Chapter One
Devon Wilder popped his knuckles. Again. Today, he’d conquer his stupid fear. He stood in front of the state of the art elevator, the modern day beast he’d wrestled with for way too long.
“Going in?” Some employee from the sales team pointed, as he walked past him.
His throat clogged. His strong legs were as vulnerable as an insect, but he still forced them to move and entered the elevator. Wasn’t that bad, was it? He glanced around, and besides the one guy, there was plenty of space between the austere wood walls.
Devon loosened his collar, even though it was not even eight am on a Monday morning. Shit. He was Devon “The Devil” Wilder, the head of Marketing of one of the most successful sports gear company in the country. The proud owner of Smolder, a legendary nightclub in downtown Denver. Women flocked to him like bees to honey. So why the fuck was this so complicated?
A bead of sweat slicked his forehead, and he didn’t need to touch it to know—it was clammy. How long ago had it been? Too long. And that terrified seven-year-old kid still cried inside of him. Inside the elevator. For hours.
The doors started to swiftly close in front of him, and although they didn’t resemble the old creaking metal door, the panic was the same. He shoved his Italian leather shoe to prevent the doors from closing all the way. A tad too harshly.
“Go ahead. I left something in my car,” he said, using his usual excuse. His car. His office. Who cared? What kind of man would reach nationwide heights as a CEO if he were scared of a freaking elevator?
He headed to the emergency exit, and hopped on the stairs. With athletic strides, courtesy of his running and kickboxing, he kept going up, without looking back. At one point, the sound from his breathing filled the space, and the familiar dizziness hit him. Not because of the quick run.
He glanced behind his shoulder, knowing fully well there was one thing he couldn’t escape.
The number twelve greeted him, painted in red on the door leading to the floor. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed it on his face. With a long, deep sigh, he opened the door, and ventured inside with a smile. The smile of a champion. A survivor. Not the smile of a terrified child, left alone in a dirty elevator for six hours while his undiscerning mother banged his sperm donor.
“Good morning, Mr. Devon. How are you today?” A cheerful female assistant flashed him a smile, to which he simply nodded.
His heart started to return to its resting pace with each step he took toward his office. His gaze darted at Elena’s desk, so pristine and minimalistic. Empty. Besides the computer, print calendar, and a few neatly stacked folders, there was no evidence she had been there yet. Like a teenager waiting for his crush, he searched for the cat mug she usually sipped from. Maybe she was out doing something. Maybe at the break room.
Who cared? If he knew what was good for him, he shouldn’t.
I’m nothing like my father. Nothing.
His father had been reckless and selfish. Caleb Wilder had fled with his stacked secretary, and stole millions from the company he and Imani, Devon’s stepmother, spent decades to build. He’d been a criminal and a coward. Devon would never give in to temptation and seduce his hot assistant of three months, Elena Moretti. After all, wasn’t he still dealing with the aftermath of his own scandal? Elena was a threat to his well-being and his position in the company, since the policies specifically forbade employees from dating other employees. Thanks, Dad, for setting the example.
Picking up his pace, he decided showing Imani, the board, and hell, himself, that he was responsible, that he could be the CEO; buy the shares Imani would eventually sell him, and not screw it up like his father was critical. Especially after the sex scandal involving his ex-girlfriend Regina, he needed to prove he wasn’t just a millionaire bad boy.
“They’ve been waiting for you, sir,” the red haired, middle-aged assistant said with a professional smile. For a moment though, another image unraveled in his mind. Jet black hair. Ruby red lips. Coffee-colored bedroom eyes.
“Mr. Wilder?” the woman called him, and he blinked. Elena’s image disappeared from his mind, at least for now. Shit. This was so inconvenient.
Nodding, he opened the door and stepped into the large conference room, where an imposing floor to ceiling clear wall showcased downtown Denver.
“Welcome, Devon,” Imani, said. “Why are you late?”
“Maybe he’s got a hangover.” His half-brother Matthew, who sat on the opposite side of the oval marble desk, upped an eyebrow, the sarcasm in his tone clear. I’m the perfect contender for the CEO position. Not Devon, the bastard playboy.
“I apologize for being late. Won’t happen again.” He cleared his throat and straightened his back on the leather-cushioned swivel chair.
“Needless to say, being the head of Wilder & Co. has taken a toll on me,” Imani continued, the only one standing up. Though she looked prim and proper in a flawless white pantsuit, they all knew behind the strong black woman who saved the company lay the survivor of a recent heart attack. “And I’d like for someone I trust to occupy my seat. Despite what Caleb has done, I’d like to keep the company in the family.”
He glared at Matthew, who leaned back on his chair and stretched his athletic arms. Since fifteen, he had to deal with Matthew’s patronizing ways to show him he was really not a trustworthy relative. The bastard son. The hard playing, skirt chasing, carbon copy of Caleb. Devon swallowed the lump of frustration lodged in his thick throat.
“Well, if you want family, Mom,” Matthew said, hands behind his head, emphasizing the last word, “I’d say your choice is clear.”
“Damn straight.” A closed lip smile formed on Imani’s lips, and she twirled one of her kinky black curls around her finger. “It’ll be one of you two.” Matthew opened his mouth to argue, but with a single hand gesture and a don’t-give-me-your-usual-bullshit look, she silenced him. “But, right now we don’t have time for a pissing contest. Before I start analyzing which one of you is best for the position, we have a much bigger problem at hand. Remember a couple of months ago when our accountant Toby mentioned a discrepancy in our numbers?”
Devon nodded. Matthew jerked back from his chair, his lips pressed into a bitter line.
“Well, we thought there was a glitch in the system and went through the trouble of updating our software program. The discrepancies were too small to make a dent, which is why we chose to go in that direction. However, it turns out someone very smart is creating fake accounts and stealing from us.”
“How much?” Devon looked straight into her midnight eyes.
