The fire crackled pleasantly, the flames licking upward in intense colors, bathing the room in a warm pink glow. Two floors below, chefs were readying his dinner, which he was certain would be superb. The Courvoisier was a warm pool in his stomach, radiating heat outward.

He sat and basked in the firelight, savoring the clean taste of the cognac; safe in his fortress, he emptied his mind of all cares, all worries, and waited for the most beautiful woman in the world to come out of his bathroom.

How long would it take for him to shed this life? To effectively die? A week? Two weeks?

Whatever, as the Americans said.

At some point she was going to have to get out of this sinfully, outrageously luxurious tub. It was simply too wonderful, wallowing in the water, feeling the strong jets massaging her aching muscles.

She’d looked, but there had been no essential oils, so it was just unadorned New York water, which was fine.

Actually, though the bathroom was beyond sumptuous, she was astonished at the lack of personal care products.

Drake was obviously well-to-do. Filthy rich, actually. He could afford every skin care product in the world. But looking for some oil to put in the tub, all she’d found was masses of thick, blindingly white towels, something like fifty unused toothbrushes, ditto toothpaste, a year’s supply of a very ordinary soap, shampoo and an electric razor. That was it.

Amazing.

A few months ago she’d briefly dated the guy in her bank who took care of investments. She’d been called into his office, wondering whether she’d done something wrong, only to find that the bank had been tracking her swelling account. Their investment expert, Lawrence Kelsey, had wanted to explain a number of investment opportunities guaranteed to make her money grow.

In the end, it all seemed like a vast amount of work and more of a distraction than anything else. But at the end of the session, while shaking her hand, he’d held it tightly and asked her out to dinner.

And, in a moment of weakness and loneliness, totally against her better judgment, she’d accepted.

Dinner had been at a posh Japanese restaurant, where the food was excellent. She’d been able to concentrate on the food because Lawrence had kept up a running commentary on his banking career, with a little hour-long detour on his new plasma TV. She hadn’t had to do anything but stay awake, nod occasionally and enjoy the fantastic tempura.

She’d even accepted going back to his apartment, fully understanding that they might end up in bed together, testimony more to her worry that she’d forget what sex was like than to his powers of seduction. She’d asked to use the bathroom and had found herself simply openmouthed with amazement at the vast array of skin care products and cosmetics and eau de colognes in an enormous white lacquer vanity. She’d felt quite ashamed of her own miserly collection. A quarter of an hour later, pleading a vicious headache, she was on her way back home.

Drake had nothing like that. For all the sybaritic luxury of the room, it was definitely a very masculine man’s bathroom.

She tilted her head back over the rim and emptied her mind, feeling her muscles relax slowly, one by one. Someone had set the jets at maximum and she relished the gentle pummeling. Her mind drifted. She might even have fallen briefly asleep, because she suddenly jerked upright, noting that her fingers had become as wrinkled as prunes.

She felt no sense of hurry, though. Drake hadn’t given her any feeling that he expected her to be quick, which was good. She was overwhelmed with exhaustion and found she could only move slowly.

The white towels were the thickest she’d ever seen. Once she’d toweled herself off and dried her hair, she noted the neatly folded black outfit on top of a cupboard. Opening the soft material out, she saw what a gi was. One of those pajama-like outfits she’d seen in martial arts movies. The material was thick silk.

Grace looked at her clothes on the floor. Muddy, bloody and ripped. Including the panties. Just the thought of putting any of her filthy clothes back on repelled her. With a shrug, she donned the jacket and pants. He was right, it was perhaps the only thing of his which could possibly fit her. In the movies she’d seen, the outfit’s sleeves were three quarter length, but this covered her hands. She turned the sleeves up and wrapped the jacket around herself. The pants were too long, but not long enough to trip over. The drawstring waist was perfect. She contemplated her sodden shoes and opted to stay barefoot.

Okay. Time to leave the bathroom.

She realized that this time had been like a little respite for her. There were so many things she had to face once she went out into that bedroom, including Drake and this insane attraction he seemed to hold for her.

She knew nothing about him. The intense spike of fear she’d felt in the elevator had abated, but there was an underlying unease. No one knew where she was and she now realized she couldn’t go home. In every way, she was in Drake’s power. Being attracted to him didn’t make things better, it made them worse.

Gathering her courage, she placed her hand against the white door and pushed.

Seven

Drake heard the bathroom door open. Steam escaped from the bathroom, curling around Grace in silver tendrils as she stood in the open doorway.

Christ, she was beautiful.

And scared.

He stood, a male’s instinctive reaction in the presence of a beautiful woman.

Her entire body language spoke of distress. Eyes huge and fixed on him, not really knowing whether he was friend or foe, she was curled in on herself, seeking comfort from herself. She tucked her hands under her armpits to hide the fact that they were shaking. She was barefoot, one foot curled over the other. Her feet were extraordinarily pretty—pale, narrow and high-arched.

Drake walked up to her and untucked a hand from where it was clamped against her side. Slowly, watching her eyes carefully, he brought her trembling hand to his mouth.

Her eyes widened.

He smiled at her. “You’re looking a little better. I’m glad. I’ve had some food brought up. You’ve had a bad shock and some warm food would do you good.”

Drake released her hand and held himself utterly still. It was the only thing he could do. She must be feeling as if she’d fallen down a rabbit hole, only not into Wonderland but into Horrorland. He was lucky she wasn’t screaming at him, calling the police.

Drake knew it was absolutely essential that he gain her trust and then bind her to him in all ways. This long journey they were undertaking together had to begin now. The only way he knew to take that first step was to remain still, opening himself to her.

Drake had spent a lifetime scaring scary men. At first out of desperate self-defense and then later—when he grew in strength, prestige and wealth—as a tactic. He was good at it. He was strong, smart, rich. Utterly ruthless. Those qualities gave off an aura that usually was enough to tell any man confronting him to back off. The kind of man who didn’t perceive it was usually stupid, inevitably on the losing end, and often ended up dead.

Intimidation was second nature to him. He lived in a feral world. He knew how to stay on top by being more feral than most. None of his weapons, though, were any help here, with Grace. He didn’t want to intimidate her, he wanted—needed—to seduce her.

Step number one in seduction—make sure the woman doesn’t fear you.

So he stayed perfectly still, moving only his lungs, holding her hand carefully. Not too loose, not too tight. He was close enough to smell her, but not so close he was invading the buffer space every animal needs.