Heat Novels

The dress arrived this morning.

Not from Dominic—because that would be too obvious, too Pretty Woman, too much like something I'd have to return on principle. No, it came from some boutique I've never heard of, with a note in handwriting I don't recognize: For Saturday. You'll need armor. -V

Victoria Ashford.

The fact that Dominic's mother is sending me designer gowns should probably concern me more than it does. But the dress is stunning—midnight blue silk that feels like water against my skin, with a neckline that's just shy of scandalous and a slit that goes up to there.

I should send it back.

I'm wearing it anyway.

Because fuck it. If I'm going to be a spectacle, I might as well look like one.

---

The car Dominic sends is obscene.

Not a limo—thank god—but some sleek black thing that probably costs more than I made in the last five years. The driver opens my door without a word, and I slide into leather seats that smell like money and poor life choices.

Dominic is already inside.

Cedar and bergamot hit me first, that scent that's become Pavlovian. My body responds before my brain catches up—pulse quickening, skin warming, that low pull in my belly that I've been trying to ignore for weeks.

He's in a tuxedo.

Of course he is.

And he looks like sin wrapped in Tom Ford, all sharp lines and controlled power, his steel-gray eyes tracking over me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

"Elena." His voice is rough. Lower than usual.

"Dominic." I settle into the seat across from him, crossing my legs. The slit in the dress falls open, exposing my thigh.

His jaw tightens.

Good.

If I'm going to survive this night, I need whatever leverage I can get.

"You look—" He stops. Swallows. His hand flexes against his thigh like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me. "Beautiful doesn't cover it."

"Expensive is probably more accurate." I touch the silk at my hip. "Your mother has good taste."

Something flickers in his expression. "My mother sent you that dress?"

"Surprised?"

"Concerned."

"Why? Afraid I'll embarrass you in front of your billionaire friends?"

"Afraid she's playing a game I don't understand yet." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and suddenly the space between us feels smaller. Warmer. "And Elena? You could show up in jeans and a t-shirt and still be the most captivating woman in the room."

My throat goes dry.

"That's a line."

"It's the truth."

"Same thing, usually."

His mouth curves—not quite a smile, but close. "You don't trust compliments."

"I don't trust anything that sounds too good to be real."

"Smart." He reaches across the space between us, and my heart slams against my ribs as his fingers brush my wrist. Right over the compass tattoo. "But sometimes the truth sounds impossible because we're not used to hearing it."

I should pull away.

I don't.

His thumb traces the small compass, and heat spreads up my arm, pooling in places I'm trying very hard to ignore.

"You're nervous," he says quietly.

"I'm realistic. Your world and mine don't exactly overlap."

"Maybe they should."

"Dominic—"

"Just for tonight." His grip tightens slightly. "Let me show you something other than boardrooms and contracts. Let me—"

"What? Sweep me off my feet?" I inject as much sarcasm as I can manage, which isn't much when he's touching me like this. "Turn me into Cinderella?"

"Turn you into nothing. You're already—" He breaks off, releasing my wrist like it burned him. Sits back. "Fuck."

"Eloquent."

"You make me forget words."

And just like that, the air in the car is too thin, too hot, charged with something that makes my skin feel too tight.

The car slows.

We're here.

---

The venue is a museum.

Of course it is.

Because nothing says "casual charity event" like marble floors and priceless art and a string quartet playing something classical and probably very important.

Dominic's hand settles on my lower back as we walk in, and I'm acutely aware of his palm through the thin silk, the heat of him seeping into my skin, the possessive weight of that touch.

"Stay close," he murmurs against my ear.

Like I could do anything else when he's touching me like this.

The crowd parts for him. It's subtle—the way people shift, make space, turn to look. Power recognizes power, and Dominic wears his like a second skin.

I'm introduced to a blur of faces. Tech CEOs. Venture capitalists. Old money and new money and the kind of people who don't think about money at all because they've always had it.

They look at me with curiosity. Calculation.

Like they're trying to figure out where I fit in Dominic's carefully constructed world.

I smile and shake hands and make small talk, and the whole time I'm thinking: I don't belong here.

But I'm good at pretending.

Years of foster homes taught me that.

