What was even more endearing was how Callum looked out for his friend. The memory of that makes my heart thump.

  Makes it thump wildly.

  Apparently, it’s not only my basest, naughtiest parts that Callum claims, but the safest, squishiest ones too. Had it always been that way? A sexual tension but also an emotional one that maybe runs deeper than friendship, deeper than just a close confidante?

  We work our way through our to-do list, dividing and conquering our plans for the next several weeks.

  When Sage and Raphael leave a little later, Kate lags behind. “You okay? You’ve been so intensely focused the last week you’re like a machine.”

  “Busy, busy, busy,” I say, trying to keep everything light.

  “Well, don’t forget to unwind now and then. And if you need to chat about anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Thanks, Kate. I appreciate that.”

  I’m grateful to have good friends like Kate. Friends who get me. Friends who can tell when I’m elsewhere. I resolve to do better. To keep my eye on the prize. Focusing on this part of my life—friendship and business. “By the way, I saw that you gifted me a very naughty book.”

  She feigns surprise. “Oh, did I?”

  I laugh, rolling my eyes. “Yes. When I turned on my Kindle the other night, it popped up. What was the name of it?” I tap my lip playfully. “The Tryst. It had a pair of shoes on the cover. I read the first chapter.”

  “And?”

  I give her a knowing grin, remembering the steam rising from the very first page. “It was . . . illuminating.”

  “And by ‘illuminating,’ you mean it’s going to be a fantastic exploration of the boundaries of kink and trust?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “Well, I hope it gives you a great escape,” she says, then turns to leave.

  I shut the door after her, alone now in my office.

  A great escape.

  That’s what my night with Callum felt like.

  A great and absolute escape, and what I wouldn’t give to take her up on her advice to unwind into that kind of escape with him again. With a pull of my hair, a bite on my shoulders. Better yet, he could put me on all fours, press a palm between my shoulder blades, and shove my face against the pillow.

  Tell me to raise my ass for him.

  Oh God, I would.

  Then, after he took me to the edge of my desires, he’d lift me in his arms, carry me into the bath, and sink down into the water with me.

  Tenderly slide his hands all over me.

  I slump down on my couch, wishing for all those things.

  Every single one.

  All the things I can’t have.

  I center myself, focusing on the other part of who I am. The businesswoman. The one who takes care of her employees. I call my favorite florist and arrange for a gorgeous bouquet of tulips to be sent to Jen’s daughter’s school this weekend along with a note of congratulations.

  There. This is me now.

  By the end of the second week post epic sex, the longing starts to normalize. But only in the sense that wanting Callum is like breathing, and somehow the wanting becomes a part of the fabric of my life. When I talk to Callum as he escorts me to dinners, to events, I sometimes imagine he’s not only the man watching my back, but the man by my side.

  I’ve imagined it since he met me at the door to my suite ten minutes ago. I visualized a dirty rendezvous between us as we rode the elevator down here, and now, as we stand outside the ballroom on the function level of the hotel, I’m imagining the man on the clock is here for something more.

  For me.

  “Welcome, Ms. Carmichael,” a woman in a cocktail dress says as she opens the majestic double doors for us and ushers us toward the gala inside.

  We walk into the tightly packed room, and without even looking I can tell Callum’s eyes are roaming, surveying, assessing—making sure no threats are imminent.

  “Looks like a good turnout,” he says, nodding to the assembled crowd surrounding us.

  And it is. The gentle hum of conversation mingles with the sultry sounds of the jazz singer on stage, crooning a seductive lullaby to his audience. A cocktail of women’s perfume, men’s cologne, and money dances right alongside the couples swaying dangerously close to one another on the dance floor.

  I turn to the man who ravished my body barely fourteen days ago and meet his dark gaze. “It is. Sage sent me a report earlier—we sold two hundred tickets. That’s a lot of money to raise for the Las Vegas Canine Rescue Foundation.”

  “Impressive.” He nods to the charity’s logo, a line-art image of a dachshund plastered all over the steps. “Did you have a pet growing up?”

  “Of course.” I grin and lower my voice. “Don’t tell the organizers—I was a cat person.”

  “A cat person?” He mock whispers, mirth lighting his gaze. “I’m shocked, Ivy.”

  “I know.” I pretend to be scandalized and place my hand over my heart. “And yet here I am, supporting the welfare of the enemy.”

  “You’re thoroughly wicked.” Callum’s voice is a low husk, and for a moment, just one beat, I wonder if he’s imagining the same things I am—the same wicked things we did to each other only two weeks ago.

  But he blinks and his expression is innocent when he says, “And you weren’t ever tempted to bring a puppy into your life?”

  “Oh, I was tempted,” I say. “But with our lifestyle, the hours our parents worked, a dog simply wasn’t the best choice—even though Sage and I used to beg for one.” A memory teases the edges of my mind, and I laugh. “One night, we put on a show in the kitchen where we demonstrated just what responsible pet owners we would be. Mom showed me the video—a whole hour of singing and dancing and acting in our kitchen.”

