclad.’ One luxury of being head of your own multinational was the enviable position of being able to cherry-pick your business associates and clientele. A luxury that satisfied his need for control. He’d worked too hard to be led by his dick.

Fuck, perhaps he needed to get laid. He’d neglected himself in recent months, building up his New York contacts, renting offices, finding the right apartment to renovate as a showpiece for his architecture clients.

And he hadn’t spent the past nine years living like a monk. His life was full—personally and professionally satisfying. He’d made good on his promises to himself, his business going from strength to strength and the women in his life taking a gratifying but always temporary back seat.

‘Mr Demont,’ Trent interrupted, ‘Mr Lancaster is in town. He’s sent over a ticket to a function tonight. He’d like you to join him and Ms Noble.’

Perfect. That was what he needed. A night out with his cousin and his fiancée, somewhere glamorous with the distraction of plenty of gorgeous women. Women beautiful enough to chase away the memory of Harley’s pert breasts pressed against his chest, her heartbeat thundering against his.

‘Send the ticket over, Trent. And let Mr Lancaster and his fiancée know I’ll be attending.’ It didn’t matter the nature of the function. He needed a diversion. Fast. It had been months since he’d had a woman in his bed. Too long.

The thought of sex flooded his mind with imaginings of Harley. Her blond hair fanned out over his pillow, her naked body wrapped in his sheets, her delectable scent clinging to the bed linens long after she left...

At this rate he’d have to bang one out before he left his apartment for the evening. He scrubbed his hand through his hair. Why hadn’t he prepared himself for the sight of her? He should have guessed she’d take umbrage at him stalling the sale while his team investigated the error they’d unearthed at the eleventh hour. An error, it turned out, that originated with her.

Typical Harley. She’d breezed over that fact. And her family already owned half of Manhattan—of course she’d charge in and simply demand what she felt she deserved.

But he’d be damned if he’d give it to the pampered princess, no questions asked. He wouldn’t trust Hal Jacob to the end of the street and he wouldn’t make the same mistakes his father had made by becoming embroiled in a Jacob Holdings deal.

He’d witnessed the devastating fallout of that decision—his father’s confidence, all his future enterprises and even his marriage fell victim to his miscalculation.

Jack credited his own business success to his determination to step out of his father’s shadow, even shucking his father’s name, literally reverting to his mother’s maiden name to keep their businesses distinct, untainted by association with Hal Jacob.

No way would he allow his dick to lead him back into that viper’s nest. No. This time, he’d keep Harley Jacob where he wanted her—under contract or under him, if she wanted a sample of what she’d missed.

The car pulled up to the kerb outside his Midtown apartment building and he strode inside, impatient for a shower to wash away the memory of Harley and her lingering scent on his clothing.

When he exited his private elevator on the top floor, his feet skidded to a halt and his heart bucked against his ribs.

Harley.

How had she beaten him here? She sat on the loveseat beside the doors to his penthouse, her eyes trained on the elevator and trained on him.

In seconds he was back to rock hard.

‘How did you know where I live?’

She stood, her long eyelashes fluttering on a series of blinks.

‘Some people would call this stalking.’ Damn if her persistence didn’t ramp up his interest. Was she keen for more than her precious building?

‘I looked you up and tipped the doorman.’ She shrugged. Clearly she’d grown up her father’s daughter, not above bending morals to suit her personal needs.

But, man, had she grown up. And damn if he didn’t want to drag her inside and give her the guided tour, starting with his bedroom. Fuck the bedroom. He’d unwrap her from that sheath of expensive wool, splay her over the minimalist slate-topped console table he’d imported from France in his foyer and go down on her until she sobbed out his name and forgot her own. That would be difficult for her to dismiss.

‘I’m on my way out. Make it brief.’ Swiping his key card through the reader, he ushered her inside, ahead of him, his innate good manners accepting nothing less, regardless of their past.

She paused in his entranceway, her gaze flitting around his space as if she’d been invited here and had every right to touch his home with her beautiful, perceptive eyes.

He used the time wisely, his stare tracing her curves, lingering on her luscious ass, which, despite the demure dress concealing it, was high and toned. He groaned inwardly, his cock twitching with renewed enthusiasm.

