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  One image in particular stands out: Mr. Merrick walks through a courtyard in Port-au-Prince with a CNN reporter. Rubble litters the quad. Dirt smears stain his face and clothes; his hair is dusty and untamed.

  With drawn eyebrows, he looks in the direction of the reporter while cradling a young Haitian girl, whose head rests against his chest, eyes closed. Amongst such destruction and sorrow, the child’s expression looks peaceful as she lies trustingly in his arms.

  Mr. Merrick’s dedication to his business and charitable work is evident in every image, but this photograph brings tears to my eyes. It seems my initial negative assumptions about him were misguided.

  Nearing the end of my search, I find nothing tabloid-worthy. The bottom line is that Mr. Merrick is rich, charitable, and well respected. Any photographs where he’s posing with a young, beautiful woman simply state: Mr. Merrick and friend.

  That pretty much confirms he hasn’t kept a woman around long enough for publications to care about identifying her. At least I can safely assume he’s not seriously tied to anyone at the moment.

  Through one of the image links, I find a website that confirms my hunch. An Associated Press article from last year quotes Mr. Merrick saying that he dates casually, but he doesn’t have time for a serious romance because of his work and travel commitments.

  I feel relieved he doesn’t have some crazy ex-girlfriend baggage, but I’m also concerned he isn’t looking for a steady relationship. Perhaps I’m right. He asked me out to dinner because he desires an outlet for his physical needs, nothing more, and based on my behavior, he believes I’m just the type of girl for the job.

  Disappointment enhances my fatigue. I stifle a yawn and look at the clock.

  Holy shit. It’s eleven thirty!

  Christopher will be calling in thirty minutes. If I lie down, I’ll no doubt fall asleep and I don’t want to risk not hearing the phone ring.

  There’s only one thing that comes to mind to pass the time.

  I shut down my laptop and eye my purse. Within moments, I’m sitting on my bed with the New York Financial magazine in my lap. I stare at the cover longer than necessary before flipping to the index. Mr. Merrick’s article begins with a double-page photographic spread that’s orgasm inducing.

  He stands barefoot on the white wooden porch of a quaint cottage dressed in worn blue jeans and a dark gray wool sweater. The sun rises in the distance, blazing yellow, orange, and red light toward the veranda in a steady stream.

  The caption reads: Trenton Merrick, on the porch of his family’s South Hampton seasonal home at dawn, March 24.

  His birthday, as I recall from Wiki.

  “I love it here, but unfortunately, I don’t get to visit as often as I would like,” reads his quote. “This house takes me back to my childhood summers, memories I cherish above all else. Life was much simpler then.”

  I smile at the photograph, seeing a man with feelings, a family, and a purpose, instead of just a handsome pin-up.

  Something about his quote unsettles me, though. His words are loaded with longing and sadness, contradicting the contentment he exudes in the picture. I wonder how a man who has everything can feel so unfulfilled. I also wonder what else, besides this home, completes him.

  The article talks about Mr. Merrick’s cutthroat approach to business, which has earned him the reputation of an economic bad boy. According to the editorial, he broke all the rules by establishing himself in the financial industry at such a young age. He’s considered a trendsetter amongst all of the top fiscal companies around the world. Also, he currently holds the top spot on New York Financial’s Most Influential Men in Business list, a title he’s won the last four years in a row.

  The remainder of the article delves into his specific business ventures and charitable contributions as well as information on his visit to Haiti, which he says changed his life and entire outlook on the future of his expanding empire.

  When I finish, I flip the magazine shut and set it down on my bed in order to think everything through. Mr. Merrick’s lifestyle is entirely the opposite of mine. His charitable work is admirable, and caring for others is what my job is based on, but how does someone like me fit into the rest of it? The jet-setting, the money, the power—it’s all something I can’t relate to.

  Philanthropist or not, I fell for his charm much too easily and I refuse to be some quick booty call whenever his needs arise. As thrilling as last night’s kiss felt, it looks like my instincts were dead on from the beginning: The whole thing was a mistake.