  “Saying no to you would have been near impossible,” he says, but he’s not laughing anymore, and somehow, I feel those words as if he spoke them to my soul.

  He signals to a waiter passing by and selects a glass of champagne from the tray, then hands it to me.

  “No Long-Distance Lovers on the menu?” I ask, stepping closer, just to make sure he can hear me—not to catch a whiff of the spice of his cologne, or to feel his warmth on the exposed skin of my back.

  He leans down and the heat of his breath fans over my ear and sends electricity zapping through my body. “Not this time . . .”

  Want sizzles my veins. His hand barely skates over the lower part of my back, but I feel the graze of his fingers as if they bruised me everywhere.

  “Have I told you how damn sexy you look tonight?”

  “No,” I reply, my eyes on the people on the dance floor, because if I meet the heat in his gaze I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself from grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him back to my suite.

  “This red dress is . . .” he rasps. “It’s phenomenal. Just like the woman inside of it.”

  Goose bumps skitter across my skin.

  A few feet away from us, a model-esque woman leans into her partner, whispering something in her ear. She glances our way, then looks back at her like they have all night planned together, a night of heat and seduction and sin.

  “I wonder if they’re talking about us,” I whisper to the man by my side. “I wonder if they’re looking at us and wondering who we are, what our relationship is.”

  A growl hums in his throat. “Ivy . . .”

  “Ivy! So nice to see you here.” The moment snaps as Marjorie, one of our investors, walks over, glass of champagne in hand. “Fantastic turnout tonight.”

  “It is. The organizers have done a great job,” I agree.

  “And so have you.” She tuts and wags a French-manicured nail at me. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have a hand in this. Carmel told me you all but waved the room hire for this event.”

  I shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal, really.”

  “It is. In this town, everyone’s out to make a quick dollar.”

  “I’m not interested in quick dollars. Sage and I are playing the long game—but we’ll also always have a soft spot for those who need it most.” I gesture to the charity’s logo again, carefully straddling the line between compassionate and driven lest Marjorie think I’m anything less than capable when it comes to managing a brand she has a stake in.

  “You’re doing a great job. And I cannot wait for those concerts you’ve organized. Stone?” She places a hand to her chest as if he’s near and dear to her heart. “He’s a talent, that’s for sure. And most definitely easy on the eyes.”

  We laugh and end the conversation, but as Callum and I move through the room, his strong, sexy body so close to mine, I feel that couple’s eyes on us again and I can’t help but wonder what it is they’re saying. I fantasize about the different life I could lead if Callum wasn’t my bodyguard, the best one I’ve ever had, but instead something more. Perhaps then, that blonde would whisper, Oh, that’s Ivy Carmichael with that gorgeous man who can’t take his eyes off her.

  Maybe her lover would whisper back, I bet he worships her body the minute they’re alone.

  A shiver skates over my skin. I wish, I wish, I wish.

  “Everything all right?” Callum asks, and I spin around to meet his gaze, but in the close confines of this crowded room, his chest is right there and I want to place my hand on it. I need to feel his body. I have to have him just one more time.

  But I don’t.

  Because if this is how I feel after one simple night together, I can only imagine how much harder a second goodbye would be.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say, handing my empty glass to a waiter as he walks past.

  “As you wish.” Callum gestures toward the door, and I walk ahead, excusing myself for a quick trip to the ladies’ room on the way.

  I rest my hands on the marble sink and look at the woman in the mirror. Get a grip, Ivy, I admonish myself. He’s just one man—he shouldn’t rattle me like this. Not Ivy Carmichael, the hotel heiress. The woman who knows what she wants in business and who isn’t afraid to dream big.

  The woman who’s falling for the one man she shouldn’t want.

  10

  Callum

  Why did she have to wear red?

  That dress worships her body as if it were made to praise the curves of her breasts, the dip in her waist. And that color—so provocative. So perfect for a woman who’s sensual. Who’s deeply erotic.

  I want her to be mine.

  I bat the thought from my mind and keep my eyes on Ivy as we walk through the casino and wait at the elevator bank.

  “What time do you finish?” she asks.

  I tap my wristwatch. “My replacement’s already waiting by your door.”

  “Care for a drink?” she asks, and temptation, thy name is Ivy Carmichael.

  I should go work out, burn off some of the desire for her that buzzes through my body every time she’s near. I should head home, finish up some paperwork for a short-term contract my team has secured for a series of local masquerade parties.

  “Sounds good,” I reply instead as the doors ping open and we step inside.

  Ivy enters the code for the high rollers’ lounge and the elevator hums us up through the floors of the hotel. I quickly tap out a text to Russ, telling him to meet us at the bar so we can swap shifts.

  And perhaps that’s what I need—another reason not to pursue anything more with Ivy Carmichael. I need to think of Russ, a member of my team. A man who relies on me to run a professional operation.

  Not to jeopardize his employment by sleeping with a client.

  Twice.

  The doors open and we walk past the exclusive gaming tables where glamor and money make exquisite bedfellows. Conversation hums around us as we settle at a private table toward the back. Shadows shroud this part of the room, with the seductive golden glow of pendant lights shining overhead.

