Chapter One

Grace

The hand that wraps about mine is strong. Big. Masculine. His touch—whoever he is—sends a frisson of heat and awareness through my flesh. “I’m okay…” I breathe in and wrap my fingers about his, just as the elevator gives another groan in the inky blackness and lurches downward. “Plummeting to my death was on my bucket list, so…I can tick it off.” He squeezes my hand. “That sounds a little risky. Death plummeting and bucket list together.” The man is tall, his words, rough edged and moreish, come from just above my head. “It seemed to be efficient.” He doesn’t let me go. “Maybe I need the support?” “Do you?” “No.” “I really am okay,” I say the words automatically, making no move to let go of him as the elevator groans even louder and really, I’m anything but okay. “You don’t sound it.” That voice is dark and full of no-holds barred sex. There’s a familiar cadence to it I can’t place, because I’ve never heard it before, except in movies. Yes, Grace, that’s right. You’re trapped in a pitch-black elevator on the worst day of the worst week of your life with a stranger who’s a bona fide movie star. Because those things happen. They do. But only in the movies. “There’s really nothing to be scared of, we’re not going to plummet to our deaths,” he says softly. A thrill of something dark and needing spins through me and maybe I’m losing my mind. “I’m not scared.” “Modern elevators are designed to not do that.” “Scare people?” “No, designed not to plummet to the occupant’s death.” I can think of lots of ways an elevator can do just that, but I keep them to myself. I’m not claustrophobic, just a little…uncomfortable in tight, dark spaces where I’m trapped and doom might happen at any moment. “I said I’m not scared.” “My apologies.” He’s still holding my hand, and he’s warm and solid and somehow both reassuring and dangerous all at the same time. Dangerous? Ludicrous but once there, the word and meaning won’t go away, and a frisson of something sharp and breathless shifts in the air between us. “Do you have a phone?” I ask. “Mine’s dead.” “I wish. Forgot mine.” He doesn’t quite sound like a man who goes around forgetting things, whatever they might sound like. He sounds strong and made of steel and iron. And he laughs in such a self- deprecating way that it soothes, dislodging the sense of danger like it was nothing more than my imagination, which it probably was. “Well, as first dates go, I’m not sure this is a success.” I’ve no idea where those words come from. I’m Grace Ellington, known to be thoughtful and calming and even-keeled. I don’t make little jokes, even lame ones. Especially to people who aren’t my two brothers, or my friend, Shohreh. Perhaps it’s the lack of light. Or the fact this is a stranger I’ll never meet again. Or…my week from hell. “Excuse me?” And I smile, lifting our joined hands. “You’re still holding onto me. As I said, I’m okay.” “Perhaps I’m scared of the dark.” Heat laces his words and my muscles start to melt. “You don’t sound like a man scared of the dark.” “And you don’t sound like a woman who holds stranger’s hands.” “Blame the elevator.” It’s strange, but he makes no move to release me, and I make no move to pull free. And I wonder, what would it feel like to have him touch more than my hand. “I think…” I breathe in, making it slow and steady, not too deep, “I think we should press the emergency button.” Then I pause. “Do you remember where it is?” “Pushed it the moment everything went black.” There’s a faint thread of something in his voice I can’t place and I frown. “Shouldn’t there be an emergency lighting system?” I can feel him shrug. “Must have failed. Don’t worry, I’m not some kind of murderer.” “That doesn’t make me feel better.” “Doesn’t it?” That rough edged voice wraps about me, and I place what that something is. Humor. “How about if I said I am some kind of murderer but I promise you’ll be okay?” I want to laugh but keep it locked down. “Well, I’d say I’m not sure if I’m miffed or relieved.” What am I even doing? Flirting? I don’t know his name or if he’s married or gay or anything. I don’t even know what he looks like. Hot sex and delicious. I shove the unwanted words away. Those are for other women. Not me. “There are two elevators in this building,” he says, as though that moment didn’t happen. “And it’s close to five p.m. Someone will call this in.” “Yes.” I sigh. “But emergency services are going to have a hell of a time getting here.” “Fuck.” There’s a small thud and I picture him, eyes closed and head lightly hitting the elevator wall. “The president’s visiting the UN.” “I think we’ll be here a while.” “I think you might be right…?” There’s a space there with a question and I dutifully answer. “Grace.” “Grace,” he says in that dark, rough edged voice, like he’s tasting it, seeing things no one else does. Which is ridiculous. I might be a closet hopeless romantic, but I’m not delusional. “You can call me Walker.” There’s something about the way he says that, like there are half-truths and lies in the darkness. Which is stupid. I don’t know him. We just met. And I’m still holding his hand. I like it more than I should. “May I have my hand back, please?” After a beat he says, “Sorry.” His thumb slides over the back of my hand, making me shiver with a dark awareness. And he releases me. But as I slide down to the floor and tuck my legs beneath me, I can’t help get the feeling that his lazy sorry isn’t that sorry at all. Lord, leave a girl single for more than a year and she’s having stupid fantasies about strangers while trapped in an elevator… Again, I almost laugh. “You can’t really run or hide in here,” he says as he takes a seat on the floor beside me. I blame his voice for the twists and turns my mind takes. He really does have the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard. Deep and dark, the smoky edge and promise of sex it contains could fuel a rocket of fantasies straight to the stars. He’s there. Close. The heat of his body is comforting, arousing, disturbing. And boy, does he smell good. I’m used to men with carefully designed eau de parfums, like my ex, Gareth. Walker doesn’t smell like that at all. He’s leather and danger, night and sex. “I don’t think I need to run and hide around most men.” “No terrible, dark secrets?” “No, just your average run-of-the-mill woman having an awful week.” There’s a long pause. “Want to talk about it?” “No need to bore you.” “Who said I’d be bored?” “Me.” I can almost feel him smile, and his voice is ember-warm. “Somehow, Grace, I don’t think I’d find it boring.” “Just here on business.” My heart constricts at everything that transpired in the eighteenth floor office. That on top of everything else… “All dull. You?” “Same.” I feel him shrug. “Of course, my business is getting trapped in elevators, so…” “Don’t you mean hobby? I can’t see this elevator business working as a career.” “You got me. Right now it’s a hobby, but I dream of it as a career.” That smile heats his voice again. “However, even as a hobby, it’s one I don’t get to exercise often.” “You could collect stamps,” I say. “Does anyone do that anymore?” “Yes and a lot of those people are exceedingly rich. But—” The elevator groans and shrieks and lurches once more. Walker strokes his fingers over my hand, like he can see me in the dark. Maybe he can. Maybe he has superpowers. It’s meant to soothe, I know, but it does the opposite and I can feel my heart speeding up in my chest. I want to— The elevator hums and moves like a drunk in an alley downwards and from beyond the doors, voices start filtering in. And then the elevator stops, with a small shudder. Beyond, someone is scraping and clanging at the door, and muffled voices aimed to calm slide in, but I ignore them as Walker’s hand closes over mine. He rises and helps me to my feet. “See? Miracles do happen.” “And it’s not even Christmas...” “Nor is this Thirty-Fourth Street.” “Oh look, he thinks he’s funny,” I say as he releases me. I tell myself I’m pleased. Freedom from this metal box is right at my fingertips. “Maybe. Listen—” But the doors open and light pours in. Gareth is there, blond and pressed, preppy handsome and looking picture perfect, straight from the pages of Town and Country magazine. He hovers at the front of a small crowd. “There she is!” Gareth’s voice rolls over me as an EMT shines a flashlight in my face. I turn to see Walker, but I’m blinded. I reach out and no one’s there. The lights come on and the flashlight switches off and I can see again, but… He’s gone. An apparition. A dream. I look about but I’m not given time as I’m manhandled gently out of the Elevator of Death and Surprises. Pulling free, I search the faces and beyond, not even knowing who I’m looking for, but he’s not there. I know it. All I see ahead is a tall, broad-shouldered man with hair the color of the darkest chocolate move against the crowd and out the door.