---

"So you're the one who's got Dominic so distracted."

The woman addressing me is mid-fifties, wearing diamonds that could fund a small country, with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"I'm his executive assistant," I say evenly.

"Mmm." Her gaze rakes over me. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

Dominic's hand tightens on my back. "Careful, Patricia."

"Oh, I'm just teasing." But her eyes are cold. "It's lovely to see you with someone so... refreshing."

Refreshing. Code for: Not one of us.

"Elena has an MBA from Columbia," Dominic says, his voice edged with warning. "And she runs my office better than anyone I've ever worked with. I'm lucky to have her."

The woman's smile sharpens. "I'm sure you are."

She drifts away, and I exhale slowly.

"That was fun," I mutter.

"Ignore her."

"Hard to ignore what's obvious." I turn to face him. "I'm not exactly their type of people."

"You're exactly my type of people."

"Dominic—"

"Dance with me."

It's not a question.

His hand slides from my back to my waist, and before I can protest, he's guiding me toward the dance floor where other couples sway to something slow and sultry.

"I don't dance," I say, even as he pulls me against him.

"Liar."

His hand settles on my hip. The other takes mine, his fingers lacing through mine with an intimacy that feels more dangerous than it should.

We move.

And fuck me, he can dance.

Not stiff, formal ballroom dancing. Something fluid and natural, like he's done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly how to lead without making me feel controlled.

His thigh slides between mine as we turn, and heat floods through me.

"You're good at this," I manage.

"My mother insisted on lessons." His breath is warm against my temple. "Apparently it's essential for maintaining appearances."

"Is that what this is? Appearances?"

His hand flexes on my hip, pulling me closer. "Does this feel like appearances?"

No.

It feels like fire and want and something terrifyingly real.

The music swells, and he spins me out, then back in. My back presses against his chest, his arm bands across my waist, and I can feel every hard line of him against me.

"Elena." My name is rough in his throat.

I tilt my head back, and his mouth is right there, so close I can feel his breath on my lips.

"This is a bad idea," I whisper.

"The worst."

"We work together."

"I know."

"Your mother already hates me."

"I don't give a fuck what my mother thinks."

His hand slides up from my waist, fingers splaying across my ribs, just below my breast. Not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his palm through the silk.

I'm trembling.

Actually trembling.

"Dominic—"

"May I cut in?"

The voice is familiar. Warm. Edged with something I can't quite place.

Marcus.

Dominic's entire body goes rigid against mine. For a moment, I think he's going to refuse. His arm tightens around my waist, possessive, claiming.

Then he releases me.

Steps back.

And the loss of his heat feels like winter.

"Marcus." Dominic's voice could cut glass.

"Dom." Marcus smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "You don't mind if I borrow Elena for a dance, do you?"

It's a test.

Some kind of power play I don't fully understand.

Dominic's jaw works. "Ask her."

Both men turn to me.

Great.

"Sure," I say, because what else can I say? "Why not."

Marcus takes my hand, and his touch is different from Dominic's. Gentler. Less consuming.

He smells like sandalwood and rain.

"You look stunning," he says as we start to move.

"You look like you're enjoying making Dominic uncomfortable."

His laugh is soft. "Is it that obvious?"

"You're not exactly subtle."

"Neither is he." Marcus spins me, and I catch a glimpse of Dominic across the room, his eyes locked on us with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. "The way he looks at you—I've never seen him like that."

"Like what?"

"Uncontrolled."

The word hangs between us.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," I say.

"With Dominic?" Marcus's expression darkens. "It is."

"You don't know him."

"I know him better than anyone." His hand tightens on my waist. "We built a company together. We were brothers. And then he—"

He stops. Swallows.

"Then he what?"

Marcus's dark eyes meet mine. "Then he chose success over everything else. Over loyalty. Over friendship. Over anyone who couldn't keep up with his ambition."

"That's not—"

"He'll do the same to you." His voice is soft. Almost gentle. "When you become inconvenient. When you threaten the empire he's built. He'll cut you loose without a second thought."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I like you. Because you deserve better than being collateral damage in Dominic Ashford's quest to prove he's not his father."

The music ends.

Marcus releases me, but his words linger like smoke.

