The Secret Billionaire's Obsessive Love Trap

The first sharp ray of morning sunlight cut through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, striking the edge of the king-sized bed.

Kyle sat in the single armchair near the window. He hadn't slept. He hadn't even blinked for the last hour.

His dark eyes traced the line of Alaina's jaw as she slept on the white sheets. She was curled into a tight ball, her hands tucked under her chin in a defensive posture.

He leaned forward. The leather of the armchair creaked slightly. He reached out, his long fingers carefully brushing aside the tangled, dried strands of hair behind her left ear.

The crescent moon birthmark was there. Dark red against her pale skin.

A surge of possessive heat flared in Kyle's chest. His jaw tightened. He pulled his hand back before the urge to wake her consumed him.

He stood up and walked silently to the mahogany desk across the room. He opened the top drawer and pulled out a plain, cheap-looking business card. It had no corporate logo, no mention of the Durham conglomerate. Just a name and a phone number.

Kyle Wood.

He picked up a black fountain pen. On the back of the card, he wrote a quick note. He pulled a few crisp hundred-dollar bills from his money clip and set them on the nightstand, placing the card on top.

Suddenly, a harsh, vibrating buzz shattered the quiet of the room.

It was coming from Alaina's damp canvas bag on the floor.

Kyle stepped over, his eyes narrowing. He pulled the cracked smartphone from the front pocket. The screen flashed bright.

Incoming Call: St. Ann's Medical Center.

Kyle's thumb hovered over the screen, but he didn't answer. He shoved the phone back into her bag. He turned on his heel and walked straight into the marble bathroom. He reached into the glass shower enclosure and twisted the heavy chrome handle.

Water blasted from the rain showerhead, hitting the tiles with a loud, steady roar.

The noise jolted Alaina awake.

She shot up from the mattress, her chest heaving. Her eyes darted wildly around the unfamiliar, massive bedroom. Panic seized her throat.

She looked down. She was still wearing her jeans and her damp sweater. Nothing had been touched. Her body ached, but there was no pain that suggested she had been harmed.

She heard the rush of water from the bathroom.

The man from last night. He was in the shower.

Alaina scrambled off the bed. Her bare feet hit the thick rug. She grabbed her canvas bag from the floor. As she turned toward the door, her eyes caught the white card on the nightstand.

She snatched it up.

Kyle Wood. Biotechnology Sales Rep.

She flipped it over. The handwriting was sharp and aggressive. Take the cash for a cab. Don't mention it.

Alaina stared at the money. A strange knot formed in her stomach. It felt like charity, but the blunt words stripped away the pity. She shoved the business card into her back pocket, leaving the hundred-dollar bills exactly where they were.

Her phone vibrated again in her bag.

She pulled it out and answered, pressing it to her ear as she backed toward the suite door.

"Miss Wells?" a woman's voice asked, tight with professional urgency. "This is Nurse Davis from St. Ann's. Your mother's vitals just dropped. We need a family member here immediately to sign off on the new treatment protocol."

The blood drained from Alaina's face. Her fingers turned ice-cold.

"I'm coming," she choked out.

She didn't bother putting her sneakers on properly. She crushed the heels down, unlocked the heavy oak door, and bolted into the hallway.

The bathroom door opened.

Kyle walked out, a white towel wrapped low around his hips. Water dripped from his dark hair onto his broad chest. He looked at the empty bed. He looked at the nightstand.

The money was still there.

A slow, dark smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

He walked to the desk and picked up a heavy, encrypted black smartphone. He pressed a single button.

"Sir," Silas answered instantly on the other end.

"Pull the security footage from the alley behind the hotel last night," Kyle ordered. His voice was no longer the lazy drawl of a drunk. It was cold, precise, and lethal. "Find out who sent those two dogs after her."

"I already have it, Mr. Durham," Silas said. "They belong to Fred Porter. Heir to the Porter Pharmaceutical group."

The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Kyle's fingers tightened around the phone. The plastic casing groaned under his grip.

"Porter," Kyle repeated softly. The name tasted like dirt in his mouth.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the yellow cabs swarming the Manhattan streets far below.

"Build a new background file for me," Kyle commanded. "Make it airtight. And Silas?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Tear apart Fred Porter's supply chains. Find every weak point in his family's funding. I want his head on a platter."

Miles away, Alaina shoved her way into a packed subway car heading toward Brooklyn. The air was stale and smelled of wet wool. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the door.

Her mother was dying. Fred was hunting her.

She reached into her back pocket. Her cold fingers brushed against the stiff paper of the business card. Kyle Wood.

Back in the penthouse, Kyle dropped the towel. He pulled a custom-tailored black suit from the closet. He picked up the small velvet box on the desk. Inside lay the plastic medical syringe Alaina had held to his throat.

He closed the lid. The hunt was on.