With a flick, she tossed the swathe of silver, silky hair over her shoulder and lifted one brow in question. He dragged his mind away from her naked on all fours in front of him and led the way into the living space, throwing his suit jacket over the back of the sofa.

Knowing she stood behind him, no doubt assessing his choice of décor or the views from his windows, his shoulders tensed. He was proud of his home. The five-thousand-square-foot apartment dated to pre-war, but he’d renovated it with a flair for modern, while keeping some of the original features, a look that worked if his growing clientele were any judge.

‘Drink?’ Why was she here? Did she think he’d change his mind so easily? Sign a flawed contract just because she came from real-estate royalty? Or perhaps she thought he was still the love-struck sap he’d once been, willing to give her anything she desired.

‘No, thank you.’

He selected a frigid bottle of still water from the fridge, unscrewing the cap and finishing it in three swallows, wishing for a split second it were Scotch. But the last thing he needed around Harley was any lowering of his physical inhibitions. He was close enough now to showing her what she’d been missing all these years.

And the way she looked at him, as if she wanted the lesson, made it increasingly difficult to ignore the hormones raging through his blood. But hadn’t she been engaged? He vaguely recalled something in the society pages. Surely she’d found some Jacob-approved yes-man to show her a good time.

The water sloshed inside him, bitterness lingering in his throat. He checked her ring finger, finding it bare before his eyes flicked away. Not his problem. If she was here for sex, who was he to deny her the ride of her life?

‘You changed your name.’ She hadn’t moved from her spot just inside the doorway, her back only centimetres from the wall as she eyed him warily. They were, after all, strangers.

Nine years ago, she’d made no attempt to let him down gently, stay friends, or keep in touch. And he’d channelled his dislike of her ruthless father and his impotence at his crumbling family into determination, driving his own success. Forgetting all about the Jacobs and that tumultuous time of his life. Forgetting about Harley.

He shrugged, his eyes raking her immaculate appearance. How would the heiress look undone by pleasure, rumpled and replete?

‘I went to university in England. Jacques became anglicised over the years.’

‘And Demont?’ She licked her lips.

His eyes followed the swipe of her tongue, fresh blood pulsing in his groin. He needed to get her out of here before he offered that tongue another occupation than questioning his attempts to be a better man than his father.

‘My mother’s maiden name. A business decision.’ He lifted his chin, daring her to question.

She nodded, the move small and thoughtful. Then she rolled her shoulders back, game face on.

‘Look, I want you to know. I plan to turn the Morris Building into a school. A special school.’ Colour seeped into her cheeks, heightening her attractiveness. Would she flush like that as she climaxed? Was she ashamed she’d come here begging? Or just struggling to beg him, a man she deemed of little consequence?

Regardless, damn if he didn’t want to poke at her, to see the flashes in her eyes as she lambasted him turn to that sultry warmth as he kissed her the way her eyes had begged him in the elevator earlier. Sick bastard.

‘Yelling at me didn’t work, so you thought you’d try guilt?’ He stepped closer, the flare in her eyes a jolt of electricity to his chest. ‘Tell me, if I resist your demands long enough, can I expect a full-blown sexual charm offensive?’ Not that he’d mind—he’d be up for a little...inducement if that were how she planned to get her own way.

In fact, if he decided to toy with her, her tactics played right into his hands. A little revenge sex might be just what he needed. Of course, he’d ensure she enjoyed it too. Perhaps she’d even fall for him? Then he could walk away without hesitation as she’d done to him.

How she must hate coming to him of all people, cap in hand and clearly so turned on she couldn’t stop her gaze flicking to his crotch every few minutes.

Her hand clenched, and he expected her to slap him.

‘You really have matured into a world-class asshole.’ Her stare narrowed, hip jutted to one side.

He shrugged, impervious to her insults. She’d done her worst nine years ago. Cast him adrift without explanation, allowing him to fill in the blanks while he rode the storm of his imploding life.

In fact, she’d done him a favour, her rejection shaping him, clarifying his priorities, laying the foundations for all future liaisons with the opposite sex, which had been, without exception, on his terms.

‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I plan to build a dyslexia school.’ She hesitated over the word dyslexia as if it was bulky in her throat, but then she tilted her chin, eyes hardening to emerald chips. Vulnerable or manipulative?

And why a dyslexia school? Did he care enough to ask?

‘There are lots of dyslexia schools.’ Instinct told him the Morris Building was more than important to her. It was personal.

This kept getting better and better.

‘Not in the Bronx.’ Her eyes darted away.

His fingers itched to tilt up her chin, to keep her open to him, in case he’d imagined the flashes of defensiveness. His skin tightened, as if he’d stayed still for too long. He closed the distance between them, unable to resist the pull.

Her watchful eyes grew rounder. Her lips parted, breaths short and choppy, lifting her pert breasts with each inhale.

‘Why are you here, Harley?’ If she’d come to demand he jump through her hoops, he’d kick her out. Fuck, he should kick her out anyway because the longer she stayed, the harder it became to ignore her mentally undressing him with those big eyes.

Power surged through him, flooding his muscles, demanding he act.

‘I...’ The pulse at her throat fluttered and her eyelids drooped to a sultry half-mast.

His body tensed, on high alert, an effect of her closeness and a side effect of his raging need to touch her again. He focussed on her mouth—plump lips parted to emit those breathy little pants that called to his dick.

‘Did you come for a sample of what might have been?’

He took another step.

Her huge eyes glowed, deep pools that a lesser man could drown in. But he’d never again lose his head. This close, her pupils dilated as she looked up at him. Did he imagine the regret hovering in the depths of her eyes? Less obvious than the excitement she couldn’t hide.

Had she come to explain why she’d called things off between them? The last thing he needed was to hear her belated let-down.

He braced himself to turn away. This trip down memory lane was over. Best to leave the past undisturbed. After all, he’d made damn sure he moved on. And this buttoned-up heiress, polished, sophisticated and accomplished, was a complete stranger to him.

‘Time to leave. Whatever it is you came for, you won’t be getting.’ Unless all she wanted was a fuck for old times’ sake.

She touched his arm, closing the distance between them, fingertips digging in. Her purse hit the floor with a thud that matched the pound of his pulse as she stepped up close and lifted her face to his.

His strung-taut body acted on instinct. A cathartic release of pent-up frustration as he reached for her.

‘Yes,’ she hissed seconds before his mouth covered hers, swallowing the tiny moan she released. He pressed against her, fanning the flammable connection that had sparked to life in the elevator earlier.

As her fingers tangled in his hair and her lips parted, giving his tongue access, the past grew foggy.

He didn’t need to trust her to enjoy the feel of her body in his hands. And she was right there with him, succumbing to the searing chemistry, as physically attuned as cream and coffee.

Her soft moans punched him in the gut, his balls heavy. She twisted her fingers in his hair and pressed herself against him as she’d been in the elevator, but this time her body writhed, as if she too was trying to quench an insatiable fire inside.

Perhaps it had been as long for her as it had been for him.

He cupped her ass, drawing her heated centre to his rock-hard dick, pressing her closer, to their mutual delight if the gasp she gave was any indication. He could practically feel her wetness through their layers of clothing.

She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Why wait? Why deny this? Why not slake this mutual physical need? No strings attached.

Reaching for the hem of her dress, he worked his hand up one bare thigh, the silky softness of her skin a roadmap leading him home. She shifted, opening up and giving him the access he sought. Still with him. On the same page.

As his fingertips stroked her soft lips through the lace of her panties she gasped, pulling back from their kiss to stare at him while he worked his fingers back and forth with increasing pressure.

She was clearly as turned on as him. He’d barely touched her, but her panties were soaked, and her eyes were soft and heavy with desire. He pressed himself to her hip, making his intentions clear.

‘Do you remember your first orgasm?’ He cupped her, his index finger working inside the wisp of lingerie to find her wet, swollen. So ready.

She nodded, her tongue darting out to trace the cupid’s bow of her top lip.

‘Tell me.’ A test. Did she really remember? Had it meant something to her as it had to him or was she just desperate to get off?

