The Jilted Heiress And Her Dangerous Husband

The doors to Two E were thick, soundproofed slabs of mahogany. Penelope pushed them open and was immediately assaulted by a wave of sound and scent. The thudding bass of some generic house music vibrated through the soles of her shoes, mingling with the cloying sweetness of expensive cigars and spilled liquor.

She shrugged off her damp trench coat, handing it to a hovering attendant without a glance. Underneath, she wore a simple severe black silk slip dress. Her eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the room like a targeting system.

And then she found him.

In the deepest, most secluded corner of the bar, nestled in a half-moon of plush velvet seating, was Julian Astor. He was exactly as the tabloids painted him: a beautiful disaster. His tie was loosened, his top button undone. He was flanked by a pair of interchangeable, glossy-haired socialites who were laughing too loudly at something he hadn't said. He held a glass of whiskey, swirling the amber liquid with a lazy, careless motion, his gaze unfocused and hazy.

He was the picture of a man drowning in his own privilege. He was her target.

Penelope took a deep, steadying breath. She started walking and cut a path through the throng of bodies,.

She stopped at the edge of his booth, her shadow falling over him, blocking the dim, flattering light from the bar.

One of the socialites looked up, her face a mask of annoyance. "Excuse me, do you mind? This is a private..." Her voice trailed off as she met Penelope's gaze.

Julian seemed to register the sudden eclipse of light. He lifted his head slowly, as if it were a great weight. His eyes, a startlingly dark blue, tried to focus on her. A slow, lazy grin spread across his lips. It was practiced, charming, and utterly vacant.

He didn't speak. Instead, he reached out, his movements deceptively fast for someone who looked so drunk. His fingers closed around her wrist.

His grip was like a manacle. The strength in his hand was shocking, a stark contrast to his languid posture. It sent a jolt of alarm through her.

Caught off balance, she stumbled forward. She fell, not onto the floor, but sideways, into the booth, landing hard against his chest. Her body was flush against his, a collision of cold silk and the surprising, solid heat of him. The air was driven from her lungs in a sharp gasp.

She instinctively tried to push away, to regain her footing, but his other arm snaked around her waist, a band of steel locking her in place. He shifted, pulling her fully onto his lap, pinning her there. There was no escape.

He lowered his head, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. His breath was hot, thick with the scent of alcohol. "Well, hello," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through her entire body. "Lost, little bird?"

Penelope fought down a wave of revulsion and panic. This was a transaction. She had to remember that. She tilted her head back, forcing herself to meet his eyes. She searched the hazy blue depths for a flicker of clarity, of the man behind the drunken mask, but found nothing.

"I need a partner," she said, her voice coming out colder and steadier than she felt. "Someone who can cause a scene. Someone whose name carries weight. You look like you have time on your hands."

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibration moving through her thighs. "A partner for what?" he asked, his eyes roaming over her face, her neck, the line of her collarbone. His hand, the one not clamped around her waist, began a slow, deliberate journey up her side.

His fingers traced the curve of her hip, then moved higher, settling on the bare skin of her thigh just below the hem of her dress. His touch was fire, a brand against her cold skin.

Every instinct screamed at her to slap him, to claw her way out of his grasp. But the image of her mother's face, of Tristan in her bed, flashed in her mind. She held herself rigid, suppressing the urge.

She did the opposite. She leaned in, closing the small distance between them. She could feel the hard, steady beat of his heart against her side. "For a war," she whispered.

His eyes, for a fraction of a second, sharpened. A glint of something keen and intelligent flashed in their depths, there and gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined it. But the lazy grin remained.

He picked up his whiskey glass from the table. "Thirsty work, war," he said, his voice slurring slightly. He held the glass to her lips. "Drink."

It wasn't a request. It was a command. A test. He was watching her, waiting to see if she would flinch, if she would obey.

Penelope stared at the amber liquid, at the reflection of the bar lights shimmering on its surface. She didn't hesitate. She parted her lips and drank, letting him tip the glass.

The whiskey was a raw, fiery trail down her throat. It burned. She choked, a violent, full-body cough that brought tears to her eyes. Her throat felt like it had been scoured with sand.

Through her watery vision, she saw Julian watching her, the grin on his face widening. He looked pleased. He had pushed, and she had not pushed back.

With a casual, dismissive gesture, he nudged the socialite on his other side. "Scram," he said. The women, looking offended but intimidated, gathered their tiny purses and scurried away.

Julian stood, pulling Penelope up with him. The movement was rough, yet he somehow kept her from stumbling. He was a paradox of drunken carelessness and precise, controlled strength.

He tossed a black, featureless credit card onto the table. It landed with a soft thud. Then he draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side, and began to steer her through the crowd. His steps were a little unsteady, a convincing performance of inebriation.

Pressed against him, Penelope was trapped in his orbit, forced to match his pace. The scent of him was overwhelming, filling her senses, clouding her thoughts. This was a deal with the devil, and she was already halfway to hell.

They stumbled into an empty elevator. The polished bronze doors slid shut, encasing them in a small, silent box.

The moment the doors closed, the act dropped.

He slammed her back against the cool metal wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her. Before she could react, his mouth was on hers.

The elevator chimed, announcing their arrival at the top floor.

He broke the kiss, his breathing harsh in the silence. Without a word, he bent down, hooked an arm under her knees, and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

The penthouse suite door was unlocked. He kicked it open with his foot and strode inside, carrying her into the darkness.