Inside the Carlyle Hotel, Brianna was puzzled by her suitcase. She couldn't get it open.
The lock on the suitcase was intricate, a custom design she'd commissioned herself. And the code she was entering was correct.
Brianna's brow furrowed. She tried again. Nothing.
A cold realization washed over her. She straightened up, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the identical black suitcase. It wasn't hers.
Her mind raced. The dress. The one-of-a-kind garment meant to be her opening salvo, her public declaration of war, was in the hands of a stranger. And in that same suitcase, tucked into a side pocket, was a silk nightgown. Her favorite. The thought of a stranger's hands on it made her skin crawl.
"Colin," she snapped into her phone. "The suitcase was switched at the airport. Get to JFK security. I want surveillance footage of the baggage claim, now."
Weston, sitting on the plush sofa, was engrossed in a game on his tablet and didn't notice the sudden tension radiating from his mother.
Meanwhile, Liam Sullivan was using every contact in his considerable network. It took him less than twenty minutes to trace the airport taxi's destination and cross-reference it with recent check-ins. He had a name, a hotel, and a room number.
The Carlyle. Suite 1502.
Calhoun Richardson didn't wait for the doorman. He strode through the lobby, his presence sucking the air out of the opulent space. His patience had evaporated. The documents in that suitcase were tied to a multi-billion dollar merger. And on top of that, he had spent three months trying to secure a meeting with the elusive designer Spectre. His assistant had finally confirmed her interest, and the email address was saved on that computer. Every second without it was a second closer to losing the opportunity.
He would retrieve the suitcase himself.
He stood before the door of Suite 1502, his face carved from stone, and knocked. The sound was sharp, imperious.
Inside, Brianna sighed. She had just stepped out of the shower, the hot water doing little to ease the tension in her shoulders. Assuming it was room service with the champagne she'd ordered, she cinched the belt of her fluffy hotel bathrobe and went to the door.
She pulled it open.
The world stopped.
Standing in the hallway was the man from the news article. She recognized him instantly—Calhoun Richardson. Billionaire. Financier. The man who owned half of Manhattan. And, according to every tabloid for the past month, the fiancé of Seraphina Webster.
He was even more imposing in person. Taller. Broader. His gray eyes—those same gray eyes she had seen in the photograph—locked onto her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
And then she saw them clearly. His eyes.
They were the exact shade of stormy gray as her son's.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. No. It was a coincidence.There are too many people in the world with eyes of this color.
She tightened her grip on the bathrobe's lapels, her expression hardening into wary suspicion. "What do you want?"
Calhoun froze. The woman before him was breathtaking. Her dark hair was damp, clinging to her neck and shoulders. Her skin, flushed from the heat of the shower, seemed to glow. A faint scent of gardenias drifted from her, clean and intoxicating.
But the true shock came from within. Nothing. He felt nothing. No nausea. No prickling of his skin. No visceral urge to recoil—the reaction that had plagued him his entire adult life whenever a woman stood this close.
Brianna recovered first. "I asked you a question. What do you want?"
The man remained frozen for a moment longer, his gray eyes sweeping over her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "You have my suitcase."
Realization dawned. Of course. This was the owner of the other bag. She moved to step aside, a curt gesture for him to enter and make the exchange.
At that exact moment, a small rubber ball bounced out from the main room, followed by the sound of giggling.
" Catch!"
Brianna's head whipped around. "Wes, be careful—"
Weston spotted a stranger and immediately ducked out of sight, his earlier fussing dying in an instant.
Brianna lunged to grab the ball before it could roll into the hallway, her bare foot catching on the edge of the rug. She lost her balance, a small cry escaping her lips as she stumbled backward.
The belt of her robe came undone.
Instinct took over. Calhoun's arms shot out, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him to break her fall.
Time seemed to slow down, stretching into an eternity. Her soft, warm body was flush against his hard chest. The robe gaped open, revealing the swell of her breasts and the smooth expanse of her stomach. She could feel the frantic beat of her heart against his.
But to her shock, he didn't push her away.
His body went rigid for a moment—then his hold tightened. She saw a flicker of something—surprise, confusion, something deeper—in his stormy gray eyes. He held her closer, as if he couldn't believe what he was feeling.
Shame and fury warred on Brianna's face. She scrambled to stand, yanking the robe shut, her cheeks burning. "Let go of me!" she hissed, shoving against his chest.
The spell was broken. Calhoun released her as if he'd been burned, but his eyes remained locked on her, filled with a raw, searching confusion that mirrored her own.
Liam Sullivan, who had just caught up to his boss, stood frozen in the hallway, his jaw on the floor. In five years of service, he had watched Calhoun Richardson stand perfectly still while beautiful women threw themselves at him. He had seen the cold, dismissive disgust on his boss's face each time.
Liam blinked, wondering if he was hallucinating.
The two suitcases were exchanged in tense silence. But Calhoun didn't leave. He straightened his tie, a gesture that did nothing to conceal the turmoil in his eyes.
"What's your name?" he asked. It wasn't a question. It was a demand.
Brianna had no intention of satisfying his curiosity. She had a child to protect and a war to wage. This man—this billionaire, this fiancé of her mortal enemy—was a complication she didn't need.
"None of your business," she said, her voice dripping ice.
She slammed the door in his face, leaving him standing in the silent, opulent hallway.
