Betrayed Heiress: Marrying The Wall Street Devil

Loud, violent banging echoed through the suite. "Ina! Open the door!" Faron's voice roared from the hallway. Another voice, rough and professional, followed. "Hotel management, open this door immediately, or we will breach the lock." It was a private investigator. Faron had brought a team. Ina shivered violently. Goosebumps erupted all over her naked arms. She scrambled across the carpet and picked up her black dress. It was ripped straight down the side seam. It was completely unwearable. She dropped it. The noise woke the man in the bed. Buren slowly opened his eyes. He pushed the heavy duvet aside and sat up. His broad chest and defined abdominal muscles were on full display. Ina backed away in panic. Her heel caught the leg of the velvet sofa. She stumbled and let out a muffled gasp. Buren turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto her. They were cold, calculating, and entirely awake. He did not look panicked. He reached over to the nightstand, picked up a heavy Patek Philippe watch, and strapped it onto his wrist. The electronic lock on the front door beeped. A green light flashed. The manager had swiped a master keycard. Ina's lungs seized. She spun around. She saw a men's white custom-tailored dress shirt draped over the back of the sofa. She grabbed it and shoved her arms through the sleeves. She hastily buttoned the middle three buttons. The shirt was massive. The hem barely reached her mid-thigh, acting as a fragile shield for her dignity. Buren stood up. He walked barefoot across the plush carpet toward the entryway. The heavy mahogany door was pushed open a crack. Buren stepped forward. He used his wide, muscular shoulder to slam against the doorframe, blocking the gap entirely. Ina did not wait. She sprinted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She unlatched the heavy glass door and slid it open. The freezing autumn wind of Manhattan whipped into the heated room. Ina's teeth chattered instantly. She climbed over the stone balcony railing. She stepped onto the cold, rusted iron grates of the hotel's exterior fire escape. Inside the suite, Faron tried to shove his head through the gap in the door. "Ina! I know you are in there!" Buren stared down at Faron. His expression was absolute ice. "Watch your mouth." The private investigator raised a camera with a long lens, trying to blindly snap a photo into the room. Buren's hand shot out. He grabbed the camera lens and shoved it downward with brutal force. The strap dug into the investigator's neck. The sheer, suffocating aura of a Wall Street apex predator rolled off Buren. Faron and the investigator physically stepped back. They did not know exactly who was in the shadows of the room, but the power radiating from the man blocking the door was terrifying. "There is no one here by that name," Buren said. His voice was flat and deadly. He slammed the door shut and engaged the deadbolt. Outside, Ina heard the door slam. Her heart beat so fast it hurt her chest. She gripped the freezing iron railings and began to climb down the fire escape. The rusted metal tore at the soft skin of her palms. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She could not make a sound. She reached the landing on the second floor. The ladder to the alley was broken. She looked down. There was a large green dumpster with a closed plastic lid right below her. She took a breath and jumped. She landed hard on the plastic lid. Her knees slammed into the solid surface. A sharp, blinding pain shot up her legs. Tears pricked her eyes. She ignored the pain. She rolled off the dumpster and sprinted out of the alleyway. She reached the edge of Fifth Avenue. A yellow taxi was passing by. Ina waved her arms frantically. The taxi screeched to a halt. Ina threw herself into the backseat and slammed the door. The driver looked in the rearview mirror. He stared at the disheveled woman wearing nothing but an oversized men's dress shirt. "Tribeca," Ina gasped, wrapping her arms around her shivering body. "Just drive." Thirty minutes later, the taxi pulled up to her apartment building in Tribeca. Ina threw a crumpled fifty-dollar bill at the driver and ran inside. She locked her apartment door behind her. She walked straight into the bathroom, turned the shower to the hottest setting, and stood under the spray. She scrubbed her skin until it was red, trying to wash away the smell of cedarwood and the memory of her own loss of control. After the shower, she wrapped a towel around her body. She stood in front of the fogged mirror. Her eyes drifted down to the marble counter. The white dress shirt she had worn was lying there. She reached out and picked it up. She looked at the French cuffs. Stitched into the crisp white fabric with dark navy thread were two letters: B. W. Ina's brain short-circuited. A loud ringing filled her ears. B. W. Buren Warner. Her stomach violently cramped. She had not just slept with a stranger. She had slept with the most ruthless, dangerous man in New York.