Her eyes rolled back, her mouth open on a broken gasp as he located her clit and brushed the nub of nerves with the pad of his finger. Her moisture slid down his fingers, and he widened his legs, pushing her thighs open with his to get closer to her centre. When he pressed home, two fingers plunging inside her tight warmth and his thumb zeroing in on her clit, her eyes flew open, her stare beseeching.

‘Tell me you remember, Harley.’ She’d get what she wanted when he did. Confirmation that, if only briefly, he’d once mattered enough.

But fuck, she was responsive. Her thighs juddered, bumping his working fingers as if she were seconds away from coming on his hand. Just like the first time he’d made her come, her cries muffled into his shoulder.

She could barely speak, her breathy voice punctuated with staccato moans that matched the rhythm of his plunging fingers.

‘We were at the...lodge, in Aspen. You said...that you’d make the next one better. Oh.’

Triumph surged through him, and he ramped up the circling of his thumb. Her breath caught, her head fell forward. She clung to him, her nails gouging his arms as she held on tight, her bold, uninhibited sexuality a wet dream come true.

His own desire ramped so high he searched his mind for the location of the closest condom, reluctant to move too far from this spot before plunging inside her.

Every muscle in his body tightened to snapping point. He pressed closer, grinding his erection between the crush of their writhing, jerking bodies.

‘I was a kid then.’ He twisted his wrist, his fingers probing deeper, curling forward to rub her walls. ‘I’m not any longer.’

As firsts went, he’d been damn proud that he’d taken her there. But he’d honed his skills since then, never had any complaints. If she wanted it, he’d show her everything she’d thrown away.

No emotions.

No entanglements.

And just like her, no regrets when he walked.

‘Look at me, Harley. Look at me and I’ll make this one better.’

Her head lifted, her eyes heavy, swimming with lust. He cupped her breast with his free hand, his thumb brushing her nipple erect through the layer of frustrating wool.

He ground his teeth. It wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted her naked. He wanted her laid bare so he could touch every inch of her sexy body. He wanted his mouth on her, every part. Laving and lapping until she went off like a rocket and screamed his name. He wanted to be inside her so bad he had to bite his cheek to remind himself he didn’t know this woman aside from his ability to get her off.

He tweaked the bud, twisting and rolling her nipple between his fingers.

‘Yes.’ Her mouth dropped open.

Euphoria pounded through his blood. She was close. She would come for him, just like the first time. He held her eyes captive. A roar in his head deafened him to everything but the frantic little whimpers she made as he worked her higher and higher.

His hand started to cramp, but he’d die before stopping, something primitive in him demanding her orgasm, showing her the man he’d become.

‘Kiss me.’ His voice wasn’t his own. Gruff. Challenging. But getting him what he wanted.

She cried out, cupping his neck and yanking him down roughly to meet her needy mouth. Her tongue welcomed his, every surge and retreat, every slide as perfect as the first time they’d kissed, the excitement of firsts eclipsing the awkwardness back then.

But there was no awkwardness now. He wasn’t a fumbling teenager any more, and she was all woman, writhing on the verge of climax.

She pulled back, wild eyes clinging to his.

‘Jacques... I—’

With her use of his French name, he groaned, the bittersweet wash of memories unleashing his raw need to stamp his mark on her as Jack Demont, not the dismissible Jacques Lane.

Her kisses turned frantic and then she tore her mouth from his, her orgasm slamming her against the wall as she cried out, her hooded stare wildly flicking between his eyes. Spasms rocked her and she rode his hand with sublime abandon.

Fuck. Perfect.

He kept up the pressure, his hand slowing but not retreating from between her legs and his thumb circling her peaked nipple. Still she twitched around his fingers, her body lax in his arms as her breaths slowed.

Finally she pushed his hands away, and he released her. A flush caressed her cheeks, her eyes slumberous, and a small, satiated smile tugged her red and swollen mouth.

She rested her forehead on his chest, the gesture so familiar, something in him recoiled from the intimacy. He pressed his body along the length of hers.

Just sex.

‘I’m a man of my word, Harley.’ She couldn’t deny she’d had a good time, and once he got inside her, he’d take her there again.

A small sated sigh. ‘We’ll see,’ she mumbled against his shirt.

