Chapter 1

"You're dressed in something so provocative, and you claim you're here to be a secretary? How would you even do the job?" Sawyer Holt lounged on the couch with an imposing air, his legs spread wide and his arms draped across the backrest. The space he occupied radiated a cold, hostile energy.

He stared at Madeline Jamison with a predatory intensity, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. "With that lush body of yours?"

The ugly taunt landed hard on the brand-new secretary standing before him. He was certain she wouldn't leave, certain that she would stay on as his secretary, certain that she would remain glued to his side.

Madeline just looked at him for a long while, her expression blank. Then, she turned and walked away.

The confident look on Sawyer's face fell. He shot to his feet and rushed after her, slamming a hand against the door she'd pulled open. Then, he spun her around and pinned her against it.

"Where are you going?" His low, pressing question was all weight and threat.

Madeline turned her head away, refusing to look at him.

Sawyer's temper flared. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him. "Why aren't you talking? You had plenty to say when you were mouthing off to me, didn't you? Are you blaming me for sending you to Hutton?"

She lowered her eyes, still refusing to answer.

His gaze burned as he stared her down like he hadn't seen her in forever. He almost wanted to devour her whole. Her stubborn, icy silence finally pushed him over the edge.

"When are you coming back?" He dipped his head closer, his hungry gaze dropping to her flushed lips. He suddenly softened his tone. "It's been almost half a month. As long as you come back and apologize to me, I'll let the insubordination slide, alright?"

Madeline abruptly shoved him hard. It was a sharp, visceral rejection.

Sawyer, caught off guard, almost lost his grip on her. Infuriated, he seized her wrists and forced them above her head, pressing her against the door. His eyes, sharp and conflicted, locked onto her lips.

And then, as she struggled harder, he crushed his mouth to hers.

They grappled like trapped animals, so savage and unyielding that it was like they wanted to tear off a piece of the other's flesh.

Sawyer palmed Madeline's softness. For a dizzying second, he felt as if his soul were ascending to heaven.

He rubbed his cheek against hers, his voice rough, urgent, and thick with desire he couldn't suppress. "Let me squeeze it till it hurts, okay? Then you'll feel pain and look at me. You'll beg me; you'll cry. You'll pitifully ask for mercy and ask me to love you. You'll plead with me to let you go."

His words were a tangled mess of threats and persuasion, but none of it drew a sound from Madeline.

He bit her lips viciously, but no matter how badly he wanted to go further, he couldn't. He was frantic and burning with need—he had never wanted a woman this desperately before. He was losing his mind.

"Mr. Holt? Mr. Holt, wake up. Why are you still burning up?"

Through the haze, Sawyer heard Fred Stark's voice. He snapped his eyes open, his rage flaring. "Who said you could come in? Get out!"

He still wasn't fully conscious, but the harsh snarl had already burst out of him. His toned arms reflexively tightened around what he was holding, as if shielding some precious thing from prying eyes.

Fred knew that Sawyer was delirious from his fever. The latter had been muttering nonsense just moments ago. He mustered the courage to say, "Mr. Holt, try to clear your mind. Your fever hasn't broken; I don't think the medicine is working. I need to get you to the hospital now."

Sawyer's fogged brain quickly became lucid. He stiffly glanced down at the quilt he'd been clutching, and the fierce, expectant look in his eyes turned into grim embarrassment.

It wasn't that damned Madeline!

What was worse was himself. How could he have had such an obscene and ridiculous dream? He'd actually begged her to come back in it. He'd even kissed her!

Sawyer's body went rigid as something in his mind pulled taut and snapped. He lurched out of bed, nearly falling as his knees buckled. Fred darted forward to catch him, only to be shoved away.

He bolted into the bathroom and started retching. It was the ugly, sick kind. Overwhelming disgust clawed at him, but nothing came up. Finally, his stomach acid and bile surged with the dry heaving. The acid burned his throat, making his nausea even worse.

It was a vicious cycle.

The dream felt too real. Sawyer vividly remembered how the kisses and touches had felt. It was as if he had truly kissed Madeline. But why would he ever want to do that?

There was no way something like that would happen, no matter who it was. So long as it was a woman, it was out of the question.

He tried to scrub the image from his mind, but it wouldn't fade. Then another horror crawled up from the pit of his memory, like maggots on bone.

He remembered Ruth Wendell and Thomas Holt's filthy entanglement and Ruth's mouth, dirty from what she'd done, later pressing to his and forcing a kiss on him after she drugged him.

The scenes that played out in his mind were a disaster for Sawyer, crashing into his nerves like hammer blows.

He retched again. He couldn't help it. The revolting touches, the scenes, and the memory of it all made him go wild. He snatched up his toothbrush and scrubbed his lips, his teeth, and his tongue hard.

He thought that it was filthy. Everything was filthy—nastier than anything else in the world!

Fred's scalp prickled at Sawyer's insanity, but he didn't dare try to stop him. He wondered why Sawyer's psychological condition had suddenly gotten so bad.

He ducked behind the door and hurriedly texted Madeline.

"How long till you get here, Madeline? Hurry up! Mr. Holt is losing it! I don't know what set him off, but he's gone back to frantically cleaning his mouth. If he keeps brushing like this, it's going to split open again!"

Almost the instant he hit send, the sharp staccato of high heels echoed from the outer room.

Fred looked up, momentarily dazed. He watched as Madeline hurried into the room, looking windswept, and her long curls bounced with each step. Her figure was lush, but every curve landed in the right place. She was one of those rare confident plus-size women. She walked in quick strides, and her presence was commanding, making her impossible to miss.

Her features were bold and striking; her face was full enough to produce a double chin, yet the first word that would come to mind upon seeing her was "unattainable".

How stunning would she be if she slimmed down?

Madeline had a compact medical kit tucked under her arm. She slipped on medical gloves as she walked. She first nodded at Fred, then moved briskly into the bathroom.

Sawyer was still brushing like a madman when a familiar scent washed over him. Before he could react, the bloodied toothbrush was yanked from his hand.

He lifted his bloodshot eyes to the mirror, fixing them on the woman who couldn't and shouldn't have been there. His gaze turned glacial, as if the man who'd been begging her to come back in his fever dream wasn't him.

Was he still dreaming? Even if he were, he wouldn't beg her to return this time!

"Mr. Holt, turn your head to me."

Madeline's voice was sweet and soft, tinged with a quiet exhaustion. Her hands were gentle but firm as she turned her face to him.

She pulled a tissue and carefully wiped the blood from his lips, her eyes trained on his torn mouth. Her white medical gloves were quickly stained red.

Sawyer's icy stare slid from her medical gloves to her face. She was right there, and she was close enough for him to hear her words, smell her scent, and feel her warmth. She was back.

It was really her.

In his dreams, she never spoke to him.

Sawyer's heartbeat kicked into a reckless rhythm, but what came out of his mouth was the same cutting sarcasm as always. "I didn't think you remembered the way back here, Ms. Jamison. I thought you were going to settle down in Hutton, get married, and pop out a couple of kids. It's your hometown, after all."