One Night with Her Was Never Enough

Deep inside a members-only bar in Lower Manhattan, the lights had been deliberately dimmed to something intimate.

The air carried the richness of cigar smoke laced with the crisp juniper bite of gin.

Chloe Harris sat alone, sunk into a crimson velvet sofa in the corner, a silhouette dissolved into the night.

Her black cashmere dress traced every curve, from the hollow of her collarbone to the striking cinch of her waist to the skirt spilling across the velvet, quietly broadcasting an almost glacial allure that had nothing in common with the gaudy glitter around her.

"Your signature cocktail, miss."

The young bartender set the carefully crafted drink in front of Chloe, the ice giving off a bright, crisp clink.

She didn't touch the glass. What she needed tonight wasn't the numbness of alcohol.

Chloe's other hand slid a blank check out of her clutch and pushed it under his nose, the paper smooth and clean, waiting to be filled in.

"Name a number," she murmured, her red lips nearly brushing his ear, warm breath grazing his sensitive skin. "Show me what you think a night is worth."

The bartender's pupils contracted. He'd seen guests who threw money around, but someone this direct, this completely in control—that was rare.

His gaze flicked between her face and the curve of her chest, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I..."

"Shh." Chloe pressed a fingertip lightly to his lips. "Answer with a number."

She let go of his collar and sank back into the sofa, crossing her long legs with easy grace. The hem slid to mid-thigh, and the pointed toe of her stiletto tapped the expensive handwoven carpet in front of him.

"On your knees."

Who would turn down a chance like this?

The young bartender swallowed hard and nodded.

Looking up at her from this angle, he could see the clean line running from her jaw to her collarbone, and the faint shadow playing beneath her neckline.

Chloe's lips curved with satisfaction. She picked up the glass but didn't drink, only pressed its cold side against his upturned cheek and dragged it slowly down, leaving a wet streak.

Then she raised one heeled foot. The skirt slipped, baring a thigh sheathed in black stockings, and she set her heel—neither too light nor too heavy—firmly against the crease of his kneeling leg, applying just a little pressure.

The man's body went rigid, his breathing instantly rougher.

"Are you in a bad mood tonight, miss?" The young man kneeling at her feet looked up at her, eyes attentive and docile, like a loyal pet gazing at its owner.

Another face flashed through Chloe's mind, and despite herself, she let out a soft laugh.

Chloe pressed down a fraction harder, the heel grinding against the sensitive fabric.

"Any suggestions?"

"Whatever you say, miss," he rasped, both hands respectfully cradling the ankle of the foot pinning him, his fingertips stroking the fine skin and the cold metal buckle with restraint.

"It's my privilege to please you."

Chloe lifted the pointed toe of her razor-sharp heel and pressed it to his shoulder instead, the slim spike sinking into his shirt, bearing down just below his collarbone.

The kneeling man tensed almost imperceptibly, but his eyes grew even more submissive, a faint spark of excitement kindled by her dominance.

She looked down at him through lowered lashes, the way one inspects an item whose ownership has just been confirmed.

Her fingertips tapped the check on the table again, a silent prod.

He drew a deep breath, pulled a pen from his breast pocket, and quickly wrote his name on the payee line.

Then, on the amount line, he paused for a second before writing a figure—one enough to make his heart stutter, yet not so greedy he wouldn't dare.

When he finished, he offered the check back with both hands, raised above his head, presented to her—and as he held it out, another hand snatched it away.

"Sorry to disappoint, Chloe," said the intruder—Scott Reed. He folded the check in half, the motion elegant yet carrying an invisible pressure, and laid it gently back on the table in front of her.

"This establishment has rules. The staff doesn't provide extra services. Especially—" he leaned in, bracing an arm on the back of the sofa, caging her in a half circle that loomed without ever touching, his voice dropping lower, "—not for my best friend's wife."

Chloe went stiff, almost imperceptibly.

Not because of the title "my best friend's wife," but because of the look in Scott's eyes—no condemnation, no surprise, only a knowing amusement.

As if he'd known all along he'd run into her here, in exactly this kind of scene.