He froze. Ice water replaced his blood. Had he heard her right?

He stepped back, steadying her by the forearms until she stood tall, taking her own weight.

‘What did you say?’

The post-orgasmic flush in her cheeks darkened, but she lifted her chin.

‘I said we’ll see. You’ve certainly broken your word on the Morris Building sale.’

His balls shrank as quickly as if she’d kneed him in the groin. A red film lowered over his vision—he’d always assumed that was an exaggeration, but, no, he was definitely seeing red. Hearing red. Fucking feeling red.

So she doubted his integrity, his professionalism, still blamed him for the delay despite her mistake?

He shook his head. What a fool. He stepped back, adjusting his diminishing hard-on.

‘I’m my own boss. I call the shots and I choose who I do business with. The cock up with the Morris contracts came from your office.’ His enamel creaked where he ground his teeth together.

She pushed down her dress, eyes blazing.

‘I told you, Give has nothing to do with Jacob Holdings. I’m my own boss, too.’ Her eyes flared but colour highlighted her cheekbones, and she looked away. ‘So I messed up the paperwork. But we’re not so different, you and I.’ She retrieved her purse from the floor, glaring at him again. ‘You’re so desperate to disassociate yourself from your father and the mess he made with his business, you’ve changed your name.’ She mashed her lips together, breathing hard through flared nostrils.

Perhaps he imagined the moment’s regret on her face. Either way, he was done. This—whatever this had been—was over. He turned away, gathering the last shreds of his resolve. His fingers formed a fist, frustration with his stupidity tensing every muscle in his body. How had he been so blinkered? Harley was a Jacob. She knew as much about him as he did her, but she’d already tarred him with his father’s brush. Used him to get off and then insulted him. Clearly thought no more of him today than she had nine years ago.

At least the timely reminder of the distrust between them had finally cured his hard-on. He turned back, keeping the emotions from his face. The best advice his father had ever given him—show no weakness. Not that he was weak, professionally. Only, it seemed, where his dick and Harley Jacob were concerned.

‘Well, I guess we both have something to prove.’

He needed this deal like he needed a hole in the head. He’d been half tempted to renovate the Morris Building himself. And, until the issues resolved and he was certain Hal Jacob had no hand in it, the deal stayed stalled.

‘I’ll have my lawyers contact yours when the issues are rectified to my satisfaction.’ He loosened his tie. ‘If the timing was that important to you, perhaps you should have taken better care to avoid errors.’

Her fuming glare followed the path of his fingers as he popped his shirt buttons but the satisfaction was short-lived.

‘I’m going to take a shower. You know the way out.’

Even with the water switched to arctic, he couldn’t wash away the scent of her, which clung to him as if he’d doused himself, head to toe. Nor could he banish the flash of hurt in her eyes as he’d walked away, leaving the society princess to put herself back together and show herself out.


CHAPTER THREE (#ue4cb0e33-9290-5b9c-911e-2b868ff02ede)

LOFT 333 IN CHELSEA, a chic industrial space in the heart of the Garment District, provided the perfect venue for an intimate fashion show showcasing some of New York’s most exciting new designers. Harley emerged from the makeshift backstage area into the cavernous space, which vibrated with the thud of techno music, the kaleidoscopic lighting bouncing off the stark white walls.

A buzz at her temples threatened to become the perfect and fitting end to the shittiest of days.

And it was all Jack’s fault.

Starting with the stubborn pig-headedness that had caused him to cancel their meeting, ruining her favourite shoes at his Swiss cheese building site and ending with him unceremoniously kicking her out of his apartment.

She couldn’t blame him for the part where she’d surrendered to her fierce sexual attraction to him—that was all her. Stalking him to his building, practically eye-fucking him and then unashamedly riding his hand to orgasm...

Yep, all her.

Forcing her mind from the memory of his voracious, demanding kisses and his exceptional manual skills, she scanned the venue, her critical eye for detail and high expectations cataloguing the packed rows of seating, the smartly dressed wait staff and the professional, if not headache-inducing, audio-visual display.

Shame her thoroughness with the Morris deal had let her down. She sighed, slinking further into the shadows.