  As the waitress brings our drinks, Russ waves to me from his spot a few feet away, and I nod, then raise my glass of scotch in his direction. I’m officially off-duty.

  Somehow, it feels more dangerous than when I was here in a professional capacity.

  “Do you ever gamble?” Ivy asks as she sips at her champagne.

  “No. It’s not really my thing.” I shrug.

  “What is your thing?”

  You.

  I don’t say it, but damn, the word could form all too easily on my tongue.

  Instead, I take a beat, take a drink, and take a glance around the room that’s buzzing with some of the country’s most rich and famous. “Success,” I finally settle on, in answer to her question, “whether that’s scoring a new contract at work or a personal best at the gym. I like to work hard and then enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

  Ivy’s gaze lingers on my shoulders, down my arms. “You’re not the only one who likes to enjoy that.” She shifts closer, and even through my pants I feel the subtle sweep of her thigh as it brushes against mine.

  But I have to stay strong. Stay focused.

  Stay friends.

  “You don’t gamble?” I ask, my tone a little tight.

  “I’m gambling right now,” she says quietly, but before I can press her, she nods toward a nearby table. “See that man and woman playing blackjack?”

  I nod, studying the adversaries. Equal piles of chips are stacked in front of them. Seems like an even match.

  “I bet they leave the room together.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “It’s the way he’s looking at her. He’s tracking her every move as if he wants to memorize it.”

  “Perhaps he’s just studying the opposition,” I reply.

  “Or perhaps he’s intrigued by her. He can’t get enough.” She holds up one finger as if to make a point, right as the man takes a small step closer to the woman.

  “He could be trying to see her cards,” I counter.

  “Or perhaps he’s drawn to her, unable to resist,” she says, and don’t I know what that feels like. A light flares in Ivy’s eyes. “Care to make a one-off wager?”

  “Tempt me.”

  “I’m trying to,” she whispers, and I clench my hands into fists.

  “Ivy . . .” I protest for the second time this evening, but there’s no conviction in it.

  “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head. “We’re friends. I don’t want to make your life hard.”

  I lower my voice and move closer again. Fuck the rules. “Just being near you has me hard. Every. Single. Minute.”

  She swallows and the movement travels down the delicate column of her throat—I want to taste it, trail a path of kisses from there along her neck to the temptation of her cleavage.

  “But I care about you, Ivy. And your safety is my priority.” And while the words still ring as true as they did in her bathroom a few weeks back, I’m not so sure how much longer I can resist. If it was just sex, it would be easy, but it’s not. I’m as attracted to Ivy’s mind as I am to her body, her face, and that makes it all the worse.

  For the next hour, we talk. We laugh. We observe strangers and create stories about their desires, sometimes a little flirty, sometimes a little friendly. With Ivy, it’s hard not to be both.

  And as we finish our second round of drinks, the woman from the blackjack table stands and leaves the room alone.

  I nod in her direction then turn back to the temptress by my side. “Lucky we didn’t make that wager. Looks like theirs wasn’t the relationship to gamble on.”

  “Indeed. It seems you’d have won,” Ivy says, but as she holds my gaze just a beat longer, those kissable lips mere inches from my own, that fuckable body within reach, I know she’s wrong.

  I don’t win at all.

  Because wanting her this much and not being able to taste her is nothing short of torture.

  11

  Ivy

  Four weeks after that one night we spent together, he still invades all my midnight thoughts. Trouble is, I have to hold all those thoughts at bay when I see him. We are a rubber band that snaps back to bodyguard-client, as if we never engaged in any other kind of relationship.

  At the end of a long day in the fourth week, he escorts me to my suite. I slide off my pumps in the elevator, sighing with relief.

  Exhaustion gets the better of me.

  “Getting a little risqué, aren’t you?” he asks, and that—that teasing again—feels good. I’ve missed it. So damn much.

  I laugh. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

  “True. Though if memory serves—”

  He stops himself. But I know where he’s going. “I didn’t take them off that night,” I say, finishing for him.

  He draws a sharp breath, taking a beat, like he’s considering whether to speak at all. When he does, his voice is low, controlled. “No, you left your shoes on,” he says, as if it costs him everything to keep his tone neutral. But it’s hardly neutral. I can hear the lust in it. Thick and heavy.

  I want to revel in it. Wrap myself in it. But he needs to make the move. He needs to take the step toward me.

  We reach my floor and walk down the hall, my shoes in my hand. The door seems to loom larger, like a tantalizing invitation into another world.

  Into a daring, dangerous world pulsing with nighttime desires.

  A world I should avoid.

  A world I can’t reconcile with my days.

  Just like I don’t know how to exist with wanting a man I see every day but can’t have.

  When I reach my door, I turn to Callum, my heart pounding, my chest aching.

  “Callum,” I say, desperate to add more, to say, Take me to bed tonight.

  “Ivy.” It comes out raspy, needy.

  My fingers twitch. My body aches. I want him to jerk me against him, slam his pelvis to mine, drag his hands through my hair. I want him to toss me on the bed, flip me onto all fours, pound into me, come on me.