Page 3 of Holden

Parents lost their children.

And I—

I lost the one man I thought would never betray me: my father.

“Are you hoping to publish a book, get some money out of this tragedy?”

I gasp at the outwardly cruel tone of his voice.

“I’m not here for money.”

“They all say that. But everyone seems to want what I have. Especially beautiful young women like yourself.”

I flush for many reasons, not least of all because he called me beautiful. But I’m also truly offended.

I’d have to live under a rock to not know Holden Quinn’s worth. A recent issue of Forbes listed the partners’ combined earnings at several billion dollars, a staggering amount of wealth. Money doesn’t impress me.

Survival does.

I keep trying to tell myself that’s why I’m drawn to Holden, but that’s only one piece of the puzzle. I’m mesmerized by the way he looks at me, like he could gobble me up in one wolfish bite.

Holden knows it too, I can see it in his eyes, his cocky smirk, the way he stands in such a way that I can’t help but focus on his groin and wonder what it might be like to feel him inside me.

I stand abruptly. “Perhaps this was a mistake. You don’t seem to think very much of me or my reason for coming here.”

His grin goes wide. “Sit, Miss Faber.”

My name on his lips gives me pause. I ease back into the chair, breathing in steady breaths to calm my nerves, my temper. Every muscle in my body is rigid.

Holden leans up against the edge of his glass desk, arms crossed. He’s close enough I can smell his musky scent. His knees knock up against mine, and static electricity buzzes through my skin.

“I don’t think we have anything else to say to each other,” I say, my voice so small it’s almost a squeak. “I’d like to leave now.”

His eyes twinkle with unexpected mischief, and my whole body goes slack with yearning.

“Perhaps you’d care to hear my proposal first.”

Chapter 2

My spine stiffens. “Proposal?”

“I agree to grant you ten hours of my time with which to continue your…research.”

My stomach flips. “Okay. What then?”

Obviously, there’s a catch, but I bite down on my tongue to stop from blurting out something I can’t take back. Mom says I’m impulsive, that I tend to see the worst in people, situations, life. But what do you expect when your father is a notorious killer?

Holden’s phone rings, and I brace for him to answer it. His gaze never wavers from my face. My skin tingles under his scrutiny, and I’m suddenly conscious of the buttons on my blouse. The top two are undone, and the third looks like it might pop. My chest rises and falls.

“That’s ten questions,” he continues, not even trying to hide the fact that his eyes are now locked on my heaving breasts. “One question per hour, and we’ll spend that time exploring each in depth.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Ten hours. All at once?” I try to imagine spending six hundred consecutive minutes in Holden’s intense presence, and my nerves start to fray. It’s too much. He’s too much.

His lip curls up in a smirk. “Tempting as that is, I’m afraid my schedule wouldn’t allow for it.”

As if on cue, a woman’s voice cuts through the office intercom with a reminder that Holden’s nine o’clock appointment is waiting in the lobby. Holden depresses the button on the communication device and leans low to the microphone, his eyes never straying from me. I am immobilized under that stare.

“Please take Mr. Sim to the entertainment lounge,” he says. “His libation of choice is whiskey—top shelf.”