His Ruthless Possession

Orton Hotel, Presidential Suite

Ethan O'Malley's Italian loafers crushed rose petals scattered from the disrupted welcome arrangement as he carried Liora Summers to the king-sized bed. The scent of her Chanel No.5 mingled with his frustration when he deposited her onto the Frette linen sheets.

"Damned charity galas," he muttered, tearing off his Brioni tie with enough force to pop a mother-of-pearl button. The ice in his Glenfiddich clinked like a warning bell as he drained the tumbler, his gaze deliberately avoiding the silk-clad tempest thrashing on the bed.

Liora's fingers fumbled with the clasp of her Valentino gown. "This corset's strangling me..." The raspberry-hued fabric slipped dangerously low, revealing constellations of freckles across her collarbone that Ethan had cataloged in a hundred stolen glances.

His Zippo lighter flared like a demon's wink. "Sweet suffering Christ," he exhaled through a cloud of Dunhill smoke, leather armchair creaking as he leaned forward. Moonlight through floor-to-ceiling windows painted her in monochrome temptation - ivory skin against crimson silk, a living Rothko painting begging to be ruined.

When his shadow fell across her, Liora's whiskey-clouded eyes widened. "Kieran said I'm too reckless! Phoebe called me trailer trash! Papa wants to ship me off to Switzerland!" Her tear-streaked mascara created Rorschach patterns on the pillowcase. "Now you're being mean too, Ethan Blackwood the Third with your stupid trust fund and stupid perfect cheekbones..."

A bark of laughter escaped him. "You crashed a Maserati into my polo ponies last summer and called it courtship." Yet his hands gentled as they reknotted the gown's sash, fingertips lingering on the small of her back where Celtic ink swirled beneath her skin. This wildfire in Armani satin had been burning him slowly for years.

"Stay," she implored, suddenly small beneath the duvet, her fingers curling around his monogrammed cufflink. "The nightmares...they smell like his cologne."

Ethan stilled. She'd never spoken of Kieran's betrayal so plainly. The admission unraveled him more effectively than any seduction.

"You're playing with hellfire, darling." His Oxford accent frayed at the edges as he stretched beside her, memorizing the cadence of her breathing. When she nestled against his chest like a homesick sparrow, he discovered new definitions of torture.

Dawn gilded the skyline when her teeth sank into his thumb. "Bloody hellcat!" He inspected the crescent-shaped wound with perverse pride. Even unconscious, she fought like a cornered Valkyrie.