Chapter Three

Dante

The sun streaking in from the drawn curtains pulls me from deep, restful sleep. The first thing I do is reach over, hoping to come across a warm, soft body.

But the bed is empty.

I open my eyes to see for myself, sighing when I find that the woman I was with—brunette, pale pink lips with a stunning figure is no longer in my bed.

Cradling a flicker of hope that she might have decided to stick around, I drag myself from the bed, naked, and walk to the door. I open it and step into the living room, but she's nowhere to be found. Glancing over my shoulder, I realize her clothes aren't in the bedroom either.

She's gone. 

"Oh well," I murmur.

It's not the first time a woman has left me alone in a hotel room, but this one made a particular impression on me. I caught her as she walked into the bar last night—her dark hair falling down her shoulders, the careful strides, like she was aware of her every move.

It was different from the others who walked in, laughing with their partners or friends. I could tell she didn't want to be there, but there was something else about her that I could place my finger on.

Until I kissed her.

A firestorm.

The kind you don't expect until it hits you, consuming you while. Her skin…soft under my hands, her moans needy and without a care in the world.

I wouldn't have minded having another night. 

My phone's shrill ringtone fills the air, and I break out of my reverie, picking up my pants and digging it out. It's my assistant, Giorgio.

"What do you have for me?" I ask.

"The investors have agreed to your demands," he says, and my lips curl into a satisfied smile. "I set up a meeting with them in an hour. Your favorite restaurant."

"Good," I respond, walking to the closet and throwing the door open. I pick out a tie and toss it on the bed. "Make reservations for dinner too. Something with fish."

"Yes, sir."

Giorgio goes silent, but I sense he's not telling me everything. "What's the matter?" I ask.

He clears his throat hesitantly. "Ah..it's Miss Monroe. She says she's been trying to reach you? I wasn't going to bring it up, but she said something about signing an agreement about a property that comes to her in the event of your breakup."

I roll my eyes as my lips thin out. "Tell her that she's not getting her hands on anything, and she should be grateful that I haven't taken back what she stole from me. Impress on her," I add as I select a shirt, "the trouble she'll be in if it turns into a legal issue."

"But the publicity?" He asks, sounding concerned. I pick out a pair of pants and take it to the bed, staring at my choice of outfit.

Looks good. 

"Sir?"

I run my fingers through my hair, exhaling impatiently. "I'm sure you know how to keep from exposing your bluff at this point, Giorgio. You've been working for me for three years."

"Yes, sir."

I end the call after, tossing my phone on the bed. Emilia Monroe. I knew she was going to return, the sly minx. After cheating on me with a fellow model for two years out of our three-year relationship, stealing from my home safe, and a lot of other petty crimes, she's lucky I didn't press charges.

Not that I would have gone that route, though.

There's a reason why I chose to keep the relationship secret from the public.

Thirty minutes later, in a black suit with a blue undershirt and dress shoes, I head out of the hotel and into my sports car. As I turn on the ignition, I reach into my suit pocket, taking out a pair of red lace panties.

"Jenna Martins," I murmur as my lips curl into a smirk. 

It’s a shame she left before we could go a second time, though. 

I glance at my phone as I pull out of the VIP parking lot, contemplating calling my assistant for a few seconds. Her smell fills my car and my thoughts stray back to last night…her soft skin, and the red lace slipping down luscious thighs, joining cotton jumpsuits on the floor.

I close my eyes briefly, savoring the thrill that races down my throat, settling below my belt as I picture her hands wrapped around me. 

I don’t hear the sound of the other car coming, ignoring the red light at the intersection. Neither do I see it head directly for my car, not until it’s too late. 

I try to veer away, but my car spins out of control, the sound of tires screeching and metal scraping piercing my eardrums. The car flips over—in slow motion, suspended in air one moment and landing on the asphalt in the next.  

Glass implodes and I feel a sharp pain race through my body. I try to move, but I can’t feel my limbs.

I can’t feel anything either, except for the slow trickle from the side of my head. It smells like copper…like blood and fuel. 

“Help,” I whisper hoarsely. “Help please.”

My vision blurs with dark spots as my head swims, the darkness dragging me under.