“Sorry I’m late!” My best friend, Shohreh, looks me over, one glamorous eyebrow rising, and she smiles. “Well, hello, Grace. You’re glowing. Good news?” I frown, sighing, all that tension from the visit to the eighteenth floor returning to constrict muscle and bone. “The opposite, actually.” “Hmm.” She crosses her arms, tapping one long nail against her arm. “Something happened. There’s a look about you, as I said…glowing.” “I’m not—” “You are. Something happened.” She’s right. Something did happen. I got trapped in the elevator with a man I never saw, who sounded and smelled like hot, wild, dirty sex. “Stefan’s left the country, absconding with my money and Gareth’s and no doubt countless other people’s.” “Fucker.” “Stefan or Gareth?” I try to ignore the tingle in my hand from where my mysterious stranger touched me. She waves a hand. “Both.” She leans in. “But especially Gareth.” Shohreh straightens. “Let me get you a drink.” “No, I’ll—” “Grace, you’ve just joined me and the rest of the world in being what they call poor. Congratulations. I’ll get these.” She orders dirty martinis. I want to point out I’m technically not poor. I’ve a huge trust fund coming in a few years and all it would take for more money than I know what to do with is speak to my brothers and… I sigh again. That’s not going to happen. People think I’m calm and unassuming. A rich girl who only needs to ask and money will come. Shohreh knows me, possibly better than my brothers in some ways. I don’t take handouts and even the martini is hard for me but she’s got that look in her liquid brown eyes, the one that shames diamonds, so I don’t say anything, simply run my finger along the edge of the paper napkin as our drinks appear. She leans in once more. “Something definitely happened.” Her eyes narrow. “You and Gareth didn’t get back tog—” “Goodness, no. I…I just got trapped in an elevator for a bit, that’s all.” For some reason I want to keep the rest of it to myself. Keep the mysterious man with the magic touch and voice of hot dreams to myself. “Okay.” Shohreh leans back. “What about that message you received? Someone’s threatening you.” “No. It’s just—” “Scary—” “Not scary, just someone being a jerk. I’m pretty sure some property developer wants to scare off the woman trying to buy the property they want. It’s not unheard of.” “A man. They can be jerks.” I clink my glass carefully with hers. “Absolutely.” Her eyes are troubled. “Grace, you don’t know—” “I do. It mentioned Valentine’s Day and that’s when the final decision will be made on the hotel. So it makes sense.” “But—” “But I don’t want to talk about any of that stupid testosterone-driven stuff,” I say. “Let’s have some fun.” Because tomorrow, I’m not about to have fun. I’ve been summoned upstate to Pagoda Falls to see my father.