  At precisely twelve noon, the phone rings. My heart pounds against my ribcage. After exhaling a few deep breaths, I reach across my bed to the nightstand and pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Good afternoon. This is Christopher Maida calling to speak with Miss Sara Peters.”

  Now that I think about it, I find it odd that Mr. Merrick isn’t contacting me personally, but I guess that’s how rich people do things.

  “Speaking.”

  “Ma’am, I’m calling on behalf of Trenton Merrick. You two were acquainted last night at—”

  “Yes, yes, I remember.”

  Christopher can’t be much older than me, yet he’s calling me ma’am. I wonder if he’s always this stiff.

  “I need to obtain your address for the driver who will be picking you up tonight.”

  “Yeah, about that . . . Look, I’m really sorry, but please tell Mr. Merrick I’m unable to attend tonight.”

  I’m answered with a long pause.

  “Mr. Maida, I truly feel awful that I’ve wasted your time . . .”

  Silence.

  “Anyway, please relay my apology to Mr. Merrick—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t understand. Mr. Merrick told me your plans for this evening were settled at the hospital last night.”

  “They were, but, uh . . .”

  Lie, Sara. Lie!

  “I think I’m coming down with a cold.”

  I want to hurl the phone at the wall.

  “I see. Well, he will be sorry to hear that. Is there anything we can do for you?”

  Christopher’s generous offer intensifies the guilt I feel for lying.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “I know you’re a nurse, but I can send Mr. Merrick’s private physician to your home to check on you, if you wish.”

  I remember Mr. Merrick saying last night that his private physician was out of town this weekend. It looks like I’m not the only liar in all of this.

  “No, I think a good sleep is all I need. I appreciate the offer, though.”

  “All right, I’ll let Mr. Merrick know about the cancellation. I hope you feel better soon.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, with a bit more regret than I intend.

  Christopher hangs up and I stare at the receiver for a good minute before I hang up as well. This feels so wrong. Not only did I lie, but now a cloud of doubt fogs my judgment and I wonder if I should’ve kept the date.

  I lie face down on my bed and throw the pillow over my head.

  “Sara, you idiot!” I groan and kick my legs like a child. “A sexy, smart, rich, and possibly really nice guy, behind all the bullshit, wants to have you over for dinner and you say no?”

  I must be sleep deprived.

  I remember Mr. Merrick’s business card in the pocket of my scrubs and contemplate calling him and telling him I’m miraculously feeling better and I will have dinner with him after all. But then he’ll probably think I’m dumb and indecisive.

  “Ugh!”

  I tuck my pillow under my head as I turn onto my back. In my peripheral, I see the New York Financial magazine next to me on the mattress. I flip it over so I can’t see the front cover. Still, the memory of Mr. Merrick’s fuck hot expression makes my entire body throb.

  Before crawling under the blankets, I turn off the ringer on my phone so I can rest without interruption. Sleep comes quickly and I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming about Mr. Merrick w
hen a loud buzzer jolts me awake.

  It takes me a few minutes to realize what’s making the awful sound. It’s the door buzzer. My eyelids flutter open and I check my alarm clock. An hour has passed since my phone call with Christopher. With a slow stretch, I drag myself out of bed.

  My visitor hasn’t let up on the buzzer and I’m starting to get pissed off.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” I rub my tired eyes as I venture to the door.

  It’s probably Kelly. She always stops by after class to see if I want to do something, but usually not when I’m coming off a night shift because she knows I’ll be sleeping. Maybe she confused my schedule this week.

  I fumble with the chain and bolt, and yank the door open.

  “What do you—?”

  I gasp and stumble into the doorframe.

  Mr. Merrick stands alone in the dim corridor, his eyes blazing.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Peters. I believe you owe me an explanation.”

  Chapter Four

  Mr. Merrick waits for my answer, his expression unforgiving.

  But I’m not the only one who needs to explain some things.

