chapter 2: The shark lair

Long seconds later, the doors rolled open to reveal the penthouse—a vast expanse of black granite, faintly lit and lavishly furnished. The walls, which could have been covered in crisp bills, screamed of an opulence as loud as the owner’s net worth. The walls were adorned with art that cost more than the apartment that Elizabeth currently shared with her brother. To a mortal, this place seemed as inaccessible in price as the man himself was claimed to be in character.

Elizabeth stepped inside. A pair of elegant porcelain vases flanked the entry, and a massive oil painting, thick with vibrant brushstrokes, dominated the far wall. Before she could absorb the rest of the space, her gaze landed on him, drawn by an inescapable force of nature.

He stood by the bar at the far end of the living room, as elegant and unmoving as the designer furniture surrounding him. Tall, dark, and detached. He faced the window, his broad back filling the shoulders of his jacket. Her heart thumped as she took a step forward, the click of her heels on granite magnified in the silence.

"I trust you had a fine ride."

Her skin pebbled at the hum of his voice. It was husky, mellow and carried the faint, rhythmic lilt of a French-Canadian accent he usually masked in the boardroom sounding as though he were a threat to no one. The crackling energy radiating from him dispelled that notion instantly.

"I did. Thank you for sending a car and for seeing me on such short notice," she said quietly.

Trembling internally, she advanced toward the living room, her steps muffled by a plush Persian rug. He didn’t turn. Elizabeth wasn’t certain she even wanted him to. Every time their eyes met, a bolt of electricity shot through her. Sometimes he didn’t even need to speak; his gaze did it for him, whispering the wickedest things to her mind.

Now here she was, in his private sanctuary, ready to face the virile man she’d fantasized about. Ready to beg him.

Ever since her family had lost their wealth, Elizabeth had led a stable, modestly successful life. She lived by the books, paid her bills on time, and stayed clear of trouble. Never mind anything but what had to be done—but saving her brother now took priority. She would do whatever was necessary to keep him safe.

She could have sworn Henri read her thoughts, for he whispered, "Are you in trouble, Elizabeth?" He remained still, gazing out at the faint flicker of city lights.

She swallowed, eyeing the line of his shoulders. "It appears I am."

"And you came to ask for my help?"

An uneasiness settled in her stomach, the words feeling as though they were being wrenched from her throat. "I do need your help, Henri."

He turned, and she was rendered motionless by the sheer power of his gaze. "How much?"

Her heart pounded. His face was delicately masculine, and there was something dangerously alluring about his attitude—the dark good looks and the slight shadow of an accent that she found both thrilling and frightening. His inquisitive gaze traveled down the length of her body until she could bear no more.

She lifted her chin with pride, though the way she wrung her hands betrayed her. "I—I don’t expect anything for free. I wanted to see you about an advance. A loan... perhaps I could do more work for you. Special projects."

His eyelids lowered as he focused on her lips. "You’re very pretty tonight, Elizabeth."

The low seduction in his tone made her heart clench. She fought the sensation, telling herself he was a man who likely looked at every woman this way. It was why they called him constantly. Yet, when those eyes were on her, he made her feel like the only woman alive.

"I’m trying to raise…" She paused, summoning her courage. "Two hundred thousand dollars. Can you help me?" She lowered her face as she spoke, feeling humiliated to be asking for money.

"Is that all you need?" he asked softly, as though it were a paltry sum. To a man with his billions, she supposed it was. He surveyed her silence for a moment. "May I ask why you need it?"

Her gaze flicked up to his, and she shook her head. She couldn't bear the confession.

His lips twitched and the corners of his eyes crinkled, almost making him look less threatening. "You won’t tell me?"

"If you don't mind," she mumbled. She tugged the hem of her dress toward her knees when his gaze lingered on her legs. "So... there’s nothing I could do for you? In exchange for this... incredible salary?" She could hardly say the amount; it seemed so out of reach.

He laughed—a sound like the roll of distant thunder. Elizabeth didn't think she'd ever heard him laugh before. He set his glass on the bar and signaled to the twin leather couches. "Sit."

She obeyed, her back stiff and straight as she tracked his movements. How could a man that large move with such predatory grace?

"Wine?"

"No."

He moved to the decanter with the practiced ease of a man used to be served, yet he handled the crystal with a surprising, rugged delicacy. He poured two glasses nonetheless, his hands moving with practiced skill as he brought one to her, his hands were large, tan, and steady. They were the hands of a man who took what he wanted and kept what he took. "Drink."

She grasped the glass and stared at a bronze sculpture in the distance, trying not to breathe for fear of what his scent—earthy, musky, and entirely male—might do to her. She drew in a shaky breath only when he dropped onto the couch across from her.

His wide frame overwhelmed the leather piece. Under his jacket, his dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, offering a glimpse of smooth skin and a polished gold cross. She wondered what that skin would feel like under her fingers, and if the gold would be cold or warm against her touch.

Sensing his scrutiny, she raised her chin and forced a smile. Henri lifted a dark brow and signaled to her glass.

"You’re not drinking."

Elizabeth started, then took an obedient sip. "It’s... good. Very rich."

"Have I ever bitten you?"