Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92334 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
I pick up the centerpiece of what will be the signature necklace. The diamonds are arranged like icicles, but with an asymmetrical edge that makes them look almost like broken glass. Between them, black rhodium-plated thorns twist and curl. It’s winter, but not the soft, dreamy kind. This is the winter that kills.
A soft knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts.
“Sloane? May I come in?” Cole’s voice carries through the door.
“Yes, come in,” I call out.
The studio door opens, and I catch Cole’s reflection in my design mirror. He’s still in his suit from work.
“You’re here late,” he says, resting a hand on the back of my chair.
“Lost track of time.” I glance up at him in the mirror. “Board meeting run long?”
He picks up one of the sketches instead of answering, studying the way the thorns wrap around the diamonds. “The design’s evolved.”
“I’m getting there. I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel with this line.”
His fingers trail along the edge of my worktable, stopping near the intricate tangle of metal and stones. “Show me your latest.”
I reach for the centerpiece, aware of his warmth at my back, his breath stirring my hair. I hold up the necklace, letting the stones catch the light. The thorns cast strange shadows, making the diamonds look like they’re floating in darkness.
“It’s becoming something wilder,” I say, remembering our argument at dinner. “Not quite what you had in mind when you wanted me to prioritize the bracelet, is it?”
His lips quirk into a half-smile. “I was wrong. This is exactly where your focus needed to be.”
I can’t help the smug grin that spreads across my face. “I’m sorry, what was that? Cole Asher admitting he was wrong?”
“Don’t push it,” he warns, but there’s heat in his eyes that makes my stomach flip. His hand slides from my chair to my shoulder, fingers working at a knot there.
Just ask him. That’s what normal people do, right? Hey Cole, quick question—what really happened with Julian and Claire Voss?
His thumb works another knot in my shoulder and my eyes flutter closed. The question about Claire dissolves on my tongue.
God, that’s unfair. How am I supposed to interrogate someone when they’re basically turning my brain to mush?
“You like being right, don’t you?” Cole murmurs, his voice dropping to that register that makes it hard to think straight.
“It happens so often, I’ve gotten used to it,” I manage to reply, trying to sound casual despite the way his touch is short-circuiting my brain.
His chuckle is low and so deliciously dangerous. “That kind of talk might work out here, but in the bedroom . . .” He leans closer, his lips brushing my ear. “In the bedroom, it’ll get you punished.”
My breath catches. Julian Voss suddenly seems very distant and unimportant.
Focus, Sloane. The rumors about Claire. Julian’s business connection to Cole. The whispers about what might have happened.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” he murmurs, and for a heart-stopping moment I think he’s actually reading my mind. But no, he’s just noticed me spacing out while having an internal crisis. Which is probably better than knowing I’m mentally rehearsing how to ask about his ex–business partner without ruining everything between us.
Just say something. Anything. Open your mouth and—
He slides my hair aside and kisses my neck.
—and apparently make a small noise that definitely isn’t words because holy hell, that’s distracting.
This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. The man’s probably just a regular billionaire with regular billionaire secrets. Like tax evasion. Or a private island. Or a collection of rare sports cars he never drives.
“I should finish this,” I manage, gesturing vaguely at my workspace and trying to remember what exactly I was working on. Something about winter. And diamonds. And definitely not about how good he smells or how that suit fits him or—
“It’ll still be here tomorrow.” His voice has that low, rough edge that makes my stomach flip. “Come to bed, Sloane.”
Right. Bed.
He nips lightly at my earlobe.
This is so not fair.
“Ten minutes,” I say, proud that my voice sounds almost normal. “I just need to finish this one thing.”
“Ten minutes,” he agrees, straightening up. His fingers trail across my shoulders as he steps away. “Then I’m coming back to get you.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. He turns and leaves, and I collapse back in my chair.
I catch my reflection in the design mirror—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, that look that says I’m absolutely going to allow this man to ruin me tonight.
I can always ask the heavy questions tomorrow. Get the real story about Julian, clear up all these ridiculous theories. But tonight? Tonight I think I’ll let myself enjoy the mystery. After all, what’s one more night of sin with a man who’s probably-almost-definitely not a criminal? One more night of loving that dangerous glint in his eye.