  I should curse at him and then slam the door in his face for showing up at my apartment uninvited and invading my privacy, but I’m too busy ogling him and wringing my hands behind my back so I don’t reach out and pet him in inappropriate places.

  “Well?” Mr. Merrick lifts his eyebrows.

  A shiver ripples up my spine as I zero in on his mouth, fighting the urge to thrust my hands into his hair and kiss the shit out of him. He must notice my struggle because he licks his bottom lip, leaving it glistening, as if he’s trying to make this as difficult as possible for me.

  Oh no, Mr. Merrick. Not this time.

  “Well, what?” I place my hands on my hips and jut out my chest.

  Big mistake.

  In my eagerness to assert myself, I forget one detail. I’m wearing a thin, pink T-shirt and tight, black yoga pants. What I’m not wearing is a bra.

  It doesn’t take long for Mr. Merrick to realize this, of course. His eyes travel downward, his irritated expression hardening with a voracious desire that sets my skin ablaze. I follow his stare. Just as I suspect, my nipples are set to slice through the sheer fabric of my shirt.

  I must admit that I’m enjoying putting on this impromptu show way more than I should.

  My body pulses in response to his attention even more than it did last night. I want him to find me attractive. I want him to touch me. I want him to satisfy the ache between my thighs that has intensified since his arrival. It would be so easy for him to slip his hand under the elastic waistband of my pants and—

  “Well, are you going to invite me in?” Mr. Merrick’s eyes dart back up to my face.

  The tension between us feels titillating—pun absolutely intended—and given how turned on I am, I don’t think letting him inside is a good idea. I also have a feeling he won’t take no for an answer.

  The faster he’s in, the faster he’s out.

  “Sure.” I cross my arms, suddenly feeling self-conscious, and step aside.

  Mr. Merrick brushes against me as he sweeps into my apartment. I tremble from the contact and shut the door.

  His eyes narrow critically as he walks to the middle of the room. The contrast between my shabby apartment and his polished look, which includes a stylish navy blue suit, shiny shoes, and neatly combed hair, is staggering. And if that isn’t bad enough, I once again look a hot mess with my casual clothes, lack of makeup, and lopsided ponytail.

  As Mr. Merrick scours the room, I feel embarrassed and I don’t know why. I’m an independent woman; I work hard to pay for this place all on my own and its simple décor and contents reflect me perfectly. It’s no uptown penthouse, but it isn’t a crack den either. Still, he probably disapproves; one more reason not to take whatever this is between us any further.

  Pushing my discomfort aside, I march toward him. I know I looked him up on the Internet, but this is completely different. He crossed a line by coming here.

  “How did you get my address? I never gave it to Christopher, which means you got it somewhere else without my permission. Then you show up at my door uninvited. You have no right!”

  Mr. Merrick doesn’t respond. Instead, he lifts a photograph of me with my parents off the coffee table and inspects it.

  “Don’t touch that!” I snatch the picture from him and put it back.

  As his eyes move gradually across the room, I note the inconspicuous flesh-colored bandage on his forehead that hides his stitches. My thoughts roam to our kiss at the hospital last night and my lips tingle.

  Don’t fall for it. Remember why you’re mad at him.

  “Please explain yourself, Mr. Merrick.”

  “I had Christopher trace your phone call,” he says, continuing to walk around.

  I gape at him. “That’s illegal! Or a major invasion of privacy at the very least.”

  Mr. Merrick shrugs, as though resorting to espionage tactics is routine for him. “I called you several times after the two of you spoke, but you didn’t answer your phone. You left me no other choice.”

  “I turned the ringer off so I could sleep!” I point my finger at him, though he’s not even looking my way. “And hey, don’t flip this around on me. I’ve seen enough movies to know the call has to be traced while we’re connected, which means you gave Christopher the order well in advance of our conversation.”

  “I won’t apologize for coming over here.” Mr. Merrick’s tone remains casual. “And I don’t have to explain anything else.”

