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.