Page 2 of Filthy Promises

The other thing that stuck out was how insanely, impossibly beautiful Vincent was.

He was tall and fit, with the graceful, muscular build of someone who’s never had to work hard to be good at absolutely everything. He was in a black suit, I remember. His hair was black, too. And the pupils of his eyes.

I mean, yeah, obviously the pupils of his eyes were black.Duh, Rowan.But they were black in a way I’d never seen someone’s eyes be before. Like they weren’t just seeing, but were drinking in the whole world and keeping it for himself.

That part stayed with me in particular—because the last thing he did before leaving the room was turn those black, endless eyes on me.

It lasted two seconds, if that. Might’ve been less.

But for as long as it lasted, I was utterly frozen. Even if the building had been on fire, I wouldn’t have been able to get out of my seat.

Then, mercifully, he was gone.

Gone from sight, that is. Not gone from my dreams, though.

Those started that same night.

And for five years, they’ve continued.

The things people whisper about him at work—only when they’re sure he can’t hear them, of course—don’t help much.V-Card Vincent,they call him.He’s been through nine-tenths of the female staff. Unrepentant playboy. Takes “love ‘em and leave ‘em” to never-before-seen heights. The Van Gogh of Virgins. The Monet of Moans. The Picasso of Pu?—

That’s where I tend to stop listening.

My subconscious can’t get enough of that stuff, though. And at night, when the curtains are drawn and my apartment door is deadlocked, those rumors come bubbling right back up.

It’s just too easy to imagine those eyes devouring me. Stripping me bare without lifting a finger. To imagine him brushing a lock of stray hair out of my face and whispering,I could take yours, if you want me to, Rowan. Say the word and it’s mine.You’remine.

Inevitably,boomgo the fireworks. Metaphorically speaking.

Back in reality, I shake my head. The impatient elevator won’t wait much longer to disgorge me, so I tiptoe out into the hallway, out onto that familiar, ash-gray carpet.

My shabby, sensible pumps sink deep into the plush nap. I feel like Bambi’s mom stepping into the open glade. As if a hunter’s bullet is gonna turn me into primo venison any second now.

Natalie’s instructions play again in my head.All you’re doing is delivering the quarterly reports. Walk up to the reception desk, tell his secretary—her name is Vanessa—that I sent you. Then hand over the goods and get your little booty outta there before V-Card Vincent swallows you whole.

How simple.

How straightforward.

How completely…impossible.

Because the reception desk is empty. Vanessa is a ghost. My little booty is stuck.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice echoing in the cavernous office.

No response. It feels like I’m on the surface of Mars. No signs of life anywhere in sight.

I glance at my watch. It’s 7:42 P.M. Most normal employees went home hours ago.

But not me. Not Rowan St. Clair, perpetual overachiever and Olympic gold medalist in people-pleasing. A leftover trait from growing up fatherless and becoming Mom’s emotional support child when her diagnosis landed at the ripe old age of eleven.

I sigh and make my way down the hall. “Hello?” I call again. “Is anyone here?”

Radio silence once more. Vanessa, if she even exists, is not within earshot.

“Perfect,” I grumble. “Just perfect.”

I look at the imposing double doors that lead to Vincent’s personal office. Maybe I could just slip in and leave the folder on his desk? If he isn’t there, no harm done. If he is, I’ll stammer out an apology and scurry away like the meek corporate mouse I am.

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