  He shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants and continues his home inspection. I follow him.

  “Well, I say you do owe me an explanation. It’s about time you answer to someone besides yourself for a change.”

  Mr. Merrick’s jaw tightens, but he heads toward my kitchenette instead of arguing with me.

  I grit my teeth, struggling to stay calm. “May I remind you, Mr. Merrick, that you are in my home. I deserve some respect. So stop snooping and show me the courtesy of your undivided attention when I’m talking to you.”

  He stops walking and turns to me. “You’re playing with fire, Miss Peters.”

  “Fire, huh?” I narrow my eyes. “Bring it on. I dare you.”

  His mouth twitches into his trademark smirk and he shakes his head. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I should stand my ground, but my resolve melts as he takes a step toward me, his eyes smoldering like they did last night in the examination room. Somehow, I’m able to back away from him. Ignoring the way my body responds to him is a much more difficult feat.

  “If you got my phone number on your own and you were able to find my address on your own, why did you have Christopher call me in the first place?”

  “It was just a formality.”

  I throw my hands up in the air. “So you came here to check up on me? That’s pretty brave. I’m surprised you’re not hiding behind your entourage.”

  “I told my men to wait downstairs,” he says, walking along my bed. “And make no mistake, Miss Peters, I don’t hide behind anyone.”

  “Oh no, they’re here?” I place my hand to my forehead. “They’re probably scaring the neighbors!”

  It’s not like I could invite his Tin Men upstairs—they wouldn’t fit in my tiny apartment. All I can do is hope they don’t tell anyone they’re here because of me.

  “You’re not sick,” Mr. Merrick says, stating and accusing all at once.

  I feel faint. And it isn’t on account of my exhaustion. “No, I’m not.”

  “I knew that as soon as Chris relayed the news of your cancellation to me.”

  “Then you came here because you wanted to shove it in my face that you knew I lied. That’s even worse! So what if I said no? Hasn’t that happened to you before, Mr. Merrick?”

  He clenches his jaw again. “No, Miss Peters, it hasn’t.”

  I gulp. “Well, you should j
ust accept that I changed my mind.”

  Even though I didn’t mean it.

  “Not without a legitimate reason.” Mr. Merrick paces the room. This time, he focuses on the scuffed parquet floor.

  “Okay, fine. Since I refuse to stoop to your level, I’ll be up front with you. I don’t trust you.”

  He stops mid-stride. “Give me one good reason why I’m untrustworthy.”

  I scoff. “How about the story you gave me about your private physician, for starters? Last night at the hospital you said he was out of town, but Christopher offered to send him over here after I told him I was sick. So obviously he’s not in the Hamptons.”

  I flash a smug smile, ready for Mr. Merrick’s composed exterior to crumble now that I’ve caught him in a lie. But he doesn’t hesitate.

  “His wife contracted food poisoning and wanted to cut their weekend short. They returned to the city this morning.”

  The smile falls from my face. “Oh.”

  The bandage on Mr. Merrick’s forehead reminds me of his weak story about how he acquired the gash, but I’m going to sound bat-shit crazy if I bring that one up again.

  Mr. Merrick regards me reproachfully. “You know, Miss Peters, you talk about not trusting me, but you’re the one who lied to Christopher to get out of our date tonight.”

  I sigh. This conversation is getting both of us nowhere.

  “You have to understand, I don’t even know you and you expect me to be all fine with being picked up by God knows who, and driven outside of the city to God knows where, so I can have dinner with you. That wouldn’t be very smart on my part, would it? I could disappear without a trace and end up on the late night news.”

  Mr. Merrick moves closer and drifts his fingertips down my face. I close my eyes and press my cheek against his palm.

  “Didn’t you enjoy our kiss last night, Miss Peters?” His voice sounds rough, wanting.

  “Yes, I did.”

  I whimper as he sweeps his hand around the back of my neck and brings his lips to my ear. “Then come to my estate for dinner this evening.”