"Twenty-four hours." I pull out a card with my number. "After that, I'll find someone else."
She accepts the card, her fingers brushing mine in a contact that feels deliberate. "Tell me, Mr. Wallace, do you approach everything in life with this level of intensity, or am I special?"
The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, I just stare at her. Then something that might be amusement tugs at my mouth. "This is me being accommodating."
She laughs then, a rich sound that travels straight to my core. "I shudder to think what you're like when you're being difficult."
"Agree to the arrangement, and you'll find out."
She doesn’t respond nor break eye contact. Instead, she stands, gathering her things with efficient movements.
"I'll call you tomorrow with my decision." She extends her hand again, and I take it, allowing the contact to linger longer than strictly necessary.
"I look forward to it." I release her hand reluctantly.
I watch her leave, her confident stride and the subtle sway of her hips drawing more attention than she probably realizes.Only when the door closes behind her do I signal for another drink and for Silas to join me at my table.
This arrangement just got considerably more complicated. Because while Judith Mars might check all the boxes for a business transaction, she also stirs something I've kept carefully controlled for years. Something dark and hungry that recognizes the challenge in her eyes and wants to see just how far that challenge extends.
I think of the private room I maintain at Club Crimson, the carefully selected implements and restraints, the space where I allow myself to explore the full extent of my dominance with willing partners who understand exactly what they're getting into.
Judith Mars has no idea what she'd be getting into. And for both our sakes, it needs to stay that way.
CHAPTER TWO
JUDITH
The moment I step outside The Velvet Antler, I gulp the crisp mountain air like I've been underwater. My heart hammers against my ribs as I walk briskly toward my rental car, heels clicking purposefully on the icy sidewalk. I wait until I'm safely inside the vehicle, doors locked, before I allow myself to process what just happened.
Dario Wallace is nothing like what I expected.
I pull out the contract, scanning the meticulous terms again. The man who wrote this is precise, demanding, and exacting. Exactly what I'd anticipated from someone desperate enough to advertise for a temporary wife.
What I hadn't expected was six foot four inches of raw masculinity wrapped in flannel and denim, with piercing blue eyes that seemed to look straight through my carefully constructed facade. I hadn't expected hands that could probably snap me in half but moved with surprising grace. I certainly hadn't expected the immediate, visceral pull low in my belly when he said "Sit" in that deep voice that expected immediate compliance.
"Get a grip, Judy," I mutter, starting the car. "This is business, not pleasure."
But pleasure had definitely made an appearance at that table, uninvited and unwelcome. The last thing I need is complications, and Dario Wallace, mountain man with control issues, is the definition of complicated.
I drive carefully through the quaint main street of Crimson Hollow, noting the cheerful Christmas decorations already appearing in shop windows despite it being only mid-November. The town seems plucked from a holiday movie set, complete with twinkling lights and fresh snow dusting the sidewalks. It couldn't be more different from the concrete jungle I'm trying to escape.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the small inn where I've booked a room for the week. As I check in, the elderly proprietor beams at me.
"First time in Crimson Hollow, dear?"
"Is it that obvious?" I smile, accepting the old-fashioned metal key she offers.
"We don't get many city folk this time of year." She leans forward conspiratorially. "What brings you to our little slice of heaven?"
I hesitate, the practiced lie forming automatically. "Just looking for some peace and quiet to finish a project."
It's not entirely untrue. I am here to finish something—specifically, to put an end to the disaster my life has become in the past month.
In my room, I kick off my heels and collapse onto the bed, staring at the pine-beamed ceiling. How did Judith Mars, valedictorian, Ivy League graduate, rising PR executive, end up considering a marriage of convenience to a stranger in the middle of nowhere?
The answer is simple, Marc Alexander III, heir to the Alexander Media empire and my former fiancé.
My phone buzzes with a text from my best friend, Sierra.
