Heat Novels

I'm standing outside a building that costs more than most people make in a lifetime.

The address Dominic texted me leads to a glass tower in the financial district, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces that scream fuck you money. The kind of place where the doorman's suit is nicer than anything in Marcus's closet.

The kind of place I woke up in yesterday morning.

My stomach does something complicated.

I should turn around. Go home. Deal with my imploding marriage and my sister's bullshit pregnancy claim like a normal person having a normal catastrophic life crisis.

Instead, I walk through the revolving doors.

The lobby is all marble and minimalism. A woman at the reception desk looks up, her smile professional and slightly pitying, like she knows exactly why I'm here.

"Elena Cross for Mr. Kane," I say, hating how my voice wavers.

"Penthouse level. He's expecting you."

Of course he is.

The elevator ride feels endless. My reflection stares back at me from the polished doors—dark circles under my eyes, hair I didn't bother styling, the same clothes I wore yesterday because I couldn't bring myself to go home and face Marcus and Lily playing house.

I look like exactly what I am.

A woman who's lost everything in forty-eight hours.

The doors open directly into a penthouse that takes up the entire top floor.

And I remember it.

Not clearly. Not in sharp detail. But in flashes—stumbling through that door, his hands on my waist, my back against that wall, the city lights spinning below us.

"You came."

Dominic's voice comes from somewhere to my left. I turn and find him standing by floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouetted against the afternoon sun.

He's dressed more casually today—dark jeans, a charcoal sweater that does obscene things to his shoulders. His hair is slightly disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it.

He looks like sex and danger and every bad decision I've ever made.

"You said you had information," I manage. "About Marcus."

"I do." He doesn't move. "But first, we should discuss terms."

"Terms?"

"For our arrangement."

I laugh. It comes out bitter. "What arrangement? You blackmail me into coming here, dangle some mysterious intel, and think I'm just going to—what? Sign up for whatever sick game you're playing?"

"It's not a game, Elena."

The way he says my name makes my skin prickle.

He moves toward me, each step deliberate. Predatory.

"Your husband has been stealing from my company for five years. Small amounts at first. Then larger. He's gotten sloppy, desperate. I have documentation of every transaction."

My heart stutters. "You're lying."

"Am I?"

He's close enough now that I can smell cedar and bourbon. That scent that's been haunting me since I woke up in his bed.

"Why would Marcus steal? He makes good money—"

"Not good enough, apparently. Not for the lifestyle he wants. The lifestyle he thinks he deserves." Dominic's smile is sharp. "Did you know he's been looking at houses in the Hamptons? Booking trips to Saint-Tropez? All on credit cards you don't know about."

The floor tilts slightly.

Because I didn't know.

But it makes horrible, perfect sense.

Marcus has always wanted more. Better. Has always resented being middle management, being ordinary, being the guy who married the girl who settled.

"You could go to the police," I say. "Have him arrested."

"I could." His eyes hold mine. "Or I could give the evidence to you. Let you decide what to do with it."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because I want something in return."

There it is.

The catch.

The devil's bargain I knew was coming.

"Let me guess," I say, stepping back, needing space. "You want me to sleep with you again. Some kind of fucked-up arrangement where I'm your—what? Mistress? Side piece?"

His jaw tightens. "No."

"Then what?"

"I want you to work for me."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"You have an MBA from Columbia. You spent three years in corporate strategy before you quit to play the dutiful wife." His tone makes it clear what he thinks of that decision. "I'm acquiring a company in the hospitality sector. I need someone who understands the industry, who can navigate the politics, who won't be intimidated by entitled assholes in boardrooms."

"You have entire departments for that."

"I want you."

The words hang in the air between us.

"As a consultant," he adds. "Temporary position. Three months. You'd work directly with me. Close proximity. Long hours."

My pulse is doing something erratic.

"This is insane."

"Is it?" He moves to a bar cart, pours two fingers of bourbon into a crystal glass. Doesn't offer me one. "Your marriage is over. Your sister is living in your house, allegedly pregnant with your husband's child. You have no job, no income of your own, and—if I had to guess—a joint bank account that Marcus will drain the second you file for divorce."

Each word lands like a punch.

Because he's right.

About all of it.

"You need money," Dominic continues. "You need leverage. You need a way to destroy the people who betrayed you." He takes a sip of bourbon. "I'm offering you all three."

"Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I don't have a heart, Elena. I thought we established that."

"Then why help me?"

His smile is slow. Dangerous.

"Because watching you burn them down will be the most entertaining thing I've done in years."

I should say no.

Should tell him to go fuck himself and walk out of here with whatever dignity I have left.

Instead, I hear myself say, "What's the catch?"

"No catch. You work for me. I pay you consultant rates—let's say fifteen thousand a week. In return, you provide strategic analysis, attend meetings, help me close this deal."

Fifteen thousand a week.

That's more than Marcus makes in a month.

"And the evidence against Marcus?"

"Yours. The moment you sign the contract." He sets down his glass. "You can turn him in, use it in divorce proceedings, or just keep it as insurance. Your choice."

It's too good.

Too easy.

There has to be something I'm missing.

"Why do I feel like I'm making a deal with the devil?"

Dominic's laugh is low, rough. "Because you are."

He crosses to a desk, pulls out a folder, and hands it to me.

I open it.

The first page is a contract. Standard consulting agreement, everything he said spelled out in legal terms.

The second page is a bank statement.

Marcus's name at the top.

Transactions highlighted in yellow. Withdrawals from corporate accounts, transfers to offshore holdings, purchases that make my stomach turn.

Over two million dollars.

That's how much he's stolen.

"Jesus Christ," I whisper.

"Keep reading."