"Think about it," he says. Then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd.

I stand there, breathing too fast, trying to process what just happened.

A hand touches my elbow.

Dominic.

"What did he say to you?"

"Nothing."

"Elena."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. You're—" He studies my face, and whatever he sees there makes his expression darken. "Come with me."

He takes my hand and leads me through the crowd, past the string quartet, through a set of French doors that open onto a garden.

The night air is cool against my overheated skin. The sounds of the gala fade behind us, replaced by crickets and the distant rush of traffic.

Dominic doesn't stop until we're deep in the garden, surrounded by roses and shadow.

"Tell me what he said."

"Why does it matter?"

"Because he's trying to poison you against me."

"Maybe he's trying to warn me."

"About what?" Dominic turns to face me, and in the moonlight, he looks almost savage. "About how I'm going to hurt you? How I'm ruthless and cold and incapable of caring about anything but success?"

"Are you?"

"Yes." The word is brutal. Honest. "I am all of those things. I've made decisions that destroyed friendships. I've prioritized my company over people I cared about. I've been exactly what Marcus said."

My chest tightens.

"Then maybe I should listen to him."

"Maybe you should." He steps closer. "Maybe you should run as far and fast as you can. Because you're right—I am dangerous. Not because I don't care, but because I care too fucking much, and I don't know how to do it halfway."

"Dominic—"

"I want you." His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. "Not as my assistant. Not as some convenient distraction. I want you in ways that terrify me. And if you let me have you, I won't be gentle about it. I won't be casual. I'll be possessive and demanding and I'll want all of you, and I don't know if I'm capable of giving you what you deserve in return."

My heart is trying to break out of my chest.

"What if I don't want gentle?"

His breath catches. "Elena."

"What if I don't want casual?"

"You should." His forehead drops to mine. "You should want someone who knows how to do this. Someone who won't fuck it up."

"Too bad." My hands fist in his jacket. "I've never been good at wanting the right things."

He makes a sound low in his throat—something between a groan and a growl—and then his mouth is on mine.

The kiss is nothing like I imagined.

It's not soft or tentative or testing.

It's consuming.

His hand slides into my hair, angling my head, and his mouth moves against mine like he's starving, like I'm air and he's been drowning. I open for him, and his tongue sweeps in, tasting, claiming, and I'm making sounds I don't recognize, pressing against him like I can't get close enough.

His other hand grips my hip, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel every hard line of his body, the evidence of his desire pressing against my stomach.

I've never been kissed like this.

Like I matter.

Like I'm necessary.

His mouth moves to my jaw, my throat, and I tilt my head back, gasping, my fingers digging into his shoulders.

"Elena." My name against my skin. "Fuck, you taste—"

"Dominic."

The voice is ice water.

We break apart, breathing hard, and I turn to see Victoria Ashford standing at the edge of the garden, her expression perfectly composed except for the frost in her blue eyes.

"Mother." Dominic's voice is rough.

"I'm sorry to interrupt." She doesn't sound sorry at all. "But your presence is required inside. Senator Morrison wants to discuss the education initiative."

"I'm busy."

"I can see that." Her gaze flicks to me, and I feel stripped bare under that assessment. "Miss Moretti, you look flushed. Perhaps you should powder your nose."

It's not a suggestion.

"I'm fine," I say.

"I insist." Her smile is sharp. "The ladies' room is just inside. Second door on the left. I'll keep Dominic company while you... compose yourself."

The dismissal is clear.

Dominic's hand tightens on my hip. "She stays."

"Darling." Victoria's voice is silk over steel. "Don't be rude. Senator Morrison is waiting, and Miss Moretti looks like she could use a moment to collect herself. Unless you'd prefer the senator sees her looking so... disheveled?"

The word lands like a slap.

"It's fine," I say quietly, stepping out of Dominic's grip. "I'll be inside."

"Elena—"

"Go talk to your senator."

I walk away before he can argue, before Victoria can say anything else, before the tears burning in my eyes can fall.

I make it to the bathroom.

Lock the door.

Lean against the sink and stare at my reflection.

My lipstick is smudged. My hair is mussed. My eyes are too bright.

I look exactly like what Victoria said.

Disheveled.

Out of place.