The CEO's Asset: Sold To My Enemy

The heat started in the marrow of her bones. It wasn't a fever. It was a chemical fire, licking up her spine and settling heavy and throbbing in her lower belly. Daniella Diaz shoved the heavy mahogany doors of the ballroom open. The rush of air from the hotel corridor hit her face, but it didn't cool her skin. It just made the sweat on her neck feel like ice against a furnace. She stumbled. Her heels, usually an extension of her feet, felt like stilts on a rocking boat. The crystal chandeliers overhead smeared into long, glowing streaks of light. She had to get out. This had Inga Andrews's fingerprints all over it. Xander wasn't smart enough for this level of malice. Behind her, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed on the marble. They were leisurely, predatory. "Daniella," Xander's voice called out. It was amused. "Don't be like that. We were just getting started." The sound of his voice sent a spike of adrenaline through the haze in her brain. She dug her fingernails into her palm, hard. The sharp bite of pain cleared the fog for a split second. He had spiked her drink. The realization didn't bring panic. It brought a cold, hard clarity. Xander Yates, the man she had spent two years trying to please, had finally decided that if she wouldn't give him what he wanted, he would take it. She reached the elevator bank. Her fingers shook so badly she missed the button twice before the light finally glowed. "Come on," she whispered, her voice a dry rasp. "Come on." The footsteps were getting closer. She could hear the jingle of his keys. He wasn't running. He knew she had nowhere to go. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open. A man in a severe grey suit was exiting, his attention fixed on a tablet in his hand. Daniella didn't hesitate. She turned her body sideways and squeezed through the gap, her shoulder colliding with his expensive suit. As she stumbled into the car, the man grunted in surprise, dropping his tablet. His hand instinctively went to catch it, and something black and rectangular slipped from his jacket pocket, clattering onto the elevator floor. A key card. She snatched it. "Hey!" the man in the suit protested. Daniella slammed her hand against the sensor inside the elevator. Xander appeared around the corner. His smile was distorted, a funhouse mirror version of the charm that had fooled her for so long. He reached out, his hand aiming for the closing doors. The metal panels slid shut just as his fingertips brushed the sensor. Daniella collapsed against the back wall of the cab. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the panel. The numbers were racing upward, skipping everything between the lobby and the top. Eighty. The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Silence. It wasn't the silence of an empty room. It was the silence of money. The carpet was thick, deep grey wool that swallowed the sound of her erratic breathing. The walls were lined with abstract art that probably cost more than her father's life insurance policy. She looked at the card in her hand. Gold embossed numbers: 8086. She pushed off the wall. Her legs felt like they were made of cotton. Every step was a battle against gravity. The heat in her blood was becoming unbearable, a physical weight dragging her down. She found the door at the end of the hall. 8086. She swiped the card. The lock gave a heavy, mechanical click. Daniella fell into the room. She turned and threw the deadbolt, her movements clumsy and desperate. Then she slid down the doorframe until she hit the cold marble of the foyer floor. The room was dark. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the Manhattan skyline, a glittering grid of indifference. She couldn't move. The drug had won. From the darkness of the living area, a sound cut through the silence. Click. A flame erupted. It was blue at the base, orange at the tip. It illuminated a hand, large and steady, and the sharp angle of a jawline. Daniella stopped breathing. She wasn't alone. The man snapped the lighter shut. The darkness rushed back in, but the afterimage of his eyes burned in her mind. They were cold. Assessing. "I..." Daniella tried to speak. A broken moan was all that came out. The man stood up. He was tall. Even in the shadows, his silhouette was imposing, blocking out the city lights. He walked toward her, not with the hurried concern of a savior, but with the measured pace of a man who owned the ground he walked on. He smelled of cedar and expensive tobacco. He crouched in front of her. Long fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face up. His touch was cool, clinical. He looked into her eyes, checking her pupils. "The younger Diaz daughter," he said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in his chest. "The one who broke the NDA. I thought you'd disappeared." It wasn't a question. Daniella nodded, then shook her head. The face. She knew this face. From a past she had tried to bury. In her drug-addled mind, he was the bigger monster, the original source of her downfall. Clinging to him was a desperate gamble, a way to get inside the fortress of her greatest enemy. She leaned into his hand, her cheek brushing against his palm. The heat inside her was screaming for contact. The man's eyes darkened, but he didn't pull away. "You've been dosed," he stated flatly. Suddenly, a violent crash came from the door behind her. "Daniella!" Xander's voice was muffled but furious. "I know you're in there! Open the damn door!" Daniella flinched so hard her head cracked against the doorframe. The desire vanished, replaced by a terror so sharp it tasted like copper. She grabbed the stranger's sleeve, her knuckles white. The man looked at the door. His expression didn't change, but the air around him seemed to drop ten degrees. He looked offended. Not on her behalf, but because someone dared to make noise at his door. He stood up and scooped her into his arms effortlessly. He carried her to the sofa and deposited her there, then walked to a panel on the wall. He pressed a button. "Get lost, Yates," the man said. His voice was calm, lethal. "Or I'll have security break your legs." The pounding stopped instantly. Silence stretched. Then, the sound of retreating footsteps. Daniella let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. But as the fear receded, the fire returned, hotter than before. She tugged at the neckline of her dress. The fabric felt like sandpaper. She looked up. The man was standing with his back to the window, unbuttoning his cuffs. "I am not a philanthropist, Miss Diaz," he said. "My hospitality comes at a price. If you stay, you become my problem. And I solve my problems. Permanently." Daniella couldn't process the warning. She only knew he was cool, and she was burning. She reached for him. He cursed softly, a low sound in his throat, and leaned down to seal her mouth with his.