I flip to the next page.

Credit card statements. A Platinum Amex I've never seen before. Charges for jewelry I've never received, dinners at restaurants we've never been to, a hotel room in Manhattan booked every Thursday for the past two months.

The room spins slightly.

"Thursday nights," I say. "He told me he had late meetings."

"He did. Just not the kind you thought."

I close the folder before I can see more.

Before I can confirm what I already know.

That my husband has been living a double life.

That everything I sacrificed for this marriage—my dreams, my passion, my—

I cut that thought off before it can finish.

"I need air," I say.

Dominic doesn't stop me as I walk to the windows.

The city spreads out below us, endless and indifferent. All those lives happening simultaneously, all that joy and pain and mundane existence.

And here I am, forty stories up, contemplating a deal with a man I don't know, who somehow knows everything about me.

"Why me?" I ask without turning around. "You could hire anyone. Someone with more experience, better connections. Why do you specifically want me for this job?"

Silence.

Then footsteps.

He's behind me now. I can feel his presence like heat.

"Because you're smarter than you give yourself credit for," he says quietly. "Because you see things other people miss. Because you've spent ten years making yourself smaller, dimmer, less than you are, and I want to watch you remember who you used to be."

My breath catches.

"You don't know me."

"Don't I?"

His reflection appears in the glass beside mine. We're not touching, but we might as well be. The air between us feels charged, dangerous.

"Three months," he says. "Work for me. Let me help you destroy the people who destroyed you. Then walk away with enough money to start over. Whatever you want. Wherever you want."

"And if I say no?"

"Then you go back to your cheating husband and your manipulative sister and your empty life. You file for divorce with no money and no leverage. You start over with nothing."

He's not wrong.

I hate that he's not wrong.

"I need to think about it," I say.

"No, you don't."

I turn to face him, which is a mistake.

Because he's right there. Close enough that I can see the silver threading through his dark hair, the faint scar on his neck, the way his pupils dilate slightly when his eyes drop to my mouth.

"You've already decided," he says. "You decided the moment you walked through that door. You just need permission to make the selfish choice for once in your fucking life."

"You don't know anything about my life."

"I know you've spent a decade being what other people needed. The perfect daughter. The perfect wife. The perfect sister." His hand comes up, fingers hovering near my face without quite touching. "I'm offering you a chance to be something else."

"What? Your employee?"

"My equal."

The word settles between us.

His hand is still there, suspended in the air near my cheek. I can feel the heat of it. Can feel my body swaying toward him like a magnet.

This is insane.

All of it.

But when was the last time I did something for myself? When was the last time I chose what I wanted instead of what I should want?

When was the last time I felt alive?

"Okay," I hear myself say.

His eyes flash. "Okay?"

"I'll do it. Three months. But I want the evidence against Marcus today. And I want it in writing that this is purely professional."

"Of course." His smile is slow. Satisfied. "Purely professional."

He's still too close.

Still making it hard to breathe.

"I should go," I say. "I need to figure out where I'm staying. I can't go back to that house."

"Stay here."

My heart stops. "What?"

"I have four bedrooms. You can use one. It's secure, private. And it'll make our working relationship more efficient."

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because—" I gesture between us. "Because of this. Whatever this is. Because I don't trust you. Because I barely trust myself around you."

The words are out before I can stop them.

His expression shifts. Goes dark and hungry.

"Good," he says softly. "You shouldn't."

He reaches past me—not touching, just reaching—and I catch it again.

That scent. Cedar and bourbon and something underneath that tugs at my memory.

And I see it.

The scar on his neck.

Faint but visible this close.

Something about it makes my chest tight.

"How did you get that?" I ask before I can stop myself.

His hand freezes. "Get what?"

"The scar. On your neck."

For just a second, something crosses his face. Something raw and unguarded.

Then it's gone.

"Bar fight. Long time ago." He steps back, putting professional distance between us. "I'll have my assistant prepare the paperwork. Can you start Monday?"

The subject change is deliberate.

But I can't shake the feeling that I've seen that scar before.

That I know it.

That I know him.

"Monday's fine," I manage.

He walks to his desk, pulls out another folder, hands it to me.

"Everything on Marcus. Copies for you. The originals are in a safe place."

I take it. Our fingers brush.

Electricity shoots up my arm.

His jaw tightens. He feels it too.

"Elena—"

"I should go," I say quickly. "I have things to deal with. Lily's pregnancy claim. Finding a lawyer. Figuring out my life."

"If you need help with any of that—"

"I don't." I move toward the elevator. "I'll handle it."

"Of course you will."

There's something in his tone. Something almost... proud?

I don't understand this man.

Don't understand why he's helping me, what he really wants, why he looks at me like he's memorizing my face.

The elevator doors open.

I step inside.

"Elena."

I turn.

He's standing there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

"For what it's worth," he says quietly, "he never deserved you."

The doors close before I can respond.

I lean against the elevator wall, clutching the folder, my heart racing.

What the fuck did I just agree to?

Three months working in close proximity with a man who makes me forget my own name. A man who somehow knows exactly what buttons to push, exactly what I need to hear.

A man with a scar I swear I've seen before.

I pull out my phone. I should call someone. My lawyer. My friend Sarah. Someone rational who can talk me out of whatever spiral I'm in.

Instead, I open my photos.

Scroll back.

Way back.

Ten years back.

To pictures I haven't looked at in a decade.

Pictures from before Marcus. Before I made the safe choice. Before I became the woman who settled.

There aren't many. I deleted most of them.

But there's one I couldn't bring myself to erase.

A photo taken at a bar. Me laughing, genuinely happy, leaning against someone whose face is just out of frame.

But I can see his arm around me.