No Escape: The Billionaire Won't Sign

The master bathroom was a sanctuary of marble and ego.

It was larger than the entire apartment Beatrix had rented in Zurich.

The air here was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and sandalwood-Carlyle's signature blend.

It made her stomach turn with a mix of nausea and nostalgia.

She knelt by the massive soaking tub, the hard tile digging into her knees.

She turned the brass knobs, the water thundering against the porcelain.

Steam began to rise, curling around her loose strands of hair, dampening her face.

She stared at the water, watching the whirlpool jets churn.

It was mesmerizing.

It was dangerous.

She reached for the jar of bath salts on the teak shelf.

It was a heavy glass jar, filled with black lava salts from Iceland.

She remembered buying them for him three years ago for Christmas.

He had scoffed at the time, calling them "dirt rocks."

Apparently, he used them now.

She unscrewed the lid, the coarse grains grinding against the glass.

She leaned over to sprinkle them into the water.

The bath mat, a plush white rectangle, wasn't gripping the floor properly.

It slid.

Beatrix's right knee slipped out from under her.

She flailed, her hand grasping at the slick edge of the tub.

It wasn't enough.

With a strangled cry, she pitched forward.

Gravity took over.

She splashed into the water, fully clothed.

The shock of the heat was instant.

The water was deep, swallowing her coat, her jeans, her sweater.

She gasped, inhaling a mouthful of soapy water, coughing as she scrambled to find purchase on the slippery bottom.

The door to the bathroom flew open.

It hit the wall with a crack that echoed like a gunshot.

"What the hell is going on?" Carlyle roared.

He rushed in, his eyes wide, scanning for a threat.

He stopped dead.

Beatrix was struggling to sit up in the tub, her hair plastered to her face, her clothes heavy and clinging to her skin.

Water sloshed over the sides, pooling on the pristine marble floor.

She froze, staring up at him through wet lashes.

She waited for the explosion.

Carlyle Spears had Haphephobia-a fear of touch.

He was a germaphobe of the highest order.

Disorder and mess were his enemies.

And she was a catastrophic mess.

"I... I slipped," she stammered, wiping water from her eyes.

She expected him to recoil.

She expected him to yell for the maid to bring bleach.

Carlyle didn't move.

He stood over the tub, his hands clenched at his sides. His gaze flickered from her face to the puddle spreading across his immaculate floor, a muscle in his jaw twitching with a familiar, barely-contained disgust. But then his eyes snapped back to her, and the disgust was… gone. Replaced by something else.

It was something darker.

The wet, heavy wool of her coat had been dragged down by the water, slipping from one shoulder. The fabric of her white sweater beneath it had turned translucent, clinging to her chest, outlining the lace of her bra.

Her jeans were dark with water, molding to her legs.

Carlyle's throat bobbed as he swallowed.

He took a step closer, his focus so absolute that he seemed to forget his own rules. His polished dress shoes stepped right into the puddle of water on the floor.

He didn't seem to notice.

"Are you hurt?" his voice was rough, like gravel.

"No," she whispered.

She tried to stand, her boots squelching loudly.

Water cascaded off her, splashing onto his trousers.

Beatrix flinched, pulling back against the far wall of the tub.

"Don't come closer," she warned. "I'm dirty. The floor water..."

Carlyle ignored her.

He reached out a hand. His fingers were long, manicured, but she saw them tremble for a fraction of a second before they steadied.

"Give me your hand, Beatrix."

She stared at his hand.

"You don't touch people," she said, confused.

"I said, give me your hand."

It wasn't a request.

Trembling, she reached out.

Her wet, cold fingers brushed his dry, warm palm.

He didn't pull away.

Instead, his fingers closed around her wrist, his grip iron-tight.

He pulled.

He hauled her out of the tub with effortless strength, water streaming down between them.

She stumbled, crashing into his chest.

As she came up, the waterlogged coat slid completely off her arms, landing with a heavy splash at their feet. Her soaking wet sweater pressed against his immaculate bespoke suit.

She gasped, waiting for him to shove her away.

He didn't.

For a second-one terrifying, electric second-his arm came around her waist to steady her.

He held her there, pressed against him, soaking wet and shivering.

She could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

It was beating fast.

Too fast.

Then, as if a switch flipped, he let go.

He stepped back, putting three feet of distance between them.

His face shuttered, the mask slamming back into place.

He looked down at his wet suit jacket, his expression twisting into a sneer.

"Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Graceful as ever."

Beatrix wrapped her arms around herself, shivering violently.

"I'm sorry about the suit."

"Strip," he commanded.

Beatrix's head snapped up. "What?"

"Get those wet clothes off before you ruin the rugs in the hallway," he said, turning his back to her. "And dry the floor. I don't pay you to flood my house."

He walked to the door, pausing at the threshold.

"You have ten minutes to make yourself invisible," he said over his shoulder.

"Or what?" she challenged, her teeth chattering.

He looked at her, his eyes lingering on the curve of her hip where the wet jeans clung tight.

"Or I'll have Alfred throw your luggage off the balcony."

He slammed the door.

Beatrix stood there, dripping, shaking, and utterly confused.

He had touched her.

He had held her.

And for a moment, he hadn't looked at her like a nuisance.

He had looked at her like he was starving.