Page 1 of Impossible Love

Chapter 1

Victoria

I poke my head out of the jet’s passenger door and take my first look around. I hope our pilot landed in the right spot, since this is where I plan to make my dreams come true. Right here in the middle of Bumfuck, Nevada.

I carefully step out. I do everything carefully, precisely. In my line of work, if I’m not paying close attention to the details, I don’t succeed. If I don’t succeed, my company doesn’t succeed. And then I don’t get what I want.

And what I want—more than anything else—is to make this deal, make my father proud, and make partner.

I take a moment to look around. San Diego it’s not.

This airport, if it can even be called that, is a dusty postage-stamp-size place with no more than a shack of a terminal and a handful of hangars to park planes. But I’m impressed that they have any kind of airport at all. If “nowhere” was pinned on a map, this would be it.

From the air, I tried to pick out Yosemite Ranch but got lost by the vast expanse of desert, the endless miles of grazing lands, gorges, thick forests, and enormous mountains. Now that I’m on the ground, I decide that it’s actually quite pretty, in a rough and dangerous way. Just not my cup of tea.

One of the pilots takes my hand. He helps me down the steps that lead from the corporate jet to the tarmac. The instant my five-inch heels contact the cracked surface, a gust of dry wind nearly knocks me over. I have to sidestep to regain my balance. Another gust slaps my long hair into my face. It gets stuck in my lipstick.

Dammit. I can’t walk into an important meeting looking like The Joker from Batman. I have no choice but to become one of those women, fixing my lipstick in public. I can’t stand those women.

I’m the kind of woman who’s always put together, calm and in control. I’m the proverbial swan who glides along the surface of a still pond, elegant and poised to the observer while her feet churn as fast as they can under the surface. Always under the surface.

Don’t sweat, Victoria—it attracts the sharks.

That’s what my father told me when I was eight years old, and he is a man who practices what he preaches. Never once have I seen him sweat. In fact, I’ve watched him morph into the biggest stone-cold shark in the tank, taking Renaissance Empowered from a small, family-run commercial developer to a multi-billion-dollar private equity powerhouse.

I’ve always looked up to him. I’ve always wanted to be like him.

I repair the lip smear with the camera on my mobile phone, then toss it back into my Birken bag. I slip on my sunglasses. I take a step away from the plane and my heel gets stuck in a crack in the asphalt. It may be broken.

I don’t need this crap. I’ve been on the ground exactly thirty seconds and already I’m falling apart. I hope it’s not some sort of omen, a warning of complications to come.

I don’t like complications.

I brought several pairs of shoes, of course, and if the heel is broken I can change into a different pair. But I prefer not to deviate from my schedule if at all possible. I’m on a mission. The man I’m here to see holds my future in his hands. If he signs on the dotted line, he’ll pave my path to partnership.

I kick my foot up behind me, then twist to inspect the heel for damage.

They better not be ruined. I love these damned things. They’re from this year’s Prada Spring collection. Dainty and feminine, a perfect shade of black that almost spills into gray, a blend of shiny and matte. The slender five-inch heel ends at a tiny tip. My foot is held in place with two thin strips of leather, one at the ankle and one over the toes.

It’s a shoe that works everywhere and for every occasion. It’s a shoe that can either say I’m a ruthless career bitch or I’m Snow White with a side of vixen.

These shoes are a strategic choice. Same for my suit. Makeup. Hair. Jewelry. And the carefully worded pitch that’s sure to dazzle.

I may be polished on the outside, but inside I’m ready for battle.

I set my foot down and bend forward to get a closer look. Miraculously, the heel is intact, and the leather is unscathed. Prada makes a damned fine pair of shoes. I make a mental note to buy everything in their next collection.

With my footwear inspection over, I dust myself off and straighten. Suddenly, I feel goose bumps at the nape of my neck.

I’m being watched.

I spin around. I see him. I slide my sunglasses down to the tip of my nose to get a better look. He’s standing in an open hangar with three other men and a child. He’s big, broad, and brooding. His gaze bores into me.

Rough.

Dangerous.

I shove my sunglasses into place and tell myself that I don’t have time to ogle attractive ranch hands. Even if this one is the stuff fantasies are made of.

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