Chapter 2 2

The bass in The Vault was physical. It vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up through the soles of Aislinn's heels and settling deep in her chest. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, sweat, and spilled champagne. It was chaotic, loud, and exactly what she needed.

"To freedom!" Harper screamed over the music, thrusting a martini glass into Aislinn's hand.

Aislinn clinked her glass against Harper's. "To never answering to anyone named Koch again."

She downed half the drink in one go. The liquid burned pleasantly on the way down, but there was an odd, metallic aftertaste she didn't recognize. She ignored it. She grabbed Harper's hand and pulled her onto the dance floor.

For an hour, they were just bodies in motion. Aislinn moved with a fluidity she had suppressed for years. She threw her head back, letting her dark hair cascade down her bare back. She felt eyes on her-hungry, appreciative eyes-and for the first time in forever, she didn't shrink away from them. She let herself be seen.

Up on the mezzanine level, in the shadowed recess of a VIP booth, a man named Vance watched the dance floor. He wasn't looking at the crowd; he was looking at the woman in the green dress. He signaled a waiter, slipping a folded bill into his hand along with a small vial. "Another round for the lady in green. Make sure she gets the special blend."

Three floors up, in the Private Owner's Suite, Eric Koch sat on the edge of a leather sofa, his head in his hands. The room was dark, lit only by the amber glow of the city skyline through the window. He felt like his skull was being split open with an axe.

"Gavin," he growled, his voice rough. "Get everyone out. Now."

"Sir, Mr. Vance is insisting on-"

"I don't care what Vance wants," Eric snapped, standing up. The room tilted dangerously. "I said clear the floor. I need silence. And get me some ice water."

"Yes, sir." Gavin retreated, closing the heavy oak door.

Eric loosened his tie, ripping the top button of his shirt in the process. He had only had one drink with Vance earlier-a scotch that tasted slightly off-and now he felt like he had been hit by a truck. His vision was swimming. He walked toward the bedroom, needing to lie down before he passed out.

Downstairs, Aislinn stumbled. The room spun violently.

"Whoa, easy tiger," Harper laughed, steadying her. "One martini and you're wasted? Lightweight."

"Bathroom," Aislinn mumbled. Her tongue felt thick, too big for her mouth. "Need... water."

"I'll come with you."

"No," Aislinn pushed her away gently. "Stay. Dance. I'll be right back."

She navigated through the crowd, but the hallway to the restrooms seemed to stretch and warp like a funhouse mirror. She turned a corner, looking for a quiet place, and saw a private elevator.

VIP Access Only.

She didn't think. Her brain was running on autopilot, accessing memories she thought she had deleted. She punched in a code on the keypad. 1-0-2-4-9-8. It was the universal override code for all Koch properties. She had memorized it from a security memo she'd seen on Eric's desk months ago.

The light turned green. The doors slid open.

Aislinn stumbled inside and leaned against the back wall. The elevator shot upward, bypassing the VIP booths and heading straight for the penthouse.

When the doors opened, she stepped out into a room that smelled of cedar and expensive tobacco. It was dark. Quiet. Cool.

"Harper?" she called out, but her voice was a whisper.

She took three steps and her heel caught on the edge of a rug. She pitched forward.

Strong arms caught her before she hit the floor.

The impact knocked the breath out of her. She was pressed against a hard, warm chest. The scent hit her instantly-not cologne, but something deeper. Soap, musk, and a hint of rain. It was intoxicating.

"Who the hell are you?" A male voice growled, deep and vibrating against her ear.

Eric tried to push the woman away. He had assumed it was one of the "gifts" Vance liked to send up, but as his hands gripped her bare arms, his brain short-circuited. Her skin was incredibly soft, fever-hot. And she smelled... incredible. Like vanilla and something wild.

Aislinn looked up. In the darkness, she couldn't make out his features. Her drugged mind supplied an image from a magazine she'd seen earlier. The model. The one with the eyes.

"You're warm," she murmured, her hands sliding up his chest, feeling the muscle beneath the crisp shirt.

Eric's resolve shattered. The drug in his own system, combined with the sudden, overwhelming sensory overload of her touch, snapped the last thread of his control. He didn't push her away. He pulled her closer.

"You shouldn't be here," he whispered, but his mouth was already seeking hers.

When their lips met, it wasn't a kiss; it was a collision. Aislinn gasped, opening to him, and he groaned, a sound of pure, starving need. He walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the sofa.

Outside, thunder cracked, shaking the building. Inside, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and tearing fabric.

It was a blur of sensation. The roughness of his stubble against her neck. The strength of his hands on her hips. The way he moved-dominant, demanding, yet terrifyingly focused on her. Aislinn had never felt this kind of electricity. It was as if her body, dormant for years, had suddenly been plugged into a high-voltage line.

At some point, the emerald locket caught on a button of his shirt. With a sharp tug as they moved, the delicate gold chain snapped. The necklace slid unnoticed off her neck and fell into the deep crevice between the sofa cushions.

Eric buried his face in her hair, inhaling that scent that seemed to drug him further. "Mine," he gritted out, the word bypassing his logic center entirely.

Aislinn arched her back, lost in the friction and the heat. For tonight, she wasn't Rose. She wasn't Aislinn. She was just sensation.

Eventually, the storm outside quieted. The adrenaline crashed. Eric, overcome by the sedative Vance had slipped him earlier, fell into a heavy, comatose sleep, his arm draped heavily over her waist.

Aislinn lay there, staring at the ceiling. The drug in her system was metabolizing fast, leaving behind a pounding headache and a creeping sense of horror.

The first rays of dawn filtered through the blinds, slicing across the room.

She turned her head.

The light fell across the face of the man sleeping next to her. The sharp jawline. The dark, brooding brows. The scar above his left eyebrow.

Eric.

Aislinn's heart stopped. Then it restarted at double speed. She scrambled backward, falling off the sofa. She covered her mouth to stifle a scream.

I just slept with my ex-husband. On the night of our divorce.

Panic, cold and absolute, washed over her. She couldn't be here. If he woke up-if he saw her-everything she had built, every secret she kept, would be destroyed. He would think this was a ploy. A trap.

She grabbed her dress from the floor, her hands shaking so badly she could barely pull the zipper up. She didn't look for her shoes. She didn't look for her purse. She just needed to get out.

She ran to the door, bypassing the elevator, and threw open the heavy fire exit door. She sprinted down the concrete stairs, flight after flight, her bare feet slapping against the cold steps.

Ten minutes later, the elevator dinged.

Janine Mcbride stepped out. She was holding a key card she had bribed a housekeeper for, intending to stage a "morning after" photo for the tabloids. She walked into the penthouse, ready to pose.

She stopped. The room was a wreck. Clothes were scattered. And on the sofa, Eric Koch was asleep, looking more relaxed than she had ever seen him.

Janine's eyes scanned the room. She saw the empty space beside him. She saw the indentation on the pillow.

Then, something sparkled in the gap of the sofa cushions.

Janine reached down and pulled it out. It was a heavy, antique gold locket with a massive emerald. She turned it over in her hand. It looked old. Expensive.

A slow, predatory smile spread across her face. She unclasped the broken chain, tied it in a knot to secure it, and fastened it around her own neck.

She sat down on the edge of the sofa, ruffled her hair to look like she'd been slept on, and waited for Eric to wake up.