Part of her, the old Harley, baulked at her own success. Yes, she’d had every privilege in life. But without her team behind her—her dedicated assistant, her competent store manager, her siblings—her dyslexia meant she struggled with the very basics.

To outsiders, she had it all. And yet the planning alone for tonight’s show—the lists, the running order, the spreadsheets of which model would wear what for which designer—was enough to make her head explode.

Jack was right. She alone had responsibility for sabotaging the Morris deal. She’d failed. Again. Shot herself in the foot.

She leaned back against the wall, maintaining a low profile. She rarely lauded her own shows. Her fashion label, the only aspect of her life that offered her contentment, meant everything, but she’d decided from the beginning she wouldn’t use the Jacob name to garner publicity, make connections or grease the ladder rungs. If she made it in what was a competitive, often fickle and rapidly shifting industry, she’d make it on merit alone.

And it was the creative process—from sketching a new design, to sewing a sample garment and then styling an entire outfit—that allowed her a brief glimpse of chest-tingling pride. At least she was good at one thing.

But she wasn’t here to see her own designs paraded.

Harley snagged a glass of champagne from a table laden with exquisite crystal and located a quiet, dark corner to watch the show. She’d missed most of the first half, staying backstage to help the other designers dress their models.

The collective of young, emerging fashionistas she mentored had worked tirelessly for months putting this show together and she was here to support them, knowing first hand the importance of a leg up onto the bottom rung. The fashion industry, as cut-throat as any deal Hal Jacob peddled.

She released a small snort—she’d learned from the master. Not that Hal had ever dedicated any time to her education, preferring to hurl money at the situation, his ‘problem daughter’.

She’d known from an early age she was different. But her difficulties had gone undiagnosed through elementary school, until the age of twelve, when she’d been no longer able to hide her challenges and one particularly insightful teacher had suggested to her parents she might benefit from formal testing. Hal had struggled with her diagnosis, denying the label and preferring instead to employ a series of tutors to put his unmotivated daughter through the wringer.

Dyslexia affected sufferers differently. Harley struggled with the full gamut of challenges. The fact she’d learned strategies to mask her shortcomings had delayed confirmation of her diagnosis until well into sixth grade. By which time she’d become a bullied, socially isolated black sheep of her over-achieving family and a constant disappointment to Hal.

Harley gulped a mouthful of champagne, forcing down the shame and humiliation. She scuffed the toe of her shoe on the parquet flooring, cursing her stupidity with the Morris paperwork.

She’d checked and double checked until her eyes watered and her temples screamed. Then she’d run everything past her assistant. Not that she blamed Alice. The mistake was all Harley’s. And she was used to making the most simple of errors. But why did it have to be on that deal? With him?

Perhaps that explained her uncharacteristic rudeness. Heat crept up her neck as she recalled the shutters covering Jack’s heated stare earlier when she’d questioned his integrity. She’d obviously inherited her vicious tongue from Hal, too.

She smoothed her damp palm down the length of her form-fitting dress—a simple bias-cut sheath in black silk. Elegant, timeless, modest. Or as her twin sister, Hannah, would say, boring. But Harley preferred fading into the background over standing out.

She scanned the two-hundred-strong audience, sipping her champagne to chase away the demons that lurked beneath her polished exterior. Although her eyes focussed on the show, her mind wandered.

Back to Jack.

Her initial shock at seeing him again had faded quickly. Her annoyance at him holding the sale of Morris Building to ransom simmered. But the few stolen moments in his apartment this afternoon...? They played in a continuous looped film reel behind her eyes, every intensely erotic, libidinous moment relived over and over.

Surely she’d exhausted her supply of female hormones? She shifted, pressing her thighs together and leaning back against the wall in case she slid to the hardwood floor in a puddle of lust.

Just like the first time he’d touched her so intimately, he’d commanded her body, turned her inside out, thrust her so hard into an intense orgasm she’d literally seen stars.

She’d never known anything like it, not even with her ex-fiancé, not since the first one, also at Jack’s hands. And what talented hands they were.

