18
Prologue
He never dreamed, at least not this vividly. But he felt everything as if she were rubbing her hands over his skin right at this very moment. He tasted the sweetness of her lips on his and caught himself puckering with the thought.
With a groan and a sigh, Sean tossed in bed, flopping over on his back, one arm on his bare chest, the other on the pillow above his head. Okay, it was a dream. He’d awakened and now it was over. It was still night, so he closed his eyes once more and prayed that, whoever she was, the temptress did not invade the remainder of his rest....
She eased her way toward him, on her hands and knees. His body was on full alert. She did not speak, didn’t really have to. Sean knew what she wanted, because he wanted the same thing. He reached for her, held her hips as she pushed one leg over to straddle him. Her breasts were full and heavy as he palmed them, her sighs music to his ears as she arched to his touch. When she came down over him, her center sucking his arousal deep, deep inside, he let out a low moan.
She moved on top of him, creating a rhythm that brushed along his body like fine silk. His hips joined in as if this were their routine. She rode him hard, with an uninhibited desire that pushed him closer to the brink. And when she let her head fall back, her mouth open as a scream of pleasure echoed through the room, Sean felt his own release brewing. With rapid pumps, he emptied himself into her.
As she collapsed onto his chest and he wrapped his arms around her, he felt like he’d lost something else to her as well.
The next time his eyes opened it was morning, his body was covered in sweat, and his heart was beating frantically in his chest.
In the shower he berated himself for having a schoolboy’s sex dream. Dressing for work, he vowed to make more time in his busy life for women. Either that or he’d end up in the nuthouse like his great uncle Javier, who died with one of the mental hospital’s nurses on top of him.
Chapter 1
Numbers didn’t lie.
Sean Donovan had learned that lesson early in life—somewhere around third grade, when he thought he could change the grade on his report card from a 75 to a 95. His father, Bruce Donovan, had been skeptical about the one grade on the report card that had been made in blue ink versus the remaining ones in black ink. The conference with his teacher had sealed Sean’s fate, as Mr. Crutcheon had meticulously added up every one of Sean’s test grades in his class. Then he divided and came up with the average grade. It was a 75.
“Numbers don’t lie, son,” his father had said to him with his solemn, you’re-in-big-trouble voice.
Those three words had stuck with him all his life, and Sean had never tried anything as deceitful as that again. Luckily for him, his mother, Janean, had selected his punishment instead of his father. Janean’s mind leaned more toward the manual labor type of punishment, while Bruce was standing stern on the corporal punishment ladder. It was his older brother, Dion, who was usually on the receiving end of their dad’s punishment. Sean had never envied his big brother that.
As a Donovan, Sean was a descendent of men who began their fortune in oil refineries and then branched out into such areas as the military, casino ownership, real estate, mass media, and the one that had given the family name worldwide attention—philanthropy. His father was one of six brothers whose families stretched across the United States, and their father came from a family of four brothers and two sisters. To put it mildly, the Donovans were deep. They were well-known and respected. Which Sean sometimes thought of as a blessing and a curse.
While he loved his job as managing editor at Infinity magazine, a division of DNT, the Donovan Multimedia Network, there were days when he wished he would have done something else with his life. He’d gone to Columbia, his father’s alma mater, and had majored in English with a minor in finance—even though he really had a deep love of history. That love probably wouldn’t have lasted into a career, but sometimes, actually—days like today—he wondered what if.
Sean’s office at Infinity was huge, located on the corner of the third floor of the Excalibur Business Center, which was owned by DNT. The walls were a rich mahogany color with chocolate-tone carpet lining the floors. The furniture was heavy and gave the room an old law firm feel. It could be considered somber and professional. The somber part would not be an exaggeration.
Sean held a piece of paper in one hand, while his finger skimmed down a column of numbers on another sheet that lay on the desk. Numbers do not lie, he said to himself once more.
Infinity was picking up major distribution numbers, which was a good thing. But so was Onyx, Infinity’s rival magazine.
Onyx was owned by Sabine Ravenell, and it provided entertainment news about African American celebrities. Just last year they’d begun an up-and-coming segment that boosted their sales. Now, they were neck and neck with Infinity.
Actually, he thought, dropping the paper onto his desk and dragging his hands down his face, Infinity still had a lead on Onyx. But not big enough to suit Sean’s standards.
“Bad news, huh?” Dion Donovan said, coming into Sean’s office and closing the door behind him.
Sean had been so deep in concentration that he hadn’t even heard the door open. Then again, his older brother rarely knocked on his door anyway, and Gayle, Sean’s assistant, had long since stopped announcing him. He never gave her time to do so before barging into the office.
“Let’s just say it’s not good,” Sean replied, sitting back in his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “What are you doing here so late?” A glance at the clock on his desk told him it was past seven.
“Come on, man. You know I don’t punch a clock around here.” Dion had taken a seat, propping one ankle up on his knee and sitting back in the chair.
He looked a lot like their father, with his tall stature and serious dark eyes. But that’s where the similarities ended. Dion was the epitome of good looks. He was every girl’s fantasy, with his broad, sculpted body and chiseled face. In fact, Dion was considered the gorgeous brother, while Sean had succumbed to the comments that he should be a cover model with his so-called quiet and sophisticated good looks. He didn’t much care for those comments. And to be frank, the attention made him uncomfortable. Dion, on the other hand, was more than content with all the fanfare his looks garnered.
“You don’t punch a clock, but you’ve got a beautiful woman at home waiting for you. That should be enough to have you running for the elevator at closing time.”
Three months ago, Dion had announced that he was in love with Lyra Anderson, the woman who had grown up with them. One month after that, Dion and Lyra were married in