I wait outside the office of James Ellington the Second, or Dad as I call him, at Ellingtons H.Q. Waiting to be summoned. Someone’s in there with him and I don’t know why I have to wait here, like this, when I work for him. Second in command, Dad says, but really, I’m nothing more than a glorified PA, one being groomed to be the face of Ellingtons and nothing more. Mrs. Leary smiles from her desk. It’s Friday morning and I should be at the Manhattan office I fought to get. Doing whatever I can to improve the brand and the company and bring it as much into the twenty-first Century as my narrowly dictated boundaries allow. No, I should be following my own dreams and working for myself. The door opens and two voices filter out. One my father’s, the other…familiar. “Don’t worry,” he says in the rough edged voice that still sounds like sex and night on this crisp New York morning from behind the door, as he holds it open. “I’ll keep Grace safe.” My head spins. Palms dampen. Electric little thrills spark through my flesh. It’s him. Walker. From the elevator. What— “Mr. Ellington will see you now, Grace,” Mrs. Leary says. She’s about a thousand years old so I forgive her pomp when she knows who I am and has since before I was born. I resist the sudden, strange temptation to courtesy, and step inside the cherrywood-heavy office. The thrill of Walker’s voice, of finally seeing him, disappears and real questions rise. “Grace.” My father uses his commanding voice so I dutifully wait, eyes on him as it’s easier this way. But my mind gallops like a mad thing. Why is this Walker, this man who haunted my dreams last night with his heat and evocative scent, his voice, why is he here? Suddenly, I don’t want to turn and look at him as a coldness slides down my spine. “Yes, Dad?” “I’ve received a…threat against you.” Christ. Not this stupidity. I go to say it’s nothing but stupid intimidation games but something stops me. Self-preservation most likely. Because Dad doesn’t know of my…extra- curricular work, and I need to keep it like that, at least for now. My week just keeps getting worse. My heart contracts and slowly sinks. “What kind of threat?” I ask carefully. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” my father continues, “but I’m taking precautions. After all, you’re my baby.” I’m thirty. But I don’t say the words. Walker’s gaze slides into me, deep, and I shiver. Whether from some kind of foreboding or misplaced lust, I don’t know. “What—” “I don’t want you to worry your pretty little head about the details, Grace. We have the promotions for the newest Ellington in Georgia to work on. So, with that in mind, I’ve taken on someone to keep you safe.” “You’ve done what, exactly?” I ask, even as questions crowd from multiple directions. “A bodyguard, Grace. I’ve hired the best from White Raven. I’ve used the company in the past. In fact, I got the same person. Maybe you remember him from when I ran for office? Murphy Black? You two got on well if I remember…” Old, long dormant nightmares stir into life as I turn slowly. For a moment time stands still as I make eye contact with Walker—no, Murphy. He’s dark and foreboding and even hotter than I remember. Those dark, burnished bronze eyes are the same. Older. More cynical. Harder. Dangerous. But the same. It’s him. The man I fell in love with at fifteen. Kissed at sixteen. The man who rejected me right after that kiss. He crushed me. Broke my heart into a million pieces and I hate him. Whirling back to my father my hands tighten into fists, and I shake my head, wanting to spit fire and venom. “No way. Not him. Anyone but him.”