She swallowed, face flushed with heat. Of course, there’d been one or two others since Jack. Not many, her troubled teens merging with her underwhelming early twenties—a time when most girls spread their sexual wings. But Harley had been too preoccupied with overcoming her dyslexia enough to prove her father wrong and get her college degree, albeit in a subject Hal considered more of a hobby—fashion design.

She’d even come close to marrying, again in an attempt to improve her standing in her father’s eyes. If she couldn’t be a Jacob Holdings’ executive, she could marry one... But she’d quickly realised her error—she and Phil, although he was Hal-approved, were ultimately too different. And she had no intention of becoming a Hal Jacob puppet by proxy. Hal and Phil, cut from similar cloth, shared too many opinions about Harley’s career, or, as they saw it and frequently commented, her lack of one.

The hairs on the back of her neck lifted seconds before the warm breath whispered across her skin. She froze, either instinct or her body’s imprinting onto the only man with whom she’d discovered such overwhelming pleasure warning her it was Jack.

‘Still stalking me, I see.’ His low voice vibrated against the sensitive skin of her neck, tingles spreading to her toes via her in-sync-with-Jack clit. It seemed she possessed an inexhaustible supply of hormones where this man was concerned.

She spun so quickly, she sloshed champagne from her glass over the back of her hand, a few spots landing on the front of her dress. Jack gripped her elbows, steadying her, his eyes amused in the red and green lighting bouncing off the loft’s every, whitewashed surface.

Jack’s stare pinned her and his lips twitched; he was clearly enjoying her rattled composure. He reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a crisp white handkerchief. He pressed the square into her free hand, and she wiped the spill from her dress.

‘What are you doing here?’ She scanned the crowds behind him. Had he come here with a date? There were plenty of stunning women in the audience and Jack was by far the most handsome, put-together man present—not a bad accolade considering the number of male models present.

Harley’s pulse thrummed in her throat and between her legs as she flustered around with the handkerchief, avoiding his stare.

She’d come propped against the wall in his well-appointed living room this afternoon, writhed and bucked against his hand, getting herself off like a sex-starved nympho. Trouble was, she was sex-starved, at least starved of the high-calibre variety of sex she was sure came as this man’s standard. Not that her and Jack had ever hit a home run. Not nine years ago, and certainly not now.

‘I have a ticket.’ He tapped his breast pocket and her fashion-tuned eye took a few indulgent seconds to admire the cut of his suit—this one steel blue. His tailor really was excellent, but then Jack was every designer’s dream model. Tall, athletic, muscular but not buff—every inch of him expertly and expensively attired. His black shirt, open at the neck, brought out his fair good looks and highlighted the gleam in his eyes. A gleam levelled directly on her.

‘I see your label is up after the interval?’ He accepted the return of the handkerchief, slipping it back inside his breast pocket.

She nodded, marvelling at the way he could speak on such a mundane topic, all the while his eyes seemed to be stripping her bare. Was he recalling her libidinous display earlier?

Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking on her part, the wisp of silk she wore transforming into a bulky, itchy straightjacket, begging to be tossed so she could get down and dirty with him again.

‘Yes.’ So he’d done his homework. The Give Foundation she’d established after college comprised an ethical fashion house, a cruelty-free cosmetic line and a charity arm. The dyslexia school, if the purchase of the Morris Building proceeded, would be her latest acquisition and, she hoped, her most rewarding endeavour to date. If only she could pull it off.

If only the paperwork had been properly filed.

She kept her mind on business, perhaps then she’d stop eye-fucking him or drooling over her vivid imaginings of the real deal.

‘So have you reconsidered? Will the sale go ahead?’ She might as well work on rectifying her mistake while she had him here. It took her mind off dragging him backstage and stripping him out of that suit and demanding a replay of this afternoon.

His sinful mouth quirked up.

‘So you don’t trust me, but you still want my business?’

She swallowed. A hundred answers forming on her tongue. Trust him? She barely knew him. She just wanted their deal back on track so she could forget she’d ever...reacquainted with him.

Kissed him as if the world were ending. Used his incredible skills to get off and then slapped him back.

‘I’ve spent six months searching for the perfect building. I have an architect on standby for the renovations and I didn’t say I didn’t trust you.’




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