Chapter Three

In the private bathroom of a luxury penthouse in Manhattan, steam filled the air.

Hot water poured down from the rain shower, mixing with ragged, out-of-control breathing, fogging the glass walls thick and white.

My hands were pinned above my head, my back pressed against cold Italian marble. The man took what was left of my sense with a force that was overwhelming and absolute, until I was nearly drowning in a surrender that felt almost like punishment.

Victor's long fingers trailed across my chest, distracted, and hooked the antique platinum necklace that hung between my collarbones. His lips pressed against my ear, which he'd bitten red, and his voice was low and mocking. "Wearing another man's keepsake, and you still dared to come after me? You really think I'm a charitable kind of don?"

"Mm... the water's too hot..." My lashes trembled. Tears mixed with the warm water running down my face. I was so weak I could barely stand. "There's no one else... I don't want the necklace anymore..."

"Oh? You don't want it?" Victor laughed softly. His fingers tightened, and with a sharp snap, the necklace I'd worn for eight whole years was torn off in one clean pull and tossed onto the sink. "If you don't want it, then let's send it back to its owner."

The moment he let go, I slid down, my strength gone, and could only cling desperately to the tense muscles of his back, my nails leaving deep red marks on his shoulders without my meaning to.

"Victor Caro..." He bit my collarbone as I came apart, sobbing, and murmured hoarsely, "Remember my name. Say it."

"Victor..."

•   *   *

The deck of a private yacht off South Beach, Miami.

Hot sunlight spilled across the deck. Champagne bubbles burst silently in crystal glasses.

A model in a tiny bikini lay against Eric's chest, pouting that he wasn't paying attention to her, tipping up her pretty face for a kiss.

But Eric frowned and turned his head away from her lips. His eyes went coldly, once again, to the phone sitting silent on the table.

Four hours.

Since that call ended, there hadn't been a single word.

Chloe, go on. Call me again.

Just call and cry one more time, and I'll be generous and believe you.

"Four hours, and you've checked your phone at least thirty times. Since when do you care about her this much?"

His friend Lucas, stretched out on the next lounger, took off his sunglasses and shook his whiskey glass helplessly. "Back when you were sixteen in Palm Beach, you're the one who swore in front of everyone you'd never marry anyone but her. You had that girl's heart completely wrapped up. Now you're grown, all you want is to be a free-and-easy playboy, and suddenly she's too clingy and too controlling."

"Do you even know how bad your reputation in Manhattan has gotten these past few years? Your mother's using the press to pressure you into settling down and getting married. That's how parents operate. There's no way Chloe put her up to it."

Lucas scoffed, then got serious. "I'm only going to warn you once, Eric. People's hearts are made of flesh. They can go cold. A promise you made at sixteen can't take this much abuse. If you really push her into someone else's arms, don't come crying to me at three in the morning."

Eric's fingers stiffened on his glass. A flash of irritation crossed his eyes, then turned into a sneer of total contempt. "Me, regret it? That's a joke. Only an idiot bets his whole life on one woman. I can't wait for her to get out of my sight. I'm sick to death of her guilt-tripping me with that old promise."

Lucas shook his head and silently mouthed, Dead man walking.

Eric got up abruptly, popped a bottle of champagne roughly, and sprayed it over the partying crowd, trying to drown out the strange emptiness and restlessness inside him with noise.

But before he'd taken a step, the private phone on the table started buzzing like crazy.

Eric's face went cold. He spun back almost instantly, snatched it up, swiped to answer, and snapped, "Chloe, what the hell are you..."

"Mr. Walker, it's me." His assistant sounded hesitant. "A same-day courier just delivered something to the top-floor office at the Manhattan headquarters. It was addressed to you personally."

"The sender is listed as Ms. Chloe."

A mocking smile tugged at Eric's mouth, his eyes full of I knew it. "Ha. I knew it. She couldn't keep the act going, could she?"

"No... sir," the assistant said, his voice clearly shaking. "There's no apology letter. There's only one thing inside... the antique Cartier platinum necklace you gave her all those years ago."

The sneer on Eric's face froze. His pupils shrank sharply. "What did you say? Spell it out for me!"