Chapter Two

Murphy

Little Grace Ellington isn’t so little anymore. She’s all grown up, with soft skin and she smells like Madagascan bourbon vanilla. Not sweet, no…dark and complex. Which I’m sure as fuck the spoiled rich girl isn’t. No matter that feeling I got in the elevator. I wait, watch, leaning back against the now closed door and fold my arms over my chest. She’s seething. There’s wildfire there beneath her calm mask of an exterior, and I shouldn’t be surprised that fire exists. When she was a kid with a supernova crush on me the dead would’ve been hard pressed to miss, that fire burned hot and bright. Grace is intriguing, though. Which’ll make my job ahead all the more interesting. She shouldn’t be. After all, she’s rich, been given everything a girl could ever want from birth, right down to a cushy job dipped so deep in nepotism it’s a wonder she doesn’t dress like her old dad. That fucking piece of shit. Yeah, he sits there, hair impeccably dyed mostly natural black with just the right amount of distinguished gray at the temples, with a benign expression on his face that belies the evil and rot I know exists beneath the surface. This whole thing wasn’t planned. But when opportunity like this comes knocking, I’m not turning it down. It’s been years in the making, a long time coming. Katy went missing years ago. I’ve dropped fortunes trying to locate her. Or her remains. But nothing. And from the moment she left at seventeen, to work for the piece of shit sitting there like Teflon, all roads have led back to Ellington. All information on Katy stops here. Her last known job. Here. The last time she was seen, hysterical and in tears, here. The reason I fucking took the job with the bodyguard company in the first place all those years ago. The reason I worked my ass off to make money, climb the ladders of success, was to find her. The police file says runaway. Missing, presumed dead. And the notes on her time here, with Ellington, scant and not even a whiff of the scandal I know happened. But even with taking things into my own hands, with shady deals and countless investigations, even with downright illegal searches of Ellington’s offices, homes and his high up associates, including his fucking lawyers, even with all that, with my billions…everything just stops here. With James fucking Ellington. And if I can’t find Katy, if I can’t find the truth, then I want the next best thing. Him destroyed. Completely. It’s floated in my head on and off over the years, but it wasn’t until he came knocking— calling—and dropped opportunity in my lap, that I’ve finally been given the gift with which to do so. Working on the inside is perfect. And using Grace? Better still. A while ago I thought about getting to him through his sons—they’re powerful, rich as all fuck—but they don’t carry the same weight as sweet little Grace. I could do it. I’m rich as fuck and just as powerful as them, and I play dirtier than any of these born-to-wealth people could guess. But no. I don’t want to; it would never carry the same impact as Grace.