The bartender's stomach clenched. This guy isn't going to pin it all on me, is he?

Chloe lowered her foot from the man's shoulder and waved him off, expressionless. "You can go."

The moment she spoke, the young man grabbed his phone and hurried out.

The booth held only the two of them now.

"Scott," she said at last, fighting to keep her voice even. "What a coincidence."

"It's not." He straightened up. "This place is mine. Or, to be precise, I'm an investor."

He settled into the seat across from Chloe uninvited, long legs crossed, his gaze closing over her. "So, what brings you here? Does Austin know his wife came to a place like this alone, looking for a good time?"

"He's on the West Coast." Chloe picked up the champagne she'd never touched, her fingertips ice-cold. "Handling some 'urgent business.'"

She said it slowly and clearly, with a note of self-mockery.

Scott laughed—a short, sharp sound, like he'd just heard a joke they were both in on.

"Ah, right. The 'urgent business' in San Francisco. Funny thing—I got off the phone with our partner out there two hours ago. He said he spotted Austin at a pretty nice restaurant."

He paused, as if trying to recall the menu. "Oh, and there was a stunning blonde with him. An up-and-coming gallery owner, I believe? Very well connected."

Every word was a fine needle, piercing with precision the protective layer Chloe had woven out of numbness.

She'd known Austin was lying. Having someone else spell it out to her face in such detail—Austin's closest business partner, the best man at their wedding, no less—was something else entirely.

Humiliation surged up hot, burning the tips of her ears.

"What exactly are you getting at, Scott?" She set the glass down, and the crisp clink of glass on marble betrayed her unsteady nerves.

Scott didn't answer right away. He reached out—not to touch her, but to pick up the phone she'd left on the table.

The screen lit up with a new message. The lock screen was a photo of her and Austin on vacation in the Hamptons, both of them smiling without a cloud in sight.

He glanced at it, then set it down. Somehow, the simple gesture was thoroughly insolent.

"What I want to say is—" he leaned in, closing the distance again, the faint woody notes of his cologne laced with a trace of whiskey invading her senses.

"Some people do wrong and still expect the person they hurt to keep up appearances and swallow it in silence. That's not fair, Chloe."

"And what counts as fair, then?" Chloe heard her own voice come out sharper than she meant.

He took a slim silver cigarette case from his inside pocket, tapped out a cigarette, didn't light it, just turned it between his fingers.

"What does Austin care about most? His career, his reputation, that spotless public image of his. And—" he looked up, his gaze behind the lenses cutting straight to the bottom of her heart, "—that ridiculous superiority of his, the conviction that everything is under his control."

Chloe's heart began to pound out of control.

A dark excitement she didn't dare examine crept slowly up her spine.

"So?" she asked, her throat dry.

"So—" Scott held the unlit cigarette to his lips in a mimicry of a drag; there was no smoke, but the gesture was loaded with suggestion, "—the cruelest blow comes from where you least expect it. The most thorough humiliation is born of the most trusted betrayal."

He took the cigarette away, rolling it between his fingers. "Imagine if the person who destroyed his perfect world were me—the man he considers a brother, his closest confidant. Imagine if the thing that disgraced him, made him a laughingstock, was done by the two people he trusts most, together."

He leaned in again, and this time his lips nearly touched her ear, his warm breath grazing her sensitive skin, raising a shiver.

"What do you say we play a game—the kind that would truly set you free."

Two birds, one stone. It was a tempting offer.

Why would Scott do this, though?

She picked up the long-warm champagne and tipped her head back, draining it in one go. The liquid slid cool down her throat yet lit a restless fire in her stomach.

"You're not exactly short on women," Chloe said, curious. "Was the woman with Austin one of yours?"

"Baby, what an imagination you've got." Scott laughed, genuinely amused, long fingers pushing up his glasses. "I had no idea who he brought this afternoon."

Chloe gave a cold laugh. So there'd been more than one.

"I don't get why you're doing this. If Austin ever found out..."

"When I saw you just now," Scott cut in, looking straight into her eyes, "I got hard."

He paused, his voice dropping lower. "You're going to sleep with someone either way. Might as well be me—I don't charge."