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.
